Whisper (7 page)

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Authors: Alyson Noël

Tags: #Paranormal, #YA, #Alyson Noel, #Riley Bloom

BOOK: Whisper
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D
espite having retraced my same steps—the second I reached the landing I saw that my destination was not quite the one I expected.
Not even close.
Instead of the glamorous party I’d left, I found myself outside, squinting into a harsh, glaring sun, surrounded by hundreds—no, scratch that—make that tens of thousands of toga-clad Romans, all of them pushing and shoving and fighting for someplace to sit.
“Aurelia!” A familiar voice rang out from behind me, as I gazed all around in confusion. “Aurelia, what on earth are you doing out here among the common masses?”
I felt a tug on the back of my dress, and turned to find Messalina smiling before me, her face radiant, her cheeks flushed the same light pink as the gorgeous new gown that she wore.
“If you’re done acquainting yourself with the lower classes, perhaps we can move on to my uncle’s box where it’s far less crowded, and far more welcoming with its abundance of food and drink and more importantly in this heat—shade!” She rolled her eyes and laughed, retrieving a gold-and-pink fan from the folds of her dress. She waved it under my chin in an effort to cool me. “Oh, and you might also like to know that Dacian has been making himself quite crazy, wondering if you’ll make an appearance—worried he might never get to see you again. I hear you’ve been quite naughty, playing hard to get.” She shot me a sly look, before she went on. “Truly, the boy is in a very sorry state. He just won’t let up! Keeps insisting I tell him whether or not he can expect you. Though I must say it’s been such great fun watching the poor boy suffer, I refuse to divulge much of anything.” She lifted her fan to her face, hiding all but her eyes. “It seems he’s quite smitten with you, now, isn’t he? The question is, what are you going to do about it? Are you smitten as well? C’mon, you can tell me, Aurelia—do you feel the same way as he?”
She looked at me, eyes shining, face beaming, waiting for an answer that never really came. I was too busy trying to figure out what had just happened—how the night had turned so swiftly to day—how I’d found my way to the Colosseum without even realizing it.
Though Messalina didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by my silence, she just smiled brightly, crooked her arm in offering, and beckoned for me to follow alongside her.
Her smile plastered to her face, refusing to fade even after I said, “No.” I crossed my arms before me and shook my head for emphasis, causing my thick blond curls to brush against my cheeks. “I need to find Theocoles—as you well know.” I stared at her in challenge, noting the way her brow shot halfway up her forehead as her lips quirked to the side.
“Well, of course you’ll see Theocoles,” she said, her voice light but forced, her eyes moving over me slowly, conducting a very thorough inventory. “Don’t be silly, Aurelia—he’s the main attraction, is he not?” She shook her head and
tsked,
her tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. “Everyone will see him today, to be sure. After all, he is the reason we’re all here. Though I’m afraid you may have a bit of a wait; he’s not scheduled to fight until later in the day. So come now, enough of this nonsense.” She tilted her head to the side and offered her hand, fingers beckoning as she said, “Why don’t you join me?” But when I didn’t, when I didn’t make a move either way, she leaned closer, her voice lowered to a whisper. “Oh, you’re right. Before we get to all that we really must attend to your dress. Perhaps you need a little freshening up, no? After all, Dacian is in quite a stir, and we don’t want to disappoint him, now, do we?”
I gazed down the front of my dress, noting that, yeah, it was a little wrinkled, a bit dust-covered from my time spent in the
ludus,
a little bit worse for the wear, but still nowhere near as tragic as she seemed to think. But just as I started to protest that I was just fine, that I wasn’t about to follow her anywhere until she explained a few things, she looked at me with those warm brown eyes, lifted a cool hand to my brow and brushed a finger lightly against it, and the next thing I knew I was agreeing to it all. The dress, the hair, the jewels, the luxurious box that her uncle owned, which also, according to Messalina, was the best, most important, most comfortable, most sought-after spot for viewing the games.
“You should consider yourself quite lucky to sit there,” she said.
And the thing is, I did feel lucky. I felt really, really incredibly lucky, in more ways than one. Every single thing that had once been missing from my afterlife was now in my grasp.
I’d been longing for a good friend, a friend so close we were like sisters—and I’d found it in Messalina.
I’d been longing for a chance at a bit of fun and romance, and because of Messalina, I’d found it in Dacian.
I was one of the privileged few. I was lucky, lucky, lucky. My life was wonderfully good. And it was all because of
her
.
