Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (37 page)

There was blood, but now, hours after the wound, it no longer poured as quickly as it had before. Instead, the wound seeped quietly. He had tied a spare rag around it to stem its tide, but now the rag was covered in wet redness. It needed proper treatment.

What on earth kept Aeliana? It wasn’t like her to wait this long before treating him. Murus had told him he’d sent a man to fetch her hours ago.

Light in the cell block dimmed, soon to go out entirely. Torches were lit late in the afternoon, and once they were out, they would not be lit again until the following afternoon. Any man caught awake by the guards after that time was due for a beating.

Shadows and light footsteps caught his attention. He sat up on his cot, grimacing. Moving caused shoots of pain down his leg and up his back.

“Aeliana? Is that you?” The shadows stopped. “Aeliana, please. You must not have heard. My leg is hurt. I require your expertise.”

The shadow still did not move.

“Medicae? Is that you?”

She approached past the portal to his cell now, her head hooded and her face cast in shadow.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Can you help me? I’m in agony.”

The words seemed to strike her somehow, made her crunch in on herself.

“I’m sorry, Caius. I’m here to see other patients.”

“Then, after them?” he hoped.

“No, Caius.”

“No?” He scoffed. “What do you mean, no? What does that mean? What are you...” She stepped backward, and a great anger rose up in him. “By Pluto’s great burning ass, woman, I’m in pain. You’re the medicae. Treat me!”

She swallowed, her voice gathering steel. “No, Caius.”

“Then tell me why. Did I offend you? Did I wrong you, somehow? Did I—”

His voice was approached a roar. He took a breath, calming himself. He did not want that anger. It had taken years of his life to master it. There was no reason to call it back now just because of a gash in his leg.

No, no, that all made sense now. She did not want to treat him. Of course not.

She had seen what he was—a savage among savages. The one with the nicest smile, perhaps. Maybe she had decided she wanted to hurt him to teach him a lesson, to keep him away. It didn’t matter.

Fortune once again had thrown him a bone, only to keep it on a wire, ready to pull back at a moment’s notice.

This was his life, and for all the wrongdoing he had committed, he knew he deserved it.

“Go on, then.”

She stepped forward, her hood dropping behind her head. “Caius, I truly am—”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said go on. I’ll make it easy for you. I don’t
want
you to treat me. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to
see
you. Get out.”

At that, he knew he had stepped too far. But the words were already thrown, and he could not retrieve them. Her face contorted with a heavy mix of emotion, and she drew her hood back up. Following his instructions, she left.

––––––––

T
hree years ago, Caius stepped through the gates from the arena back into the underbelly, soaking in the last few roars of the crowd as he exited. The crowd in Puteoli—and probably across the Empire—was always hungry for spectacle. Already today they had seen chariot races and an extended lion hunt, as well as a bestiarius fighting a wolf and boar chained to one another.

His own fight was not for several more hours, but part of the arena tradition was to show gladiators before they fought. First, their bodies would be presented—row after row of rugged, ripped exemplars of masculinity, every man doing his best to be more impressive than the last. Even an ugly man stood a chance to be a crowd favorite if he worked hard enough on his body and skill.

Caius was never the most handsome of men, but his face had a certain nobility to it, and that—combined with his martial ability and density of his muscle and bone—earned him many admirers from the crowd. Though of course the only admirer he ever cared about was Fabiana.

The halls beneath the arena were emptier now. The beasts for the day had been used up and chopped apart, and all the prisoners condemned to death had been put to the sword. Now, beneath, all who remained were the various arena attendants and the gladiators.

“Ursus,” came a voice. “Might I have a word?”

Caius turned. Calling after him was a young man, bald and pale. He looked to be Vox’s brother. “Yes?”

“I am Felix. A gladiator, like you. My brother is the man you face tonight.”

“I see.”

“You’re lucky you don’t face me. I’ve studied you. I know your tricks.”

Such boisterous posturing was a necessary element of talk between gladiators of rival schools.

