Lilacs & Violets

By James Milne

A prisoner of war, sentenced to die as a gladiator, becomes embroiled in the politics of the kingdom after the princess takes an interest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Milne
• Release date: Mar 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215340264

Book preview

Lilacs & Violets

James Milne

Lilacs & Violets

A prisoner of war, sentenced to die as a gladiator, becomes embroiled in the politics of the kingdom after the princess takes an interest.

A prisoner of war, sentenced to die as a gladiator, becomes embroiled in the politics of the kingdom after the princess takes an interest.

Copyright © 2020 James Milne

All Rights Reserved.

Cristata & Syringa

chapter, CristataSyringa

A dull roar filled the cramped space, the thundering of feet far above their heads, knocking sand and dust down and making the air even harder to breathe than it already was.

The gladiator was hunched over, their back aching from the position, wrists tied to ankles. They hadn’t fought yet, so they might not even be called a gladiator, but it was what they sold as. A fighter. Defeated and captured.

One of the more senior fighters walked around freely, getting more and more animated as the crowd outside grew louder. He paused, making a decision and stalked over to the newcomer, cooking their foot.

Oi. You were a soldier. The mark on your shoulder, that’s Narcissus. Or were you just fans of those red-headed freaks?

The gladiator ignored him, looking blankly at the cuffs binding them. The senior spat on their head, Oi! I’m talking to you, slave! You will look at me.

They raised their head slowly, and he smiled down at them, That’s better. You are a slave. That’s what being a gladiator is. There are rules to this. Do you understand? You don’t get to kill. Not unless they say so. And they, are the people who choose whether we live or die. So don’t fuck with them.

The soldier shrugged and looked back down at their restraints. The senior’s foot crashed into their shoulder with a solid crunch as the elbow was torn tight. The man laughed loudly, And now, I guess you’re a dead one.

Brassia! A guard erupted, Fall in line. Don’t damage the goods. Fuck’s sake. It’s brand new stock.

They was a crunch and guard and gladiator alike looked at the newcomer who had just relocated their elbow. They didn’t look up, or even react to the pain. The guard whistled, Well. I guess they really were a soldier.

Brassia laughed, a rumbling sound, This will be fun. I get to fight it don’t I?

Sure. You’re supposed to wipe the floor, but don’t kill. The guard stated confidently, A gentle introduction. Speaking of, you’re up.

The gladiator took the offered warhammer, and planted the handle on the ground with an impact that shook the floor, Don’t attack the guard, soldier. You’re worth less than the food they feed us. If you fight well, you might be worth more. Is that clear?

The soldier shrugged, and then shocked the both of them by standing up, the chains falling off them. A small fragment of something white was sticking out of one of the locks. The soldier took a sword and shield from the wall and walked straight for the arena floor without a second look.

Behind them, Brassia followed, dragging his hammer across the floor with him, This is going to be interesting.

The soldier came to a stop in the middle of the arena, and turned to face Brassia as he cheered to the crowd, flexing and screaming. Nearby an announcer was speaking with a deafening voice that could almost be heard above the assaulting volume of the crowd.

The gladiator turned and hefted his warhammer, Let’s put on a show.

The soldier darted forward. The hammer came crashing down onto the shield, crushing it in an instant. However, the shield slammed into the ground, nothing beneath it. Brassia looked around in confusion, not seeing the soldier.

The base of the sword hit the back of his neck, knocking the giant to his hands and knees. The soldier placed the tip at the base of his neck, Don’t. Move.

The crowd went quiet in shock, before erupting into a frenzy of applause. The soldier looked up to the elevated platform where their new owners were seated, and saw the man in charge lift his thumb.

The soldier tossed the sword to the ground.

Brassia lifted himself upright, leaning on his warhammer, Fuck, soldier, that hurt. I said we were putting on a show. How did you even do that?

They looked at him blankly, not answering.

— — —

Who was that? The princess said breathlessly, sitting up from her lounge and pushing aside a servant. She stared as the gladiator left the arena, and looked over at her father, Who was it?

