Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (21 page)

“The owners did not want you to get to know the other slaves?”

“Nothing so obvious, no. It would have been simpler if there had been malicious intent behind it. But it was just...chance. Profit. A chance to shift up their household. Eventually someone thought I would look good in the arena, and I was sold to the ludus.”

This was easier than he thought it would be. Easier with her. Her hand gripped tight around his forearm.

“I think I am scared of what happens when people are close to me. The closest thing I knew to a brother, a father, was Caius. And he left once he had his freedom, and did not return once. And then, when he
did
return, he left almost right away, once again. I don't blame him for not returning. But this life...it's not a life for keeping people close. Everyone dies or leaves. It has been difficult for me to see much value in relationships.”

“Is that true still?”

She looked very scared at that. He wished he could tell her a safe, easy lie. But she had earned the truth.

“I don't know. I would very much like it not to be, I think. Especially with you. It's caused me a lot of pain, thinking that way. So I tried to forget it.  Drinking helped a lot with the forgetting. There was a lot of it to do.”

“I don’t think that’s a good way to forget in the long term.”

“No.” He smiled. It was a dead thing, but he was trying to make it not quite as much. “Probably you’re right. I suppose my point is...affection. Admiration. Attraction. It’s difficult for me. I treated it like nothing because I wanted that part of my life to mean nothing. But you mean quite a lot to me. And there were truths that I knew that if you knew, too, it might sabotage the first real thing I had ever felt in my life.”

“That makes sense.”

“You don’t like it.”

“There is so much not to like, but I do like that it makes sense, at least.”

He felt it necessary to reiterate one last thing. “I am very sorry about your father.”

“Dying in the arena is an honor, so long as it is honorably done,” she said, a low smile on her face.

“A small comfort to the dead.”

“All comforts are small in this place. We take them where we can.”

He smiled. She was a good listener.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Her hands were making a long sliding pattern across his torso now. It was clear that talking was not on her mind. It was a marvel to him that the storm, somehow, had passed.

Their want was too strong. If even a fraction of his want for her was reciprocated, then he knew that it was strong enough to push aside all tragedy, all heartbreak. Her touch, her kiss, her passion was the very beating essence of his heart.

“What changed your mind about me?”

“I thought about how if the day had been just a little bit different, he would have killed you instead. And then I wouldn’t have you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know that it’s a preference. But I...I don’t think I can enjoy who you are and also have regret for the past. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She slid down on top of his body. “Then kiss me, and let’s not speak of this anymore.”

For this, Lucius was only too happy to oblige.

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T
he forgiveness Gwenn felt for Lucius surprised her in its total lack of reserve. But in its own way, she felt it made good sense.

She lived as a slave, as did he. Though his condemnation to die was sooner than her own, it was just as likely that she could die in her own match in the arena. The future was a mess of death and ending. The past was a cloud of tragedy and heartache.

It made no sense to a woman like Gwenn to focus on anything at all except for the perfect, sad beauty of this fighting man who had fought so much in his time to somehow land before her in the present, there on a cot and at the mercy of her lips.

She loved this man, she realized slowly.
His
fire,
his
drive. His quiet, grim determination to see every battle through to the end. He was a warrior in every way that mattered.

She loved him because he believed in her in a way that not a single other man in her life ever had.

Their mouths met and Gwenn moaned, melting into it completely. Quickly her legs straddled across his hips, and she floated down onto him. Her breasts crushed against the thick muscles of his tall body.

With arms wrapped fast around his neck, she clung to his body, absorbing every sensation she could. The semi-dry, scraggly touch of his chin where his beard had grown in. The hard lines between his collarbone and his neck and his chest, where her fingers could dig for seconds and seconds and only feel more hard muscle. The long sides of his torso. The thick golden strands of his hair.

And she knew he felt her also—those rough, hard hands pushing up her back and then scraping down again. Hot tugs on her hair. Playful, heated nips on her tattooed shoulder followed by soft kisses on the meat around the bone.

