Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) (7 page)

All of this Conall had been told before, when he had broached the subject in the past.

“But when you know,” pressed Conall, “when you know more, when you can make the decision, I want you to put my name on the list. I want to be the one you use.”

“You are a gladiator. It’s only natural to want to be the best.”

Another non-answer.

“I would like straight talk from you, Dominus. You talk straight with everyone but me. Will you put me in the primus if given a chance?”

Hands clean, Publius chopped his cleaver into the wooden block of the table. It was nicked with many such marks from previous butchery.

“I think you are a good gladiator, Conall. I think the crowd enjoys you. I think you fight with everything you have. But the primus represents this entire ludus. The legacy of this house. And you...” He removed the smock around his neck, allowing the cook to take it. “You don’t represent the values of this house, Conall. I must take the long view, not cash in on some short-term fling with the mob. The crowd wants their champion to be a god among men, not an animal let loose into the fray. Otherwise the champion of Puteoli would be a lion.”

Conall frowned. “They kill the lions after beast fights even when they win, Dominus.”

“Yes. And so it is lucky for the men who fight as beasts that the same does not happen to them.” Publius put a hand on his shoulder. “You have made a solid place for yourself. Keep winning. Collect your winnings. Perhaps some day you may find some better station. But do not aspire to a place above your own. All men are placed in classes for a reason, and yours is not the top.”

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“H
e is right, you know.”

Conall stepped out from the kitchen to see Septus waiting at the door.

Septus was an old gladiator, fully retired from a life of fighting. Tall, with black hair that had turned mostly gray, he was a lean man who—like many gladiators—looked as tough as a slab of marble. Conall and Septus had always gotten along, though had never been very close. With their mutual friends Lucius and Caius gone from House Varinius, they had only grown more distant. Septus was too serious for Conall’s tastes, though his seriousness was probably why Publius put so much stock in his opinion.

He worked as a doctore, specifically for the heavily-armored secutor class of fighters. He had the role also of being the leader of the gladiator collegium, a sort of guild for the gladiators of House Varinius. Certain percentages of their winnings were donated to the collegium after every fight. These donations were piled up and kept for the needs of them all—funerals, burials, sometimes medical bills. Since Septus had taken over, he had even begun to put together small retirement bonuses, so that a fighter leaving the ludus would have a little money to keep him on his feet as he returned to the world.

“Publius is right? About me not being able to fight in the primus?”

“The
Dominus
is right, yes. You should not fight in the primus. That last man you fought, the secutor? He slapped you around for nearly half an hour before you beat him. You’re slipping.”

Conall bristled. “I let him do that.”

“Oh yes. I forgot how your ribs were in need of breaking.” Septus shook his head. “Do not take me for a fool. Perhaps you wanted to make a point that you were as tough as any man, but no one lets anyone take a foot to their midsection when they’re face down in the sand. You were hurt, and not on purpose.”

Conall’s mouth twitched. “A mistake. One easily learned from. I should be in the primus, and you ought to know that better than anybody. I’ve been on a winning streak a mile long.”

“The crowd doesn’t care about wins as much as you think. I lost plenty of matches in my time, and still they loved me.”

“They care about the Titan’s wins.”

“The Titan? Is that your point of reference now? If so, we should gather you in front of a mirror. I think you’ve forgotten what you look like in your bed rest.”

The thought crossed Conall's mind to hit Septus. Then they would see who stood above who. But he pushed the thought aside. His mood was dark enough without having hit a friend.

“What do you want, Septus? To bring me down?”

“No. I want you to feel firm in the foundation that you are. This ludus needs men like you. But it also needs men like you doing what men like you do. You put on good shows that keep the crowd entertained—and you make them want more.”

“I can do that in the primus.”

“But you won’t. And the sooner you accept that, the better you'll be.”

Conall's displeasure was evident. Septus's face shifted slightly.

