Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) (5 page)

“You should consider defending more often.”

“So you
do
watch the matches?”

She slipped her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking how to respond. “Sometimes. There is little else to do in the editor's box.”

“People like that I don't defend often. In my experience, if you are not on the offensive, then you are dead.”

She made a small humming sound as she examined his wounds. The cuts there were already healing. They looked much smaller than the enormous gashes she had seen the day before.

“You heal fast.”

“It’s my body’s way of trying to tell you that it wants to impress you in the arena again.”

She smiled. “I thought a male’s body had other ways of showing its impression toward a woman?”

“I’ll give you fair warning if that’s to start.” Conall laughed. “I expect it won’t be all that long if you keep touching me like that, though.”

As she inspected the wound for infection as Nyx had instructed, her free hand had begun making short circles on Conall’s hard chest. It was something that she did when she was thinking and in a good mood—easy to mistake for some gesture of affection.

She stood up, embarrassed, and began to search through the bag for spare bandages and the herbs that Nyx prescribed.

“Beast of a man,” she muttered.

“A beast?” Conall laughed. “Come now. What beast talks nearly so nice as I do?”

Leda was not about to admit it, but the man had something of a point. She had come into this place expecting him to be as simple as the other gladiators she had been trapped into talking to over the months of her service.

Oh yes, she had noticed
some
spark of intelligence in his eyes when he spoke to her in the past, but all he seemed to speak of were his victories in the arena or ‘how pretty she was.’ These were not subjects belying some deep intellectual growth.

But she noticed just now, in the silence of her search, how easy their conversation had been with one another. It felt like an outgrowth of herself, like a limb she had simply not noticed before.

“Even a beast may learn to speak.” Leda returned and sat down with the new bandages prepared. “Even to read, if trained eloquently enough. It does not change the fact that he is a beast underneath all that.”

“So. I talk like a man. Look like a man—”

“Somewhat. Most men do not have all that hair.”

“
Look
like a man,” continued Conall, “and most importantly, have all the working parts of a man. But, I act like a beast. In battle, I suppose. When my blood is up. When I am excited. I am sure you have noticed. They call me reckless. That I live in between a world of abandon and a death wish. Tell me, then, are you not curious at all what that beast will do in the bed?”

She pretended not to hear that—she was good at deflecting the things he said. But she could not ignore it—and now the thought was there, gnawing steadily through her years of trained defenses to keep her body pure for some noble husband she would meet only on the day of her wedding.

Leda would have to be careful indeed if she did not want to give in to the rising tide of desire sweeping through her body.

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V
ahram rode up to the walled complex outside Puteoli and opened a bag draped over his horse. From inside, he pulled out a loaf of bread and tore off a piece, munching it down. He liked to eat as he thought.

It had been a hard day’s ride—a hard month’s ride, in truth—but here he was on the southern tip of the Italian peninsula at last.

Ludus Magnus Gladiatorum.

Those were the words over the gate. Guards on top of the towers eyed him with some suspicion, but not enough to make Vahram worry. So long as he kept his distance from the gates, there would be no trouble. He was simply a man resting on the road and having a snack.

Sometimes armed men gave him trouble due to his appearance. Though he was thirty-five years of age, his hair was pure white. His eyes were blue. Not much of him looked Armenian, which was due to his heritage. His mother had been Armenian, but his father had been a Roman soldier who took advantage of her during a campaign. He never knew the man. Had he ever met him, Vahram fantasized about killing him.

The House Varinius estate was not very large. Tall, yes—sitting on the hill how it did—but not that large. He would have to look at the other side of the hill. See if, perhaps, there was a way to climb over and drop down. Rope could be bought easily, yes, and grappling hooks too.

What had been a distance measurable only in the number of provinces between himself and his prey had become miles, and those miles had now become feet. Somewhere, within those walls, the Princess Leda sat. Or perhaps she stood, or perhaps she was lying down. No matter how she was, or who was around her, she would soon be dead.

And Vahram was the one who would make sure this was so.

A few boys swelled around him. They tugged at his legs and pulled at his horse’s tail. Homeless perhaps, orphans probably. The plague had taken many fathers, many mothers. That Vahram had not been affected by the plague himself was something of a miracle, he felt.

He took his immunity, and that was surely what it must have been, as a sign that he was destined to complete this job and ascend to greatness in other areas. Anyone could be a king, so long as all the right people in front of him were dead. So many had come before Vahram; so many who had been in possession of what he wanted. He had killed each one. So many, one by one sometimes, and sometimes groups at a time. The assassin believed implicitly that he walked with death and never toward it.

Vahram was sure that he was immune to the plague because he had been surrounded by so many who had it. It attacked its victims with fever and excessive elimination. No amount of water was enough to sate them. Sometime around a week, their skin began to break out in small, pus-filled pock marks, marking the displeasure of the gods.

On his way down from Armenia, he had slept in inns heel-to-toe with men and women who had the disease. On the border of Illyria, he had killed a cutpurse, the diseased blood of whom had sprayed all over Vahram in their struggle.

And yet he was alive and well, with nary a symptom.

Looking down at the gathered children, he broke his bread in two and tossed it far into the grass. It landed halfway in a small pile of mud, but it was still edible.

If the children didn’t like it, they could make their own way. Vahram had been forced to, and he did not see why anyone should have it better than him.

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U
nder Leda’s care, Conall’s recovery went smoothly.

Nyx had informed her that he was a stubborn patient. After a few days, she warned, he would grow restless and begin to insist that he was ready to train again. But Leda had no such problems with him. She suspected that this was because of the other problem she had with him—his clear affection and longing for her presence.

He did not say anything unwarranted. When her hands traced along his body to feel the progress of his mending ribs, he did not tell her to touch other places or describe what she was doing to the bulge packed away in his loincloth only inches away.