She wanted to feel all of it, all at once, forever.

But she couldn’t.

The guards returned, banging on the cell door with their spears.

“Time is up, fighters. Time to part.”

With great reluctance, Gwenn slid off his perfect body. Her center was moist, and she knew she would have to attend to herself before sleeping tonight. She noticed, with some satisfaction, that a heavy bulge had risen in his loin cloth.

No doubt Lucius would have a similar task after she left. Thoughts of somehow arranging a way to time themselves struck her—if they could somehow manage to release at exactly the same time, even in separate cells...

“If you pay us another few sestertii,” said the guard, “you can keep going. But we’ll be watching.”

Ugh.

Gwenn shook her head and gave Lucius a final quick kiss on his forehead.

“I will see you soon, Orion.”

“Until then, little flame.”

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D
uring the next few days, when Gwenn was not training, she was thinking. And all her thinking led her to one simple plan, one which required speaking with Publius to enact.

She found Publius in the garden of the domus, attending a tall fig tree. The morning was not yet over, and technically, Gwenn should have been training. Murus had re-assumed command over the gladiatrices, with three of them having fights at the end of the week.

With great care, she convinced him that speaking with Publius was not only acceptable, but important.

In return, Gwenn would have to take ten laps around the grounds with the log when she returned. It was not her favorite method of exchange—trading suffering in order to possibly receive more suffering from Publius—but it was all she had as an option.

But of course, despite all his apparent indifference, nothing was lost on Publius.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in training?” He held a small shearing knife in one hand. “The games are in only a couple of days.”

“Yes, Dominus. But I had a petition to make to you.”

“I think you ought to punish a slave that disobeys something as simple and direct as a schedule.”

Gwenn turned and saw Otho for the first time, lounging beneath a nearby tree with a small cup of wine in his hand. He seemed to be enjoying the sun.

Marius—Porcia's son, and Publius's nephew—played with him. The boy had arrived the day before to little fanfare. His eyes were very wide at the enormous fighters the ludus boasted, but so far fear had won out over interest.

Otho would throw a ball out in the garden somewhere, and Marius ran to pick it up and return it. This happened in perpetuity as Otho, Gwenn, and Publius conversed.

“I know how to discipline slaves, Senator,” said Publius, “those who are disobedient, and those who simply need reminders of how obedient they actually are.” He turned his gaze to Gwenn. “You are a nuisance, gladiatrix. It smells on you. Everywhere you go, a new nuisance. I have heard several reports to this effect. Every time someone wants you to do something, you go out of your way to do the opposite.”

“I train with great obedience,” said Gwenn. “And skill.”

Publius plucked a fig from his tree, examined it, and tossed it away with some disdain. It did not seem to be growing well.

“And yet when you are put in a fight specifically to die,” he said, “you not only survive, but do so with enough grace and poise to survive to fight a mere five weeks later.”

“Should the gladiators of House Varinius not be expected to win, Dominus, let me know, and I shall be the first to inform them of your decision.”

“As a lanista, I am sure Publius is very proud of your accomplishments,” said Otho. “But as a man who knows his place in the world, he has cause to doubt your continued wrap around this mortal coil.”

“Good. Then you’ll like what I have to say.” Gwenn breathed. Her fingers felt clammy. “Put me in the fight with Lucius.”

“What?” Publius asked. “No. That’s a horrible idea.”

At the same time, Otho said, “That’s a wonderful idea.”

Publius turned to him. “You can’t be serious. A man and a woman fighting together in the arena against two other men? It’s never been done before.”

But Otho was excited now. He approached Publius with clear vigor in his dead eyes. “That’s exactly why it shall be spectacular! ‘The Amazing Artemis in her second fight, ever, alongside the returning Orion—condemned to death by the Gods. Will his condemnation stretch out to her fate?’”

Publius eyed Otho and then Gwenn. “Probably. She’s not going to be fighting dwarfs, is she? These are real fighting men we’re talking about.”

