The announcer’s voice echoed across the amphitheater, proclaiming the opponents of the afternoon’s main event. The mob erupted as portals in the arena floor slid open. Lifts deployed gladiators onto the field. Gates at the far end of the amphitheater rose and a dozen war elephants, a beast master on each of their backs, charged onto the sun-drenched sand.
Adiona slid forward on the marble bench. Her lungs locked. Her heart hammered against her breastbone louder than the bellowing mob. Straining to see Quintus, she recognized him instantly. Black hair, square jaw, golden skin. His height, the breadth of his shoulders, his presence drew her attention to him with an immediacy that was both intoxicating and frightening.
The wild crowd jumped up in unison. Adiona surged to her feet. Her every muscle as tight as one of the archer’s bows, she held her breath, promising the gods endless sacrifices if they kept Quintus safe. With her gaze fastened to Quintus on his troupe’s front line, she watched him lead his men across the field toward her where they took up an attack position.
Dressed in a simple brown tunic, his bare feet buried in the sand, he carried a shield and spear, looking woefully unprotected against the war elephants’ massive tusks.
One of the beasts charged toward Quintus and his men. Adiona clamped her hand across her mouth to contain the scream that burned in her throat. The huge animal raged on, tossing its head from side to side, its gold-covered tusks gleaming in the sun as they sliced through human flesh and bone.
Quintus’s troupe attacked. Taking the brunt of the spears, the elephant faltered and fell. As the behemoth struggled to regain its footing, Quintus vaulted onto its back. He tossed the beast master to the ground and took up the reins, just as the animal lurched to its feet.
Another gate lifted. Chariots thundered into battle, deploying more archers. Arrows soared through the sky before finding their targets with horrible accuracy. Dead and wounded gladiators littered the sand.
Seemingly unconcerned for his own safety, Quintus positioned the elephant between the advancing chariots and his men. His muscles straining to control the enormous animal, he was so close she could almost see the green depths of his eyes.
Another wave of arrows pierced the elephant’s hide. One skewered Quintus in the leg, another in his shoulder. A cry erupted from deep inside her, as if the arrows had hit her instead of her man.
The elephant fell to its knees, its trunk trumpeting in one last painful wail. Giddy madness raced through the crowd. Despite the many battles taking place on the field, the mob focused on the drama unfolding around Quintus. Riveted, she watched him struggle to pull the arrow from his thigh.
She begged the gods to save him. Pinned atop the fallen elephant and exposed to the hateful whims of Fate, Quintus made a clear target for the archers taking aim. The sounds of rapid horses’ hooves filled her ears, competing with the spectators’ cries and fist-pumping demands for death.
In desperation she begged every deity she could think of for mercy, even the illegal one Quintus worshipped, “Jesus, please…” she whispered under her breath.
“Viriathos has lost a fortune in gladiators today!” Claudia cackled with amusement. She pointed toward Quintus. “Look at that one struggle. He’ll never get away. The archers have him for certain.”
The glee in Claudia’s voice filled Adiona with rage, horror and a sinking sense of anguish. “Bite your tongue, you vicious crone! Quintus is an honorable man. How dare you delight in his death?”
Adiona’s gaze flew back to the action in the arena. Quintus had disappeared in the mayhem. Panic seized her. She pressed past Claudia, raced down the steps and clung to the barrier, desperate to find him through the black smoke and crush of chariots forming a victorious circle around the few gladiators left alive.
As expected, the charioteers and their team were declared the victors. The mob jeered the decision and the unfair fight, then erupted into cheers as Quintus used the fallen elephant to slowly pull himself to his feet.
The game’s referee dismissed the men who were able to walk. Quintus looked over his shoulder and scanned the crowd before limping to the edge of the field. His back to her, she couldn’t see if he’d been able to pull the arrow from his shoulder. The other one remained in his thigh. Blood seeped down his leg and into the sand.
