Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (40 page)

The crowd might love it, certainly, but they could just as easily hate it. And no fight, ever, was certain.

What would it mean to House Varinius to have their best fighter—and their returning champion—brought down by animals in the middle of the biggest celebration in years?

The only one who could make such a decision was someone who cared very little about House Varinius—someone who had her own machinations on Caius and Lucius.

Caius knew Lucius slept with Porcia regularly. Had he scorned her or angered her somehow?

It didn’t matter now. The die was cast.

“I’ll fight,” said Caius.

“Oh, Ursus. Dear Ursus.” Porcia’s grin was positively predatory. “Of course you will. You don’t have a choice.”

––––––––

A
fter the meeting, Caius and Lucius sat down at the small common area near the front of the cell blocks. Conall and Septus joined them, and soon they were playing a friendly round of dice.

Lucius had a tall amphora of wine nearby, taking long gulps. Caius didn’t know how he drank so much and managed to keep his front side lean and flat as a washboard. 

At hearing the news of their incumbent fight, Septus was disgusted.

“Don’t they know you’re the Champion of Puteoli?”

Caius rolled. Threes only. “They know, all right.”

“Can we do something to change their minds?” Conall asked.

“You mean make them shit their pants?” Lucius snatched up the dice. “No. I don’t think so, Conall.”

The smaller man laughed under his breath, but with some nervousness. They had agreed that they weren’t supposed to talk much of that incident. It was better to keep others away from the up-and-up for their own safety. But, Lucius’s tongue was loose from the wine.

Shortly after the affair, Septus had asked Caius if he’d had anything to do with it—always a smart fellow. Caius had fessed up, unable to lie to his old friend.

“I still can’t believe,” said Septus, scratching his beard, “that you left me out of that. I would have helped.”

Lucius patted him on the back. “We know that, old friend. We just didn’t want to violate your sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities are to help my friends when they want it. Especially when it comes to an ass like Flamma.”

The air was tense. This could go wrong in a hurry.

“I think we can all agree,” said Caius, glancing pointedly at Lucius and Conall, “that you’re as steadfast as any man. And we were wrong to hide anything from you.”

“Agreed,” said Conall.

Lucius took another long swig and burped. “Agreed, of course. We meant no harm, as I said. And we only—”

“We did you wrong,” interrupted Caius.

If Lucius talked more, he was liable to keep apologizing and justifying himself. That would only make it worse. Best to change the subject and let his drunken thoughts attach to something else.

“Was there any indication of any other fights?” asked Conall.

“You mean for you? No. But don’t worry, little lad,” Lucius rubbed Conall’s hair hard. “You’ll get your time in the sun.”

Caius worried about that. Conall was brave, but reckless. The arena rewarded the one and punished the other. It was a delicate balancing act he ran, rushing headlong into attacks without thinking them through, and Caius did not wish to see his new friend killed so early.

Many men felt fear in the face of standing before the arena. But when Conall spoke of fighting, the only fear he seemed to have was to not be allowed to fight.

Germans, Caius thought, have a stranger set of priorities than other men.

Although, he considered, he himself had thought that way, once upon a time. It was a great dishonor—an insult!—to be left off the list for the day’s fight. It was an honor to be closer to the last fight—the nearer one was to ending the day, the greater the prestige.

And, naturally, the greater the purse. There was a great pride in the work he did, and he was celebrated so often and so well for his butchery that the fact of his slavery was almost unimportant.

The arena was a seductive environment. Men and women came to watch as normal citizens, and by the end of the day they were bloodthirsty avatars of lust, wanting only to consume and to be consumed with the sight of violence. But it was not seductive only for the crowd, no.

Within the confines of the arena, a man’s fate rested entirely on his actions. Every sword stroke, every heft of the shield, every step in the sand was a man’s essence as it rode on the razor’s edge between life and death. He was, for those spare few moments of the fight, in control of his destiny.

At the end of the fight, if he lost, the editor may save him, leaping in on destiny’s claims like a vulture at a fallen antelope. But before that—in the fight itself—there was no man in the empire who could say that his life was entirely in his own hands. Not even the Emperor.

