The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “I am on the terrace,” Fortunada called. She turned to the door, expecting that Albinius had forgotten something.

  The man stepped out of the darkened villa, and then she realized her mistake.

  “Have you missed me, Piss Off?” Dax asked.

  Fortunada jumped to her feet and screamed. Her voice echoed off the empty buildings. Icy terror gripped her middle.

  “Help!” Dax flapped his arms in the air and yelled. “Help! Yell all you want, Piss Off. There is no one to hear you, nor a gladiator to save you this time.”

  As much as Fortunada hated Dax, he was right. She was alone.

  Chapter 36

  Baro

  Watery, gray light shone around the curtain’s edge. The tavern below was silent, and Baro assumed that everyone in Novum Comum was at the lake, celebrating the sunrise ceremony in honor of Saturn.

  Lying on the bed, he flung an arm over his head and tried to fix his mind upon today’s match. The winner of this fight would be selected by the editor. Of all the types of combat, this was one of the most brutal—save those that were fought to the death—as each landed blow gained points for the combatant.

  Baro needed determination and focus. What he had was a mind that wandered to the same place it always did—Fortunada.

  He had to admit, she looked happy with her children and Albinius the Rube. She was in her place in the world, and if he were any sort of man, he would cast her from his thoughts. And yet, it would be easier for Baro to cut off his own hand than forget about Fortunada, his golden one.

  He sat up and scrubbed his face. Focus. His gladiator’s kit had been lost in the raid. Albinius and those of his ludus would need to loan Baro all the gear he needed, as well as provide slaves to tie on his breastplate and greaves. Perhaps someone was at the ludus now—the trainer would be best. At any rate, it would not be Fortunada. Most certainly, she was with the rest of Novum Comum at the lake, waiting for the sunrise services to begin.

  Listlessly, he rose and opened the shutters. A heavy fog had risen up in the night, obscuring Baro’s view of everything beyond what was closest to the window. Squinting into the gloom, he looked to the ludus for even the smallest light. There was nothing. Or was there? A shadowy figure moved where he knew the terrace to be. A light rain began to fall and washed some of the fog from the sky. With no other wish than to take to his bed again, Baro began to pull the shutter closed. He cast one last look at the ludus. His heart ceased to beat.

  Without benefit of shoe or cloak, he sprinted from the room. Taking the stairs three at a time, he ran through the tavern and out into the rain. He had not stopped to ogle. What he had seen was all too clear. Dax the Marauder was on the terrace with his thick hands around Fortunada’s throat.

  Chapter 37

  Fortunada

  The railing bit into Fortunada’s back. Dax’s grip on her throat tightened. Every part of her body screamed in pain. The world grew dim, and pinpoints of white light exploded in her vision. She drove her fingers under his palm. One of her fingernails bent back, ripping away from the flesh. His hold slackened a little. Yet it was enough. Air rushed into her lungs, and in that fleeting instant she developed a stratagem.

  Fortunada grabbed Dax’s left wrist with both of her hands and quickly dropped to her knees. Unable to carry all of her weight upon a single arm, his grip faltered and Fortunada tumbled to the floor. She gasped but dared not pause.

  The door to the villa was open. Moving forward, Fortunada crawled on hands and knees. Dax caught one of her legs and dragged her back. She kicked with the other foot, her heel connecting with his solar plexus. He exhaled in a rush, but never let go. She kicked again and again and again. With his free hand, he tried to block her blows or catch her leg. He did neither.

  Her foot struck his nose, and blood spurted across Dax’s face. He cursed. “You will not get away, not this time.”

  She kicked his chin with enough force to snap his head back. His grip on her foot loosened, and she slipped from his grasp. Scuttling, she moved to the door. Her position—on her hands and feet, bottom lifted—put her at a great disadvantage. He dove for her. Contracting each and every muscle, she braced for the pain.

  It never came.

  Caught midair, Dax was hurled backward and slammed into the railing.

  Baro lifted Dax up by the front of his tunic, pounding his fist into the marauder’s already-bloody face. Dax roared and struck Baro in the temple. Taking a staggering step back, Baro shook his head. As Dax swung out again, Baro dipped low and the marauder’s punch passed overhead.

  Trembling, Fortunada stood. She took one step back and then another. Her thighs hit the arm of the chair. It was the same one she had sat upon when she planned to quietly greet the day. Grabbing the uppermost rung, she lifted it and swung out, focusing on Dax’s head. Wood connected with bone, and the hollow thump of an overripe melon being dropped silenced the struggle. Blood flowed down the side of Dax’s face.

  He stumbled.

  Stood.

  Rotating his arms, he pitched backward, falling onto the balcony railing. It stopped him only a moment. With one last look of openmouthed disbelief, Dax fell over the edge.

  Fortunada ran to the railing and looked down into the practice field. Neck bent, Dax stared, unseeing, at the sky.

  “He is dead,” said Baro.

  Undoubtedly, he was. Opening her mouth, Fortunada tried to speak, or cry, or thank Baro for saving her. Only a hoarse croak escaped.