“I tell you what,” he said. “Part of the Dominus's problem is that he doesn't know how much to trust you. Your beard puts him off, I think.”

“You have a beard.”

Septus shrugged. “Next to yours? Not hardly.” He put up his hands. “Look. I've a job given to me by the Dominus. He asked me to round up a good, trustworthy man for it. You do this job for him, and you'll rise in his estimation. Enough elevations in his opinion, and the primus comes ever closer to being yours. How about that?”

It was not much of a hope—but it was the only one Conall was being given.

“What sort of job?”

“It's easy. He has slaves he sends out into the city for work. You would guard them from harm. A simple job. No one would come after you anyway.”

“Not if they know what's good for them.”

“Exactly. What do you say?”

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T
hey met in a dark alley between the twisting corridors of a series of apartments. It was a rather typical place for such a meeting, but then, Vahram believed that many typical places, items, and presentations had become typical for exactly one reason—they worked.

There was no one in the alley now but for himself and the grifter who assured him that he could get Vahram whatever he wanted. The grifter was a short man, fat and pale, with a belly distended and soft. Vahram despised such weakness in a man.

His contacts had put him into discussions with the grifter because Vahram had illustrated that he needed someone who could hire men for him. Strong men. Able men. Imposing men.

“What is it you’re looking for, exactly?”

In the darkness of the alley, it was hard to make out either man’s face. Vahram wore a hood of a dark granite color over a tunic of the same color, embroidered with red stitching. The grifter's thick hair waved in the gentle breeze. He wore a tunic of his own, a deep green in color. It was sleeveless, revealing the heavy mass of his upper arms and the many scars detailing his shoulders.

“I need two men,” said Vahram. “Disposable sorts. The kind who can get hurt and no questions are raised. No soldiers. No gladiators.”

“I see. What do you want them to do?”

“One is just a man with a knife. He'll be handy with it. He'll know how to spot a legionary in the crowd.”

“And the other?”

“I want an actor.”

The grifter seemed surprised. “What sort of actor?”

“It doesn’t matter the kind.” Vahram shook his head. “Just an actor who can act. Someone who will pretend to be someone else for money.”

“The knife man is easy. I will inquire as to the actor. That will take time. For how long do you need them?”

“Indefinitely.”

The grifter raised an eyebrow. Vahram could tell he was trying to put together what the need for these people was. If he could figure it out, great, but otherwise, Vahram had no inclination to tell him.

“I see. I can do this. All of this. But it will cost you.”

Vahram produced two bars of silver from his tunic and held them out for the man. The grifter made to snatch them, and Vahram held up a hand.

“One now. The other upon procurement.”

The grifter nodded and took his bar, eyeing it greedily.

Soon enough, the Princess Leda would come out of the ludus.

His contacts had let him know she left the ludus once or twice a week, usually to visit a messenger’s service nested deep in the city. He would wait and watch for her. There was time. If she only came in the morning, then he would go in the morning.

Money was not an issue for Vahram. In his travels, he had started with a substantial sum and had managed to amass something of a small fortune in Roman coin since. If it wasn’t all so heavy, he would have had more. Still, plenty to pay this grifter for however much time he needed.

It was an easy thing for Vahram—who looked so respectable—to take in unsuspecting travelers on the road. And like Vahram, they had all traveled with their money. Sometimes they carried only a little, and sometimes a lot, but after he killed them, all their money and goods all belonged to him.

“You'll have them by tomorrow,” said the grifter. “How's that?”

“That will work nicely,” said Vahram. “Thank you. Make the arrangements and tell them to meet me tomorrow at midday. Ensure they are on time. I have special instructions.”

“It would save you time if I simply relayed the instructions for you.”

“Perhaps. How much time does it save you to do as I say?”

The grifter smiled. “Very well. It was only a suggestion. You’ll see them at midday.”

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“T
his ludus is on its last legs,” said Publius. He stared into the small yard of the peristylium, his hands crossed behind his back. “I think you well know that.”

