Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (15 page)

Septus burped, and returned the wine to Lucius. “All for the securing of his own future, I expect.”

Lucius shrugged. “He’s not so bad.”

“What did you mean?” Caius asked. “Your fault?”

“Let us say it, to be discreet, that I have had a number of conversations with Porcia.”

Conall stifled a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“To be
discreet
,” Lucius rapped his knuckles on the table, “yes. That is what we’re calling it. And on one such occasion, not too long ago, she found me in a boisterous mood. I told her, fool that I am, that I could kill a dozen tigers with one hand. She challenged me on it, obviously seeing the boast, and so I lowered the amount to three.”

“Three tigers with one hand?” Caius raised an eyebrow.

“If I had to do it,” shrugged Lucius, “I think it’s possible.”

“So,” said Caius. “She thinks you’d have no trouble surviving the fight.”

“I expect so.”

“You’ll be elevated. I’ll die, I suppose she thinks? She gets everything she wants.”

Lucius nodded. “I would guess also, gambler that she is, that she made a few bets to that very effect. No doubt she placed a mighty sum down on you to die, and for me to survive.”

Taking a moment, Caius considered. Did Porcia think so little of him that she thought he could not kill a tiger and a bear when working in tandem with Lucius?

It was the wound, he realized. She must have arranged all of this when he was wounded from the shard. That was why she hadn’t wanted him stitched up. But now he was healed, mostly, and she still looked as happy as ever...

The swift, cold knowledge that he was in danger hit him just mere moments before Porcia appeared in the door. Behind her were two guards, and at her side was Flamma.

“Dice, is it?” Porcia smiled. “An excellent game. My own tastes are more sophisticated, of course. But I recall enjoying dancing with chance and the bones in my youth.”

“May we help you, Domina?” asked Septus.

“You will leave. That is how you help. All of you.”

They all stood, obeying. Caius got up slowly, already knowing what her next words would be.

“Not you, Caius. You and I have business.”

It took them a moment, but the rest all left. Lucius shifted for a moment and looked as if he might try to talk to Porcia, but Caius sent him on his way. Whatever was coming was coming. There was no sense in his friends getting hurt on the way. Once they had exited, Caius saw what Flamma held in his hands. A long metal pole, at the end of which was a large “V.”

“Do you know the mark of House Varinius?” Porcia asked.

Flamma held the end of the pole into a nearby torch. The metal became red with heat. Caius felt time slow down.

“All true gladiators in this house must wear it. Now, normally, a novice has to prove himself in the arena. But we thought we would make an
exception
in your case. Being a former champion and all.”

“I suppose you know already,” said Caius, “that you can see the mark on my shoulder already.”

The scar tissue was heavy with age and almost the same hue of his skin after being there for so long. In many ways, he had gotten used to it; in other, more important ways, he never would.

“Yes.” Porcia drew her hands under her chin. “But—that was for your
old
term of service, wasn’t it? Why, we only thought it
fair
to ensure you had another mark for
this
term. Right on top of the old one.” Her fingers danced on the scarred, elevated flesh. Caius struggled not to recoil with disgust. She was a demon, he realized. Some foul spirit putting on a woman’s flesh like another woman would put on her robes.

“Flamma,” she gestured.

Grinning madly, Flamma approached him with the brand. “You’re not laughing now, are you, Caius?”

Guards held Caius tight. Even though he did not resist, they pounded him down to the table, holding him fast. Maybe not resisting would make it better, he thought distantly. If he didn’t thrash, the brand would likely find its mark easier.

For several moments, the brand hovered in front of his face. He could feel the flesh-melting heat of the mark, and struggled not to shiver.

“Who’s laughing now, you bear shit?” Flamma chuckled harshly.

The mark hovered in front of his eye. It would not take much of an impact to blind him. The cool fear of pain was replaced suddenly with the heavy, intense dread of living a life with just one eye.

“Flamma.” Porcia put her hands on her hips. “Stop playing and do it. I want to see him hurting.”

But Flamma stopped instead. The brand drew away from his face. Caius let out a long breath.

