Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (18 page)

By the afternoon, when the gladiator games began, the crowd had been subject to a considerable show of frenzied gore from the executions.

Of course, this did not deter their frenzy in the least. They had seen all they wished of the preliminaries—but the real prize of the day was the gladiator fights.

Conall fought in the very first match. Though she did not want to witness the fight, she had developed a maternal liking to the young man. He was headstrong, but a good friend to Caius. Aeliana found that mattered to her quite a lot.

He battled as Aeliana had been worried he might—with reckless abandon, heedless of any harm he might come to as a result of his wild strikes and ceaseless attack. She had watched him training, and saw his same lack of reserve back in the ludus as she did in the arena.

The man he fought was a veteran of four matches, with an even record between wins and losses.

Aeliana watched, with growing admiration, as Conall’s constant harrying drove the murmillo back and made him make mistake after mistake. Conall was a flurry of sword and shield, blocking and striking with equal alacrity.

Inside the bounds of his apparent wildness was the very real training that Caius and Murus had instilled upon him—his footing was never out of position, his shield never falling to leave him vulnerable. The murmillo took blow after blow, arms and chest slashed open in many places. In attempts to retreat, his feet got crossed over one another and he fell. The crowd roared with glee, and the murmillo held up his two fingers for mercy.

The editor of the games was Senator Otho. His love for the games, and his thirst for blood, was well-known among the people of Puteoli. It was said he regularly bribed imperial officials so that he might attend and be the editor of the games to which games he went. This role placed him in full control, at the end of the fight, of who lived and who died.

It might have been strange for the nephew of the princeps to have to bribe imperial officials, but this was simply how Rome worked. As the Emperor’s nephew, he received a great deal of deference—but even the Emperor bribed his own troops in the Praetorian Guard to keep him safe.

Seedier rumors had Otho training with gladiators in his private time, which would have been scandalous indeed were it true. Gladiators, in terms of social ranking, were below even members of the theater, themselves lower than whores and pimps. Well out of line for a Senator, in any case.

Aeliana’s heart swelled as Otho decided for mercy, and again when Conall returned through the gates without a scratch upon him. There was some light bruising around one arm, but nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own. The decision for mercy was out of character for Otho, though perhaps he wished to see the fallen fighter die on another day.

Holding power over life and death meant, for someone like Otho, equal pleasure in granting life and death.

Aeliana chose to take it as a good omen for the rest of the day. She could only hope that Caius would be half as fortunate as Conall.

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T
he rest of the fights passed without much pause between matches. Attendant slaves of the arena barely had time to toss new sand out in the ring before the crowd became restless and thirsty for more.

Twelve men died—six in one large melee—but only three from the Varinius ludus. Flamma survived in the melee, much to the mixed-feelings of Caius. He had thought he’d had a handle on the man, but low in nature though he seemed to be, there was also an honor to him.

Caius could always appreciate honor in a man.

Septus stumbled badly in his own fight, leaving himself open to a long shallow cut across his ribs and a heavy battering from the shield of the hoplomachus faced against him. But, up until that point, he had fought bravely, and the crowd insisted he live. The editor Otho was forced to go along with their opinion or risk the wrath of the mob.

It was a strange privilege of the veterans—the longer you lived, the longer you were likely to live.

Finally it came time to prepare for the great display of man against nature. To properly arrange the spectacle, great trees had been chopped down from a forest in Germany and shipped—in whole—to the amphitheater.

As the crowd waited and clapped their hands in rhythm, chanting for more, the trees were set up inside the arena to simulate a wooded area. The crowd wouldn’t mind that the bear was from Gaul and the tiger from Asia—it was all a metaphor for them.

Caius dressed in his standard armor, worn for years before from the time when he first began his undefeated streak. It had been gifted to him along with his freedom, and he wore it again. A manica covering his arm, thick greaves across his legs, a heavy leather belt across his waist. He would wait to don the helmet until stepping out into the sands. The crowd would want to see his face.

