The Gladiator (4 page)

“Your kindness is no worthy replacement for my freedom.” She pushed his arms away, untangling herself from his embrace. “I can't accept a life of slavery. I'd shrivel up and die if I did. For whatever reason, God has seen fit I serve you for now. I'll do my best for His sake, but I won't promise to stay here forever.”

Caros's eyes glittered like chips of blue glass in the
sunlight. A nerve ticked in his jaw. “Then I make no assurance either, slave. You shall have neither my protection nor my sympathy and we shall see how well your God defends you.”

C
aros snatched up a
gladius
and pointed the sword's sharp tip toward his best gladiator. “Alexius, join me on the field. I need to spill blood.”

Alexius, a
Mirmillo
specifically trained to fight with a straight, Greek-styled sword, chose his favorite weapon and followed Caros across the sunbaked sand.

At the center of the elliptical field, Caros rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles.

Alexius settled into a defensive posture, a hint of his usual humor dancing in his dark eyes. “To what do I owe this honor, Bone Grinder?”

Caros tensed, his encounter with Pelonia fresh in his mind. All senses fully alert, he could feel her presence in the garden, tugging at him. He almost returned to her until his temper flared. He was a fool. She'd repaid his kindness with constant rejection. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.

Alexius raised his shield. “Hail, Master. Greetings from one about to die,” he said, mocking the adage gladiators chanted to the emperor before battle.

Caros swung his sword and lunged forward, slicing the
other man's upper arm. “Don't test me today, Alexius. I'm in no mood for your humor.”

Gaping at the stream of blood on his arm, the Greek grew serious, a state he reserved for the ring. He kicked sand in Caros's face, then thrust his blade with the speed of a whip. “And I'm in no mood to perish.”

Blinking the sand from his eyes, Caros sidestepped the blow and plowed forward, whirling his weapon with the swiftness and force of a storm. Alexius fell back.

The atmosphere erupted with excitement. The other gladiators stopped training and cast lots on the victor. Voices cheered from the sidelines. A few slaves poked their heads from the upstairs windows, eager to witness the entertainment.

Caros's
gladius
struck the other man's shield. “A gladiator is always prepared for death.”

Alexius plowed forward. His face contorted, his muscles straining against the force of Caros's attack. “I have an appointment with one of my admirers tonight. If I must die in my prime, I'd rather it be tomorrow.”

As his sword sparked against the Greek's blade, Caros shook his head, almost amused. Unlike him, Alexius had rejected freedom when offered it. The Greek preferred the life of a gladiator, unaffected by its lowly status when women of every social standing practically worshiped him as a god.

The thought of women revived thoughts of Pelonia. Her huge brown eyes and her mouth made his pulse race, even as her defiance enflamed his displeasure. Worse, he disliked how his heart leaped at each new sight of her.

How could so contrary a female wreak such havoc on his senses? Mystified, Caros thought he'd conquered his emotions years ago. A quick temper usually meant a speedy death in the arena. Only cold efficiency kept a fighting man alive.

Why, then, couldn't he control his reaction to one impudent, albeit beautiful, slave?

With renewed irritation, he focused his energies on the fight at hand. Up and down the training field, the two warriors matched each other blow for blow.

The sun beat down on Caros's shoulders. Bloodlust pumped through his veins, releasing the aggression Pelonia stoked in him.

His sword flashed in the sunlight and caught Alexius on the leg. He smiled at the other man's look of disgust and shrugged. “A wound for your lady to tend tonight.”

“I best not mark
you,
then. One more scar and your horde of beauties will run for Campania. You're ugly enough as it is.”

“Ha! One of these days, I'm going to tire of your witless tongue and cut it from your insolent mouth.”

Grinning, Alexius swung his shield at Caros's head. “Then again, the new slave Lucia mentioned this morning has no choice except to serve you. Perhaps you can force her to meet your needs.”

Caros ducked from the shield just before it struck him and rammed his shoulder into the other man's middle. Frowning, he fumed at Alexius's suggestive tone. Had Lucia told him of Pelonia's rebellion?

Caros landed a fist to Alexius's stomach, then another. The other man groaned as he broke away.

The Greek recovered quickly and jabbed with his sword, catching Caros in the ribs. The cut stunned the breath from his lungs.

A smug expression crossed Alexius's face. “You're growing slow, Master. Perhaps you're getting old for this sort of play?”

“Think again,” he said, his side stinging, “and leave delusions to your women.”

Caros's free hand shot out. He caught Alexius's sword hilt and yanked. Alexius stumbled forward and fell to his knees, astonishment etched on his features.

Had they been in the ring, Caros could have delivered a deathblow with ease and been done with the match. But he wasn't fighting to the death—at least not with Alexius. His instincts warned Pelonia was another matter and he was in danger of losing both his will and his heart.

