Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (8 page)

“No,” he said. “Retarius for you. So says the Doctore.”

“I will fight murmillo,” said Gwenn. “I think it better. The net is not for me.”

“Oh no? What if I gave you a demonstration?”

She raised an eyebrow and gestured with her hands, as if to indicate, “these are your sands, or so you say.”

The desire to show off in front of this woman now was strong indeed. All the gladiatrices yelled out, encouraging him to show them.

“Come on, Doctore!”

“Let's see it, Orion!”

He grabbed a trident and a net from off the sands. Nervousness flitted through his heart, and he pushed it away. He’d done this a thousand times. He’d killed two men at the brink of his own death with this very maneuver. He could do it now in front of this crowd of women. In front of Gwenn.

Deep breaths. A center of calm in a world of chaos. He broke off in a run and let his net fly at one of the posts ahead of him. At the same time, he leapt forward into a dive, spinning. The second that the net hit the post, his trident flung from his hands in a mighty throw. In his mind's eye, he could see the trident land as he threw it. Smacking against the post so hard that it thrummed from the impact.

In reality, the trident flew well past the post and into the wall overhead, nearly clearing it. It banged harmlessly down, twisting and turning to the ground below. Lucius had landed in the sand awkwardly, feeling his bad arm throb with pain.

Stupid. Why did he have to go out of his way to be stupid?

“I see,” said Gwenn. “So you’re saying as a retarius, I can more easily kill the crowd? Is that allowed?”

The laughter of the gathered women—of Gwenn—shook him to his core.

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G
wenn knew she had stepped too far with smarting off at Lucius, but she hadn’t been able to resist. He had seemed so cocksure and ready, and failed so miserably.

It was funny. That was where funny came from.

It’s also where sadness comes from
, she thought.
Look at his face.

His body was still half-covered in sand as he pointed to the murmillo equipment. “Grab what you want. Meet me in the sands in thirty seconds.”

Almost she questioned him. Then, she shrugged and smiled. “Yes, Doctore.”

“All of you watch,” said Lucius. “Watch, and I will show you what a retarius can do.”

The women formed a circle. Gwenn picked up a large basket-woven shield, heavy and rustling, and then a thick, short training sword.

This was the equipment of the men, not reformed at any time for the use of a woman. She liked that. She would be as strong as any of them.

The strength of her body, after living so long as an abused slave, was a wonder to her. All muscles growing in tone and size.

No doubt a champion like Lucius was used to women throwing themselves at him. She had lived in Rome long enough to hear what a gladiator's type was. All of them soft, perfumed like whores, pampered, and easy, with legs spread wide like eagle's wings. She would never lower herself to such a level—and so he would never truly be interested in her.

The thought made her want to hit him as hard as she could.

In the sands, Lucius stood at the ready. There was a moment where she had to remember not to ogle at his muscles, flexing and re-flexing as he positioned himself in the sand. Broad pectorals tightened, thick thigh muscles pulsing with readiness.

“Begin,” said Lucius.

He started on the offensive, stabbing quickly with the trident. Gwenn, a little off-guard, barely got her shield up in time. The training trident might not have been able to kill her outright, but there was nothing about being stabbed with a wooden point that was pleasant.

Gwenn circled and advanced, circled and advanced. The trident meant that Lucius had the reach. The sword was heavy in her hand, but not so heavy she couldn’t land a good thrust. She attempted to do so, but he blocked with the trident. The clack of the weapons reverberated across the walls.

Her blood felt heated, fighting with this man. She'd heard it said that hate was the flip side of love. That both were just strong emotions using every piece of information about a person to build the emotions even more.

If that was true, how far away from fighting was loving?

Every sensation arrived slow, as if passengers disembarking from a wagon. The sun poured heat from above. A large bird flew overhead, cawing for a mate.

Gwenn fought in the sands.

She continued to thrust, and he either dodged or parried. It was maddening how quick he was. She began to lose her composure, trying harder and harder to hit him, and for her trouble he spun around one such attack and smacked her across the back with his trident.