Luckily, the manica covered his injured arm. Unluckily, that was the arm for his sword. With some consideration, he switched his shield and sword between hands. He was more awkward fighting with his left, but he couldn't use his right at all. Better to have the one arm covered entirely and keep one open for attack. His bad arm wouldn’t be able to lift the shield very much. Hopefully, with Lucius's help, it wouldn’t need to.

His sword was short and curved at one end, razor sharp and about the length from his elbow to the tips of outstretched fingers. A short sword to fight a tiger and a bear. He chuckled. All his requests for a spear had been denied—at Otho’s insistence, of course.

He wondered if Porcia and Otho worked in tandem, somehow, or if they simply both loved the thought of seeing blood spilled in their name.

After armoring up, Caius tried to talk strategy with Lucius. He saw the retarius, holding an amphora of wine still, in deep conversation with Conall. He knew Lucius liked to fight with a little warmth in his veins, but hadn’t he seen him drinking earlier in the day as well? It was hard to recall. Caius’s nerves were shot, and his thoughts were split between Aeliana—who he could not touch nor speak to in front of so many of Porcia’s eyes—and the fight ahead.

Iunius cornered him. “My friend,” said the eunuch, opening a small pouch. “I have a few concoctions here that would help with your arm.”

“No, thank you.”

The discussion with Conall and Lucius had devolved into an argument. Conall snatched the wine away from Lucius. Murus approached, looking concerned. Lucius just smiled, swaggering about and hoisting his trident up.

“Something for the pain? Something to make you more alert? Just a few sestertii from your purse.”

“No, Iunius.”

“You wish to die out there?”

“I will die out there, Iunius.” Caius gave him a little half-smile. “I would prefer to do it with my wits about me.”

Whatever Lucius said, it seemed to mollify Murus. The call for the fighters to approach came. Lucius cast him a strangely tilted smile as their wrists were chained together. Bang, bang, from the smith's hammer, and their fates were sealed.

Just as they were about to enter the arena, Conall grabbed Caius and brought his lips to his ear.

“Drunk,” he hissed. “Drunk as I’ve ever seen.”

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T
here was no such thing as a forest upon sand, but some visitor, only just arriving to the games, might have been hard-pressed to believe it. The trees stood easily, weighed down with sand and iron. Their heavy leafy curtain was patchwork in places, but this did not hurt the illusion so much as it enhanced the viewing pleasure of the crowd.

The crowd roared as the two gladiators waved and stepped out onto the sands, holding their weapons high. There were so many people in the crowd that it was hard to tell one from another. They were a throbbing, thriving sea of arms and faces, cheering voices and endless calls for glory.

It was all the strain Caius could manage simply not to let the shield fall from the grip of his bad arm.

“Men and women of Rome!” The voice of Senator Otho could be heard resounding across the arena as he listed out their introductions—and the nature of the fight.

Caius snapped his helmet down. “Are you drunk, Lucius?”

Lucius shook his head slightly. The response was a barely-there slur. He stumbled and shambled from one tree to the next, barely upright. Caius felt fury enter his heart.

If he had the heart for it, the smartest thing to do would have been to cut off Lucius’s hand there and then and free him from the burden.

But he didn’t have such an act in him—a fact for which he was more grateful than not.

With another roar from the crowd, the beasts were unleashed on the other side of the arena. Their forms could be made out through the thick arrangement of trees. The tall forest was arranged neatly, with enough width between each tree to hold a man’s wingspan.

The chain between his wrist and Lucius’s was close to twelve feet long. It was plenty of room with which to maneuver, and were the two fighting on sand alone it might have even been a boon. But with the trees so close together, the chain was a liability. The danger of tangling up and tying themselves around a tree was very real.

Even more real with Lucius stepping blind drunk, no doubt in the midst of a black out. The retarius started shouting for the animals to come.

“Come and face the mighty Orion!”

How his words weren’t a slurry mess was beyond Caius.

The chain was attached to his hurt arm, the manacle positioned just beyond the armor there. As quickly as he could manage, he wrapped the chain in around his arm and tugged Lucius tight. With Lucius covering his back, at least there was a chance that the beasts would fall upon his trident if they attacked.