Caros eyed his fallen champion, dissatisfied with the fight. His sparring with Pelonia had offered far more interesting sport. Her fearlessness impressed him. “I'm not slow or old. I'm bored. I'd hoped you'd provide more of a challenge.”

“I doubt even Mars could have bested you today.” Alexius massaged his jaw and laughed, his good humor returning with ease. “Tell me, Bone Grinder, has your temper been appeased or do you still feel a need for blood?”

Caros glanced over his shoulder toward the garden behind the cookhouse where he'd last seen Pelonia. “I fear what I need most can't be solved with weapons.”

Alexius's face twisted with confusion. “What is there if not battle?”

Peace.
The thought beckoned him, tempting him with the idea of a different way of life. A way of life he'd known in his youth, but abandoned hope of ever finding again.

His desire to see Pelonia too strong to ignore, he left the field without answering Alexius. Before another hour passed he planned to make amends for how he'd treated her. Why drive a wedge between them when he wanted to know her better?

Pushing through the circle of men offering praise for his victory, he handed his
gladius
to one of the guards. He swiped a fresh tunic off a bench and pulled it over his head as he walked toward the cookhouse.

Without examining his need for haste, Caros returned to the garden. A breeze rustled the fruit trees and water splashed in the fountain, but there was an unnatural stillness that made him ill at ease.

“Pelonia?” His steps echoed along the walkway. He noticed Pelonia had done a fine job completing her task. Not only were the weeds gone, but the herbs were trimmed and the paths swept clean.

“Pelonia,” he called again, eager to see her face once more.

The gate swung open. A wave of relief died the moment he turned and saw Lucia.

“She's not here, Master.” The healer shifted a basket from one hip to the other. “I was on my way to find you. I've looked everywhere, but she's gone.”

 

Tiberia left her plate of uneaten fruit and paced the family quarters of her new husband's Palatine home. Her fingertips brushed the marble top of a writing desk as she walked from one end of the large room to the other. Even the fragrant scent of incense did little to soothe her.

Marcus entered the chamber from where he'd been relaxing in the courtyard. A breeze followed him, rustling the gossamer drapes at each side of the tall doorway.

Taking a seat on the silk covered couch, he picked up a dish of honeyed almonds from a nearby table and stuffed several into his mouth.

Tiberia pitied him. The horror he'd suffered on his way to Rome was too vile to contemplate. Marcus had arrived the day after her wedding, told her of the attack and his brother's murder. How Pelonia had been kidnapped.

Tears formed in her eyes when she thought of her cousin. Poor Marcus had reluctantly shared how he'd fought for Pelonia's freedom, done everything in his power to keep her
from being stolen. If not for his injuries, he'd said, he could have saved her.

“Are you well, my dear?” Marcus asked.

“It's Pelonia. I can't believe she's lost to me forever.”

Setting the almonds aside, he cast his gaze to the woven carpet. “We must accept what the gods will. It's not for us to question.”

She folded into a chair, feeling weak and far from her usually tenacious self. “I know. I'm just grateful I've had Antonius to lean on. I don't think I could have endured this without him.”

“Yes, Fortuna has blessed you.” He knelt before her. “You must remember that and focus on your new life. You're a senator's wife now with many responsibilities.”

“How can I when I feel as though a hole has been gouged in my heart?”

“I understand, my dear. Who feels the loss of Pelonia and her father more than I? You and your husband are all the family I have left in this world and even that connection is solely by marriage.”

She chose a linen square from the table beside her and dabbed her eyes. “No, Marcus, you must think of yourself as our true family. I may have been related to Pelonia through her mother, while you claimed paternal ties, but if blood cannot bind us together, surely this shared misfortune makes us kin.”

“You are most kind.” Marcus lowered his head. “If only I'd been able to save my brother and precious niece.”

Her heart broke for the grieving man. Guilt washed over her. Had it not been for her wedding, Pelonia and her household would still be alive.

Vowing to do all she could to help Pelonia's last paternal relative, she patted Marcus's shoulder. “I should never have
invited our loved ones to see me wed. Iguvium is too far north and the journey is perilous. Had I not, they—”

“No, you mustn't blame yourself.” Marcus's hand strayed to her knee. “It's tragic to be sure, but my brother and his household courted punishment. What other fate could they expect when they turned from our ancestors and forsook our gods? I believe I yet live because the gods protected me.”

Discomfited by his familiar manner and harsh opinion of his brother and Pelonia, Tiberia left the chair and walked to the window where a kestrel balanced on the edge of the sill. For years Pelonia had written about her faith in the crucified Jew, Jesus. She'd often feared her cousin would be found out and sentenced to suffer some heinous punishment. Perhaps the gods
had
taken matters into their own hands after all.

Marcus came to stand close behind her. His knobby fingers clutched her shoulders. “I apologize if I upset you. Let us speak of it no more and remember my brother's house with nothing but fondness.”