“For your impatience, you would have three slashes,” he said simply. “All along your back. The blood makes the crowd wild. Over time, it will weaken you. Less will flow now to your limbs and your head. Thinking is harder. Meanwhile, your opponent can smell the blood. The copper in it. Memories of other fights return to him quicker. He becomes a better fighter.”

The shield she had felt heavier by the moment. She hoisted it up and rushed forward, hoping to catch him as he spoke. Again, he simply dodged and raked the trident down her side.

“Now your side is bleeding. Your reaction time is halved. All your decisions no longer have the luxury of being good. They must be perfect, or you will die. If you are impatient again, you will lose.”

A small roar of frustration died in her throat. Better not to let him hear that. She hoisted her shield up again and changed her tactic. The shield offered good defense. She would use it and wait. Lucius rolled and spun this way and that, trying to move around her steady blocking. But if she was still and upright, he could not move around her.

He thrust only with the trident—had not even begun with the net in his hands, yet.

He should have been swinging the net, she realized suddenly. That was the whole idea of the net—to catch her in it. But his arm wasn’t good enough for the constant movement. It was probably injured, given his maneuver with the post earlier.

That was an opening. It was an opening and she ought to take it.

He thrust at her with the trident and she knocked it back with her shield, then hammered down with the sword. It put him off-balance, just slightly. She went after his hurt arm, now, guiding her attacks to his side. He blocked with the trident or dodged, but she had the advantage now. She drove with it, pushing him further to the side, trying to corner him against the edge of the circle.

The taste of victory was in her mouth. She was moments away, and she knew it.

And then he swung his net up with his “bad” arm, catching her torso and head. He swung around her and then used the net as a handle to toss her through the sand. She stumbled upward to find his trident pressed against her face.

“Dead. For impatience.” He let her stand. Above her, with the sun behind him, he looked as some vengeful, angry god. “You fight as retarius.”

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L
ucius put the women in sparring pairs and then asked Septus to look after them for a few minutes while he retreated to the toilet.

After walking to the toilets, though, he took the long way around the cell blocks, against the wall, and climbed a small side staircase up the hill to the medicae’s office. All the while, his bad arm throbbed. He thought the bone would burst from the socket.

All of the men who had come to him had seen or participated in gladiator fights already. They had a reference point for fighting as a retarius. None of these women did. And, seeing as how he was forbidden from training them with the men, there was no real way to show them up close if he could not perform the maneuvers himself.

The trick with the net at the end of his sparring match with Gwenn was just that—a trick. It wouldn’t fool a trained fighter most of the time, and it wouldn’t fool Gwenn again.

How could he train her as a retarius with only one arm?

How was he supposed to train her at all when all he wanted to do was take her under him and kiss her madly?

The hoplamachus and murmillo required both arms, of course. But Lucius could maneuver a shield easily enough. It would drain his arm, but it wouldn’t hurt it. A retarius fought with
two
arms, though. On a good day, Lucius felt as though he had about an arm and a half.

Inside the medicae's office, Nyx treated a semi-conscious novice who had passed out from heat stroke. His lips were blistered. Nyx was a short woman, wide of stature, with thick gray hair that slipped down to her waist in a massive tangle. Porcia had made a number of horrible decisions since taking over as the lanista, but hiring Nyx had not been one of them.

Unlike many of the servants at the ludus, she was a freedwoman, not a slave. She came to the Italian peninsula many years ago from Gaul after her last husband had died, searching for purpose. He had been a medici, and Nyx had worked with him for more than thirty years, making her more knowledgeable than almost any other medical practitioner in the city of Puteoli.

Behind Nyx was Chloe, still the medicae's assistant. Her eyes flashed with hope at seeing Lucius—she was ever the ready audience for his fighting stories. She was a good young woman, smart and capable at her job. Her complexion was darkened from the sun and from her Greek heritage. Like many things in Rome, educated slaves were often imports, and the best educated slaves came from Greece.