At least he lives. Relief as pure as a mountain stream flowed through Adiona, robbing her of strength. She braced against the barrier for support, promising herself she’d do whatever Caros required to ensure Quintus never entered the games again.
Turning to leave for the gladiator hospital where Quintus would be taken, she bumped into Claudia whom she hadn’t noticed beside her. The spider’s eyes gleamed bright and with dawning horror Adiona realized she’d given herself away.
“What a day!” her rival said with malicious satisfaction. “Not only was the sport amusing, but I learned so much. Little wonder you’re happy for the lanista and his bride when you’re enamored with a slave of your own.”
Quintus Fabius Ambustus eased onto a bench in the gladiator hospital behind the amphitheater. Smoke from the torches lining the concrete walls burned his eyes. The stench of blood and sweat reeked in his nostrils. Delirious moans and cries for help from other wounded men ricocheted off the arched ceiling, but not even the chaos and bolts of pain radiating through his body failed to erase the image of Adiona’s horrified gaze and frightened expression.
He rubbed his eyes, irritated by the beauty’s hold on him. Two months of near starvation in a disease-infested prison, a fortnight trekking through half of Italy in a slave caravan, and months of training in a gladiator ludus hadn’t felled him. Yet one unexpected glimpse of Adiona’s haunting visage in the stands of the arena had been enough to break his concentration and see him almost killed by arrows.
Dear God, what is wrong with me?
The question made him laugh, which made him groan as pain shot through his chest and bruised ribs. What wasn’t wrong with him? In the last seven months he’d become infamia— disgraced, the lowest of the low. He’d lost his family, wealth, freedom, citizenship and reputation. Everything but his faith in Christ and that, he acknowledged, was hanging by a thread.
Whether he was being punished or tested like some other believers suggested, he knew he didn’t need or want to be tempted by a vixen with an ability to sneak past his defenses and shred his self-control. No woman had ever done that, not even his wife.
He slammed the door on thoughts of Faustina. She was dead and memories of her filled him with guilt and eternal regret.
A solid blow jarred his wounded shoulder. “There’s the mob’s newest darling.”
Quintus cracked open one eye. Alexius, the manager of the gladiator school, stood over him, a grin parting the Greek’s swarthy face.
Rubbing the spot where he’d torn the arrow from his shoulder, Quintus pressed on the piece of cloth he’d used to cover the ragged flesh. “Was that necessary?” he asked, his tone as dry as dust.
“Of course. You don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re famous now, do you?”
“One lost battle isn’t enough to make anyone remember my name.”
“On the contrary.” The tall Greek moved deeper into the small alcove. Pleased by the afternoon’s events, he pulled up a stool and sat down. “Romans appreciate bravery above all else. The way you leaped on that elephant and protected your troupe… The whole city will know who you are by sundown.”
Quintus grunted, unimpressed. “A lot of good it will do me if I bleed to death.”
Alexius glanced at the arrow and growing ring of blood around the wound. “From that scratch? I doubt it.”
A man’s scream echoed down the corridor. A moment later, two of the hospital’s attendants ran past.
“Where’s the physician?” Quintus asked, weary of waiting when the deeply embedded arrow in his leg was making him light-headed from loss of blood.
“He’ll be here soon. By the sound of it, the day’s amputations are
almost finished.”
Quintus grimaced. He was thankful to God his injuries were relatively minor, but a part of him wished God had taken him and spared the other wounded in his troupe.
“You’d better get used to injury,” Alexius warned. “You’re not a coddled merchant anymore. You’re a gladiator.”
Quintus curled his lip at the veiled insult. He may have been a merchant, but he’d never been an idle man. “I’ll try to remember that.” To punctuate his disinterest in the lecture, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.
A stab of pain sliced through his thigh. His eyes flew open. Alexius had taken hold of the arrow and was slowly twisting the shaft. “Listen to me, Quintus. I know you’re angry at the world and probably your God, though you deny it. But if you plan to live long enough in the arena to earn your freedom, understand these paltry wounds are only the first of many.”