The middle of the forest was safer than anywhere else. Going there would create the most distance between himself and the beasts as they hunted from the edges. And maybe, if he was lucky, they wouldn’t find the gladiators both at once.

Going to the deepest part of the gathered trees also had the added benefit of making Lucius the hardest to see for the crowd. A drunk fighter would be heavily disapproved of, to say the least. Even so, the crowd's vision was at best delayed. In the circular arena, someone
somewhere
had a good seat at all times, and word spread like wildfire.

“Ho, cat. Hoooo....”

Caius spun with Lucius’s words, shoving the drunk man down. The tiger was a deep, beautiful orange, striped with black. It was strange, in that moment, to see something so glorious with such a murderous intent.

The tiger leapt toward them and Caius knelt and struck high. He felt that old, familiar crunch of the steel of his sica meeting bone.  The tiger landed, stumbling. Blood showed across its side in a crooked gash.

All around him, the crowd roared.

A normal man’s stomach would have gone sick. His tightened, coiling like a spring. First blood was his.

Concerns dropped from Caius like extra pots off a wagon. Lucius’s condition. His arm. Whether he would see Aeliana again. The fate of his daughter. His every last action in the arena until that point.

From that hot, unmistakable smell of blood, the knowledge he had hurt his opponent, all that was left was the present—the fight.

A wide, curious rumble broke Caius’s gaze to the right. The bear had arrived. It lumbered forward, smelling the blood too. All predators would smell it, would reach the same conclusions.

It began to charge. Caius yanked Lucius to his feet and snapped him toward the tiger. Maybe something good would happen.

A bear could run several times the pace of a man. So, Caius charged directly back at him. With every ounce of strength, he hoisted his shield up.

The collision sent a shockwave of violent pain through Caius’s body. Even his toes screamed in agony. When the white of pain faded from his vision, he saw that he was alive, and his shield was in the sand. He would not be able to pick it up again.

Positioned right behind his shield had been his sica, ready for thrusting. It found its home in the bear’s chest, sticking out there wildly. The bear seemed stunned still, shaking its head, and largely unaffected by the sword. Paws flapped at it dumbly.

With a yell, Caius tugged the blade out. A healthy dose of blood followed. The bear roared in pain and swatted him backward.

The bear pursued, somewhat more cautious now. But it pursued all the same. Caius scrambled. He had to stay on the attack.

The tiger, meanwhile, decided to strike. Incoherent yells banged out from Lucius’s mouth. He swung the net in his hands, and the tiger leapt at him with claws out.

Lucius fell, snapping Caius toward him with the chain. The tiger had slashed Lucius's shoulder to ribbons—but through the momentum of its leap, the beast had also been caught in Lucius’s net. Dragged down under its weighted surface, the tiger roared in frustration.

The bear snapped its jaw, inches from Caius’s back. Approaching fast and losing its fear.

Caius leapt through the air toward the tiger. With a furious thrust, he drove his sword into the heart of the fallen beast. But the force of his blow was so great that as he twisted to retrieve the blade, the hilt broke off, leaving him with only a handle.

The crowd erupted with wild pleasure—what a blow! Men in the stands clasped one another's hands in excitement. Women screamed with joy. Lucius was ever a favorite for the ladies in the crowd.

Still on the ground, the retarius had dragged heavily through the sand from Caius’s leap.

He made a tempting target for the still approaching bear. On the ground. Bleeding. Barely conscious if he was conscious at all.

Caius rushed and picked Lucius up and over his shoulders, taking his trident in one hand. He felt lucky that Lucius was lighter than himself—he did not think his arms were up to much heavy lifting.

Some time had been bought. The important thing now was to imagine a plan. He rushed through the trees, putting distance between himself and the beast.

After being hungry for weeks, the bear seemed satisfied to eat at the tiger now. That bought Caius only a little time. Heavily armored referees with flogs and hooks distracted the bear and carried the corpse of the great cat out from the sands.