“Yes.” Otho drew his fingers together. “Make the arrangements. Do whatever it takes. I’ll back the costs. This is happening.”

Gwenn knew she had won—that she had gotten what she wanted. But when Otho smiled at her, she couldn’t help but feel that something terrible had shifted in the air. She had done more than play into his hands; she had given him the luxury of seeing all her moves.

––––––––

A
surprise arrived for Lucius the night before his fight—the night before his death.

If there was one constant in the Roman Empire, it was the susceptibility of men with swords to men with coins. More than a few emperors had risen and fallen simply because their guards wanted more pay, and were willing to pledge their loyalty to those who promised them more.

Lucius, if he had the time or inclination, might have tried to figure out how to do something about that some day. It poked a lot of holes into an otherwise very workable system.

At any rate, Caius, Aeliana, and Gwenn arrived, and with the passing of a few coins, managed to have Lucius’s cell unlocked. Gwenn clapped with glee and wrapped herself around Lucius for nearly two minutes before Caius finally cleared his throat—a gesture which Lucius understood, but had to quickly push away resentment for.

The visitors also brought Conall with them, his beard longer than ever—and even better, a home cooked meal from Aeliana’s kitchen.

After a round of teary greetings and hugs, they sat down to enjoy the meal while it was still warm. Caius and Aeliana knew well enough not to bring Lucius wine, and he was glad for their courtesy. They drank instead water spiked heavily with citrus. Aeliana must have finished cooking only a few minutes before. The meal was gnocchi and a lovely display of fish and heavy bread, complete with a thick buttery sauce.

Lucius took a long bite of the bread. It was the single best portion of food he had tasted in a long time. It was the sort of food so rich that you had to sigh and sit back after taking a bite.

“You spoil me, Aeliana.”

“Well earned, and well deserved,” she said.

“We’ve been talking with a lawyer,” said Caius. “He thinks he may be able to add your name on the Wall of Turmedites even despite all this foul business.”

“Is that so?” Lucius took another bite. “That would be something, yes.”

“That would be great and you know it.” Gwenn nudged against his knees, flirting her eyebrows at him. “He likes to talk things down, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Something was off with her today. Even despite her exuberance, there was something going on he didn’t know about. After spending so much time with her, he knew when she hid something—and when she was not being totally open.

Better not to press, he decided. At least not now. Maybe if there was time later. And if not—well, oh well.

A certain sort of fatalistic optimism had been birthed in Lucius’s thoughts. If he didn’t find out something, or didn’t get to do something, it was the same refrain—well, oh well. He was dead anyway. Best not to worry about it with the time he had left.

“Will you fight retarius?” Conall asked.

“Yes,” said Caius. “How’s the arm?”

“Caius. Conall.” Aeliana had a basket of bread in her hands. She let it down to the ground roughly. “Do not ask him such things. We are not here to discuss death.”

“I’m interested,” said Caius. “How are you not interested? He’s going to put his life on the line. He should at least—”

Aeliana powered the bread down on the table in front of her. “
Caius
.”

While Lucius understood Aeliana's distaste for such talk, all three gladiators had known for years now that any one of them could die at a moment's notice. Speaking of a match where they were likely to die was like farmers speaking of a harvest.

“It’s all right, Aeliana,” said Lucius. “No. My arm feels much better, but I’m not up for retarius. Maybe not even with months of healing. There’s not the mobility there.”

“So you’ll fight as a thraex, like a real champion?”

The burly ex-gladiator had made his name as a thraex.

Conall laughed. “Yes, Caius. That’s what all the
real
champions fight as.”

“Hoplamachus,”  said Lucius. “The spear is not so different than the trident, and the shield is easy to move. Easier than a net, at any rate. I’ll be mobile and quick. Playing to my strengths.”

He talked as if he planned to win. Perhaps he did. Even with his injury, Lucius had not technically lost in the arena for more than five years. Victory was not so easy a habit to forget.