Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (7 page)

Murus had explicitly forbade fraternizing between male and female fighters in the ludus. There had been much talk, already, about floating this rule on the sides of the women and the men.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Iunius. I obtain goods and services for the gladiators here.” He smiled. “And, now that it is possible, the gladiatrices.”

“I don’t have any money for that sort of thing.”

“Naturally. You’ve only just gotten here. But we can put a lien down on the winnings from your first fight.”

“You think I’ll win?”

“I think you have as good a chance as any other in the arena. But both losers and winners receive a purse, should they live. Winners receive more, that’s all.”

“And if I don’t live?”

Iunius shrugged. He wore a tunic that wrapped around his neck. His shoulders were smooth and bare. “I am not offering to buy you gold or a horse, my dear. Bread. Sweets, perhaps. Maybe you would like a letter sent. Should you not pay me, in the event of your death, I will not be out all that much.”

“You do this for all the fighters?”

“One must earn a living, even as a slave.”

“What have you bought Lucius?”

“Lucius?” he smiled. “An interesting question. One wonders where comes its origins.”

“Will you answer it?”

“Best not to discuss the affairs of drunks, I’ve found.” Iunius re-positioned the torch in his hands. “Sometimes they find out, and when they do, they are either drunk or worse, hungover. It’s bad business. Suffice it to say he and I have known each other long enough to arrange a number of deals. Some which,” he smiled, “were more fortunate for me than for him, I expect.”

“You buy him wine, I bet. I have smelled it on him.”

“When he has the coin. I’ve stopped offering him credit on that account.”

“And gifts for women?”

“And why would that interest you, my dear?”

It was dark enough that she felt strongly that he could not see her face blush. “He holds us in contempt,” she said quickly. “I wonder if he is like that with all women.”

“So far as I can tell, he loves women. Perhaps too much. Perhaps that is the source of his drinking. Perhaps the drinking is its own source, as if often is. At any rate, I have more cells to visit.”

“I have one more question,” said Gwenn.

Iunius stopped. “All right.”

“A girl here, Sabiana. She possessed a...I’m not sure. Something of her family.”

“A clay seal?”

Gwenn approached. “Yes. She was very upset earlier. She said it had been stolen. I let her search my cell when she blamed me. She is very broken up about it. Do you know what happened to it?”

“No. Not directly. But I imagine it was stolen. Probably by one of the gladiators. I would imagine it was probably...hmm.” He drummed his fingers along the bars of her cell. “Never mind names. But I would advise her to forget the seal. Novices are not given much in the way of leeway when it comes to tradition in the ludus, my dear. One of those traditions is to destroy all artifacts of past lives. You are to be reborn again in the sands of the arena.”

“I see. Good night.”

“Thank you. Good night to you, my dear. And do let me know if you need anything later on.”

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S
he barely had time to process the full conversation with Iunius—and the fact of his existence, such a strange man—before another disturbance down the hall broke her train of thought.

“I’m the doctore, so you’ll let me through!”

There was some more mumbling and scuffling. In a few moments, however, Lucius was at the gate of her cell and no worse for the wear.

“Good evening, Doctore.”

“Little flame.”

Wine tinged his tongue. It was not so much that he slurred, though. Enough to make him impulsive, perhaps.

And why did
that
give her a little thrill, thinking of this muscled man acting purely on impulse in her presence?

Gwenn was well versed in the effects of alcohol on men. She had seen her fair share of lost causes—men and women who had no reason to exist except for their next drink.

Lucius did not seem like such a lost cause when he had been training them earlier, or when he had bought her the other day. But now, seeing that heavy look in his eyes, she wondered. He seemed right on the precipice.

A gentle shove might ruin him forever; it might save him.

“What brings you to my cell, Doctore? Do you want to tell me to thrust?”

She swallowed the innuendo that came unbidden—
perhaps you want to show me yours?