“Agreed,” she said, oddly alarmed by his nearness.

“Good. You're very amiable.” He fingered a curl by her temple before moving back to the bowl of almonds. “I can see you will make a fine senator's wife.”

“Thank you.” A glance over her shoulder revealed the old man's intense scrutiny. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, willing her husband to return home quickly. “Excuse me, I must see to the evening's meal.”

“By all means.” He patted the seat beside him on the couch. “Then return soon and we shall reminisce for a time.”

Hurrying from the chamber, Tiberia shuddered and hoped with all her heart she'd only imagined the lust flickering in the old man's eyes.

P
elonia pulled open the door of the storage room she'd been ordered to clean. Dim light filtered through the slats in the closed shutters, exposing a mountain of dirt and clutter.

Stepping into the narrow cell, she leaned her broom against the wall and set down her bucket of water. She stretched the tight muscles of her back, her ribs burning from the day's strenuous labor. This room was her last. As soon as she finished, she planned to seek out her pallet before Lucia concocted more aimless chores for her to do.

With a fortifying breath, she adjusted her tunic, detesting the coarse brown material scratching her skin from her neck to her ankles. She longed for the soft linen and brightly colored silks she'd always worn at home. Hoping a breeze would alleviate the itching discomfort of her slave's garb, she went to the window and threw open the shutters.

Positioned on the upper story, the storage room provided a lofty view of the training field. Below, Caros shouted at the men gathered around him. His sharp hand motions and livid countenance testified to his fury though the distance between them kept her from discerning his words.

Had some calamitous misfortune befallen them or did Caros Viriathos entertain a perpetually black mood?

No, that wasn't fair. Over the previous week, he'd shown his capacity for kindness by having her cared for while she recuperated. He hadn't turned vicious until she'd refused to accept his ownership.

As the group of gladiators disbanded, she rejected all benevolent thoughts of the
lanista.
She couldn't afford to soften toward him. Caros had declared war against her in the garden. He'd threatened her, frightened her, ridiculed her.

Hate, an emotion she'd never sampled before coming to Rome, crept into her heart. In that moment, all the lessons she'd learned about faith and compassion rang hollow. How could anyone possibly follow all of Christ's commands? Would she ever be able to forgive and love her enemy?

She watched Caros return indoors. As though a violent tempest had passed, an atmosphere of calm descended. The gladiators returned their weapons to the guards and filed into their quarters.

She picked up a rag she'd brought with her and began to dust. A vision of Caros plagued her. No one had ever affected her quite like the gladiator. When she looked at him, she saw a compelling, world-weary man, too proud for his own good. Worse, the sense of helpless fascination she experienced in his presence mortified her.

If she were the righteous person she ought to be, she'd pray for him, but the faith to pray eluded her for the first time in her memory. Never before had God seemed so distant. The wrath marking Caros's face when he'd mocked God's ability to protect her filled her with fear. What if Caros were right? What if her heavenly Father could no longer protect her? What if He simply chose not to?

Exhausted from wrestling with unanswered questions,
she finished cleaning and headed downstairs. At the end of a long corridor, she came to a partially opened door. She knocked hard enough to push it wider. The room was empty, but something about the restful space drew her inside.

A wooden sword hung prominently on one wall. Small ancestral statues, three women and a man, sat atop a shelf beneath it. A couch and two chairs crafted of rich wood and the finest, deep blue coverings partially hid the mosaic masterworks of various animals and lush vegetation that covered the floor. On the wall opposite the sword, a fresco of mountains against the backdrop of a fiery setting sun, lent the space a haunting, solitary air.

Crossing to the window, she admired the house's inner atrium with its decorative columns and trio of fountains. Climbing red roses perfumed the air with a sweet scent that reminded her of her own flower garden at home.

An older man shuffled into the courtyard carrying a hoe and woven basket. When he saw her, she waved in greeting. A toothless grin flashed across his aged features before he tottered back the way he'd come.

How odd for him to retreat without a single word to her. She shrugged. What did she know of Caros's servants? Perhaps they were all as strange as their master.

She began to leave a moment before Lucia raced across the threshold. “Where have you been and what are you doing in the master's private room?” she demanded an octave higher than necessary. “If Servius hadn't seen you from the garden, the entire household would still be in an uproar searching for you.”

“What game are you playing?” Pelonia asked. “You know I was cleaning the storage rooms as you ordered.”

“You lie. I looked for you there. You were nowhere to be found.”

“How dare you call me a liar? I…” Her words trailed away when Caros appeared in the doorway. The room seemed to shrink and her pulse began to race like a stallion set free.

“Master.” Lucia looked to Caros with an eager smile. “I found her.”

“So I see.” His gaze scorched Pelonia from head to foot. “You may leave us, Lucia.”