He threw off Alexius’s hand. Let the Greek think what he liked. He wasn’t concerned about his injuries. In truth, he didn’t care if he lived or died. It was his reaction to the widow that had soured his mood. “You do want your freedom, don’t you?”
“You know I do.” His freedom was the prize he longed for above all else. The goal he’d set for himself to return home and make certain the precious son he’d lost had received a proper burial.
“Then fear not. Today’s games will bring you a wagonload of good. A messenger brought word Caros and his lady return from Umbria next week. Once Caros hears what happened, he’ll see you’re rewarded. Your price for each fight is bound to rise. Caros is a generous master. Mark my words, he’ll see you benefit from your improved status for certain.”
Alexius would know. As the premier champion and current manager of the Ludus Maximus, he possessed wealth, the freedom to do as he liked and the respect of his master, Rome’s most feted lanista, Caros Viriathos.
“It won’t be long before you have enough silver to buy your life back.”
“We’ll see.” Weakness began to creep through him and his vision blurred. His eyes drifted closed.
“Stay with me, friend.” Alexius gave him a light shake. “Widow Leonia attended the games this afternoon. She came to see you fight.”
He opened his eyes, his focus hazy.
“I thought the mention of her might revive you.” Smirking, Alexius leaned forward on the stool and braced his wrists on his knees. “You know you might consider Adiona as a source of additional coin.”
“I’ve nothing to offer as collateral.”
“You could offer yourself. Everyone knows it’s you she came to watch at training practice these last several months. Judging by her constant attempts to gain your notice, she’d pay a fortune to have you.”
He doubted it. Rumor among his troupe said her true prey was Caros. That she flirted with Quintus to make the lanista jealous. Quintus had begun to suspect the gossip held merit when she stopped visiting the school the same day Caros and Pelonia left for Umbria. His brow arched with irritation. “You mean sell myself?”
“It’s widely done. Wealthy matrons are known to offer a huge price for the attentions of a well-known gladiator. And there’s no woman in Rome wealthier than the widow.”
The thought of Adiona paying men for their favors hit him with the unexpected force of a blow to the chest. Rage and pain washed through him. He struggled to stand.
“Easy, Quintus.” Alexius pressed him back onto the bench. “I meant to enliven you, not make you foolish. If you don’t like women—”
“I like women fine,” he said through gritted teeth, fighting the weakness that threatened to engulf him.
“All right, you like women. I believe you.” Alexius shrugged. “I take it, then, it’s only Adiona who leaves you cold? Why? She’s exquisite to look upon. Most men would sacrifice their sword arm for a single smile from her luscious lips.”
His eyelids heavy as bricks, he struggled to focus on Alexius. He couldn’t deny Adiona Leonia affected him like no other woman he’d ever met, but she also reminded him of his wife. Not in looks, but in manner and her priorities in life. A decade of marriage to a faithless, self-centered woman who chased social recognition and vain pleasure had taught him much. Outward beauty meant little when the inner being was ugly. If God answered his prayers for deliverance from his current situation, he hoped one day to find a wife who possessed faith, kindness and honor.
“Widow Leonia is not for me.” Too exhausted to frame his words with care, he answered honestly. “I don’t want a woman whose sharp tongue resembles a knife blade and whose morals mimic a she-cat in heat.”
A sharp gasp drew his attention to the edge of the alcove behind Alexius. Adiona stood in the arched doorway. Torchlight glimmered off her elaborately braided hair and the gold threads woven through the cloak she’d draped around her slender shoulders. To his blurred vision and pain-steeped brain she seemed like a bright morning star—just as beguiling and, for him, even more out of reach.
Words failed. He simply stared, grappling for an apology. He had no right to insult her. Never had he spoken of a woman with such disrespect. No matter if he believed he told the truth, he’d never intentionally hurt her.
Gutted by her stricken amber gaze and ashen complexion, he wished the arrow had missed his shoulder and skewered his heart.
And judging by the storm gathering on her flawless face, she agreed he deserved no less.
Chapter Two
He despises me.