“Damned fool was trying to impress his fellows by not drinking any water,” said Nyx. “But then, not the first fighter I know to ignore my advice.”

Her eyes landed meaningfully on Lucius. They were dark blue, flecked with green.

“I need something for pain,” he said.

“Of course you do.” She snapped her fingers, and Chloe attended to the novice. Nyx then placed her hands on Lucius's shoulder. “How does that feel?”

His answer was a low grunting gasp.

“Right. And how have those exercises been working for you?”

Once upon a time, he would have lied. Now, he did not think he had the patience for it, nor the memory to return to the lie later. Besides, Nyx wouldn’t have been fooled anyway.

“I don’t do them.”

Nyx rummaged through a series of jars, compiling ingredients in one thick hand. Her palms were large and flat.

“Problems don’t solve themselves, Lucius.”

“I know that.”

“They require constant attention. Thorough adjustments. Mindfulness of your body and your habits.”

“I know that.”

She grabbed a mortar and pestle and began to mix. “And yet you persist in all of your bad habits.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I lost my first husband to wine. I understand very well. I don’t think
you
understand. But I know I do.”

Within a few minutes she had mixed together a small, nasty-looking sticky patch of green and red.

“Chew this for the rest of the day. Suck it against your gums, but do not swallow anything but the juice. It should ease the pain. It may make you a bit drowsy. Just keep moving and don’t sit for very long. Ask for an extra portion at meal time, if you can.”

“Thank you, Nyx.”

“It will stop working the second you imbibe wine. And if you choose to drink, it will make you throw up, violently, for about three hours.”

He had already put the chew in his mouth. Slowly, he began to slip it around with his tongue. He could probably spit it out now and still have a drink tonight, he thought.

Nyx read his intentions. “Don’t make me waste my ingredients. If you spit it out, I won’t treat you again. Nor will I treat you when the guards find you vomiting all night long.”

Little choice was left to him, but the pain in his arm was diluting already.

“Think of it as a night off from your 'real job',” she suggested. “Try those exercises. See how you feel in the morning. If you feel better, do it again.”

Lucius had spent his adult life entirely in training. Even so, better advice had hardly ever been spoken to him.

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I
t was dinner time. Dinner was, as ever, the same barley gruel. Gwenn's initial love for it had faded as the weeks passed and the taste became more and more mundane. Taking in the gruel was like breathing air at this point—necessary, but not exactly fun.

Lucius sat by himself. He had an extra portion of gruel that he eyed with some reservation.

“I think I shall speak to our doctore,” she said to Sabiana, “and position his interests on our side.”

Sabiana turned and looked back at Lucius, and then at Gwenn. “I think you shall speak to him, but you're taking me for a fool if you think that the only place you want his interests is on our side.”

Gwenn straightened. “And what does that mean?”

“You two ogle each other at every opportunity. I'm surprised you haven't bored holes in one another's flesh from the force of your gaze.”

“You,” said Gwenn, “are completely off-base. He trains me to fight. That is all that I care about.”

Sabiana nodded, though the mirth in her smile indicated she clearly did not believe her.

Several of the men stood up and left as one—a small clique in the collegium led by the grunt-heavy, potbellied Flamma. In another few minutes, the rest of the men would leave, and then all the women.

Sensing her opportunity sliding away, Gwenn walked over to Lucius's table and sat across from him. Small “ooohs” went up from the women, silenced after she glared at them.

“That was a good match today,” she said.

He looked up from his gruel, eyeing her slowly up and down. There was little recognition from him that his eyes had no reins. Unconsciously, she sat up straight, offering the best possible view of her body.

“Yes,” he said. “You will have trouble as a murmillo with your recklessness. What if we placed you as a hoplamachus?”

“I will fight as murmillo.”

He sighed. “You understand you have the completely wrong temperament for that.”

“Then I will change my temperament. I will fight as murmillo.”