The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “Sersa, you are too dear for me to be anything other than your devoted niece.”

  Fortunada let the ink dry a moment longer, then rolled the missive into a tube and tied it with twine. She handed it to Jana. The maid would know what to do. A rider could easily catch the caravan, and by nightfall Albinius would know of her plans. Then Fortunada’s life in Rome would be at an end.

  Chapter 13

  Twenty-four days until the festival of Saturnalia

  Baro

  Baro had cocked it all up. Fortunada was lost. The ludus was bankrupt. Leaning heavily on his single crutch, he stood near a fountain and waited for the last of the passengers traveling with the caravan to arrive. Horses stood nearby and snorted. Their bridles jingled. Clouds of heat wafted off their flanks and disappeared into the chilled morning air. Reaching out, he stroked the silky nose of one of the horses. It whickered, and nudged his hand.

  Not for the first time, Baro wished that he would be traveling in the way he so often had—in true equestrian fashion, on horseback—with guards, guides, and servants all hired for his comfort, accompanying him. Upon his arrival, crowds would gather to welcome him in triumphant fashion.

  At present, his lack of coin prevented him from hiring all that he needed. Instead, he had booked passage with a caravan that provided all the necessities of travel, albeit to a large group. Baro had paid extra for a seat in a wheeled litter so that he might share with only one other. As far as he was concerned, it was money well spent. Lounging upon cushioned seats for the four-week-long trip would provide for more healing than if he were jostled about in the back of a cart with only hay for his comfort.

  Aside from the horses, Baro stood alone. The other passengers—twenty in all—milled about. It was not as if they ignored him, or that they knew not who he was. Though they whispered, their quiet conversations were impossible to ignore.

  “Is that really Baro the Equestrian?” a man in a bright green tunic asked from behind his hand.

  “Had you heard of his loss? Devastating, it was,” said another.

  “He was well outmatched and is clearly past his prime. Just look at him,” added a third.

  Baro shook his head. Had he really been so stupidly in love that he had given up everything for Fortunada? The horse nudged his shoulder as if to say, “We males do asinine things for females all the time.”

  With a hand uplifted in greeting, the caravan’s leader, Milo, approached. “My apologies for the wait.” Though the sun had barely crested the horizon and gave off scant heat, a thin sheen of sweat covered Milo’s high forehead. Withdrawing a piece of linen from the sleeve of his tunic, he mopped up the sweat and tucked the cloth away. “We wait for two more passengers—a lady and her maid,” he added with a shrug.

  “The better classes do as they please,” said Baro, “and the rest have to put up with it, is that it?”

  “I meant no disrespect, Baro the Equestrian.” The caravan leader quickly lowered his head as a sign of deference.

  “The truth is always respectful,” said Baro as he clapped his hand on the guide’s shoulder.

  Milo peeked up at Baro. For a split second their gazes met, and the man lowered his eyes again. “I heard of your recent defeat. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “There are some days when the goddess of fortune lifts us high upon her wheel,” said Baro. “On others, she takes great delight in running us over.”

  Milo gave a twittering laugh and peered over his shoulder, as if he expected to see someone sneaking up on him. The roads of the republic, guarded by legionnaire troops, were relatively safe. Also, a caravan such as this provided for more protection than a lone traveler could expect. The more men who were available to protect the group, the less likely marauders were to attack. Although Baro doubted that if attacked the nervous Milo would personally offer anything in the way of defense. Then again, he had had the fortitude to approach a gladiator and speak of an embarrassing loss.

  “You will be traveling with the lady upon whom we wait, and her maid, of course,” said Milo. “I hope they are not too distracting.”

  All too clearly, Baro imagined a white-haired lady in her dotage and her plump maid, who clucked and preened like a chicken. Although their endless stories of children and grandchildren would be tiring, they would like him well enough. All the old girls liked Baro.

  From a distance he saw a large green parasol held above the heads of the early-morning shoppers. It was the old girls approaching, he knew.

