The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  The ringing in her ears stopped, and Fortunada heard nothing. The woods were devoid of sound, save for the call of a bird. The fight was over.

  “Your husband has lost,” said Dax. “Now the question is, what will become of you?”

  The notion of Baro’s defeat left her numb. Even after they parted ways, she could still breathe the air that he breathed, filling her lungs, her body—her very essence—with something of him. The same sun would shine down, warming them both. But not if he was dead. Without Baro, the world became bleak, as if that same sun were forever shrouded behind the clouds.

  And what of her? Never would Fortunada see her children again. She would die in these woods. No one would burn her corpse, and the entrance to the River Styx would remain closed. Her body would rot, and her soul would stay forever on this earthly plane. She would be eternally tormented and in grief.

  Dax pressed the sharp point of his dagger into the nape of her neck and pulled Fortunada to her feet.

  The distant sounds of footfalls crunching through the fallen leaves said that a single man had survived. Was it Baro or one of the bandits?

  A figure emerged from the woods. A sword in each hand, Baro stood before them. Blood covered the front of his tunic. His dark hair was wet with gore. “Take your hands from my wife, you piece of filth,” Baro said. He threw both swords across his body, catching them in the opposite hand.

  “I have a blade to the back of her neck,” said Dax. “Tell your husband, Piss Off.”

  His voice came out at a higher register, and his heartbeat thrummed from his chest into her back. He was afraid, she knew. He should be. Who was this man to think that he was a match for Baro the Equestrian?

  “You will not kill her. If you do, then I will kill you. All your men are dead. There is no one here to save you,” said Baro. “Let her go and you can live.” He twirled each sword around his wrist and slowly began to walk forward.

  Dax swallowed. He shifted. The pressure to her neck lessened. She breathed a prayer to Ceres for aid. Kicking backward, Fortunada aimed for the marauder’s crotch. Her heel connected, but she missed his phallus—the dried-up, useless tool that it was. She hit his upper thigh. He cursed and stumbled. Wrenching free, Fortunada turned to run.

  Dax was upon her in an instant. Lunging, he grabbed her waist. They both tumbled to the ground. His dagger skittered through the dirt. Fortunada’s hand found its grip, and she flipped to her back. Dax dove at her as she pushed the blade up.

  It slid through the silken tunic he wore and slowed as it connected with flesh. Howling in pain, Dax gripped his pelvis and ran off through the underbrush.

  Fortunada heard a scream, then realized that it was her own voice. The dagger in her hand trembled. Baro knelt on the ground next to her. He reached for the grip. She could not, would not, let go of the weapon. It was her only source of protection and power.

  “Fortunada.”

  She started at her name.

  “The dagger. Give it to me.”

  She released her hold and allowed Baro to steer her to the horse. He lifted her up onto the steed. After strapping the swords to the side of the saddle, Baro mounted behind Fortunada. Reins in hand, he clicked his tongue, and the horse began to trot away. Tongue lolling, the dog scampered beside it.

  “I thought you were dead,” she sobbed, her voice barely audible over the horse’s hooves. “I thought we would both die.”

  Baro drew her to him. “I promised to keep you safe, and I have,” he said.

  Pulling back on the reins, Baro slowed the horse to a walk. They began to climb a rise. Looking over her shoulder, Fortunada said, “I thought that Dax went the other way.”

  “He did, which is why we are going in this direction.”

  Her head began to ache. “This seems to be a moment worth seizing. We have a horse and can easily run down Dax. He is wounded and you have all the swords. Why would you not give chase?”

  “I have a single objective—to survive. Dax will either make it back to his camp or die in these woods. Either way, he will never bother us again. Vengeance is not mine to take.”

  “Perhaps it is mine,” said Fortunada.

  “You have had your vengeance already, my love. You stabbed Dax in the crotch.”

  “I asked for help from Ceres. She must have guided the dagger,” Fortunada said.

  “Remind me never to anger you while at prayer,” Baro said.

  “I hope Dax comes to rue the day he attacked my caravan.”

  “He more than regrets it now.”

  “I think,” she said, leaning into Baro’s chest—so solid and warm, “that we truly have escaped. Now we must find someone who can help us.”

  “By facing the rising sun, we will travel toward the Via Aurelia. Soon, we will come upon either a town or a garrison.”

  “I question you not. You have gotten us this far.”

  “It is not just me—we escaped together. One of us without the other would have perished.”

  Fortunada shook her head and smiled. “You do not believe your own words, though I appreciate your willingness to share the accomplishment.”

  “What have I done? Slit a few throats. You, on the other hand, convinced Dax the Marauder to let me out of the tent, which enabled us to find a way out of the compound. The guard left his post to do your bidding. You were even quick-witted enough to give us a diversion by setting the camp on fire.”

  “Gratitude,” she said. The accolades warmed her mood more than the sun-filled morning in which they rode.

  “You are more than welcome, and besides, you are handy with a blade as well. It was not me who stabbed Dax in the cock.”

  “I did not stab him in the cock,” she said. “At least, that was not my intent.”

  “It is not what it looked like to me,” Baro said, giving her middle an affectionate squeeze.