The man looked at a servant, A soldier. A prisoner of war that was sold into slavery. Details?

The slave bowed quickly, My lord, my lady. They were a soldier of Narcissus, captured during a conflict with Asphodel. They were sold to us only recently, this was their first combat. I’m afraid I have no name registered.

Her father shrugged, That’s common for soldiers of Narcissus. They often take a vow of silence upon entering into the army. Do we know what rank they had before being captured? Or the battle?

No rank known, sorry, my lord. The slave replied, However, we do know that they were captured at the Battle of Thunbergia. One of seventeen survivors of Narcissus. All were sold as slaves, as I understand it.

That’s terrible. The princess said, wishing she could catch another glimpse, To take out Brassia so easily, they must have been a very good soldier.

The best soldier cannot succeed on their own. Her father stated, Besides, Narcissus’ soldiers are generally barbaric. They’ve been known to torture and kill those that they capture in battle.

The princess pouted, I want to meet them.

Her father looked over and smiled, Of course you may, my dear. I thought that Brassia was your favourite. He might become jealous if you pay another attention.

The princess smiled, He will have to redeem himself by winning this tournament, if he wishes to garner my attentions.

She looked to her own slave, Make the arrangements for me to meet this Narcissian.

The woman bowed and left quickly. Her father took a chicken leg from his bowl and took a bite, and spoke through his mouthful, It is unusual for a slave to get your attention so quickly, Syringa. Is this one so special? Or is prowess at combat all that interests you?

They approached the battle in a way I haven’t seen. Syringa smiled, They let Brassia think they were charging him, whilst instead they were slipping between his legs. They could have stabbed him in the groin, but they found a way to end the fight without harming him. Depriving him of a new scar.

Her father laughed, That’s just a Narcissus thing. They never do more than they have to. Efficient, cold and brutal. I have fought three wars against that nation since I became king, my daughter. I sincerely hope I never have to fight another. They are... An incredible people. An entire nation dedicated to war.

Syringa shivered, And yet, one of them became a slave in our arena. Wouldn’t that be intolerable? Shouldn’t they have killed themselves?

The Narcissians don’t believe in suicide. Her father shrugged, They believe it is an affront of their god. He grants them life, and they don’t have the authority to throw that away.

Syringa shook her head, These people sound... Ancient.

He laughed, Terrifying, but somewhat accurate. Ah. Brassia has returned. Can he win your attention?

Syringa lay back down on her couch, watching the warhammer send another slave flying into a wall, crushing bone. Usually it would make her feel hot and bothered, but right now she just felt bored.

The giant flexing his muscles was not as interesting as someone who could read his attack. They had been so fast, and so nimble. That they might be sworn to silence felt like a delicacy.

That brief fight had shown her something that she wanted, all for herself.

— — —

Soldier. The guard barked, There’s been a request to meet you. That means that you go where you’re told, when you’re told. You do everything that they ask of you, without any question. Usually, that means sex. Is that understood?

The soldier looked up at him dully, and gave a short nod.

The guard sighed heavily, Look, you’re assigned to this pen. Which means that you and I are going to be working together. You got the drop on Brassia, which might have got you some attention, but it was stupid. He can hurt you. I can’t always protect you. My name is Cyanus. What is yours?

The soldier looked back down.

The guard shook his head, Fine. I was offering you a chance at peace. But if that’s the way you want to play it. Look, the person you’re meeting is important. Don’t hurt her, and don’t irritate her.

The soldier gave a curt nod, as Cyanus bent over and undid their chains. The soldier stood up slowly and the guard drew his sword, Just procedure. You do what I say, we won’t have a problem. Start walking forward.

— — —

She winced as she saw Brassia take a hit to the face, and thought about the many scars on his face. She didn’t find them attractive. They were examples and reminders of his failures.

My lady. Her slave whispered, curtsying beside her and trying to get her attention. Syringa looked over at her with frustration, What do you want? Brassia is getting hurt.

The woman curtsied again, Apologies, my lady. The gladiator you requested has arrived.

Syringa waved a hand tiredly, He can come watch.