The moment we entered the box, Messalina let go of my arm and hung back. Watching with an amused smile as Dacian rushed toward me, went about the whole bowing/ hand-kissing ritual, before leading me to the seat beside his, where I pretended to listen as he chatted on and on about the day’s program.
There were wild-game hunts in the works, a group of prisoners to be executed, and bippidy blah blah, on and on he went. Having no idea that I was well beyond caring—immersed in a land where the only things that interested me were how amazing I looked in my new lavender dress—and how amazing I felt whenever Dacian’s eyes flitted toward mine.
“And then of course once that’s all said and done then it’s time for the great Theocoles, who’s set to defend his title as the Pillar of Doom. As I mentioned last night, this may well turn out to be his very last fight. I suspect that’s why the Colosseum is filled to capacity—he’s a very big draw. Many of the spectators have already placed their bets on his fate, and I must admit, you can count me among them. In fact …”
His words faded, edged out by the one that continued to play in my head:
Theocoles.
Why did the name hold such importance?
Why should I even care about the fate of some gladiator slave who could very well be facing his final day?
I leaned back in my seat, confused by the way the name made me feel.
“Did you say it was his … last fight?” I turned toward Dacian, aware of a vague yet insistent nudge coming from someplace deep within me, egging me on.
Dacian nodded. “Theocoles has more than just his life riding on this fight—and no matter the outcome, it promises to be quite a spectacle, indeed.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, caught up in the excitement of being the first to inform me. “He’s garnered himself quite the fan club, as you will soon see. And it’s not just because the stakes are so high, but because he knows how to put on a show. In just a short amount of time he’s learned how to win over the crowd. Theocoles discovered early on that an important part of a gladiator’s survival is not just skill with a sword and a drive to conquer and win—but also to ensure that the crowd stays entertained. It’s not enough just to slay your opponent—the crowd will tire of that rather quickly. Blood and gore—blood and gore …” He made a bored face. “As you will see, by the time all the ravaged carcasses are dragged from the arena, the crowd will have already witnessed several hours of slaughter, and after a while, one grisly battle can begin to fade into the next. A real gladiator, a champion gladiator such as Theocoles, remains well aware of this fact, and therefore they take it among themselves to choreograph
their battles to provide maximum entertainment, to ensure the crowd’s attention stays riveted on them.”
I hung on his every word, committing it to memory as I struggled to take it all in. The intense look in my eye causing Dacian to say, “Oh no.” He shook his head in mock horror. “I can see I’ve said too much. I can see it in the gleam in your eyes, your heart is already captured, and now it’s just a matter of time before I’ll be forced to throw myself into the arena in order to win your affections!”
He laughed when he said it, but somehow the joke washed right over me. For some strange reason I chose to take his words seriously. “What? No!” I shook my head, caught off guard by—well, by just about everything. “Please, you must not do so on my account,” I added, the words awkward, stumbling right out of my mouth.
“Don’t do what on your account?” Messalina crept up from behind me, her movement fluid, catlike, grinning in a way that left me wondering just how long she might’ve been listening as she draped herself over the back of my chair.
“It seems, I’ve made the mistake of getting Aurelia a little too well-versed in the games. She’s obsessed, I can tell. He has yet to appear in the arena, and already I have lost her to the legend that is Theocoles.”
“Aw, the Pillar of Doom.” Messalina laughed, though the sound was not light, and her eyes failed to shine.
“You said he was set to go free?” I leaned toward Dacian. “Does this have something to do with Lucius?”
Dacian looked confused, though he was nowhere near as confused as I felt.
Where had the name come from? What was I even talking about?
Just as the memory began to resurface—a fleeting glimpse of the conversation I witnessed between Messalina and Theocoles in his cell when I’d first heard the name—Messalina tapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “If Theocoles shall be crowned today’s victor, his winnings will be enough to cover the gambling debts Lucius owes, which in turn will secure Lucius’ freedom, as he currently works in the quarries, a horrible fate to be sure.” She rubbed her arms, gave a little shiver, though her eyes never left mine. “It will also conclude the contract Theocoles holds with my uncle, which in turn will free him as well. It is a very important day for both of them, indeed.”
“So that means Theocoles
volunteered
?” My eyes met Messalina’s as a new understanding began to take shape. “And that’s why you …”
“That’s why I
what
?” she said, and the moment her eyes met mine, I was no longer sure. What was crystal clear a moment before had vanished just as quickly.
