Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (4 page)

Whenever Gwenn faltered and Murus saw, he corrected her. The lashes of his whip cracked against the air when he wanted their attention. She could hear and see other doctore doing the same across the long field of training sands in the ludus.

After chopping at the posts for a long time, they broke mercifully for lunch. There was no common feeding area for the women, and so they ate in the same mess hall as the men. They had a table to themselves.

Gwenn sat next to two sisters, Ros and Kav. They had dark hair and wide faces that would have been full of terror from the day's events if not for the presence of one another. They had been sold from their family in Gaul, which had too many daughters already.

“And you?” Ros asked Gwenn, after the short history. “How did you end up in chains?”

“My people were conquered by the Romans,” said Gwenn. “I was part of the leftovers.”

Their dinner was a strange barley gruel that Gwenn had never seen before. She had heard of it, though. Gladiators were often called hordearii—barley men—because of it. And so she ate it with zeal, knowing she held in her mouth the same taste as her father did.

Maybe even the same meal he ate hours before his death.

“What about you?” Ros asked Sabiana. “How did you come to be here?”

Sabiana had been poring over a small engraved disk as she ate. It was a seal, Gwenn realized after a moment—a fire-hardened clay seal with her family's crest. Her fingers ran up and down its surface, clearly filled with longing. She slipped it back inside her clothes and looked up. Her hair was shoulder-length, a heavy brown color.

“There were many contenders for the throne of Emperor,” said Sabiana. “My family chose the wrong one.”

“You're lucky you're not dead,” said Kav. “Romans kill everyone.”

“They killed most everyone of my family. All the men. To spare the women, they scattered us on the slave market.”

Pangs of empathy hit Gwenn. She had not known that about the other young woman. If she had, would she have taken it easier in the scuffle that morning? Sabiana was clearly suffering from the efforts of the day. The bruise Gwenn had left on her face had only swelled larger.

Sabiana noticed Gwenn staring, and glared back at her. Gwenn felt her heart harden. The little noble oughtn't have tried to steal her bread without expecting some sort of retribution. Fair was fair.

“Anyway, I think we're dead regardless,” said Sabiana. “They're just taking their time about it now.”

They returned to training and this time they sparred off against one another. Ros and Kav were split up—Murus could tell they were sisters, and did not want anyone to go easy on anyone—and pit Ros against Gwenn. Sabiana sparred with Kav. All the girls were handed thick wicker shields and heavy wooden training shields.

In the downtime between sparring drills, she caught Lucius staring at her. Or did he catch her staring at him?

Looks were exchanged, and they were stupid and useless. Gwenn resolved to quit them. After the next one.

And then, the next one. His body made her thoughts race.

Ros got some good shots on Gwenn, and Gwenn got some good shots on Ros—more than Ros got on her. She felt like a natural, though every time Murus spoke, she was assured that she was barely even a novice.

By the time the day ended, her arms felt like stone weights. Her body was expended entirely. There was no thought in her mind but eating and resting.

And for the first time in she could not remember how long, Gwenn felt happy.

––––––––

L
ucius had enough status as a doctore that he could speak the guards at the gate to the house proper and request an audience with the Domina. He did just that, hoping to impress upon her the stupidity of this latest venture.

The inside of the house had progressed right past luxurious and into ostentatious. New columns lined the vestibule on every side, with even more inside. A stream had been diverted from the other side of the estate to provide fresh water for the small, square pool in the middle of the entryway. The stream connected also to the atrium and the dining room with more pools and indoor streams. Marble tile inlaid with golden leaves decorated the borders of every floored surface.

Jewel-encrusted goblets and plates were displayed along the walls, along with large ornamental silver sets of unwearable armor.

All of this had been bought with Porcia’s winnings from the last match of the Great Ursus. What wasn’t bought from that was purchased on credit. And when one creditor ran out of patience with Porcia’s spending, she went to another.

Her methods of persuasion were rather simple. The most basic was simply to ask high-standing members of society for donatives to endorse a favorite fighter.

