The Colosseum echoed with the roars of the bloodthirsty crowd, a sound that would drive most men to madness or despair. But not Caolan, the flame-haired warrior from Hibernia.
A raid on his village had left him shackled and enslaved, his family slaughtered or scattered. He was sold to the ludus, a gladiator training school, where he learned the ways of the arena. His body was lithe but lethal, his soft features belying the ferocity that dwelled within. Spears were his chosen weapon, an extension of his will, and he wielded them with a deadly grace. Still, he knew each victory was only a stay of execution.
As he stepped into the sandy pit, Caolan’s eyes scanned his opponent, a towering Gaul with muscles like knotted oak. He gripped his shield tight, waiting for the signal to begin. The clash of steel would soon drown out the cries for blood, and in that chaos, Caolan found a grim sort of peace.
The fight was almost over before it began. Caolan easily dodged his adversary’s first wild swing. Then he parried and thrust, each move precise, each step calculated. The Gaul was powerful but predictable. Caolan danced around him, a redheaded specter too quick to be caught.
A spear thrust, a grunt of pain, and it was done. The Gaul fell to his knees, and the crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch. Caolan stood over the fallen man, spear pointed at his throat. He looked up to the stands, where the editor of the games would decide the fate of the defeated.
The signal came: thumbs down.
Caolan drove his spear home without a flicker of emotion crossing his face. Another victory, another day alive. But as he left the arena, stepping over the blood-soiled sand, there was no triumph in his heart, just an emptiness that grew with each life he took.
His hair, like molten copper, and eyes like fresh leaves, caught the sun’s glare – and the gaze of Gaius Aurelius Varro, a patrician with a taste for the exotic.
Gaius watched from his shaded seat as Caolan wiped his spear clean on the sand, the grace of his movements not lost on the rich Roman. He saw potential in the man. Hiberia was a strange land that had remained untouched by Rome’s might. Its people were strong. Adaptable. Gaius leaned over to his companion, whispering a few words before sending him scurrying away.
Days later, shackles replaced the spear in Caolan’s hands. Bound and gagged, he was hauled to Gaius’s villa. The marble floors, the ornate frescoes, and the lavish gardens spoke of wealth and power. Gaius had plans for him, that much was clear.
Caolan was pushed into a room more luxurious than any he’d seen before. It was there that Gaius revealed his intentions.
“You will no longer fight beasts and men,” Gaius declared as servants brought in platters of food. “You will become my companion, and I shall elevate you above your wild kin. You will learn our ways, speak our language. In time, you will forget the crude life you left behind. However, there is a concession to be made for my generosity. You shall become a woman. I see true beauty hidden beneath that savage exterior, and I will sculpt it as Phidias once sculpted marble.”
A surgeon came at nightfall. When Caolan awoke from his opium-induced slumber, pain flared between his legs. He’d been gelded.
“As I said, Hibernian, you are clay,” Gaius declared. “And I am your sculptor.”
Potions followed—brews steeped with exotic herbs and mare urine. The vile draught began to shape his body in subtle ways. His features softened, his beard receded, and his muscles yielded to a smoother, more delicate form. He was trained in the arts of conversation and entertainment and how to carry himself with the grace of a Roman lady. Days blended into weeks and weeks into months. Slowly, his flesh yielded to their Roman alchemy, his chest swelling into tender mounds that mocked the pectorals they replaced.
Attendants draped Caolan in silks that clung to curves he never knew he could possess. They painted his face and perfumed his skin until the warrior who once fought for his life in the arena was scarcely recognizable. Gaius took pleasure in the transformation, parading Caolan before his guests as a testament to his wealth and influence.
Yet as Caolan—now called Callista—looked at her reflection in the polished silver mirror, it was difficult not to appreciate the artistry of her new appearance. The red locks that’d once been wild and matted were now styled in an elegant coiffure, the color as vibrant as ever. Her skin, though softer, still held the faintest trace of sun from her days in the arena.
The first time she accompanied Gaius to a symposium, whispers followed her every step. Eyes feasted upon her form—the former gladiator turned courtesan—and though many knew not her truth, they sensed an enigma wrapped in red tresses and emerald gaze.
Men desired her, women envied her, all while she reclined on cushions sipping Falernian wine from cups wrought with gold.
In quieter moments when dusk turned the skies purple, Callista would stand on her balcony, overlooking gardens perfumed with night-blooms. A breeze would kiss her skin, and she’d wonder at this strange peace that had settled within her breast.
“Did Caolan die on that sandy floor, or does he yet live within me?”
Yes, there were nights when she’d dream of spears and sand, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue. But then dawn would break, and she’d find Gaius caressing her cheek.
“You are my treasure,” he’d murmur. A claim or an endearment? It mattered little now.
Callista found solace in her life of luxury and languid days in silk. For a time, she could almost forget the cold shores of Hibernia or that freedom once meant more than wine, baths, and the softness of a feather-stuffed pillow. Yet, deep within, a spark of the old fire remained, unquenched by Gaius’s opulence.
She would not remain here forever. Next month, she would flee.
Oh! But that was when Lupercalia would take place. And she so loved the festivities—the streets alive with laughter and the thrum of life. Food and drink from all corners of the empire, masks and costumes, a chance to be someone else for a day.
Very well, she’d wait until after the festival. Just this last indulgence, this final taste of Rome’s decadence before bolting into the wild. That would be enough.
Although Saturnalia would follow soon after, and Gaius had bought the most gorgeous gown for her, a flowing masterpiece of Tyrian purple that would make her the envy of every patrician’s wife. It would be a shame not to wear it, to feel the silk against her skin and see the longing looks in the men’s eyes as they dared to dream of what lay beneath.
The month after, then. She’d make her escape. She’d be free.