Savaged by Quintus’s brutal assessment, Adiona swallowed the hard lump of rejection in her throat. Determined he would never know how deep his derision cut, she refused to march off in a display of wounded pride.
“My lady—” Quintus said, his voice reed thin.
“Why are you here?” Alexius jumped to his feet, his expression sheepish.
Careful to avoid the slightest glance at Quintus, she masked her humiliation behind the haughty facade she’d perfected long ago to protect herself. “Have you called a physician, Alexius? Or did you think a long chat would dislodge the arrow from his thigh?”
“I asked for help when I came in,” the Greek giant said defensively. “Quintus hasn’t been here long and he’s not the worst of the wounded.”
“Then I’ll fetch someone myself.” Grabbing the excuse to leave, she rushed down the busy corridor. She’d arrived to hear Alexius prompting Quintus to seek her out for coin and Quintus’s quick rejection of the idea. That he preferred to risk his life in the arena rather than spend time with her pierced like a gladius to the heart.
Angry with Quintus, and furious with her own naïveté, she berated herself for the foolish compulsion to see about his welfare. She should have guessed he was no better than all the other men who forever misjudged her, yet she couldn’t deny she had desperately wished he might be.
…Whose morals mimic a she-cat in heat.
The accusation went through her like a poisoned dart. If only he knew the truth. Every day was a struggle for her survival. All her life she’d fought off men who sought to use her, claim her, abuse her. Never had one looked past her outward appearance, fortune or social position to want her for herself.
Men are swine. She hated them. They could all rot for all she cared. Why did she think Quintus would be any different? What was it about him that made her forget she wanted nothing to do with any man?
She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her stola, blaming the torch smoke for the sudden sheen that blurred her vision. Idiota. Why did you let yourself hope?
In the main surgery, dust motes danced in the light pouring through a series of arched windows along the concrete walls. Herbal scents mixed with the harsh odors of vinegar and blood. Several physicians bent over drugged patients who’d been laid out on flat couches. Except for the murmur of voiced instructions, soft moans and the occasional ping of metal surgical instruments, the room was surprisingly quiet, the opposite of the chaos in the halls.
She stepped deeper into the light. “You, there.” She
pointed to a balding man she’d seen several times at Caros’s compound. “Your name is Petronius, is it not?”
Petronius looked up from bandaging his unconscious patient. His eyes widened with recognition. “My lady Leonia, what are you doing here?”
“One of the gladiators from the Ludus Maximus needs your attention. He’s been shot by arrows and continues to bleed. Finish quickly with your work here and I’ll take you to him.”
The physician wiped his hands on a bloodied towel and surveyed his patient with an air of uncertainty. “I’ve done all I can for this one. Fate will do the rest.”
An assistant took over bandaging the unconscious gladiator while Petronius gathered a needle, stitching, a roll of clean linen and an arrow extractor. “I’m ready, my lady. Please lead the way.”
Adiona relieved him of the linen and wasted no time taking the physician to the alcove. Alexius met them in the shadowed corridor.
“How is he?” Petronius asked.
“He lost consciousness moments after Lady Leonia left to fetch you.”
The Greek’s announcement sent a chill straight down Adiona’s spine. Reason urged her toward the exit, but her feet refused to budge.
“How long has he been here?” Petronius knelt on the floor, his fingers testing the angry red wound on Quintus’s thigh.
“Less than half an hour is my guess.” Alexius took a torch off the wall and angled it to give the physician better light.
Adiona clutched the bundle of soft linen she held and bit her lip as every nerve in her body focused on Quintus and his treatment.
I should leave. I’m not wanted here. Quintus doesn’t want me here.
She handed the bandages to Alexius. Once again she turned to go. A moan from Quintus tugged her back. Despite her resolve to cling to her anger and put him out of her mind, she found herself by his side before she realized she’d taken a single step forward.
Being this close to Quintus was rare. He was a slave, a gladiator. Always a battlefield stood between them.
The Protector Page 2