Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (3 page)

But then her cruelty, once only as present as any Roman’s, became an essential part of her personality. Perhaps it was always that way, and she had merely uncovered herself. Either way, after Lucius had his brush with death, he could not stand being Porcia’s lover for very long.

It had been an ugly end, and he did not like to think about it.

Porcia's reconstruction efforts did not cease with the house. The walls were half again as high as they were in the past, and with half again as many guards on duty. This was because of the mass escape attempt at the beginning of the year.

Porcia’s fighters kept dying or getting gruesomely hurt in the arena. The rumor passed around that the ghost of Rufus had, in his death, been able to see Porcia’s many infidelities and lies to him in full. And so, as a result, he had cursed the ludus to bring shame down upon her.

It was a very Roman idea to think the place cursed, but all the gladiators had been thoroughly Romanized at that point.

All those involved in the escape attempt had been executed, ironically, at the arena. Their former brothers-in-arms fought in the arena afterward in the very same place of execution.

Porcia looked as though she was going to counter with some particularly vicious jab, probably aimed at the quality of his manhood and loving. But, very suddenly, her attitude changed.

“I have a present for you, Lucius. I think you’ll hate it.”

His voice rang with insincerity. “If it comes from you, Domina, I don’t see how I could.”

“We’ve finalized all arrangements for your new trainees.”

That did perk Lucius’s mood a bit. “It’s about time. When will they arrive?”

She pointed to the female slaves, where Murus examined them against the wall. The truth hit home like a slammed door.

“Right there, Lucius. You picked them out yourself.”

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G
wenn was ready to fight. She knew it in her bones. And soon, all of the men and women in her new home would know it too.

The new home was quite something, she had to admit. All these shirtless men, working their muscles and making themselves more fit by the minute.

Even with all her talk—and the many scuffles she had suffered and fought through to back it up—Gwenn was not made of stone. She did not imagine any woman could be among so many men, each one seemingly cut from living marble, without a slight increase in pulse. Her own increase was much more than slight—especially after those heart-pumping thrills that Lucius had inexplicably delivered to her.

Fighting was in her blood. Her father was an arena fighter, but before that, he had been a great warrior of his tribe. His father had been a chieftain and a warrior, and his father’s father had been a warrior, and so on and on all down the line.

As fighting was in her blood, fighting made her blood race. And she held fighting men in the highest of esteem.

She had always wanted to join herself to some strong, able man. Now she was surrounded by them—but all were forbidden. Lucius had said as much on the road up to the ludus.

She had been sold away for rebellious attitudes, for starting fights with the other slaves when they would not treat her fairly. As a slave, nothing was her property. And now, in this ludus, even her sex was not her own to operate as she wished.

Lucius, besides being a procurer of slaves for his mistress, seemed to also be a doctore for the retiarii style. She was well-versed in the nature of the arena. Her father had fought and died on the sands. She made it her business, lobbing question after question at anyone who attended the games, to find out as much as she could.

She herself had never been allowed to see the games in person. Not even on the day her father was killed.

A beautiful blond woman dressed in an ornate stola—Gwenn guessed it was the mistress of the house—Porcia, spoke to Lucius. It was clear even from a distance that the two had history. But Lucius now was staring at the gathered slave women at the entrance of the ludus.

No, that was wrong.

He stared directly at Gwenn.

Her heart began to race rapidly, once again. Hatred for her body's quick response populated rapidly. She did not want her heart to race because of this smarmy lout. Nor did she want to imagine his body freed from all clothes, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscled thighs.

Gwenn found herself staring back at the man. His nose was tall on his face, unbroken. It was clear, though, that he had fought many times in the arena. He had the same easy confidence as the other fighters she saw on the training sands.

Something had happened to him, though—to his arm. An injury that kept him from training. He was not quite as fit as some of the other fighters—more wiry, with less bulk. Somehow it made every muscle more defined.