“And I’m sure you’ve told him everything you know. It will be a good fight.”

Felix’s voice hushed down low. “I ask you a favor, gladiator.”

“I’m listening.”

“With the winnings from today’s fight, my brother hopes to purchase his freedom, and perhaps my own as well.”

Freedom was the talk of the day, it seemed. Caius had finagled with Rufus for months to have his freedom put on the line for the fight. The only way he'd do it is if he made a fortune in the process—and with a fight between Ursus and Vox, two of the continent's top fighters, that fortune was all but assured.

“If you think I’m going to throw the fight, you’re mad. We’re all trying to win our freedom here.”

That, and glory, and honor, and fame. But the shine of those had left Caius for some time now.

“No. That’s not what I meant. What I meant to express was...he and I are close. We prefer one another alive.”

“Does he know you make this plea?”

“No. He wouldn't stomach it. He would have tied me up.”

As would have Caius if someone did the same for him. There was dishonor in asking for mercy before a fight.

“All brothers want each other to live. A pity you arrived in a ludus.”

Felix twisted his hands. “If it is possible, I’d like for him to live. If it is possible,” he said again, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you have anyone you care about?”

Caius did. He wondered if Fabiana, somehow caught under the arena in this pen—and didn’t
that
make his stomach turn over—would try to make the same deal.

“I can promise very little,” said Caius.

“I understand that.”

“In the course of the fight, I will give a good show. And I will win.” Felix blanched. “I will win. Believe me on that. But I will not seek out the blow to kill your brother unless I must. Do you understand? Unless I must. Sometimes it cannot be controlled.”

“I understand.”

“And should we both survive until the end of the fight, let your heart fill with all you have. There will be no death. Not for a fight between fighters like him and me.”

Caius was dead sure of this fact. Felix began to smile. Behind him, Caius saw Vox approaching—and other fighters from the Buteo ludus. Without warning, he slapped Felix.

The young fighter’s face lit up with rage.

“Hit me back,” hissed Caius, “and unleash with fury. Taunts.”

Felix hesitated.

“Do it now!”

They could not have other fighters believe there was any deal going on. That sort of suspicion would have had Caius dead before he reached the sands of the arena. Felix, finally intuiting this danger, slapped Caius back.

“He’s going to take his sword and shove it straight up your ass!” Felix roared.

Caius shoved him back against the wall. Gladiators pushed in from all around, separating the two. The gladiators no doubt would love to watch a good fight, but when fights broke out in the pens of the arena, guards began to get loose with their swords to restore order.

Caius held up his hands, telling them it was all right, it was all right.

It was all going to be all right.

––––––––

O
n a clear day, Aeliana could see all the way out to the city from her office's perch on the hill. It was morning now, and the sky was free of clouds. A transport ship circled into the dock of Puteoli—the first of many that day, probably. No doubt it held nothing but suffering and doom. Usually the transports held slaves, or prisoners, or animals. Most of these wound up in service to the games.

“Stupid.” She shook her head. “Stupid.”

Only a day had passed since she had refused Caius the aid he deserved. Two nights, and one day, which was enough for two nights of nightmares full of his legless body running after her, demanding why she wouldn’t help him.

She watched him train essentially on the one leg, his belt tied around a rag over the wound. Without rest and proper treatment, the wound re-opened during his training and continued to bleed. It needed to be stitched. By the end of the day, he looked weak. She was amazed he could still stand at all—but stand he did, and fight, and train, and probably still improved his skill. That was just the sort of man he was.

They approached ever closer to the games at the end of the month. The games were to be held in honor of the new emperor, Septimius Severus. Severus had earned his power by military right. After the mad Commodus was assassinated, and his successor quickly faced the same fate, a man named Didius Julianus bought the title of emperor from the elite Praetorian Guard—who were responsible (in part if not in whole) for the deaths of the
last
two emperors.