Gods, why did he have to be so awful and so handsome at the same time? The torch in his hands only highlighted the strong features of his face. His chin was perfectly crafted. She wanted to know what it tasted like with her teeth raking against his jaw.

He laughed. “No. You have spirit, do you know that? It’s a strange thing. I find myself thinking on it often.”

“Why is it strange to have spirit?”

“I tell you what to do all day long. And it’s ‘Yes, Doctore” here and “Of course, Doctore” there. It’s annoying.”

“I’ll start telling you ‘no’ straightaway, Doctore.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean you act happy to be here. It’s ridiculous. You’re a slave.”

“As are you.”

“And you’re going to fight. Probably to the death.”

“As have you. And there you stand. Perhaps you could show me how you did it.”

He shrugged at that. “We all die someday. In this life, we are all set upon a sea of chance with no oars or sails. In the arena, at least you can change the direction of the waves a little bit.”

“That's a small comfort, Doctore.”

It was also something like what her father would say when he spoke of the arena.

“All comforts are small in this place.” He smiled. “We take them where we can.”

He turned away from the cell and leaned against her bars. It would be a simple thing to grab him by the neck and bang his head against the bars. Maybe until he was dead. It would be simple also to grab him and kiss him through the metal. Lick at the hard features of his back. Bite down on his shoulders. A hot debate raged in her head about which she would prefer.

“Training will only get harder from here on out,” he said. “You won’t smile forever.”

“I welcome you to make me stop, Doctore.”

He walked away then. Seconds passed, and then he returned.

“Your arm hurts, doesn’t it? Your wrist. On your right hand.”

She was surprised. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“Stop trying to stab the post. The idea isn’t to stab wood, little flame. You want the point to touch, but that’s all. A thrust is about follow through. You can’t follow through on wood. Back up a little.”

That made perfect sense to her. She knew that something had been wrong.

“Thank you, Lucius. I will do that.”

He nodded and mumbled something, walking away.

“Doctore!” he called in correction, once he was safely down the hall.

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T
hey had one month—four weeks—before the first munus games where the fights were to be held. Lucius knew it was not enough time to teach a woman how to fight. He didn’t have an eternity, after all.

So, his goal became not to embarrass his reputation as a teacher. The women would know how to hold a sword. They would know how to swing it. They would know how to defend themselves. Anything more complicated than all of that was likely too much for their minds.

They could not handle the gore of the arena, the hot sprays of blood, the fevered pace of combat. Oh, sure, they could watch from the stands—but then so could children. It wasn't as if
children
were out in the arena fighting.

Women were known not to be able to handle quite as much when it came to true action, like the sort found in trading, crafting, and soldiering. This was why the Empire was run by men, after all. A woman’s place was the home.

But if women were placed in his arena, in the amphitheater of Puteoli where he had forged his legend, then by the gods he was going to make them look like they hadn’t just fallen from the sky that day.

Every day, he trained them in the basics.

Attack; block; evade. Again, again, again.

Their footwork improved steadily. He walked by them, trying to knock them down, continued until he could not do it. Their muscles toned quickly. Arms grew muscles that had barely been there. Their torsos became hard and flat.

The work was constant and the diet only enough to keep them moving and strong.

At night, Lucius tried and failed to stem the tide of his drinking. If he had a single drink, he then had more than he should have. If he had nothing, as he tried many times, he drove himself up the wall and snapped at his compatriots until the time that wine passed his lips again.

It was either be miserable and sober or miserable and drunk.

What deeds had he committed to purchase such a terrible binary in his life?

He tried to shut out the terror he felt at his lack of control. He focused on training the girls instead.

No one sat with him at meal time anymore. Conall was angry with him, and Septus and Flamma sat with Conall. Fine. To Tartarus with them.

He focused on training the girls instead.

He thought often of the happy, strange flutter that Gwenn filled his chest with when he passed by her as she trained and sparred. Certainly, the steady toning that the training offered had not been lost on her—and her exquisite form was not lost on him.