  “Here comes the last of your fares,” said Baro, hitching his chin toward the approaching parasol.

  Milo squinted. “I hope you are right. The longer we wait, the more traffic we will encounter trying to leave the city. Even now, we will have a difficult time getting away from Rome without any more delays.”

  It appeared that everyone had troubles, even if it was as simple as maneuvering through the crowded Roman streets. Baro’s head began to ache. His leg throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, and possibly sulk. He was Baro the Equestrian. How had his life come to this?

  “This is my litter?” he asked.

  “It is.” Milo hurriedly opened the door. “Make yourself comfortable. We will soon be away.”

  Using his arms to lift himself inside, Baro found two benches that ran along opposite walls of the litter. Both were covered with silk cushions of faded blue. Baro reclined on one bench, tucked his crutch in beside him, and set an extra pillow under his foot. The cushion was lumpy and smelt faintly of overripe melon. Ah, well, that could not be helped, and these accommodations were, Baro reminded himself, the best his money could buy.

  “This is more than you arranged to bring.” Milo’s voice came from near the door.

  “These are all the essentials my lady needs,” said a female voice. The maid. She was younger and had a sharper tone than Baro had originally guessed. With little success, he tried to put the voice he heard upon the hen of a woman he had imagined.

  “There will be an extra charge,” said Milo, “for the two additional crates.”

  Milo’s statement was followed by a pause as the lady whispered orders to her maid. In the momentary lapse, Baro’s thoughts went directly to Fortunada. He could almost smell her scent—roses, jasmine, and golden sunshine. At this exact moment, what was she doing?

  Fortunada had left Baro with such ease that he doubted she had ever cared about him. Imagine that—he had lost everything for the one woman in the republic who cared nothing for him. But just as he had done before, Baro would rise from the ashes. Like a phoenix, he would soar to dazzling heights. Then Fortunada would be sorry to have cast him aside. Resolute in his anger, Baro pushed all thoughts about Fortunada from his mind and vowed to think of her no more.

  The door to the litter opened. Sunlight slanted in, leaving Baro all but blind. A female form emerged, as if birthed from the light. His mouth went dry. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked again. The sun shone through her hair, creating a golden halo. In her gown of rose-colored silk, she looked like the dawn of his life. Fortunada had come!

  Baro chuckled quietly.

  Fortunada wanted to apologize. Yes, that was it. She had learned of his travel plans and had come to see him off. Or better yet, she had turned down Albinius and had come to ask Baro to marry her.

  He had been foolish to worry. In the end, everything always turned out right. Sitting up on the bench, he drank in the sight. Fortunada was exquisite. His eyes traveled from her golden hair to her creamy cheeks—so like a sun-kissed pomegranate—to her pert breasts and narrow waist. Underneath her silken gown were long legs and taut buttocks. There was also her most sensitive spot, behind her right ear. He longed to kiss her there, just to hear her squeal with delight.

  Placing her palm upon the ceiling of the litter, she steadied herself before stepping in fully. Without looking up, she said, “I am sorry to have delayed you. Org
anizing everything I will need to start a new life has kept me busy for the past four days. I even worked all through the night and will certainly spend most of the day sleeping.”

  Ah. A seduction it was. In fact, had Baro planned this encounter—Fortunada coming to him and pretending they were strangers—he would have done no better. The need to live outside Rome, though, perplexed Baro. The door snapped shut. The litter swayed gently and began to move forward.

  Now he saw all too clearly. Fortunada was traveling north to be with Albinius, and the fact that they shared the same litter was only happenstance. The new life she spoke of was not to be lived with him, but another. Fury filled Baro until it seeped from his pores and he stank of it.

  Taking her seat upon the opposite bench, she finally turned to look at him. She gasped, and her eyes widened. The color drained from her cheeks. “What are you . . . doing here?” Fortunada stammered.