But she could very much notice from this distance how handsome he was, yes. In the arena, with no helmet to speak of, she was sure he stole many hearts.

It was too bad he was a terrible idiot who had bought her at the beck and call of his mistress.

And staring at her. Why was he staring at her?

She could not linger on it. The tall, wide, tanned fellow who had examined each of the gathered slaves in turn began to speak. His disappearing hair was streaked with gray, his skin like old leather.

“Welcome to House Varinius. My name is Murus. But you will know me as ‘Doctore.’ I am your teacher while you are here. I am your father. I am your brother. I am the only man you need concern yourself with. I am the High Priest of your life, and the Domina is your Goddess.” He pointed to back to the beautiful blond woman watching them. “Some of you will earn a place here. Some of you may die here. Some more of you will die in the arena as failures in your old life, shamed and purposeless.”

Gwenn could hardly believe her ears. Could such news be real? Could she honestly be hearing what she was?

Was she truly to compete in the arena as her father had—to ride the line between living and dying within a single breath?

The other slaves—trained well enough not to make any comments—looked at one another with wide alarm as opposed to Gwenn's clear eagerness.

“But if you listen,” Murus continued, “and you work, you can shed the bounds of that old life. You will earn the favor of the crowd, and your name on the Wall of Turmedites, where you shall live in immortality!”

He walked from one end to the other of their line, shaking his head. He did not look impressed. Most of the girls looked back at him with abject fear. They had expected simple house work. Not the most pleasant of lives, but at least it normally had some longevity to it.

“It may have occurred to you that this is some joke, women fighting in the arena. Certainly some of my own men will think it so. But I assure you, this is deadly serious. If you have any illusions about me taking it easy because of what is or is not between your legs, think again. It is my purpose in life to deliver glory to this ludus. And so I will shape you from women into gladiatrices. If you falter, I will work you. If you fail, I will drop your carcass into the sea. And if you succeed, I shall be the first to hold you up.”

He grinned wickedly then.

“It is my hope that you ladies take great pleasure in training. I certainly do.”

Gwenn's heart sang. She would compete as a gladiator. And she would earn herself a legend, just as her father had years before.

Murus unloaded a bundle of training swords on the sands before them. As Gwenn picked up her sword, she smiled—and she did not stop.

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T
he women took up arms and began hacking at training posts in the sands. Their forms were laughable, and so Lucius laughed. He was joined by one of his retiarii, Ajax.

“Do you think their breasts will get in the way?” asked Ajax. “I think they will. I think that one there, the busty one? I don’t think she’ll be able to swing around her tits come time for the arena.”

“Maybe she’ll smother her opponent with them,” suggested Lucius. “I’d pay to watch that.”

The retiarii should have been training—and Lucius should have been ordering it so. But Murus was occupied with ordering the gladiatrices about, and shortly after Murus’s speech, Porcia left.

So, much discipline was lost. All the gladiators were stunned at what they saw. It was if they witnessed a bear talking. Maybe at some point the idea would normalize, but for now the sight of women training on the sands was unequal in the staggering madness of it all.

Ajax and Perseus, a secutor, were regular drinking friends of Lucius. “Friends” in the sense that he drank, and they drank, and they did this together more often than not.

Since arriving at the ludus more than a year before, the two had been on a winning streak a mile long. When they fought together in competitions of two against two, they were unstoppable. Lucius liked to attribute some of that success to his own work as Ajax’s doctore. It was from these two where Lucius got much of his regular wine. Winners had certain privileges, and drinking freely was among them—so long as it did not seem to affect their training.

After the escape attempt several months ago, a great many of Lucius’s former friends and acquaintances were gone or dead. This saddened him. The memory of it was a great reason to drink.

Still, many familiar faces remained. The resilient young Conall still fought for House Varinius. His fighting style was reckless and often ugly, but the crowd liked to see him, even as he lost.

