My hand slipped beneath the short sleeves of Cai’s tunic and up over his shoulder. His, traveling the outside length of my thigh, traced the curve of my hip up past the hem of my tunic skirt. We both broke out into gooseflesh, shivering at one another’s touch . . . and then his hand stopped moving at almost the exact same moment mine did.
Cai’s lips pulled away from my mouth, and he opened his eyes.
“What’s this?” he asked, tapping a finger against my skin.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I answered.
My fingers rested on a raised ridge of flesh that crested the curve of his shoulder and felt puckered at the edges. His hand rested likewise on the scar of a recently healed wound I’d received in a bout with a gladiatrix from a new ludus that had recently begun operations on the outskirts of a coastal town north of us called Tarquinii. They’d held a day of games to celebrate the opening of the fledgling academy, and I’d sparred with a girl who’d fought retiarius. A less experienced fighter than I was, maybe, but I suspected that she’d grown up spearfishing; she tagged me soundly with her trident. One of the weapon’s three tines had sliced up under the leather straps of my battle kilt and left a gash that had thankfully been longer than it was deep. Heron had used the opportunity to teach Neferet how to sew a wound closed using sinew thread. I had passed out only once while she practiced her handiwork—more from the sensation of the needle tugging thread through my flesh than any actual pain, because Heron’s potions had already ensured I would feel none of that.
I’d almost forgotten about the incident. It was nothing—a day in the life of a gladiatrix—but I knew Cai wouldn’t see it that way. He reached past me for the lamp and brought it down so he could get a closer look at my hip, hissing through his teeth when he saw the scar. When he looked back up at me, his expression had clouded over.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I said, tugging down my hem. “No damage to the muscle, and no infection. I limped for a week or two—that’s all. And I won that bout!”
“I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt in the arena,” he said.
I snorted. “We have that in common, believe me.”
Cai opened his mouth and the look in his eyes told me I was in for a stern lecture—which I forestalled immediately. “Unh!” I exclaimed and tapped his shoulder. “I showed you mine. Now let me see yours.”
He seemed rather more reluctant to share, and when he finally tugged aside his sleeve, I understood why.
“Lugh’s teeth, Cai!” I gasped. “You look like you were attacked by a bear!”
I was more than a little surprised when he started to laugh. “I was.”
“What?”
He nodded ruefully.
“We were on a march through a thick forest,” he explained. “The troops were strung out in a narrow, tree-choked pass. I was mounted and checking the rear for any stragglers when I had the misfortune of coming between a mother bear and her cub. I’ve been convalescing for the past month. You might have won your bout, but I wasn’t quite so lucky with mine. Then again, the old sow wasn’t really fighting fair, but she definitely walked away from that bout the champion. I was just lucky that Quintus circled back to find me when my horse suddenly bolted past him, riderless.”
“Oh, Cai . . .”
The scars—three long parallel gashes—were still a bit livid, with ragged edges, and I could see the suture holes from where they’d sewn him up. Neferet had done a far neater job on me, I thought, than the army doctors had on Cai. Mind, I hadn’t been mauled by claws.
“Does it still hurt?”
He shrugged the material back down over his shoulder, stifling a wince. “It’s made it . . . challenging.” He frowned a bit. “I can still ride and swing a sword. But in a standing fight I’m useless in formation unless I can hold a shield. And I’m not quite up to that yet.”
That didn’t surprise me. A scutum—the standard-issue legion shield—was a great heavy rectangular thing that covered a man from shins to shoulders. In a fight against a tribe of angry Gauls hurling javelins and fireballs, I would have cheerfully hidden behind one, but it took a deal of brute strength to use one properly. Gratia and Damya were fine with scuta, but I found the things awkward and near impossible to use.
I moved to pull my hand away, but Cai reached up and held it there, pressing my palm against the scar through the material of his tunic.
“The strength returns,” he continued. “Only slowly, and I’m a little less limber on that side. I decided I would try to make myself useful in other ways and requested this courier duty. Caesar agreed that his legions would somehow muster up the strength to soldier on without me and gave me the assignment to carry his papers to the Lanista. On the journey, I started practicing some basic dimachaerus sequences.”
“So that’s it.”
“To help build my strength back up . . . and in case I can’t return to regular soldiering.” A shadow passed over his face. I thought about what that prospect might be like. It would be like my not being able to return to the arena.
“You’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just a scar.”
He ran his fingertip over my hip again. “Like this one?”
I nodded. “Or . . .”—I reached up to pull aside the shoulder of my tunic and swung my hair out of the way so he could see my shoulder—”. . . this one.”
I heard Cai make a small noise in the back of his throat as he traced the line of another scar. One of a pair of faded white lines, all that was left of some particularly nasty welts acquired during an encounter with Nyx’s whip. No permanent damage, but the marks had refused to fade, as if to perpetually remind me of my rival, even long after she’d gone.
Only Nyx was the last thing I was thinking of as Cai leaned down to kiss the scar and sent a wave of searing heat washing over my whole body, head to toe. When he lifted his head, his eyes glinted wickedly at me.
“There’s another one just like it on the other side,” I whispered, my voice gone husky.
Cai brushed my hair away from my other shoulder and kissed the second scar. “You’re acquiring quite a collection,” he murmured against my neck.
“Me?” I said, a bit breathless. “Do you mean to tell me that the only adversary who ever left a mark on you was a bear?”
“Oh no . . .” He grinned. “See, here, these marks on my knuckles.”
“I see.”
“First fistfight I ever got in. It was with a wall . . .”
“A fierce opponent, no doubt.” I lifted his hand and, just as he had done, kissed the pale marks one by one. I felt his fingers tighten convulsively on mine and smiled. “Is that all?”
“No . . .” He showed me a long thin line running the length of his right forearm. “That was from a tribal rebellion on the Germanic frontier. My first real engagement. Now that I recall, I think that warrior had worse breath than the bear.”
He was trying to keep his tone light, I could tell, but his voice grew ragged as I dropped a line of kisses all the way along that scar.
“And is that the extent of your wounds?” I asked.