The slave signalled and an armoured person walked up beside the couch, hands clasped behind their back. Syringa was fixed on the match, You beat him. He won’t like that much. He’s skilled, see how he’s driving them backwards? He’s trying to unbalance them.

The gladiator said nothing.

Syringa made an angry face, without looking away from the battle, Well, speak up. How could he be doing better?

The gladiator said nothing.

Syringa turned in frustration, Did you take a vow of silence, slave!?

Her face fell as she looked at them in shock. The gladiator gave a polite nod, as Syringa took in the fact that the soldier was downright beautiful. Their face was effeminate, and unmarred. They had short-cut red hair, brilliant and bright.

She smiled slowly, Sorry. I get caught up in these matches. I asked for you, because I wanted to meet someone who approaches their battles with thought and care. You beat Brassia by predicting him, and I like that.

The gladiator nodded politely.

Syringa stood up slowly, glancing over at her father for permission, who waved carelessly. She ran her hands over the slave’s armoured chest, and around their waist, feeling the muscle like stone.

Do you have scars, gladiator?

The soldier nodded, and Syringa smiled, Show me.

The gladiator undid the leather straps around one of their hands, revealing knuckles that were covered in dozens of small white scars. The marks of a battler that were inevitable.

Syringa pretended to be disappointed, Is that it? No scars of battle or war? Weren’t you captured?

The gladiator made a small smile, and reached behind, undoing their breastplate. The metal fell to the ground, and Syringa’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. She glared over at her father’s slave, You never said it was a girl.

I was not aware. My apologies, my lady. He said with a bow.

Syringa looked back, as the slave undid the top of their shirt, pulling it to one side to reveal a hideous red scar torn across the top of one of their breasts. It was the width of a sword.

She reached out tentatively, and saw the slave freeze up, fighting their instinct to pull away. She touched the scar gently, You’re lucky they didn’t pierce your heart. Did this happen when you were captured?

The slave gave a small nod, as Syringa suddenly realised that they had her complete attention. She didn’t even care what happened in the arena anymore. This creature was the height of fascination.

Syringa reached up and touched her cheek, I have met only a handful of women warriors before. Women don’t fight in Linnaeus. Not unless they are slaves. I understand it is different where you come from. Did you want to be a soldier, or were you conscripted?

The woman raised an eyebrow, and Syringa laughed softly, Sorry, I suppose you can only answer yes or no questions, without breaking your vow. Did you want to be a soldier?

The gladiator smiled and gave a strong nod.

Syringa stared in confusion, What? You... You wanted to be this? A fighter?

Enough. Her father growled, Either screw her or dismiss her. She has more fights today.

Syringa glared over at him, Something like this requires time to appreciate, father. I have never met a woman gladiator before. She isn’t some boy eager to be shown affection by royalty.

Her father sighed, looking over, She is somewhat attractive. She is also a slave. You don’t need to know where she has come from. She can never, ever, be anything but a slave to you.

It was a strong reminder from him, a warning. She was a princess. She could not be seen doing anything but using a slave. Anything more than that would be a scandal, and she would be punished.

Usually by banning her from attending the arena.

Syringa kissed the gladiator’s cheek, As you wish, father. Slave, I don’t know your name, but I am interested in you. I demand that you win your fights, for me. Show me that you are worthy of my continued attention.

The slave reached down and picked up their breastplate, and looked at her carefully. They considered her for a moment, and Syringa felt like it was herself that was exposed, rather than the other way around. It felt like the slave could pierce the silk covering her body, laying her bare.

They smiled and gave a small nod, as if accepting the suggestion. Which had been an order, and not a request. Her father was right, with this one the line between slave and person was blurred. They didn’t know that they were nothing more than property.

Syringa lay down on the couch, trying not to let anyone know that she felt like she was on absolute fire at the thought of it.

— — —

She walked into the arena, shrugging as she felt that the straps on her breastplate weren’t quite as tight as they should have been. Removing it hadn’t been the best of ideas, not when she couldn’t ask anyone to help.