When that didn’t work, she asked an established senator to sponsor a fighter (which, in itself, required giving a great deal of money to the ludus). If she could find no senators, she looked for members of the rich equestrian merchant class. And if none of that worked, she started at the top of the food chain again, only this time her offers were more carnal in nature.

Lucius's disgust with this latest money-making scheme—and it had to be one, as Porcia hardly did anything without the hope of money—stretched beyond his usual distaste for the Domina's extravagance. The ludus of House Varinius had operated with dignity and nobility for years now. Employing female gladiators was on par—if not lower—with running a brothel.

No self-respecting crowd paid to see a woman fight. You might as well drop your money on dogs gnashing at one another in the street.

He had seen the fights of gladiatrices in the past, of course. They were always thankfully brief. One woman had just a slight idea of what she was doing, and the other was so scared that she tried to run away. It became more of a hunt or a beast fight than the noble, glorious battle of the wills that even a modest gladiator fight boasted.

After the better gladiatrix caught up with the worse one, it was all butchery. There was no elegance to the fighting. No battle of wits, no exchange of skills. It was little more than an execution of the noxii—and often these fights were put on at the same time slots as the midday executions, along with other ludicrous displays like dwarf fights.

Lucius stopped in the atrium outside Porcia’s office when he heard voices inside. There was no door to the office, but there was a curtain, and when it was drawn, it asked for privacy. He waited nearby, leaning against a column.

A drink would be nice. Settle his nerves a bit. If he saw a slave, he’d try to flirt his way into one.

But before long, the curtain opened. From it stepped Senator Otho. He had a square face with a prominent, wide chin. His eyes were small, the irises a thick, lacquered shade of brown. He was past forty but his skin still shone with abundant youth. He had brown hair which curled at his forehead, oiled and smelling of lavender.

Being a Senator of Rome was not the most important status that he held. Otho was the nephew of Emperor Severus. This meant that he did largely whatever he wanted with no consequences, as did most members of the imperial family.

His great love for the arena games, and the slaughter they entailed, had inspired an on-again, off-again, on-again relationship with Porcia, who normally would have been far beneath his station. They attempted, more or less, to keep the affair discreet. But, even if they didn't, the nephew of the militaristic emperor was rather beyond reproach so long as he did not completely disgrace himself. He had, over the years, had three wives, all of whom had died under mysterious circumstances shortly after their dowries were collected.

The slaves of a house talked, and Lucius listened. Otherwise, he would not know half as much about the man.

Using the sleeve of his robe, Otho wiped his mouth a few times. Some remains of whatever happened behind the curtain shined on the cloth.

“Ah,” he said. “The Mighty Orion. You are not looking well.” Otho had particularly white, flat teeth. They flashed in the light as he spoke. “I wonder how long you would last in the arena if we tossed you in there now?”

Lucius knew to measure his tone—and his replies—very carefully when speaking with Senator Otho.

“I’m afraid we would never know, Senator. I am restricted to doctore work.”

“Anything is possible. Anything at all. I like to explore possibilities. See them played out. You understand.” He shook his head. “You were, once, quite mighty, Orion. It pains me to see such a magnificent creature reduced to...this.”

His face shifted into a sneer. He had surprisingly calloused fingertips. Lucius felt them across his bare chest and said nothing to indicate his displeasure. A Senator touched whatever and whomever he pleased.

“It gives me half a mind to just solve the problem. Would you like that?”

“I would like to speak to the Domina if the two of you have finished your affairs.”

“Our ‘affairs.’” Otho smiled and stepped away finally. “Oh yes, I like that. Our affairs. Good shot, Orion.”

Lucius shifted. “I'm not sure I know your meaning, Senator.”

“You most certainly do. How many times did you stuff your cock into her over the years? A dozen times? A hundred? I will have you know that I have
forgiven
her these indiscretions, but I share nothing with a slave.”

Oh, Lucius thought suddenly. Porcia and Otho are having sex with one another again.