The young healer looked stricken, then resigned before she turned to go. “Beware of this one, Master. She has the face of Venus, but she's even more deceitful.”

Caros didn't comment, leaving Pelonia with the uneasy feeling he agreed with Lucia's poison. Once they were alone, he stepped deeper into the room. “Where have you been?” he asked, his tone as emotionless as stone.

“Upstairs.” Her gaze roamed over the large bruise on his cheek, the multiple gashes marring the sinew of his arms and exposed collarbone. How much more damage did his tunic conceal? He must be in pain. She resisted a tug of concern and the desire to tend his injuries.

“What were you doing there?”

“Lucia sent me to clean.”

“I don't believe you. She wouldn't assign hard labor when you've yet to fully heal.”

“She said you meant to punish me.”

“Now I'm certain you lie. I said nothing to Lucia about you.”

She looked away from his icy blue stare, irritated enough at being called a liar again to dismiss her concern for his wounds. “Your thoughts are your own. Believe what you will. But if you meant to show me how harsh life here will be without your protection, consider your point well made.”

“If you were cleaning upstairs why are you here in my private room? Did you plan to rob me before attempting the escape you threatened?”

“First I'm a liar, now I'm a
thief?”
she asked, unreasonably hurt by his low opinion of her. “If you knew me better, you'd realize you have no need to question my honesty. What have I done to give you the impression I'd steal from you?”

Caros contemplated the question while he steadied his breathing. How dare she stand before him acting as though she was in the right? By the gods, she'd given him the scare of his life. Once he'd discovered her gone, he'd turned the
domus
upside down looking for her. Visions of her fleeing into the wrong spot and encountering his men had him locking them up in the middle of the day.

Unwilling to examine the fear he'd experienced when he thought she'd run away, he hugged his anger to him like a protective coat of mail.

“Well?” she demanded. “What have I done?”

He stepped toward her.

She jumped back, her palms outstretched as though to ward off an attack. “Don't come any closer.”

He moved forward, within easy reach of her. “Why should I not?”

She dashed away, positioning herself behind a piece of furniture.

“Do you think a chair will offer protection if I choose to lay my hands on you?”

“Some protection is better than none.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Even gladiators gird themselves before a match.”

“True, but no amount of armor can compare with experience. I've fought for almost half my life. You're as battle hardened as a kitten.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I admit you're a better fighter than I—”

“Yet I'm not the one who usually begins our skirmishes.”

“You blame me for the difficulties between us? I've done nothing—”

“But argue.” Most of the anxiety she'd caused him began to melt away now that the shock of her disappearance had begun to wear off.

“I've done no more than defended myself. You're just unreasonable. Your high-handedness begs to be brought down a peg.”

“Is that so?” He shoved the chair out of his way and gripped her upper arms before she realized his intent to strike. “If we were equals you might be the woman to chastise me. As it is, you're a slave who'd be wise to keep her opinions to herself.”

“And you're a pompous…
gladiator!”

Caros almost congratulated her. She'd held her ground, though he could see fear lurked in the depths of her soulful brown eyes.

“Why are you smiling?” Her distrust was unconcealed. “Have you devised some new punishment for me?”

He caressed her arms, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. “I thought I might train you to fight in the arena. A woman in the games is a novelty. If this display of temper is any indication, you certainly have the mettle for it.”

She escaped from his hold and fled to the window. “Your humor is misplaced,
lanista.
If you trained me with a weapon, you'd be wise to refrain from sleep.”

He laughed outright. “So, you'd kill me, would you? Doesn't your
God
frown on murder?”

With a defiant toss of her head, she glared at him. Glad to see her bruises all but gone, he admired the way the window framed her beautiful face and delicate stature. Even the ragged tunic did nothing to hide her appeal.

“Blasphemy is a sin the same as murder,” she said. “God
might not pardon you for mocking Him, but given your contrary nature, I'm sure He'd understand my actions and forgive me without reservation.”

“Perhaps,” he said flatly. “But you might be surprised to find how difficult it is to forgive yourself.”

Mollified by the horror in her eyes, he turned to leave. “Be warned, slave. Disappear again and you won't like the consequences. If you think dusting storage rooms is punishment, you'll realize it's child's play compared to the tasks I'll drop at your feet.”

Outside, the sun beat down on him. He sensed Pelonia was jesting when she spoke of murdering him and her God's forgiveness for such an act, but what if it were true? What if her God were powerful enough to forgive the vilest crime and erase the guilt crippling his soul?

Hope flickered like an elusive flame inside him, then burned out just as quickly. He'd done too much evil to think of receiving mercy. He'd killed countless men, many of them Christians. Why would their God embrace an enemy?

He shook his head, his spirit bleak. He was lost with no way to be found. He should accept his fate and stop longing for redemption. Deep in his heart he accepted he wasn't worthy.