The other slave charged straight for her, roaring and screaming with an axe over their head. She watched them with mild disinterest. Meeting the royal had been more fun. She didn’t know exactly who the woman had been, and she hadn’t appreciated the way she acted like she owned her, but she did like the way she adapted to the vow of silence.

The soldier punched her shield forward with a crushing snap, flooring the other gladiator instantly. She turned the shield and slammed it down, pinning the gladiator by the neck, and looked up at the special people, and saw the same woman staring down at her.

From this distance it was hard to make out her expression, but the royal seemed absolutely rapt. She seemed to be addicted to blood sport, something that the soldier didn’t feel one way or the other about. This was nothing more than the games she had played growing up in Narcissus.

The king pointed his thumb down, and the crowd screamed in excitement. She looked down at the gladiator, staring at her frightened, Don’t!

She lifted the shield, and as she did the other gladiator frantically tried to save their life, spinning the axe up at her side. She turned and caught it, before tossing it down and through the skull of the slave.

Killing them because she was ordered to.

The crowd applauded this senseless execution. This was not a reflection of war. It wasn’t something worthy of the god that she had served her entire life. All she could do was follow orders, this was her disgrace.

All chances at glory had been stolen from her when she was captured, and her brothers and sisters were killed. All she had left was an empty life, but she would not become more of a shame to her god. She would perform her duties to perfection.

Even if it meant becoming a plaything of the rich and powerful.

— — —

You seem distracted, daughter. Her father said carefully, Has that slave completely taken your senses?

I know my place. Syringa stated firmly, This is nothing but a passing fancy. They are something I haven’t seen before. I wish to learn. I have interrogated Brassia on where he has come from before. But he can speak. It is over quicker.

He laughed softly, I have no problems if you wish to enjoy a fling with a woman, or a slave, or even both. Yet, that is all it may be. You will a prince one day. That is the way of things. He may allow you a dalliance, such as a gladiator, but that will not be your choice.

I know my place, father. She said turning and smiling at him, This is an indulgence. I am aware. It will not become more than that.

He looked at her tiredly, You are wrong, daughter. You have never looked at anyone the way you looked at that slave. She would have to kill a thousand people before she even qualifies for a freedom match. And then... She would have to join our army, and rise to the highest of ranks, simply to become appropriate as a consort for you. It is impossible.

I will enjoy her, soon. Syringa said quietly, And then she will die on the floor of the arena. She embarrassed Brassia. She has no self-preservation instinct. She isn’t a good gladiator, she doesn’t play to the crowd. You have no fear, father.

I have much fear, daughter. He replied, That’s the problem. She is Narcissian. She may not actually be able to be defeated in the arena. Which means that the others will probably kill her in her sleep.

And I will mourn her passing with frantic and angry sex with Brassia. Syringa replied, trying to push her father out of the conversation by giving him far too much information.

If that is your wish. He replied carefully, I just hope you understand the politics of this particular... Indulgence.

She looked back to the battlefield, to the sweating and desperate fighting of those wishing to attract her attention, and her father’s favour, and a thought occurred to her. Who purchased the Narcissian anyway? I hope I have not offended them by meeting her. Touching her.

Lord Dianthus. My lady. His slave answered, and she could hear his customary bow. She thought for a moment, trying to place the name, and made a face. The man was a brute, a necessary evil in a time of war.

She sighed heavily, I am afraid, father, that Lord Dianthus would likely have taken offence.

He can be offended. Her father snapped, You asked me for permission. I am the one who granted it. However, I suggest you forget about any further dalliance.

Syringa leaned on her elbow, and blew out her cheeks, That’s frustrating.

Fetch Lord Dianthus for me. Her father said, I shall try and smooth things over with him.

— — —

Cyanus finished re-chaining her wrists and ankles together, and looked at her with concern, Do you know why your owner wants you tied up like this? It isn’t normal. Like he doesn’t care if he hurts his stock.

She looked at him tiredly and gave a small nod. The guard frowned and then smiled slowly, You can’t speak, can you? It isn’t just that you don’t want to talk to me. You can’t.