It seemed rather obvious now. Otho’s innuendo about affairs. And the way he had wiped his mouth upon leaving the office...

It was little surprise to Lucius that he had heard nothing, even standing directly outside the office. Porcia had been muffling her lovemaking moans and orgasms for years when cheating madly on Rufus. Lucius had always felt bad about that—sleeping with a man's wife.

But, he’d had little choice in his participation. It was either do as Porcia said, or she would tell her husband that Lucius forced himself upon her. That was a death sentence, and Lucius liked living.

He didn’t know if there was wine when you were dead.

“She assures me,” Otho continued, “that she feels nothing for you. That you were simply meat to her. Convenient and ready to use. But all the same, I am not a man who relies on the assurances of women. I would much rather simply...solve the problem.” Otho gave a deliberate glance at the guards at his rear. “I know many men who kill escaping slaves, even escaping gladiators, with not a drop of remorse. If any unseemly activity is reported to me, by anyone, between you and Porcia...I'm afraid you're going to have to try and escape yourself, Orion.”

Lucius tried to smile. “I like it here, Senator. 'Escaping' would never cross my mind.”

Otho's head tilted, dark eyes peering through Lucius's skull. The Senator looked at him like he might a stuffed animal.

“Good,” he said finally, “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

It took a few minutes after Otho left for Lucius’ heart to slow down. The man terrified him. He was legitimately mad. It was like he understood all the rules of society, and very happily played by them when they suited him. But the only reason he complied was to better indulge his sadistic desires.

Slaves went into Otho’s house and did not come out with all their limbs, if they came out at all. He bribed, threatened, and politicked to be the editor at imperial games—the master of the games who decided life and death—the better to send more souls off to ferryman Charon and the afterlife. His shows always had half again as many executions as any other.

I’ll see you around, I’m sure
.

Lucius could only hope not.

––––––––

“W
hat is it you want, Lucius?”

Porcia’s skin was flushed, her eyes heavily lidded. She reclined on her stool against the wall, posture utterly relaxed. Her gaze stretched out the window, where night fell quickly. Puteoli was situated on the edge of the gulf of Napoli. Grain ships from Alexandria and Sicily, the life blood of the Empire, began their long journey to other provinces from Puteoli’s docking complex. The sea air could always be smelled, particularly so when the wind was strong.

The breeze tonight was soft. It pushed through the window slow, twirling the curtain at the door.

“You know what I want, Domina. Those women are going to shame this house.”

“Then I suppose you had better train them well.”

“You can’t train women to fight. The best you can hope for is...a less-active slaughter.”

“I expect you’ve seen many men walk into this ludus without any hope of survival who nonetheless were molded from clay to marble under the watchful eye of a doctore.”

“That’s different. Those men came ready to fight. These women are all scared. Terrified.”

“Then reassure them, doctore. Must I tell you your every duty?”

“I am not some wet nurse to milk the starving younglings bleating for help. I am a gladiator, and I am—”

“You
were
a gladiator, Lucius.” Porcia sat up now. Her elbows rested on the table. “Now,
you
are whatever I say you are. And I say you are a doctore. And I say you will train these women. Do a poor job or a good one. I don’t care if they live or die. What suffices for me is that you are shamed by it.”

“I don’t understand. If you don’t care whether they live or die, then why buy them?”

Porcia had made plenty of poor, impulse purchases over the years. When a good lanista would have been spending most of his money investing in his fighters—buying new equipment, new fighters, and renovating facilities—Porcia had instead spent her money on the domus where she lived. The many decorations and extensions of the house looked beautiful, of course, but behind all that beauty was the great emptiness of a woman who wanted to beautify all her surroundings at the expense of her own well-being.

Most of her purchases were done on credit. Even though her gladiators kept winning—thanks mostly to her expert staff of doctores—Porcia could not stop gambling. She won enough to pay down some of her debts at every new set of arena games, but she spent far more time losing money at the chariot races.