  Baro could not sit next to Fortunada for days on end and—what? Pretend as if nothing had happened? As if she had not ripped his heart from his chest and carelessly crushed it underfoot? Nor could he do what he wanted—pull her to him and beg her to love him still. The small cabin suddenly became too hot and airless. He rose unsteadily to his feet, then slapped his palm against the ceiling of the cabin. “Halt!” he yelled.

  The litter jerked to a stop. With nothing onto which he could hold, Baro pitched forward. His injured leg slammed into the corner of the wooden bench. Letting out an oath, he hobbled back to his seat.

  Milo opened the door and peered inside. “Is something amiss?”

  “I cannot ride in here,” he said. “The air is not to my liking.”

  “Of course,” said Milo as he sniffed, “I can have herbs and flowers brought in. Forgive me for overlooking the smell.”

  “You misunderstand. I cannot stay here.”

  “Please,” said Fortunada, her voice quiet and calm, “seat yourself. You are injured. If you need solitude, I will ride somewhere else.”

  “A lady in a cart?” Milo blanched, and his eyes grew wide with scandal.

  What kind of man was Baro? He would never let a lady—even one who had rejected him—ride out in the elements while he lounged in comfort. “No. I’ll ride in the cart.”

  “Neither of you can,” said Milo. “Because of the ladies’ extra belongings, we have no more room. I will not trade places with another passenger, as there is no fair way to choose just one. Please, allow me to open your windows wider.”

  Baro wanted to think of an argument. Anything. Yet his mind was empty. “There is no need,” he said as he lay back. “I am too weary for the fight.”

  Chapter 14

  Fortunada

  What kind of fresh torture was this journey to be? From her perch on the bench, Fortunada hazarded a glance at Baro. Brows drawn together, he glowered at her. She had just as much of a reason for enmity as he, perhaps more. She glared back.

  “What is it that we shall do for the next month? Sit in this small cabin and pretend that we do not know each other?” she asked. “Or will there be open hostility?”

  “I cannot ride with you. I do not care about the feelings of the other passengers or that you are a patrician lady and should always be kept away from the common man.”

  Fortunada bit the inside of her lip lest she curse Baro for being an ass. “My maid can ride with me. By rights, she should be with me now. As you see, there is no room for three.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Jana rides with the driver.”

  Baro hit the wall with a soft thud. Sweat coated his brow and dotted his upper lip. His cheeks were a feverish red. “Halt,” he said. His voice was so weak she barely heard it over the rumbling wheels.

  In seeing Baro thusly weakened, her outrage was supplanted by a need to protect and care for him. It was not love, she reminded herself. Rather, it was a misplaced maternal instinct.

  “All of your posturing is foolish,” she said, her voice quieter, more resolute. “I am no threat to you. In fact, you are your own worst enemy. If you insist on spending four weeks riding in the elements, you will only prolong your recuperation.”

  “What is it that you would have me do? I cannot stay here with you.”

  “Stop being an infant,” Fortunada snapped. Perhaps she was not entirely free of anger. “When we stop at midday, you and my maid can trade places.”

  Baro closed his eyes and nodded.

  “My maid is a follower of the games, you know.”

  “Smart girl, your maid,” said Baro.

  Fortunada gave a small laugh. Within minutes Baro’s breathing became slow and steady as he slept deeply. She traced his features with her eyes. His dark brows sat over full lashes. Lips—the color of berries in the fall—were parted slightly.

  In this silent moment, as she watched him slumber, Fortunada knew that her indignation was simply a surface emotion. He had failed to see her as she truly was, and that had wounded her. Beyond the rawness of her anger, there was the reason his words had wounded her so. Even though she wished it were otherwise, Fortunada loved Baro. It was that simple—and complicated—as well.

  The litter traveled all day, taking Fortunada farther from Rome than she had ever been. On the bench opposite, Baro slept, not even rousing when they stopped for their midday meal. It was probably the best way for them to travel. If they did not speak, she would have no need to acknowledge either her passion or her pain.

  The sun began to sink beyond the horizon, and the cavalcade stopped in the middle of a large field. It was a preset campsite used by caravans and lone travelers alike. Several pits of charred earth sat in the meadow.