Leda nodded gently. “I know that you worry about it, Dominus.”

Publius liked to meet here, watching Marius play in the garden. It seemed to calm or please him somehow to look after the boy. For all his severe lack of sentiment, Publius had taken a tender hand with Marius. Leda could appreciate that.

He still corrected the boy sternly when he made mistakes, and made sure that his education was enforced strictly, but he took time every day to spend an hour or two with the child.

Sometimes, he idly talked of finding a proper wife again so as to ensure that Marius had a decent home to grow up in. But always that talk would devolve, as it did now, into the trouble the ludus was in.

“I do.” He nodded. “In a month’s time, there will be another session of games in the arena. We must ensure that our house is featured prominently there. The Governor of Puteoli has agreed to attend a party at this house in less than a week. His appearance here is our opportunity to show him that our gladiators are the most spectacular in all of Rome.” He shook his head. “They are not, of course, but you understand.”

“Yes, Dominus,” said Leda.

Conall would have hated to have been referred to as less than spectacular, she knew. But she held her tongue—and did her honest best to push thoughts of him away from her consciousness. Down that road was guilt and regret.

“As such, the party needs supplies. That means wine. And that means—”

“That means you want me to settle the dispute with Olonius.”

Publius turned sharply at her interruption. No doubt he was thinking some sharp line about social ladders again.

“Forgive me, Dominus.” Her eyes met the floor. “My mouth runs ahead of my mind at times.”

“See that it loses the race from now on.” He turned again, watching Marius bang his toys together. “At any rate, yes. You are correct. This mess with him has gone on long enough. Promise him our business in the future if he shall drop the suit. I’ve arranged for you to be carrying a certain amount of silver to settle some of the debt. Take care not to let it be stolen.”

Olonius sold the best wine in Puteoli. What they had been drinking at the ludus for the last several months—since Publius had defaulted on the loan that Olonius had made Porcia—was the lowest form of Egyptian swill. Leda flavored it heavily with citrus to keep the worst of the taste from her throat.

Sometimes it worked.

“You don’t wish to look after this matter yourself, Dominus?”

“Are you not equal to the task?”

“Yes, Dominus. It’s only...Olonius might think it an insult if you settle the matter with a slave instead of doing it personally.”

“Olonius is a merchant.” Publius straightened his chin. I was born above him. I do not need to settle anything with such a man personally, and it is more than time that was made clear.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Moreover—you’re a princess. Princesses are supposed to be noble and diplomatic. So noble away. Diplomat away.” He walked from his position watching Marius to a small pillar beside an unlit brazier. “Do this for me, and I shall show you the contents of this.”

Leda’s breath caught. What Publius revealed was a scroll sealed with the insignia of her family.

“Dominus!” she rose, walking toward the scroll with her hand out.

He shook his head, snatching it away. “No. When the job is done. Then you get your letter. Not before. Do you understand?”

Of course she did.

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O
n his first morning back in training, Conall rose earlier than any other man. The second the guards opened the blocks to the cell gates, he rushed out and started his lap around the grounds. He made three in near-darkness, the sun not yet totally over the walls of the ludus, before picking up the Hell Log.

The Hell Log was an old log instituted into the ludus by the doctore before Murus. It was thick and round, roughly the same size as Conall’s torso. Awkward to carry and heavy to hold, it was made even heavier by thick bands of iron bolted into it on either end. Over the years, the bark had all been peeled off and sanded down, if only to keep gladiators from scraping their bodies—which had to be in perfect condition before combat.

The end result was a frightfully dense load. Murus enjoyed punishing insubordinate or lazy gladiators by making them run with the Hell Log on their shoulders.

Conall liked to train in the mornings by running a few extra laps with the Hell Log on his shoulders. It was a good way to build his endurance up and made him feel like he was doing more than the other gladiators. If he wasn’t exhausted at the end of the day, he felt like he wasn’t training hard enough.