Dacian’s voice cutting into my cloudy, vague thoughts
when he said, “His brother got in a bit over his head.” He scoffed, made a face, leaving no doubt as to how he felt about that.
His actions causing Messalina to stiffen beside me, as I remained parked between them, aware of something stirring inside me, poking, prodding, fighting to get my attention, and yet my head felt so foggy, all I could do was run my hands over the deep lavender folds of my dress and lose myself in admiring it.
“Theocoles has shown nothing but the greatest honor and bravery,” Messalina said, her voice laced with an edge that was impossible to miss. “His brother Lucius means everything to him, and what Theocoles has been able to accomplish on his brother’s behalf is nothing short of greatness. And I, for one, believe he should be commended for that. No matter how this day ends, he shall not be forgotten, for surely that would be considered no less than a crime.”
“Tell you what—if he
lives,
I’ll be the first to commend him,” Dacian said, paying no mind to Messalina’s tone, much less the stricken expression his words left on her face. “And if not …” He grinned, glancing between the two of us as he slid a finger clean across the width of his neck.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see then, won’t we?”
Messalina’s eyes darted between us, her response eliciting a sarcastic chuckle from Dacian, and silence from me.
I was gone.
Lost in a fog I couldn’t even begin to work my way through.
Feeling torn, pulled in two different directions, as though caught in the middle of some crazy, invisible tug-of-war, with no way of knowing who pulled at my strings, much less which side I should favor.
“Aurelia? You okay?” Messalina leaned toward me, her face a mask of concern.
Aurelia
. That was me. That’s what everyone called me.
Or was it?
I was no longer sure.
Messalina placed a finger under my chin and lifted it toward hers as she gazed directly into my eyes. Fussing at my hair, pretending to rearrange a stray curl, she brushed a cool finger across the width of my brow—the feel of her touch instantly lifting the fog, allowing the sun to break through, as everything sprang back into view.
“Are you okay?” she repeated, her gaze fixed on mine.
I gazed all around, taking in the enormity of the arena, the tens of thousands of cheering spectators—sure that each and every one of them would do anything to trade places with me. Sure that each and every one of them longed to claim a place among such luxury and comfort—surrounded
by mountains of food, an endless supply of drink, keeping company with rich and entitled Roman nobility—not to mention the insanely cute boy who sat right beside me.
I returned my gaze to hers, my voice filled with the extent of my gratitude when I said, “Everything’s great. Everything’s just absolutely perfect. And I have you to thank.”
I
watched the procession that marked the start of the games in confusion. Surprised by the way the crowd remained strangely quiet, almost solemn, until Dacian explained how that would soon change. It was merely the official portion of the day, he told me. The time when weapons were inspected, a dead emperor was remembered, and the gladiators were all introduced—allowing the crowd a chance to take them all in, knowing full well that by the day’s end more than half of them would never stand again.
When it was over, the gates dragged open once more, setting a pack of ferocious jungle cats loose in the arena. At first roaring in fear, unsure what to make of their new surroundings, it wasn’t long before they adapted, their instincts kicked in, and they busied themselves with stalking their prey—devouring one poor, unfortunate prisoner after another.
The crowd cheered in response, stomping and clapping
in glee as they watched a succession of people get shredded and gutted and ripped into small, bloodied bits—pitted in a fight they could never, ever win.
That same cheering failing to cease when those very same cats were later hunted and killed by gladiators who specialized in such skills.
Until finally—after hours of unrelenting blood and gore—after hours of watching unfathomable death and violence—it was time for the gladiators to take center stage. And I found myself so desensitized by that point, so completely unshakable, it wasn’t long before I became as entranced as any other spectator—cheering and jeering right along with them.
Giving thumbs up whenever a battle was tied, and I found both parties worthy of living—giving thumbs down when I wasn’t entertained quite enough, when I demanded someone be held accountable for the lack of amusement—to die a grisly death to atone for my boredom.
Sometimes shouting, “Live!” other times shouting, “Kill!” depending on my mood. I was consumed with the power I held. Aware that I was only one among many, that in the end, it was the emperor’s decision to grant life or death, and yet, was he not bound to the whims of his subjects? Was he not swayed by their need to be appeased from the drudgery of their lives with a show of
bread and circus
?
I reveled in being part of that decision, in knowing my vote helped to decide just who was allowed to live another day—and just who was sentenced to die.