  In the distance a forest rose on all sides. Spindly, lifeless branches reached upward as if to claw the face of Jupiter himself. A thick, gray sky hung low, and a chilled breeze blew in through the spaces around the shuttered windows and the door. Fortunada pulled her palla tighter around her shoulders and waited for her tent to be set up.

  Buffeted by the wind, the litter swayed slightly. She loathed the cold. How was she to live with weather much harsher than this?

  In his sleep, Baro shivered. Fortunada stood and removed her palla. She began to cover him and stopped. They were no longer lovers. She had no right to see to his needs. Yet, she found that she must, just this final time. Draping the fine woolen shawl over Baro, she placed her hand upon his brow. It was cool and dry—a good sign. His wound was healing, as, she supposed, would her heart.

  From the outside came a light rapping. Jana opened the door and peered inside. “Lady Fortunada, your tent is prepared.”

  Behind the maid, small fires burned inside the charred pits. Orange-and-red flames licked the kindling and spit sparks into the dusk. With one more look at Baro, Fortunada stepped from the litter. A tendril of smoke chased her. Her eyes watered. She held a hand to her nose and walked quickly toward a line of several white canvas tents that now stood, huddled together, upon the plain.

  Pointing to the leftmost tent, Jana said, “This one is yours.”

  A leather tie held a canvas flap ajar, and Fortunada turned sideways as she entered. The tent had been pulled tight over a frame of wood that was lashed together with stout twine. A center pole held the ceiling aloft, and a thick blue carpet was laid over the bare ground. Against one wall stood a narrow bed covered in blankets of a deeper blue. A single table and chair sat in the middle of the tent. Next to the table, a brazier smoked in the corner. A bedroll, presumably for Jana, lay in a corner.

  In no way were Fortunada’s accommodations opulent. Neither were they unserviceable. Besides, she would sleep almost anywhere if it meant that she would see her children sooner. She untied the silken purse she wore always around her waist and placed it upon the bed.

  Slowly, Fortunada walked the perimeter of the tent. “It feels good to stand, better to walk,” she said to Jana. “Tomorrow you will ride w
ith me. My traveling companion wants to trade places.”

  “Do you know with whom you rode?” Jana asked, breathless. She did not wait for Fortunada to reply. “It was Baro the Equestrian, the famous gladiator.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I believe that was him.”

  “Well,” asked Jana, her eyes wide with excitement, “what was he like?”

  What was Baro like? To Fortunada he was the moon that rose at night, bringing with it magic and sensuality. He gave light where there was none, and when he appeared, there was nothing else worth noticing. He was a tender and strong lover. Although he was none of that for her—not anymore. “Tired,” she said after a moment. “All the gladiator did was sleep.”

  Fortunada’s eyes began to water. Her breath came in ragged, and she coughed. A thin haze of smoke clung near the tent’s ceiling. Yes, it was the smoke that made her cry, not Baro.

  “Open the flap,” she said to Jana, “and see to the brazier.”

  As Jana opened the tent’s door, heat wafted into the room. Calls for help carried through the night. The maid clung to the canvas flap—eyes wide, she stood without movement. The litter in which Fortunada had ridden in was aflame. Two men from the caravan rushed forward. From the shadows a pack of men, snarling like beasts, jumped out and cut down the two travelers where they stood.

  “We are under attack,” said Fortunada, not believing her own words or what her eyes saw. “Someone must save Baro!” The fire crept up the litter and hungrily consumed the door and the windows. The roof collapsed, sending sparks swirling into the night.

  Vomit rose in the back of Fortunada’s throat. How could she live in a world where Baro was not? In the distance came the sound of a horse approaching at a gallop. The thunder of its hooves echoed in Fortunada’s chest. Was it legionnaires come to save them, or more marauders?

  The rider who came into view was no savior. He wore a tattered cloak, and his long black hair flowed freely. From the back of his horse, he cut down a woman as she ran.