And wasn’t that something?

It truly was. And the closer Caius got to the games, the more his heart filled with the memory of that intoxication.

He may have hated being a slave; he may have hated being away from his daughter; he may have hated the idea of all the killing and slaughter; but that freedom, that clarity of choice in the arena—kill or be killed—had a fix on his soul as sure as it did the day he had first fought.

The four went around a few more times, rolling dice. Iunius walked by and asked if they should like to play him.

“Should you men enjoy playing a real game? With real stakes?” he asked.

As a eunuch, Iunius had a heavy paunch, his hair wispy around the dome of his head.

“Well—” Conall began.

Septus stood. “No. Iunius. Forever, no. And we would kindly ask you to go and scam someone else.”

Iunius smiled. “I think I will. Best of luck.”

The most unique sort of scoundrel, who took no shame in the low opinion others held him in. In that way, Caius supposed, he was protected.

Lucius held the dice in one hand, clinking them together softly. “This is my fault, you know.”

“Your fault?” Septus returned to his seat. He grabbed Lucius’s amphora of wine and took a quick gulp, ignoring Lucius’s look of mild betrayal. “What? Bringing Iunius around?”

“Oh, that.” Lucius laughed. “Perhaps. Gods know he’s taken enough money from my winnings. He has an ear for a great many investments.”

Septus burped, and returned the wine to Lucius. “All for the securing of his own future, I expect.”

Lucius shrugged. “He’s not so bad.”

“What did you mean?” Caius asked. “Your fault?”

“Let us say it, to be discreet, that I have had a number of conversations with Porcia.”

Conall stifled a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“To be
discreet
,” Lucius rapped his knuckles on the table, “yes. That is what we’re calling it. And on one such occasion, not too long ago, she found me in a boisterous mood. I told her, fool that I am, that I could kill a dozen tigers with one hand. She challenged me on it, obviously seeing the boast, and so I lowered the amount to three.”

“Three tigers with one hand?” Caius raised an eyebrow.

“If I had to do it,” shrugged Lucius, “I think it’s possible.”

“So,” said Caius. “She thinks you’d have no trouble surviving the fight.”

“I expect so.”

“You’ll be elevated. I’ll die, I suppose she thinks? She gets everything she wants.”

Lucius nodded. “I would guess also, gambler that she is, that she made a few bets to that very effect. No doubt she placed a mighty sum down on you to die, and for me to survive.”

Taking a moment, Caius considered. Did Porcia think so little of him that she thought he could not kill a tiger and a bear when working in tandem with Lucius?

It was the wound, he realized. She must have arranged all of this when he was wounded from the shard. That was why she hadn’t wanted him stitched up. But now he was healed, mostly, and she still looked as happy as ever...

The swift, cold knowledge that he was in danger hit him just mere moments before Porcia appeared in the door. Behind her were two guards, and at her side was Flamma.

“Dice, is it?” Porcia smiled. “An excellent game. My own tastes are more sophisticated, of course. But I recall enjoying dancing with chance and the bones in my youth.”

“May we help you, Domina?” asked Septus.

“You will leave. That is how you help. All of you.”

They all stood, obeying. Caius got up slowly, already knowing what her next words would be.

“Not you, Caius. You and I have business.”

It took them a moment, but the rest all left. Lucius shifted for a moment and looked as if he might try to talk to Porcia, but Caius sent him on his way. Whatever was coming was coming. There was no sense in his friends getting hurt on the way. Once they had exited, Caius saw what Flamma held in his hands. A long metal pole, at the end of which was a large “V.”

“Do you know the mark of House Varinius?” Porcia asked.

Flamma held the end of the pole into a nearby torch. The metal became red with heat. Caius felt time slow down.

“All true gladiators in this house must wear it. Now, normally, a novice has to prove himself in the arena. But we thought we would make an
exception
in your case. Being a former champion and all.”

“I suppose you know already,” said Caius, “that you can see the mark on my shoulder already.”