And when the heavy iron gates swung wide once again, and Theocoles thundered into the arena, it quickly became clear why he was so favored.
Theocoles didn’t walk, neither did he run, but rather he strutted, sauntered—arms raised high above his head, his sword and shield waving in acknowledgment of his fifty thousand most admiring fans, leaving no doubt that he loved them, just as much as they loved him.
The stadium practically shaking with the rumble of stomping feet and clapping hands, I watched as Theocoles turned, acknowledging every section of the stadium, circling the wave of praise much as the earth circles the warmth of the sun.
The applause significantly dimming when his opponent, Urbicus, entered to a chorus of hisses and boos—and though he appeared equally strong, equally fierce, equally determined to hold up his end—it was clear from the start that he lacked the innate fire and charisma of the champion gladiator, and because of it, the crowd would never be swayed to his side. He just couldn’t compete with Theocoles’ unique brand of magnetism—his deadly combination of bravery, skill, showmanship, and undeniable movie star appeal.
Much like everyone around me, I slid to the edge of my seat, watching in fascination, captivated as the battle began. Urbicus put up a very good fight, though not good enough—he spent most of his energy deflecting Theocoles’ well-aimed blows that left him so bloodied and battered, his strength quickly seeped out of him, while Theocoles waged on, his own wounds appearing shallow and superficial at most.
Despite his rival’s weakening state—despite Theocoles’ numerous chances to lead Urbicus to his final rest—the battle waged on, and on, and on—with Theocoles refusing to end it, determined to give the crowd what they came for, and more. He continued to pounce, and leap, and inflict wound after gaping wound upon his victim until Urbicus’ skin resembled a fringe of blood-soaked ribbons.
I watched in a combination of amazement and revulsion, wondering at which point Theocoles would decide to end it so he could collect his winnings, thereby freeing his brother, himself. Yet I was so caught up in the spectacle, I dreaded the moment it would end.
I leaned into Dacian, so overcome with excitement and nerves, too busy watching Theocoles slice his opponent to shreds, it was a moment before I noticed our shoulders were pressed snugly together.
“Why doesn’t he just kill him already and get it over with, so he can claim his victory?” I asked.
My gaze darting between Dacian and the arena, suddenly aware that he’d taken my hand, laced his fingers with mine as he said, “Worried about Theocoles, are you?” His voice teased at my ear as he leaned even closer. “Not to worry—he’s just doing what he does best. He’s playing the crowd. He’s giving us the show that he’s known for, and it hasn’t failed him yet.” He motioned toward the arena, where Theocoles, having removed his studded steel helmet and tossed it aside, shook his long, shaggy hair in acknowledgment of his tens of thousands of roaring fans. “He’s addicted to the applause. Needs it as much as a flower needs rain. He knows this is it. He’s all too aware that after today he’ll never again claim center stage. They’ll talk about him for a while, recount each move of his victory, but soon enough their attentions will begin to wane, just like they always do. And, once that happens, it won’t be long until the memory of Theocoles fades into oblivion, as another champion rises up in his place. And, despite what Messalina prefers to think, one day the great champion, the Pillar of Doom, will be reduced to nothing more than a ghost of a memory, with no lasting proof that he ever existed. I’m sure on some level, Theocoles is all too aware of that, and so, it’s for that very reason that he’s determined to milk it—to glean all from this moment that he possibly can.”
“
Milk it?
” I peered at Dacian, struggling to decide why
I was so struck by the phrase, especially with all the other things that were happening. A boy was holding my hand! There was major bloodshed in the arena! Still, his words nudged at me, they just didn’t blend, didn’t quite mesh with the kinds of words he usually used.
Dacian looked at me. Assuming I didn’t understand its meaning, he said, “I mean he wants to seize the moment—he wants to squeeze it for all that it’s worth. Much as one might squeeze a goat’s udder for its milk—”
“Got it,” I said, stealing a chance to remove my hand from his. I was suddenly jumpy, testy, something nudging at the edge of my memory, though I had no idea what it could be, no idea why I was feeling that way.
The crowd roared, dragging my attention back to the arena, eager to catch up on all that I’d missed. Watching as Theocoles loped around its perimeter, sword and shield outstretched to either side—proving that, once again, Dacian was right. Theocoles loved the adulation. Thrived on it from what I could see. He was definitely
milking it,
to be sure. He wouldn’t go easily.
