Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (21 page)

For so much of her life, she had wished she was bigger. She wished she was anything but small, transient and ignorable. She wished her body had womanly substance instead of being so like a rail—without effect, without weight in the world, and made for running over.

Time and again in her life, this had been driven home. So many men and prissy women insisting that she was without meaning, that she was weak, that she was too small and too frail to ever matter.

Though she had fought against her past in almost every way, those words stuck still. Raised underneath the oppression of her household, it was hard to imagine a time when she might be free enough to see her body as it was.

But Caius made her feel alive, and free, and womanly. Worthy of the desire of a man such as him. Her breasts, which she had hated for their diminutive area, became the perfect grip for his rough hands as he explored her body. Her thighs, so often defamed for their weakness and lack of strength, were strong enough to hold his density close to her as he thrust again and again. Her arms, which always seemed to her like deformed sticks, became the perfect size to wrap around his neck and hold herself tight to his body.

Here was completion. Here was love.

She wanted to say it—wanted to make as real as she could. But something still held her tongue, and so she pulled Caius closer still and rode the moment as best she could.

“I...I...oh gods, Aeliana.”

Caius lifted up, picking her body up easily and standing, even as she rode him still. Quickly he had her pushed against the wall, her body crushed pleasantly by the overwhelming force of his strength. Her breath left her; all of her now was entirely his to control.

“Too close,” he grunted.

He removed his cock from her entrance, sliding it over the pleasurable mound just above. Still he thrust, placing the fullness of his hardness against her in that intimate spot. Pleasure sang through her bones.

She cried out as the ecstasy began to take hold completely. As she vibrated and shook against him, he emptied upon her belly and breasts. The warmth of his seed spread across her torso. A deep flush stretched across what felt like her whole body.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful.”

He kissed her again, this time smothering her with his weight back down on the ground. It should have been uncomfortable, curled up into him against the stone. But all she felt was his warmth. His strength. The almost worshipful touch of his hands as they moved up and down her body.

This was love.

But she couldn't say it. Saying such things aloud too soon ruined them—and this was a feeling she could not bear to ruin.

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“P
orcia has been telling me unsettling matters,” said Rufus. “A great many things.”

His voice was weak. No matter the attentions of the medici, his health was poorly. Their many rituals and potions had only made him feel worse. In frustration, he had sent them away in the morning.

Outside, it was early afternoon. In the bedchamber, though, with Rufus so sick, it could have been any time of day. A fire burned in a brazier, keeping him warm beneath layers of blankets. He was losing flesh at an alarming rate. Caius stood in his training clothes—loincloth, belt, and sandals. Next to him was Aeliana in a soft blue robe. It was maddening not to hold her hand.

“She tells me that you, Caius, were gravely injured before your fight, and should not have survived in the arena.  And she tells me that she has unofficially doubled Aeliana’s contract. She tells me that you and Aeliana are having an affair.”

“Dominus,” Aeliana began. “I—”

“I am as unsettled as you are, I imagine,” said Rufus, “to know that my wife is kept informed when a prize gladiator is hurt beneath my own notice. And that she has taken it upon herself to alter contracts I have had written up. And doubly so, that my wife makes it her business to know what slave sleeps with which when she does not even mother our son.”

At this, they said nothing. Rufus had sent for Marius, his son, but there had been frequent delays due to storms and building the funds for an appropriately protected caravan. It was uncertain whether he would see him before he died. 

“Sleep with whoever you like,” said Rufus, waving a hand dismissively. “Your sex is not our property. Just your labor. You well know this.”

He began to cough then. Aeliana approached and turned him to one side, firmly patting his back. After a few minutes, his body finally stopped spasming. Aeliana looked at Caius with worry in her eyes.

“Thank you,” said Rufus, turning back onto his back. “I am not long for this world. No, don’t object. I see it in your eyes. Death waits for us all, even lanistae. And as I am dying, I made a few things clear in my will this morning. The first is the length of your contract, Aeliana. I understand you don’t like it here. That is very fine. Blood is not for everyone, even when coupled with glory and honor in the arena. You have done us a great service, and trained Chloe besides. Your contract is up at the expiration of its term, and no funny business.”

Caius saw a visible release from the woman.
His
woman, now, if she would have it be so. It was as if she had let down an aurochs from her shoulders.

He was gladdened—greatly so—for her good news. He tried to push away the heavy pangs of loss that awaited him when he was stuck in the ludus and she was no longer there. How long would it take to forget about her affair with the gladiator once she was eligible for marriage once again? Wouldn’t her family want her married quickly? That was the Roman thing to do.

“Secondly, there are games, as you know, arriving here at the end of the month.”

Caius nodded. “Yes, Dominus.”

“So, as my wife takes an interest in pitting you in strange battles, I thought it might be to your advantage that I took care of the matter for her. As such, it has already been arranged. You shall be in the primus, fighting against Felix. Ursus and Hector, in combat at last.”

Caius grunted. What was it Felix had said to him?

It would have been a great story. To avenge his brother’s death, the young veteran must fight the Champion of Puteoli.

The story was still there, after all. The only difference was that Caius was a returning champion, injured, and Felix had years of experience and winning on his side.

“This is, you understand, a great get for Quintus. He’s been wanting to pit Felix against Lucius for years. The agents always turned it down, though. They worried one less champion would hurt the draw from the crowd in later games. So now, if Felix beats you, the fight against Lucius would be almost assured.”

It was a good match for both houses. No doubt the purses would be extraordinary. All of Puteoli—and perhaps those from other cities—would come out to see the show.

Caius was mentally ready for any match the world could throw at him. But physically...

“I don’t know if I will be healed in time for the match, Dominus.”

“My boy.” Rufus smiled. “You will have to be.”