But he did look at her when she touched him like that. And in those blue eyes was a clear, ready heat—and lust.

He may not have described the nature of the movement in his loincloth, but Leda had eyes. She could see the very direct results her attentions had on him.

Conall
wanted
her, clear as day. And more and more, her own want was harder to ignore.

When they did speak, they spoke of the stories and documents he had read. They compared notes about Cicero’s many writings, and about the histories of Claudius. They shared a fascination with the written word and Leda enjoyed that it helped pass the time with him as she delivered his treatments and monitored him.

She had thought that speaking with him about such topics would distract her from her painful attraction to his body. Instead, it only heightened her attraction to the man. Conversations flowed so easily between them that she began to look forward to treating him in the morning—after she went to bed idly dreaming of the many ways her hands could slide up the hard bricks of his abdomen. In fact, most days passed without her realizing that time had moved at all.

He asked often about the fighters outside and their training. The routine always appeared to be much the same to her. Under the care of Murus and the other doctores, the gladiators drilled in the first part of the day, and sparred in the second part. He would want to know who was looking in good form and who not—and Leda tried to bluff her way through such talk. It seemed stupidly important, somehow, to be knowledgeable about something he was passionate about.

In the evenings, Chloe relieved her—Nyx's medical assistant. A Greek girl, well-educated and pretty, with long dark hair and deep blue eyes. She loved the gladiator fights, a strange affectation in Leda's mind for someone who dealt so directly with their consequences. Late last year she had been caught marking a wall in the streets of Puteoli with graffiti honoring her favorite fighter at the moment. Since then, her favorite fighter had changed three times, in three different fighting styles. She was flighty.

Chloe informed Leda one morning that Conall had been muttering her name—Leda’s name—in his sleep.

“He doesn’t talk to you otherwise?” Leda asked.

The medicae’s assistant had shrugged. “He seems tired and content by the time I'm in there. He doesn’t speak much at all other than to say thank you for this or that when I adjust him. But if he's talking about you,
that's
fun, isn't it?” She sighed. “I'd love for some gladiator to come after
me
like he does you.”

There was no reason for Chloe to lie, which meant that Conall’s passion, if that’s what it was, did not extend to every woman inside of his cell. Chloe was an attractive young woman, certainly worth the affection of someone like Conall.

It was hard—increasingly hard—for Leda not to return his affection in part. He was kind, patient, and well-spoken. He did not pressure her or critique her, and his every action and word was layered in gratitude for her presence.

The most that he had done was grab her wrist when she was too indelicate with the bandages about his torso.

“Careful,” he'd said. His hand was large, easily wrapping all the way around her wrist, thumb touching fingers.

And then he had let go, his calloused fingertips sliding gently over the top of her forearm. 

There was a distinct roughness to him. All that hair on his face and head. When she came to see him in the mornings, great tufts of that reddish-brown were usually winding in crazy directions from his head being turned this way or that. It softened him to her eyes, seeing that sort of silliness on a man she knew was deadly dangerous whenever he chose to be.

One day, more than three weeks into their time together, there was a great ruckus down the hall. At Conall’s insistence—he was always looking for news of the outside world—Leda retreated and found out what the men were excited about.

“Someone has retired from combat,” she said upon returning.

“Retired? Someone from this ludus?”

“I don’t think so. They said it was someone in Rome. He didn’t have a name. They just called him the Titan. Is that familiar?”

“It’s very familiar.”

A bleak, dark expression crawled over Conall’s face one inch at a time. It started in his forehead and flanked down to his mouth, finally retreating all the way into his eyes.

“Very familiar,” he said again, shaking his head. “That’s too bad.”

“Who is that?”

“The Titan? He’s...the Titan.”

Leda ruffled slightly. “Yes. And you are Conall. The Conall.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled small. “He’s a gladiator, obviously. But he’s
the
gladiator. He’s been around longer than anyone I’ve heard of. Undefeated in every fight. I think they offered the rudis to him six or eight times. Every time he turned it down. He fights in every sort of style, just to prove that he's better. Lately, he's been working dimachaerus, like me.”

“With two weapons.

“Two swords, most of the time. Yes. And he was...ah.”

Layers of sadness attached to his face. There was an almost undeniable pull to sweep his hair back from his eyes and slide her body against his. Wouldn't that make him feel better?

“What is it?” she asked instead.

Conall shrugged. “Even a gladiator has fantasies. I would have liked to fight in Rome. I would have liked to do it against him, that’s all.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Probably everyone out there had the same fantasy.”

“Why do they call him the Titan?”

“A big man. Bigger than seven feet tall, they say. Terrible in battle. Never leaves men alive. I mean, never. It’s never gone to an editor’s decision, not once in a single fight in more than fifteen years of fighting. The man is beyond legendary. He’s close to being a god, and I don’t think he’s more than thirty-three.”

“He’s more than seven feet tall, and you want to fight him?”

Conall’s face then became very dark indeed. “And I suppose you think I’m too small to fight him?”

Leda had learned much of Conall during her time with him. He wore his emotions on his sleeves, which meant everything that pleased him was quickly evident—and everything that bothered him was right there in front as well.

He despised being thought of as less than. It didn’t matter in what context. If someone thought he couldn’t do something, he would do whatever he had to in order to prove them wrong.

It was a quality both admirable and destructive.

She smiled and patted his forearm. “I thought you would have heard by now, Conall. It’s not the size, it’s what you do with it.”

His good humor returned almost immediately. Leda felt a swell of pride at changing his mood like that—a direct and observable change, attributable only to her.

“Don’t look now, Leda, but that counts as flirting. Have those walls of yours finally tumbled down?”