Other girls had started smiling in the same way that she smiled. Ros and Kav, especially. But Sabiana too.

Sabiana and Gwenn sparred every day when they could. They were his first volunteers for every drill.

At first, it seemed that their sparring had been driven with antagonism. But lately their smiles for one another no longer shone through gritted teeth. They laughed and stood together, trading jokes.

Something about Gwenn was infectious. Her mood. All that optimism.

Optimism in this place. It was unnatural. Lucius felt it growing in his chest like a fungus in a cave, emitting a soft, eerie glow.

It made him think of all sorts of things, that optimism. Maybe there was a future for him. Maybe there was something real between him and Gwenn—something true and desperate and hot in just the same ways that his body kept urging him were real.

He focused on training the girls instead.

The basics were a good root for the foundation of any fighter. But gladiators were expected to have some flash to their fighting. They had to spin and jump, dive and roll. There were great flourishes to a fight, majestic leaps and heroic gestures that would drive a crowd wild.

He avoided the flash because he thought the girls would get them killed.

But, there was part of that flash that could not be avoided. A tradition as old as the games themselves, or close enough. Every gladiatrix under his command had to have a style.

Tomorrow, he would have to give them that style. A wrong choice for a fighter could mean their deaths.

It could mean Gwenn might die.

And try as he might, with that possibility floating out before him, he could focus on nothing else.

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“R
os.”

She stepped forward on the sands. Lucius pointed to the nearby pile he had made, made of old training weapons not quite fit for the service of the men in the ludus. It was the best he could do; anything quality was either being used or had been sold by Porcia.

“You’re small, but you’re fast. Hoplamachus.”

“Thank you, Doctore.”

Ros picked up a spear and a small shield, about the width of a head. Testing their weight with a good shake, she stepped back in line.

Lucius continued down the line. “Kav.”

It was hot outside. The day’s work had not yet begun, and they all sweat. Lucius’s own sweat was tainted with alcohol. He grew tired of the smell of himself.

Kav waited. “You are small also, but not so fast. Murmillo.”

As her sister, she picked up her designated weapons—a wooden sword and shield—and returned to her place in line. He continued listing the names of the other fighters. Callia, Asoll, Rhinea, and so on. By his own design, he had chosen only three styles to teach.

The hoplamachus relied on speed and skill over brute force. The name was derived from the Greek Hoplite, and like most Roman gladiator styles, it was modeled after their former enemy.

A hoplamachus wore a small shield and a dagger in one hand, but their real weapon was the spear. Long and sharp, it was designed to keep enemies at bay while the hoplamachus used their superior maneuverability to find an opening in their opponent’s defense. They wore less armor so that they could move faster.

The murmillo was, in many ways, the opposite of the hoplamachus. The murmillo was the gladiatorial representation of the roman infantryman. As such, it was always a favorite with the crowd. Heavily armored, with a large shield and gladius for a blade, the murmillo relied on strength and endurance to win the day.

Both of these styles were relatively easy to teach. Lucius had witnessed them for so long, and had been in the ludus for so many years, that he knew all their techniques as well as he knew the difference between Egyptian and Roman wine just by the smell.

He had five murmillo and five hoplamachus. That left two—Gwenn and Sabiana—to be retiarii like him.

They were the standouts of his bunch, and both the loveliest of the bunch, besides. It made sense for them to fight without a helmet. Sabiana took up her training weapons without question, like the rest of them. They had begun to trust him as a doctore, though he could see some fear in their eyes still.

He knew the cause of the fear, though he would not admit it out loud. They could smell his drink on him. No woman in Rome was so stupid as to blindly trust a drunk man in charge of her.

“I will fight murmillo,” said Gwenn.

She smiled as ever. It threatened to tear him in half if he let it. All he wanted to do was hold her, take her, kiss her. Just seeing that smile, even hungover as he was, was enough to make that funny glow in his heart grow ever more vibrant.