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T
hree years past, Caius was newly freed and racing through the streets of Puteoli to return to his wife Fabiana. She was under the care of an obstetrix—a midwife—who had volunteered her services for her love of the great and mighty Ursus of Puteoli.

It would have been bad enough if the day of his last fight had ended with Caius executing Vox. Directly after that deed was done, he had known that he would suffer its consequences for years. The last thing he had wanted was to kill a man on that day—what was to be a glorious day—the day of the birth of his firstborn child.

Doubling the poor omen was that he had—technically—broken his word to Felix. That stung at him.

It had all been beyond his control. And yet that did not seem to matter. Not in his heart. His word was broken, and his child born under the cloud of death.

His biggest fear was stillbirth. The wooden rudis, symbol of his freedom, slapped against the meat of his back as he ran. He had only a small pouch with this gathered belongings from the arena. Rufus had taken his armor to be cleaned and polished so that Caius could display it in his home. It would be delivered on the morrow.

The day had been cloudy and hot, but now the clouds had broken and only clear starlight shined down. This did not make Caius feel any better. It made him feel as though the Gods watched him, as if they needed a clear view to unleash their judgment properly.

The home was small—the bottom floor of an apartment not far from the place where Caius’s brother-in-law, the barber Seneca, operated his business. Fabiana had picked it out. She had been a free woman for exactly one month.

Where had she gone in her newfound freedom? What had she done?

Caius had heard only bits and pieces. When she came to visit, he greeted her gladly. But his mind was consumed with training. He had to win his fight. He knew his freedom was on the line. So when she spoke of her life as a free woman, he could recall only snippets—she bought a length of green cloth for a bargain; the figs tasted especially good this season; there was no space in the street past sunset when all the traders delivered their wares.

It took Caius years to forgive himself for not paying better attention at that time. He had given up the whole of his heart to her before, and had promised over and over again that he would listen to her every day if only he lived past the fight.

He did live past the fight. But she did not.

Caius arrived at the small home and rushed inside. The obstetrix was there to greet him. She held his child in her arms, but her face told the whole, sad story.

For so long, after so many battles, Caius thought he might have finally earned a perfect life.

Fortune, as ever, had other ideas.

A gladiator had many essences, each as valid as the one before it. An outsider fighting his way back into society. A man living on the razor’s edge between glory and shame. A demi-god rousing the passions of thousands at once, worshiped by the crowd.

But more than any of that, as a gladiator, Caius had only ever felt he was one thing—condemned. For a time he had forgotten how condemned he was, and Fortune conspired to make him remember.

He would not forget again.

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I
f noses could wilt, if faces could, if an entire body’s worth of
skin
could, Porcia felt as though hers would do so now.

Across from her, in the new office she had made for herself after the disrepair from the fire, was Cammedius. He was a large, gross slave with a jutting jaw. His nose was beyond crooked, it was positively octagonal, and his eyes were yellow and runny. Were he not a beast in the arena, they would have done away with him long ago. But he
was
a beast in the arena, and they could cover up the worst of his ugliness with a good helmet.

Fortunately for her social standing, no such wilting of her skin or otherwise actually occurred.

The walls around her were decorated with silver shields, bought at a bargain from a sympathetic merchant. She had sold three of them for a profit to pay down some of her debts; the other four, however, looked lovely on her wall. She sometimes imagined herself as a warrior, cutting through the lines of her enemies one at a time.

“My husband will be dying soon,” she said, not even pretending to be sad.

Cammedius nodded. He breathed through his mouth. “Yes, Domina.”

“When he does, I shall be in charge. And once I am in charge, I will have all the power in this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Domina.”

His tone was vapid and empty. Not much original thought clanking around in that iron tomb of a head he boasted. Her original inclination was to use the smarter, craftier one—Flamma. But his squeamishness when it came to branding Caius unsettled her. That was no sort of servant she wanted to have doing her dirtiest of work.

“Wonderful. That means that the people who do as I say will be rewarded.” She leaned forward, offering the lug a bit of cleavage. Porcia knew she had plenty to spare. “Do you like rewards, slave?”

Cammedius grinned, openly leering at her breasts. “Yes, Domina.”

“Good. Because I want you to do something for me.”

“Oh.” Cammedius finally seemed to be catching up. “Of course, Domina.”

Caius owed her. He
owed
her. That was a fact as true as the day was long. It wasn’t enough that he had
rejected
her, oh no—and what
slave
would reject her?

She was positively the image of beauty. Venus herself had blessed Porcia, everyone said so. She inspired lust like a wine inspired stupidity. The two went hand in hand.

For Caius to turn her down was unforgivable—even after years. And it wasn’t
enough
for him that he had rejected her, oh no. He had to do worse than that.

He had to keep on winning.

Her debt, her miserable pile of debt that seemed without end, had started with him.

At that time in her life, three years ago when she had propositioned Caius, Porcia had never lost a bet. Fortune was purely on her side. And so, when Caius turned her down, she used her powers Fortune had gifted her with against him. She bet every denarii she had on him losing the match.

To increase her winnings, and to drive the stake straight home to his miserable heart, she even bet that he would
die
by the day’s end. That had been almost assured of when she slept with Senator Otho to ensure that the fight ended with an execution.

But he won. And as he was gone, it had taken everything Porcia had to bring her debt down to a manageable level. Otho helped at times, darling rich fellow that he was, but even he had his limits—despite all their fun in the bedroom.

She had even lowered herself to sleeping with her pathetic excuse for a husband for some hikes in her allowance. It wasn’t
her
fault that she was so terribly beautiful that the fool Rufus just fell all over himself trying to make her happy. The end of the pile of debt had been in sight—her wins had been slowly increasing, even with a loss here and there.