“I thought you said we were just going to scare him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone is scared by the smell of their own burning flesh. Now, do it.”

“He’s...he’s got the mark already, Domina. It’s not right.” He shifted. “I’m no easy man, Domina, but he’s a gladiator. If you think—”

“I
think
that you shall do it,” said Porcia. “Or I shall do it to you a dozen times over. And my husband will hear about how you cornered me and tried to rape me, and how valiant my guards were for saving my life.”

On cue, the guards drew their swords. There was no more argument.

It took a few moments for Flamma to heat up the brand once again, but after that, everything was quick. Flamma shoved the brand hard into Caius’s skin, directly on top of the old wound. Trying to fight the pain, Caius bit the edge of the table. The wood was hard, but his teeth were harder. The imprint left in the wood afterward stayed there until the table was replaced years later.

The pressure let out some as Flamma began to back off. But then Porcia stood behind Flamma, pushing in on his arm. The pain returned a hundredfold. Flamma had been pressing lightly. Now it was pressed with all the weight of two people—and it was too much for Caius to bear.

He passed out, with his last thoughts of his daughter, Aeliana, and revenge.

––––––––

N
ormally, on the road to the games, the air had some measure of cheer. The gladiators, fools that they were, sang songs and laughed roughly with one another as they made their way. The novices, locked away in a wagon to prevent any escapes, were joined by a few veterans telling tall tales of glory in combat.

The rest of the veterans—all those with good behavior—were allowed to walk in the supply train. Their hands were still chained, but it was a privilege nonetheless. These men were considered honorable enough not to try to escape their date with destiny in the arena, and smart enough to know that the guards on their horses could easily run them down.

But today, the line of men and wagons was somber. Their talk was grim. Aeliana followed behind them on a wagon led by two armed guards, sitting on the several crates of her medical supplies. Caius had been attacked in the night. He would not speak of who had done it to him, though everyone suspected Flamma. The two had a history, after all.

For her own part, Aeliana imagined slipping a few choice powders into a tincture for Flamma. Nothing lethal. Just something to give him stomach pain for the rest of his life. Wasn’t that a fair recompense for hurting her Caius?

Her
Caius. Gods. Where had that come from?

Aeliana had to attend the games. Chloe was capable and smart, and Aeliana was glad for her assistance, but she was not good enough yet to attend to all the many problems that the arena games could create for the gladiators. Even setting aside the injuries in the games themselves—which were often grievous and bloody—Aeliana had to be cognizant of any signs of sickness or infirmity.

Afflictions of the feet were most common, as gladiators walked so often with bare feet. Cuts and abrasions, unnoticed or ignored, could quickly evolve into infections attacking the entire body.

Chloe would have come with Aeliana—the games were a good chance to learn, after all—but Rufus had become ill over the last day.

“Just a small imbalance of the humors, my dear,” he insisted, when Aeliana offered to stay and look after him. “I’ve had it a thousand times if I’ve had it once.”

That much was true. He was often coming down with sicknesses such as these, particularly in times of stress. His voice would become hoarse, and his throat and nose congested. He would have difficulty breathing, and so was restricted to his quarters for most of the day to prevent too much activity from exciting the sickness into attacking his lungs further. Coughing fits might last for minutes.

But then, after a few days, it would all clear up—as if by miracle—and Rufus would be certain that
this
time was so bad that there was no possibility that he might have to face such indignity again.

The gods were kind, after all.

Surely they must be at least a
little
kind, thought Aeliana. That was how Porcia ended up not traveling with the column. The Domina intended to enjoy her stay in Capua with a visit to Senator Otho Septimus Carbo. Aeliana didn't know how someone like Porcia had landed a friendship—if that's what it was—with one of the richest men in the province and the nephew of the Emperor, but the world was a strange place.

They stopped at midday for lunch and a break. The soldiers leading the way saw no reason to rush. The column was lead officially by a man named Marianus, in charge of the guards at House Varinius. He was a good soldier, calm and implacable. A good quality for a man overseeing the Empire’s most vicious fighters, who often wanted to mouth off to the men in charge.