The scar tissue was heavy with age and almost the same hue of his skin after being there for so long. In many ways, he had gotten used to it; in other, more important ways, he never would.

“Yes.” Porcia drew her hands under her chin. “But—that was for your
old
term of service, wasn’t it? Why, we only thought it
fair
to ensure you had another mark for
this
term. Right on top of the old one.” Her fingers danced on the scarred, elevated flesh. Caius struggled not to recoil with disgust. She was a demon, he realized. Some foul spirit putting on a woman’s flesh like another woman would put on her robes.

“Flamma,” she gestured.

Grinning madly, Flamma approached him with the brand. “You’re not laughing now, are you, Caius?”

Guards held Caius tight. Even though he did not resist, they pounded him down to the table, holding him fast. Maybe not resisting would make it better, he thought distantly. If he didn’t thrash, the brand would likely find its mark easier.

For several moments, the brand hovered in front of his face. He could feel the flesh-melting heat of the mark, and struggled not to shiver.

“Who’s laughing now, you bear shit?” Flamma chuckled harshly.

The mark hovered in front of his eye. It would not take much of an impact to blind him. The cool fear of pain was replaced suddenly with the heavy, intense dread of living a life with just one eye.

“Flamma.” Porcia put her hands on her hips. “Stop playing and do it. I want to see him hurting.”

But Flamma stopped instead. The brand drew away from his face. Caius let out a long breath.

“I thought you said we were just going to scare him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone is scared by the smell of their own burning flesh. Now, do it.”

“He’s...he’s got the mark already, Domina. It’s not right.” He shifted. “I’m no easy man, Domina, but he’s a gladiator. If you think—”

“I
think
that you shall do it,” said Porcia. “Or I shall do it to you a dozen times over. And my husband will hear about how you cornered me and tried to rape me, and how valiant my guards were for saving my life.”

On cue, the guards drew their swords. There was no more argument.

It took a few moments for Flamma to heat up the brand once again, but after that, everything was quick. Flamma shoved the brand hard into Caius’s skin, directly on top of the old wound. Trying to fight the pain, Caius bit the edge of the table. The wood was hard, but his teeth were harder. The imprint left in the wood afterward stayed there until the table was replaced years later.

The pressure let out some as Flamma began to back off. But then Porcia stood behind Flamma, pushing in on his arm. The pain returned a hundredfold. Flamma had been pressing lightly. Now it was pressed with all the weight of two people—and it was too much for Caius to bear.

He passed out, with his last thoughts of his daughter, Aeliana, and revenge.

––––––––

N
ormally, on the road to the games, the air had some measure of cheer. The gladiators, fools that they were, sang songs and laughed roughly with one another as they made their way. The novices, locked away in a wagon to prevent any escapes, were joined by a few veterans telling tall tales of glory in combat.

The rest of the veterans—all those with good behavior—were allowed to walk in the supply train. Their hands were still chained, but it was a privilege nonetheless. These men were considered honorable enough not to try to escape their date with destiny in the arena, and smart enough to know that the guards on their horses could easily run them down.

But today, the line of men and wagons was somber. Their talk was grim. Aeliana followed behind them on a wagon led by two armed guards, sitting on the several crates of her medical supplies. Caius had been attacked in the night. He would not speak of who had done it to him, though everyone suspected Flamma. The two had a history, after all.

For her own part, Aeliana imagined slipping a few choice powders into a tincture for Flamma. Nothing lethal. Just something to give him stomach pain for the rest of his life. Wasn’t that a fair recompense for hurting her Caius?

Her
Caius. Gods. Where had that come from?

Aeliana had to attend the games. Chloe was capable and smart, and Aeliana was glad for her assistance, but she was not good enough yet to attend to all the many problems that the arena games could create for the gladiators. Even setting aside the injuries in the games themselves—which were often grievous and bloody—Aeliana had to be cognizant of any signs of sickness or infirmity.

Afflictions of the feet were most common, as gladiators walked so often with bare feet. Cuts and abrasions, unnoticed or ignored, could quickly evolve into infections attacking the entire body.