After Caius left, Conall had become steadfast with Flamma, the ever-dangerous veteran who now stood as the Champion of House Varinius—though not of Puteoli. Porcia had lacked the pockets and the clout to arrange the fight to make that level of prestige possible for Flamma.

Septus also remained in the ludus, though he too was simply a doctore now. He taught in his old style—secutor—ensuring that fighters could stand the heavy armor they had to wear for success. He was the leader of the gladiator collegium still, which, among other duties, ensured that fighters who died in the arena had proper funerals and that their wealth was properly dispersed.

Lucius was glad for the presence of at least this many friends. They had fallen away from him over the past several months, like mud caked heavy on a heel drifted away during a long journey. But, it felt good to know they were in his back pocket should he desire to call upon them.

“They’re not even pretty,” said Ajax. “I mean, that would be one thing, wouldn’t it? If you could stand to look at them.” He pointed to Gwenn on the sands. “Look at her. Look at those scars on her. What man would want to pay to see her fight? She can’t even make blood flow to a man’s crotch, what’s she going to do to make blood flow on the sands?”

“That’s enough.” Lucius was surprised at the harshness in his tone. He banged his tall stick upon the rocks circling the sands. “Return to training. Position five.” He raised his voice so the other retiarii could hear him. “Position five! And repeat until I say otherwise.”

Ajax glowered at him but walked away. He and the other fighters quickly resumed training, hacking at their posts with gusto.

Lucius did not know why he had come down on the man so suddenly. His heart raced, blood pumping in his ears. It was like hearing words against her drummed up some long-dormant protective instinct he no longer knew he had.

It was just his hangover. Women were a far more simple matter than he was making this one. You bed a woman and then you forget about her, just like all men have from the beginning of time. He no more needed to focus his thoughts upon Gwenn than he did upon putting a harness across the sun.

And yet, even so, he turned his gaze back to toward the women. Gwenn hacked with much enthusiasm, but little skill. There was a free, open eagerness on her face. She enjoyed the work, that was clear.

“A strange investment, hmm?”

Lucius turned. It was Iunius, a slave and a eunuch. He was the man in the ludus who was responsible for getting fighters what they wanted. He managed bets at the arena, and generally had his hand in all manner of shady practices.

“I would caution you not to speak to me of investments,” said Lucius.

“Is your blood still hot about that?” Iunius tsked. “Come now, Lucius. Think you I control the markets?”

“I think you’re a liar and a cheat, and I think you’ve given me a dozen sure-things that turned out to be trash.”

Iunius’s mouth shrugged. “Very well. Let me know if you want to procure a present for the one you keep staring at. It is my understanding women enjoy flowers.”

Lucius scoffed. He doubted very much Gwenn would want anything like that.

And he wondered why he cared so much about what she
would
want.

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G
wenn struck at the post with all her might. There was a satisfying thwack as the training sword bounced off the wood.

“Not like that,” said Murus. “Higher. And if you put your foot sideways again, I’ll strike you to the ground. Do you understand?”

Gwenn nodded and tried again. “Like this, Doctore?”

Murus knocked her to the ground. She did not see the blow coming at all. The man was fast despite his age.

“No.” He walked away from her now, going down the line. “I said to be mindful of your feet. Good footing is as important as any other skill in the arena. It is the difference between living and dying. Good form is the difference between living and dying. Good thrusts are the difference between living and dying. Holding your shield up, and not ever letting it down,” he glared at Sabiana, who had begun to do just that, “is the difference between living and dying. You are, in fact, going to find out that unless you do everything well at all times, you are going to die. If you cannot cope with this fact, I suggest you hang yourself tonight. It will be a less bloody death.”

Gwenn would do no such thing. If she had to be perfect to earn her glory in the arena, then she would be perfect.

They trained all day long. They trained as the sun broke through the clouds above and turned the wetness from the morning into thick, muggy humidity. They trained with the only breaks being for water, and even those were for just minutes at a time.