Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (2 page)

“Very well.” She huffed, as if exasperation, but it did not seem sincere. It seemed more as if she
wanted
it to be sincere. “My name is Aeliana.”

A victory, that. He'd thought she'd been determined to shut him out. Perhaps she had been drawn in by his lack of insistence that she engaged with him. No doubt men all over Puteoli took the opposite approach.

“And you are a medicae?”

“For the House of Varinius, yes.”

There was a surprise—and a pleasant one. Perhaps the swift, unreasonable motions of his passion need not seem so unreasonable after all.

He would be working with this woman. Or at least, around her. For a moment, he prepared to tell her what a great coincidence this was, but the crowd of city folk around them churned as a stray horse galloped through the street. In the ensuing noise and tumbling of feet, they separated—Caius watched with some distaste as men crowded against Aeliana. Meanwhile, his own heavy, hard frame meant that people kept their distance. Normally, he liked that—but a part of him fantasized suddenly about holding Aeliana safe as the horse stormed past.

He could tell already she would probably hate such a gesture. It made him want to do it more. She seemed made for his touch—but Caius was a patient man.

With the crowd keeping them from one another, Caius thought better of voicing the fortunate nature of their meeting.

Fortune’s favor had long lost its shine on Caius. For years and years now, in fact—since the day of his last fight as a gladiator. It was like a denarii caught up in a mountain of soiled laundry. Somewhere, that value was there but still essentially lost.

So he disliked invoking the name of Fortune—disliked making any reference to anything at all regarding luck.

Luck was for men who lived, and Caius knew well already that his decision to return to the ludus would kill him. Not
could
, not
might
—but
would
. It was the only way that he could justify doing it.

Another man might say that the “great and mighty Ursus” had won so many matches that winning a few more to earn a quick fortune was not beyond his means. And were it not for Fortune's souring, that man might have been right. But Fortune
had
soured on Caius—and so he knew his death in the arena was imminent.

A man who might live should stay with his daughter and try somehow to raise her. But a man who would
definitely
die in the arena, a man who could sell himself for a contract that would pay for the raising of his daughter, a man who could bestow any portions of his loser’s purse to his daughter to set her up for life—well.

That was a man who could return to the arena without a guilty conscience.

At least, that’s what he told himself over and over. Perhaps in the coming days he might start to believe it.

Perhaps he might even forget how good it was to hold his daughter.

He doubted such things, as he often doubted anything that might be fortunate.

The horse passed, its owner running after it in a dirty smock, and the crowd thinned out again. Soon, he and Aeliana walked next to each other once more.

“So, you work in the ludus,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Bloody work for a medicae.”

“The bloodiest there is.” She huffed. “It’s all so stupid.”

“Is it now?”

He was amused. Her face was rather lovely as she began her heated argument. Her full lips pale and pink. He wondered what they tasted like.

“Of course it is. Tossing men into the arena for nothing more than coin. A man’s life has more worth than that. A slave’s life has more worth than that.”

“And dignity? Honor? These have no worth?”

She really doesn’t know me
, thought Caius. He did his best not to sound offended from her words. That she didn’t know him was not an issue—but her callous attitude toward the foundations of ten years of his life was not quite so easy to dismiss. He himself had his own doubts about them—but those were
his
doubts, and not to be thrown at him by others.

“Those are words adopted by desperate men, sold to them by powerful men who want to see carnage in their name. For the
glory
of Rome.” She rolled her eyes. “The games started as simple funeral rites. One noble man dies, and they butchered his slaves over the graves. But oh, no, then you couldn't just butcher slaves, you had to make them butcher one another. But then they changed their minds again and now—“ She stopped. “I'm sorry. I can go on sometimes. I don't think you're dumb. I just like explaining.”

“It's all right.”

“I just get excited about the whole business. Agitated, I mean. Do you know—do you
know
—that there are some men who sell themselves back
into
slavery? Just for money or fame or honor. Or some stupid reason like that. It’s all idiocy.”

He shrugged. “That idiocy means a lot to many people.” They approached the gates of the city, open during midday. “If quality isn’t derived from popular opinion, where do you pull it from?”

“I think popular opinion could have more quality if it didn’t revel in the slaughter of condemned men.”

“Ah, medicae. A gladiator is only condemned if he lets himself believe he doesn’t enjoy what he does.” He smiled. “But they all do, one way or the other.” A thought occurred to him. “Why not ply your trade elsewhere, if you hold it all in such disdain?”

“Would that I could. I am contracted, however. My father made me a slave to a medici so that I would learn the trade. When I did, I was sold to the ludus.”

A young man called out “Ursus” as he passed. A few others took note, and began sounding the name with him. They held up their fists, shaking them in good cheer, and Caius shook his fist right back. This brought a cheer.

“I thought your name was Caius?”

“It is.”

“And yet...”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I went by another name once upon a time. People knew me for it. The better for you not to have, believe me, from what you say”

“Very well.” She paused for a moment. “Oh.”

It rather pleased him, seeing her face turn beet red like that. All that color in her cheeks. It made him imagine what other sorts of activities could bring a flush to her body.

“Ursus.” She shook her head. “
You’re
the Great Bear of Puteoli?”

“The one and only.”

“Didn’t you retire?”

“I did.”

“And now...you’re headed east. With me.”

“All the way to the ludus.” He turned, and showed her his other arm—and the shoulder bearing the mark of House Varinius. “I’m afraid, good medicae, that I’m one of those idiots who has sold himself back into slavery.”

––––––––

C
aius and Aeliana had approached the rest of the way to the ludus with Aeliana burning in silent shame and anger from her words.

Her mind shifted on a long, torrential pendulum, with one end holding all the various apologies she might offer, and the other creating vast, intricate angered arguments for why she was
right
and who was
he
to think she ought to apologize?