With power being advertised on the open market, Severus and two other generals quickly tried to usurp the throne for themselves. Power in Rome, when it could not be bought, could be taken with enough might on your side. After several years of fighting, Severus had finally established himself as the sole ruler, and he wanted to celebrate.

Or rather, he wanted the
people
to celebrate. Rumor had it that Severus wasn’t exactly a fan of frivolity. But when the people celebrated games throughout the whole of the Empire in your name, well. That was as established a ruler as Rome was likely to get, the Senate be damned.

Organizing that many games was a massive affair. From her trips to the market and from the good vantage point that Rufus’s hilly estate offered, Aeliana had seen ship after ship arriving with fresh deliveries of slaves and animals. Every good series of games in the arena needed plenty of the deaths of both. The slaves were most likely all criminals rounded up from other provinces, or prisoners from warring tribes.

Depending on the severity of their infraction—which was branded on their skin—they would either fight in the arena, face executions in the midday of the games, or be sold to the mines. The lucky ones would simply be sold for service, and the supremely lucky would be sold to a kind Dominus or Domina.

The beasts would all be killed. They had no hope. Some of every sort imaginable was brought in—elephants, giraffes, ostriches, antelope, bears, and wolves. Anything unique or dangerous was good fodder for the venatores and bestiarii, hunters and beast-fighters, in the arena.

The day of training began, and Aeliana watched again from her office as Caius struggled. At first, he looked better than he had the day before. No doubt he had gone right to sleep after his last meal, and the rest had done him good.

But the bandage was still there on his leg, and as Aeliana watched, heartsick and wrapped with tension, he grew weaker and paler as the day went on. If he had not been sparring with Conall, it was likely he’d have been thrashed to the ground.

Conflicting notions pushed for dominance in Aeliana’s mind. The first was that she only had to look after herself. She didn’t know Caius from anywhere, and he was a gladiator besides.

Even if she saved him now, he’d most likely die in the arena on his first fight out. Spending her emotions on him was a wasted venture.

And of course on the other hand...on the other hand, there was the way his hand had electrified hers. The way his kiss had lit her entire body up. The way her heart thumped when she thought of his presence, and how the thought of him hurting when she could
fix
it tore her in two.

At nightfall, for no good reason, she found herself back in the cellblock for the gladiators. Hoping, maybe, that just by being near Caius, she could push her good will onto him through the walls.

As she approached his cell, she heard voices. Holding herself in the shadows, she positioned herself carefully so she could look in but not be seen. Inside were Conall, Lucius, and Caius.

“I want to talk about Flamma,” said Conall. “I want to teach him a lesson.”

“You mean to hurt him?” asked Lucius.

Conall winced. “No. Leave that for the arena. I want to shame the man a bit.”

“Better to hurt him.” Lucius’s eyes were cold. Calculating.

They both turned to Caius. Aeliana was sure he deliberated. Flamma was many things, but a dead weight he was not. If you hit him, he’d hit you back—and expect you to hit again. In their world of violence, Flamma understood only more violence.

“No,” said Caius. “Let’s hear the boy out. What have you got?”

“Firstly, I would do it myself, but I need your help to spread out the blame. If I am not in his line of sight when it all happens, if I have no alibi, then of course I will be blamed.”

“So. You do not want our approval.” Lucius leaned forward. “You want us to be agents in your cause.”

“Yes. It’s like this,” Conall began. “He loves his meals, yes? So...”

Aeliana sped away. Best for her not to know the details of such things. But those three were not the only ones who could conceive of plans in the darkness. The use of agents.

The supplies were easy to find, and Chloe was still awake in her bunk. The young Greek shifted, sitting up from a scroll she had underneath her. She read often and well, a habit Aeliana encouraged from time to time with scrolls she picked up in the market for Chloe when out on her supply runs.

Chloe's curls, thick and dark, hung loosely over the edge of her bed. Aeliana could see a flyer for the upcoming games hidden under the scroll. Almost she pointed it out, insisting that Chloe did not need to hide such things from her—but that was a discussion for another time.