  “Can you never be serious?”

  “I can, but where is the joy in that?”

  Fortunada laughed. Only a few short hours earlier, while a captive in the marauders’ camp, she had feared for her life. Never had she thought she would once again be happy. Yet, here she was—laughing. “Have you a plan beyond following the rising sun?” Fortunada asked.

  “We also need to find water,” he said. “Beyond providing us with drink, a stream should lead us to a settlement. By following this rise, we will have a view of the low-lying places and perhaps find a creek.”

  Until Baro mentioned the need for drink, Fortunada had not realized how parched she was. Her throat was sore and her lips dry. In her estimation, they could not find water soon enough. Yet, what if they did not? What would happen to them then? What a dreary thought—to have escaped death at the hands of Dax the Marauder, only to waste away from thirst.

  For more than two hours, they plodded through the woods. Fortunada so longed for water that she imagined she heard a stream running in the distance.

  Or was it her imagination?

  “Do you hear that?” she asked.

  Pulling back on the reins, Baro slowed the horse.

  In the stillness, she heard nothing beyond her own breath. Then came the faint sound of a stream.

  Baro sat taller. “It is water.” Steering the horse to the right, they crested a slope. Below, a brook wound through a shallow gully. Grasses grew right up to the bank. Tall trees stood on the hillside. Dappled sunlight shone upon the water and reflected with a thousand sparkles. Had Fortunada not been so thirsty, she would have reveled in the serenity that surrounded her.

  Baro tethered the horse to a low-hanging branch, took hold of Fortunada’s waist, and lifted her to the bank. “We will move upstream of the beasts,” he said, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back.

  Near where the horse drank, the large black dog splashed in the water, barking. “The cur seems happy,” she said. “We shoul
d leave him here, though. He is dangerous.”

  The dog yapped and chased his tail, first one way and then the other. “I agree, he looks utterly vicious.” Baro laughed.

  “He attacked the cart when we first arrived,” she said. “He might turn on one of us in a moment.”

  “I think not,” said Baro. “This dog was once someone’s pet. Like the others who have been taken hostage, he adapted in order to survive.”

  She considered his words. Though she was still dubious of the dog, Baro was not. It was his innate kindness and honor that allowed him to take a beast from captivity and hope that by giving it love, it might also become lovable.

  “You are a good man,” she said as she knelt upon the bank. Dipping her hands into the cool stream, Fortunada rinsed her arms and face. The water revived her, washing away the grime and blood. Cupping her hands, she drank deeply, slaking her thirst.

  Baro sat beside her. Plunging his whole head into the water, he, too, washed away all traces of their captivity, escape, and the fight for freedom. His wet hair glistened in the morning light.

  Using the blanket she still wore as a cloak, Fortunada gently dabbed the place where Dax had sliced her arm. A thick black scab had already formed, and it would not do to break it open.

  “Is that what Dax did to you?” Baro asked.

  “To make me scream,” she said, shuddering with the memory of the pain. “He wanted to draw you out of hiding.”

  “We should have run him down,” said Baro.

  “No,” she countered. “You were right. To have survived is better.”

  Baro ripped a length of cloth from the hem of his tunic and wrapped it around Fortunada’s wounded arm. “The cut does not look deep,” he said. “After healing, it will leave only the slightest scar.”

  “You should know,” she said with a small smile. “You are more than an expert on scars.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “You forget, I have seen you naked.”

  “That you have,” said Baro. “And it is a good thing, too. Because you are about to again.”

  Lifting the bloodstained tunic over his head, Baro dipped it into the stream. Fortunada tried not to gaze at the muscles in his back, or how the shafts of light in the forest bathed him in gold. Nor did she look for his cock, and whether or not it was hard. She distracted herself by concentrating on his unsuccessful efforts to clean his tunic by gently swishing it through the water.

  “Might I assist you with that?” she asked, reaching for the soiled cloth. Underwater, their hands met. Baro traced the side of her pinkie with his thumb. She longed to kiss him, to lose herself in their passion. Their escape deserved celebration. They should revel in the fact that they still were alive after all they had experienced.

  But no, they could not put themselves in such a vulnerable position. Dax might be watching, hidden in one of a thousand places. Any tree or bush would provide him with cover.

  At the same time, she refused to give in to her fears, for she knew other things to be true. Dax was wounded and would be traveling slowly. They had a horse, and had covered a greater distance than even a fit and healthy man could.

  And yet, she glanced over her shoulder, searching the hillside.

  Fortunada took the tunic and shoved it deeper into the stream. As if she could erase the memories by washing, she scrubbed the fabric back and forth. A cloud of red billowed from the cloth before disappearing in the water. She twisted the tunic once, twice, and then once more for good measure, before pulling it from the water.

  Most of the blood was gone, but a faint brown stain remained. Would her memories be like this? Would some part of her be altered forever by the previous night?

  “This is as clean as it will come,” she said as she handed it back to Baro.

  “Gratitude,” he said as he redressed.