Not that he had said anything or even taken anything she had said with naught but good humor and an ineffably decent, charming look on his heart-melting, handsome face.

That made her angry too. Why did this man who so effortlessly set fire to her world have to be exactly the kind of brute she hated? There was nothing worse than a gladiator. Only, now there was—a gladiator for whom she couldn't deny her heated attraction

In a way, that was worse. It was like he mocked her for her inability to play everything as coolly as he did. Certainly
he
didn't feel some electric connection between their bodies—and even if he did, it was only because a gladiator only ever thought with the sword in his hands or the sword between his legs.

When they reached the ludus, the tall metal gates opened to admit entry into the yard where the gladiators trained. Large words reading
Ludus Magnus Gladiatorum
were carved in the stone above the gate.

The Dominus of House Varinius was Rufus Antonius Varinius. His family had been training gladiators for more than two hundred years, commissioned to duty by Augustus himself when the great Princeps had placed control of the bloody games directly in the hands of imperial power.

The Varinius ludus was east, outside of bounds of the city proper and buried in the base of a small hill. The walls of the ludus were tall, built just as much for keeping the gladiators
in
as they were for keeping bandits
out
—though not many thieves in their right minds would dare to infiltrate a school full of the city’s most terrible fighting men.

The training grounds for the gladiators were placed just next to the walls, with several plots of sand allotted for their maneuvers. Beyond the training grounds was a raised, green hilly area, where the Dominus and any guests could watch the fighters at work. Trailing upward next to that hill was a long stony stairway, leading up into the hill, into the meat of which was where the Dominus and his family lived in a large house.

Guards were posted at different intervals through the grounds, patrolling regularly. Some were paid for by imperial decree—the games were entirely under the purview of the Emperor, after all—and still some others were personal bodyguards paid for by Rufus. Their weapons were kept razor sharp, and a gladiator approached a guard only with his life at risk. Guards were intrinsically wary about letting gladiators near them.

It was the middle of the day, and so the gladiators trained already. Their toned, heavily-muscled bodies were nearly naked but for sandals, loin cloths, and heavy belts around their waists. This is what they wore at all times—eating, training, resting, and traveling. A great many, Aeliana had found out, slept naked as a result—the only time they could wear something that was not the norm.

She did her honest best not to think too hard about such a great number of perfectly chiseled men completely naked for a third of their lives.

And with
that
thought, she was suddenly imagining Caius naked—a thought not unwelcome to her mind. He was well-formed in every respect, and even with the teeter-tottering of her anger/apology cycle, her fingers twitched with the desire to slide over his biceps. They were large and lovely, and looked good for biting.

More than any other fighter she had seen in this ludus, she wanted to know what it was like to slide underneath such a man. To feel her hips thrust upward and join him in that most perfect of ways...

But that was folly. Nearly every gladiator she knew was a lout and savage. Her emotions did not need to traffic with such men.

The only time the outfits of the gladiators truly changed was in the arena, when the lanista rolled out their personalized armor and wanted them to look as spectacular as possible. The gladiators trained from dawn to dusk, most days. Their days off were on special holidays like Saturnalia at the end of the year, or traveling on the way to a fight.

If a fighter won a good match, he would be granted a reprieve for, at most, two days. That is, assuming he wasn’t injured—and most gladiators were injured at the end of a fight come win, lose, or draw.

Their ways kept Aeliana busy, that was for certain. As she and Caius entered, several dozen faced off in duels with heavy wooden shields and swords. The weight was to train their muscles so that the sword felt light in their hands. Some dozen more attacked stationary wooden targets, building strength and form. Every man was in remarkable shape, like statues in motion, muscles glistening in the sun.

If she didn't act soon, Caius would be lost in the crowd of fighters, and Aeliana would feel guilty forever. She had learned well over the years that it was best to face these situations head-on.

“I'm sorry if what I said offended you,” Aeliana said to Caius. Her tone was terse.

Caius raised an eyebrow. “You don't
sound
sorry.”

“Well.” Her feet shifted. “I am. I don't like to offend others.”

“But you do like to voice your opinion.”

Her hands shifted down to her hips. “Yes.”

“It seems those two desires would often run over each other.”

This Caius was a bit more eloquent and incisive than most gladiators she had run across. Perhaps the years in freedom had done him well.

“Even with that being the case,” said Aeliana, “and even
if
you want to do something stupid with your body and your life like throwing it into a meat grinder for the entertainment of fools, that doesn't mean I should go out of my way to hurt your feelings.”

“If there were medicae for apologies, Aeliana,” he seemed to relish the name on his tongue, “I think yours might be declared dead.”

She was about to snap back with something pithy when a tall, lithe gladiator approached the two with a gentle smile on his face

This was Septus. His beard had made him unique among gladiators for a time, who often were close-shaved. Now the beard was peppered with gray, as was all of his hair. He was old for a gladiator—more than thirty-five years of age. The artifacts of his career were written in his skin in long criss-crosses of scars across his chest and shoulders.

“Ho, Faun.” Somehow the nickname had transferred from the garrison where she had been trained to the ludus. She blamed the guards. “I see you brought back some trash with you.”

“Septus.” Caius stepped forward. “I wouldn’t go around calling people trash. Someone might get ideas and toss your old ass out with it.”

They laughed and clasped each other as brothers. Aeliana struggled not to roll her eyes. Gladiators only knew how to express affection with insults.

“I expected you tomorrow?” said Septus. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. All is well. I just wanted to get started. No point in delaying.”

Septus shrugged. “I’ll go let Murus know. He’s been excited to see you back in action.”

Aeliana drifted away, letting the two men talk.