I glanced around the box, noting how, just like me, everyone else was on the edge of their seats, including the emperor who’d pushed aside his heaping platter of wine and grapes in order to direct his full attention to the games, while Messalina’s uncle, the owner of the
ludus,
the owner
of Theocoles, stood off to his side, mumbling a long stream of words under his breath that I couldn’t quite hear.
Though when I looked at Messalina, I couldn’t help but notice how her reaction differed from the rest. While everyone else was in full-on nail-biting mode, she’d already turned away, refusing to look. Despite the fact that aside from Lucius and Theocoles, she had the most riding on the outcome.
Though a moment later when Dacian reached for my hand, the thought slipped away. The only thing I was conscious of was the tentative way his fingers laced with mine as his face veered close, then closer still as he said, “He’s getting ready. It’s almost over. And trust me, you will not want to miss this.”
We rose to our feet, everyone did. A crowd of people all pushing forward, straining to get a better look as Theocoles finally turned his back on the crowd and approached his severely wounded opponent, who, despite the grave condition he was in, despite the fact that he could barely gather enough strength to stand, refused to fall. All too aware that imminent death was well on its way, he was determined to die nobly, bravely, a death worthy of a gladiator. He would not give in without one final fight.
“Kill!” I yelled, following the lead of the crowd, my thumb pointing down as did Dacian’s beside me. The word shouted
over and over again in one long, rhythmic chant—the soundtrack of a bloodthirsty crowd.
Theocoles turned, letting us know he’d acknowledged the word, and that he planned to oblige us at the first sign of the emperor’s bidding.
But while Theocoles was facing us, his opponent had taken the opportunity to regroup, to make one last stab at victory, or at least die trying.
Stumbling forward, he used whatever remaining strength he had to take one last, wild swing with his blade. Its sharp, pointed edge clipping Theocoles at the back of his knees where it sliced wide and deep. Causing him to stagger, to sag toward the sand, his sword and shield having slipped from his fingers, abandoned at his side.
His hands grasped at the air as he tilted erratically, body swaying, face bearing an expression of unmistakable shock when he found himself falling, collapsing, his once celebrated form no more than a bloody, lame heap.
The crowd hushed into a strange, eerie silence, needing a moment to adapt to such an unexpected turn of events, as I did the same. My hand clamped over my mouth, unable to believe what I saw unfolding before me, vaguely aware of Dacian sliding a comforting arm around my waist.
We moved forward, rushed to the edge of the box, as
did everyone around us—Rome’s finest all bunched up together, eyes bulging, necks craning, eager to see what terrible, unexpected thing might happen next.
Theocoles struggled to rise, but his wounds were too deep, his muscles now sliced in half were no longer working. He fell onto his back, staring in complete disbelief as his battered and bloodied opponent towered over him with his sword raised high, ready, willing, waiting for that one simple word that would allow him to claim certain victory by plunging it deep into Theocoles’ throat.
Not expecting Theocoles to turn, to use whatever strength he had left to roll onto his side—his eyes frantically searching for Messalina’s—longing to apologize, to say a final good-bye.
That one single look containing so much longing, so much meaning, so much regret, I couldn’t stop the crystalline tears that rolled down my cheeks.
But the crowd failed to see what I saw.
They misread the whole thing.
Knowing only that Theocoles had turned his back on his opponent, they mistook his final good-bye for an act of cowardice.
Furious to learn that the man they once held as their hero was neither noble enough, nor brave enough, to face his own
death (an act that could not, would not be tolerated—an act that went against everything a gladiator stood for), they were quick to turn against him.
Tens of thousands of mouths that just a moment ago had hung silent in shock, were now fueled with revenge, shouting the verdict of: “
Kill!
” over and over again.
The demand so overwhelming, so all consuming, the emperor was quick to nod his consent.
The crowd pressed tighter, causing my head to grow foggy as I gasped for each breath. Swallowing mouthfuls of air only to realize I didn’t exhale.
I had no need of it—no need to breathe.
A vague awareness of something tugging at the edge of my memory—something about me—about Theocoles—though I had no idea what it could be.
While my fellow Romans were absorbed with the arena, eager to see the mighty Theocoles, the Pillar of Doom, meet his end, I turned toward Messalina, looking for guidance, hoping she might be able to tell me why I was no longer dependent on air.
But Messalina was gone. And as I stared hard at the space where she stood, the fog cleared, and I was sprung from my trance.

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