  As a gladiator he might very well be used to the sight of other men’s blood. But she loathed that she could not make his clothes clean. It was as if she had failed him by being unable to care for him. Sitting back, she regarded the horse and its saddle.

  “I wonder,” said Fortunada, “if Dax brought anything beyond the horse itself. Perhaps another tunic is tucked under the saddle.”

  “There is only one way to find out.”

  Baro waded to where the horse stood drinking. He felt under the saddle. Turning to Fortunada, he smiled. Holding up a leather pouch, he said, “It is not a clean tunic, but this will have to do.” He untied the leather thongs. “Sesterces,” he said. “Maybe a hundred. I do not wonder why he kept it hidden. There is no honor among thieves.” Baro replaced the pouch and untied the horse.

  “It is blood money,” she said as Baro approached.

  “It is, and since last night I slew five of his men for it. You most likely castrated him. We have earned our fee.” Baro lifted Fortunada onto the saddle, then swung up behind her. He pulled on the reins and kicked the horse’s flank. With sure steps, the horse walked forward. The dog trotted alongside. “We will keep the stream to our left and continue on,” Baro said.

  The sun had climbed halfway up the sky. Having escaped from the camp with the first rays of dawn, she had endured so much. It was sobering to realize that the morning was not yet gone.

  The ridgeline upon which they traveled rose, and the stream fell away into a deep ravine. Cresting the hill, Baro wheeled the horse to a stop. In the distance, scores of tents made up a sea of white canvas. The scent of cooking meat wafted on acrid smoke.

  Fortunada went cold. Ceres help her. “More marauders.”

  “Not at all.” Baro dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and the beast began to run. “These are legionnaires.

  Chapter 24

  Baro

  Baro reclined on a sofa, a goblet of wine in hand. Fortunada sat next to him. Upon their arrival in the legionnaire camp, they had dispensed with the ruse that they were married. As a patrician, Fortunada would be treated with the respect and deference as befitted her station.

  The legionnaires’ medicus had properly cleaned and bandaged the wound on her arm. Both of them had been fed and given clean clothes. On the carpeted floor, Mars rested between them and gnawed on a bone.

  Like the marauders’ camp, a palisade surrounded the legionnaires’ post, and there were no permanent buildings, only tents. Here, though, the tents were all sparkling white canvas and ranged in size—the smallest being the same as the single room where he and Fortunada had been held—all the way to a multi-chambered tent that rivaled a typical villa.

  The number of men in the camp was another obvious difference as well. Baro estimated that the marauders numbered a score, no more. The legions had a complete century of eighty men, along with a centurion in charge of it all.

  It was in the centurion’s opulent tent that Baro sat. From behind his desk, the centurion ran a hand over his shorn head and looked at the map Baro had drawn. “Dax and his men have plagued the Via Aurelia since it opened. Without this, I would not have found them. I thank you for your service to the republic.”

  “I served with the legions during the wars in North Africa,” said Baro. “I am happy to serve her once again.” Baro rose to his feet. “In fact, I should go with you, as I have been to the camp before.”

  “That is unnecessary. This map is more than enough,” the centurion said as he also stood. He turned to Fortunada. “I have a laundress or cook to serve you, my lady. Please consider my tent to be yours for as long as you remain in camp. Shall I send a rider to your home to let them know that you are well?”

  “No,” she said. “As of now, my family knows nothing of the attack on the caravan. If word of my captivity reached my children, they would worry. Besides, we have been delayed by only a day, and I will be reunited with them before I am missed.”

  “As you wish,” said the centurion with a bow. “Baro, follow me. I w
ill show you to your quarters.”

  First, the centurion had declined his assistance, and now he was being sent to separate quarters, away from Fortunada. Baro stood in the middle of the tent. He was physically large and powerful. Time and again, he had proven his skill with the sword. Today alone he had slain three, using his brains more than his brawn. There was no one more famous in the entire known world than he. Why, then, did he feel small and insignificant?

  Baro need not question. He knew why. Though a famous gladiator, he was simply property and therefore not a man. To the centurion Baro was of little—or no—consequence.

  “I would keep Baro with me,” said Fortunada, though her voice sounded far away. “His company has grown on me.”

  “As you wish,” said the centurion. With a stiff bow, he left.

  “Perhaps I should leave,” Baro said.

  “Leave? And go where?”

  “Wherever the centurion planned to send me.”

  Fortunada came to him and wrapped her arms around his chest. He leaned into her. “You feel as though you were dismissed by the centurion, but he was wrong, as are you—if you allow him to discount your merit.”

  Her breath warmed his back. They had endured so much together, and by working in tandem, they had survived.

  When Fortunada was his lover and life was easy and complete, he had thought that to be love. In a way, he supposed, it was. But now he had a deeper understanding of the powerful feeling. It was to risk all, to sacrifice everything—even life itself—for the happiness and safety of another, not just for one’s praise.

  At the same time, it was to be seen as one’s sincere self. Fortunada had always seen Baro for who he was. Simply a man. On their last morning together in Rome, he had failed to understand the depth of Fortunada’s love for her children. To him, she had been the object of his affection, and he had not fully realized her life beyond the hours she shared with him.