But, everyone knew that the real driver of the column was Murus, who walked without chains. The trust of Rufus—and House Varinius—Murus was unshakable. He was broken entirely to the will of the ludus.

Caius had been led along in a wagon, resting between the feet of the other gladiators inside. Now, as the column shifted its order, Aeliana saw him for the first time—and saw the wicked, awful burn along his arm. It was a terrible sight, all that distorted flesh and blackened skin. Her first thought was that she needed to fix him immediately.

Her second was that even if she did her best, his arm would be next-to-useless in the coming fight.

The gladiators were allowed to sit down to eat at a place of their choosing, staying within a wide circle established by the guards. Those with shackles had them undone or loosened, depending on how much the guards trusted them. Caius sat by himself, unshackled, but soon after he sat down to eat his hard bread ration, Flamma approached him.

Aeliana, trying to get closer to Caius herself, overheard them in the crowd.

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Flamma.

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“It does matter.” Flamma put his hands on his hips. “You listen to me. It matters.”

Caius just looked down at his bread, shaking his head.“Go away, Flamma. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Hey.” Flamma squatted down. “I’m trying to talk to you, here. It wasn’t my idea, you see? She pushed it on me. She said it would be nothing. Just to scare you.”

Caius said nothing in response.

Porcia
, Aeliana thought.
He’s talking about Porcia.

“You hear me? You hear what I’m saying?”

Flamma pushed Caius—and right away Caius shot up and pushed Flamma back. They were nose to nose for what seemed like ages. Other gladiators began to pick sides—with most of them on Caius’s. Finally, Flamma turned away. “Suck on Pluto's ass, for all I care. I just wanted you to know my side of it.”

Aeliana watched as he walked back to the wagons, shoulders hunched and swearing.

* * * * *

N
o sooner had Flamma left Caius’s sight than did Aeliana enter it. Right away, she tugged him up and began pushing toward the border of the guards. There was a small stream beyond a line of trees ahead. One guard stepped in front of them.

“We’re not supposed to let you out of our sight,” said the guard. He would have been handsome were his nose not so squashed and red. “It’s orders.”

“I’ll stay within earshot,” said Aeliana. “But this man needs help. Or do you want to see House Varinius shamed in the arena because you would not do as the medicae said?”

In short order, Caius and Aeliana were at a stream. She ran a cloth through water and over his arm, cleaning off the worst of the dirt and grime.

“Stupid man,” she muttered as she cleaned and dressed the wound. “Stupid, stupid man.”

“That hurts,” said Caius.

“Good. It should.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I mean if it didn’t, that would be a problem. It’s good that it hurts. It means your arm will still work if it heals properly.”

“By tomorrow afternoon?”

“Stupid man.” She shook her head. “You can’t fight like this. I know you want to, but you can’t.”

“I don’t know that I have a choice,” said Caius. “Porcia...her men are here with us. If she wants me to fight, they’ll have me fight.”

“But your arm. You’re in no shape to—”

“They’ll cover the wound if they have to. I’ve seen it done before, a dozen times. Men go on to fight when they're hurt because they need the purse. They all know how to make it look.”

“Would you fight if they didn’t force you?”

Caius considered. “I’ll die in the arena. But I’d rather do it well. And I’d like to earn a few more purses yet.”

He could see she did not like this answer. And as she tied the bandage tight around his arm, he could feel it as well.

“Why does she hate you so?”

“Porcia?” He laughed. “I’ve no idea. We just don’t get along.”

“You don’t get along with Flamma, either. But he’s not plotting your death.” At this, Caius raised an eyebrow, but she continued. “No, I’m serious. He appears like he’d gladly kill you in the arena or in a fight, given the chance. But he wouldn’t murder you in your sleep, either.”

Caius had to give her that. Such a thing would be...dishonorable, even for Flamma.

“Search your memory. There must have been
something
you did.”

“You’re blaming me for the scrutiny of a madwoman?”