She nodded, feeling a fraction of frustration fade. The guard frowned, Dianthus. He used to own Brassia, but he lost him in a game of cards. Fortunes can change fast around here. Now Brassia is half-owned by Princess Syringa, and Lord Calyx. Do you think your master is aiming to sell you off?

She shook her head and smiled patiently at him. The guard crouched in front of her, He’s trying to get you killed? Waste his product?

She nodded and then shrugged. Cyanus reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair back in place and he shook his head, I’ve never seen such a successful fighter with so few scars. Any scars. You’re not just a beginner. You’re an expert, and you are... Fantastic. Your master might punish you for that. Are you ready?

She looked at him blankly, and he shrugged, Sorry. I guess that felt a bit forward. I’m sorry, but you’re property, and I’m not. I’m sort of used to handling slaves, and that is what you are.

She nodded. Everyone was treating her like she was new to this. She had been captured two years ago. She had already been beaten into learning what her new role in life was. Now it was an old comfort.

She was not completely without scars. Her first master had given her one or two, but his preferred preference wasn’t to leave a permanent mark. He enjoyed her pale and flawless skin too much. All he had left was a pair of small scars on each shoulder blade.

And memories that she could never fully forget.

Cyanus stood up and shrugged, I’m here if you have a problem. Though it might be easier if you could write. Can you? We could teach you. There’s a school attached for gladiators.

She looked at him and nodded.

He smiled excitedly, Could you tell me your name, then? Write it in the sand?

She ran her fingers through the rough sand, forming the broad strokes of her name slowly, and the guard stepped over and looked down. He frowned, Ah, I should have known. Narcissian. I don’t really know it that well... Cris... Potato?

She glared at him angrily.

The guard flicked her nose playfully, Well, I might just call you Chris, then. I’ll also let your lady know the name. She certainly seems interested in you. She bet on all your fights that you would win. Usually she’s obsessed with Brassia.

She shrugged, and went back to looking at nothing, feeling nothing. She was an empty shell, simply following orders. That was the life that she had. It wasn’t a true life, it was an afterlife. She had died when she had been captured, and this was her path of purgatory, as she reached for the heavens.

— — —

Chris? Syringa asked dubiously, That doesn’t sound very much like a girl’s name. I wonder if that’s her warrior’s name or something.

The guard quickly wrote three symbols in the air, Apologies, my lady. I don’t read Narcissian very well. The gladiator showed me these shapes. I didn’t quite understand it.

Cristata. She said slowly, Now that is a beautiful name.

I am jealous, my king. Dianthus interjected, You have already acquired something from my own slave that I have sought since I took ownership of her. All she will do for me is fight. Even sex, she simply allows me to act. She doesn’t involve herself or open up. She’s a mystery.

Her father spoke up quickly, I am sure there is no offence meant by this. Perhaps the slave merely needed the hand of a fellow woman to guide her. She does come from a nation where women do the jobs of men.

No offence taken. Dianthus replied, I entered her as a gladiator because I could find no other use for her. If your daughter is taken with the creature, I would be willing to part with it. Perhaps as a gift for her upcoming birthday.

Syringa tried very hard to clap with excitement as she turned towards her father. From the angry look he gave her, he didn’t approve. It might put them in debt to the lord, because of this favour, and giving such a favour just to satisfy a whim was unacceptable.

I’m afraid partly owning Brassia is already much work for me that is not appropriate for either a lady, or one of my station. She tried to smooth things over with the obvious approach.

Not so hasty, daughter. Her father interrupted, This is a highly effective gladiator. Are you sure you would like to give it to her, Lord Dianthus? The value is quite considerable, just judging by how much my daughter has earned betting on your property.

The Lord shrugged, I have little need for the pittance that I earn in the arena, my king. An interesting project for some, certainly, but not for the one who commands your armies. Plus, the damn thing disrespects me. It is flawed, though your daughter seems to find those flaws endearing.

Syringa didn’t interrupt. The politics of what was happening at this moment were beyond her, she didn’t have the authority to accept or reject the gift. That was in her father’s hands, and everyone present was aware of it.

Flawed, but endearing. Her father