  Baro traced a light finger over her neck. “I cannot bear to think of what would have happened had I not looked out the window when I did.” Shaking his head, he sighed and pulled her to him. He smelled of cardamom and sweat and home. “That bastard is dead, and you never need be haunted by him again, Fortunada—my golden one.”

  She nodded and nestled in closer to his chest. Dax was gone. That truth would bring her comfort during those terrible moments when she thought she might drown in a flood of memories. She looked toward the terrace. She wanted to peer over the railing one more time. Just to see Dax’s corpse and make certain he was dead. Instead, she leaned into Baro, allowing him to wrap his arms around her. For in his embrace, she also found comfort.

  “Your voice will return,” he said. His breath washed over her hair, quieting her racing pulse. “Aside from your neck, have you other injuries?”

  The finger that had lost a nail throbbed with each beat of her heart. She held it up for Baro to see.

  “It needs to be cleaned and bandaged. Where are your kitchens?” he asked. “Never mind, I can find them on my own.”

  Taking her by the arm, Baro led Fortunada into the triclinium. “Lie here,” he said as he delivered her to a sofa. He lifted a pitcher and poured a small measure of dark-red wine into a cup. To that he added an equal amount of water. “Drink this,” he said, “slowly. I will return momentarily. Unless you need me, that is.”

  Beyond Baro, there was nothing Fortunada needed. And yet, she shook her head. Today, like all the rest of her life, she would have to be without him.

  Chapter 38

  Baro

  Baro descended the stairs and paused in the atrium. There were two corridors, one on the left and the other on the right. The corridor to the left was shorter, and for no other reason than that, he took it first.

  Pushing the door open, he found a small room with a single window. Without question it was Albinius’s tablinum. A desk sat in the middle of the floor. Low shelves filled with scrolls ran along one wall. Without hesitation, he crossed the threshold. Albinius was a lanista. Had Baro not heard of lanistas who controlled the medication of the ludus? Perhaps he could locate a vial filled with the thick, black syrup of poppies. That would settle Fortunada’s nerves for hours.

  Even if no medicinals were found, Baro had a right to know what kind of man Fortunada would be marrying—or rather, remarrying. He glanced first at t
he desk. A single scroll lay atop the wooden surface. It had not been rewound, and Baro glanced at the missive. It was to the propraetor, suggesting a location for a chariot racetrack, the Circus Maximus. It seemed that Albinius wanted to be more than a mere lanista.

  Perhaps there were medications on the shelves that ran along the wall. There were scrolls there, all tightly wound and tied with twine. Baro looked carefully at each, but dared not disturb any. In the last compartment on the bottom, he found a dagger—a rather ineffective weapon considering all the others available in a ludus. The blade sat atop a gray-green purse that had been shoved to the back, as if forgotten. There was something about that bag. He traced the golden embroidery with one finger, but not wanting to waste any more time in a place where no comfort for Fortunada’s pain could be found, Baro left.

  At the other end of the corridor, in the kitchens, Baro located everything he needed. A pot, filled with water, had been kept warm over a low fire. A bowl sat alongside a length of clean linen. Piling it all on a tray, Baro climbed the stairs. Fortunada remained on the sofa, where he had left her.

  Lines of worry and regret were etched on her brow. His heart contracted with the need to ease her burden. It was no longer his place to do so, though. Nor would it ever be.

  After setting the bowl and linen on a nearby table, Baro knelt beside Fortunada and took her hand in his. The fourth fingernail had been partially ripped away. “As long as this does not putrefy, it will heal. I am going to place your hand in the water. It will pain you, but it is the only way to keep the wound clean.”

  He glanced up at her, her hand halfway to the bowl. One eyebrow was lifted, and there was a smile upon her lips. She knew about injuries and pain and healing. “Apologies,” he said as he dipped her hand into the water. “I feared you were in shock.”

  She inhaled sharply, her breath little more than a hiss. Her arm stiffened in his hand. Tendrils of blood floated away from her nail, filling the bowl with a cloud of red. “I wonder how Dax found you,” he said. “I would not have assumed that he knew the caravan’s destination. What did he say to you?”

  Fortunada’s gaze turned to the balcony. She slowly shook her head. Nothing.

  His stomach churned with the terror she must have felt. The gods help him, he had felt it, too. “He is dead,” said Baro. “It matters not if he knew where we were traveling or that he sought revenge. Dax will not bother you from the afterlife.”

  She nodded.

  “Why were you at the villa alone?” He took her hand from the bowl of water and patted her finger dry.

  Baro was a fool to expect an answer from Fortunada. It would be days, he thought, before her voice would return. Yet, his need to fill the silence was great. And, moreover, he held the slightest fantasy that there had been an argument between her and Albinius.

  “To rest,” she whispered.

  Angry red bruises covered her neck. A smear of blood ran down the side of her cheek. More than the injuries, her complexion was wan. Dark smudges circled her eyes. “Are you ill?”

  She picked up the glass of watered wine and sipped. “I am—” She paused. Shaking her head, she took another drink. “I am just tired.”

  Though her voice came out as a whisper, Baro knew a lie when he heard one.

  Chapter 39

  Fortunada

  Baro knelt on the floor in front of Fortunada. She felt his gaze upon her and wondered if he had heard her hesitation. She was with child, his child, and Baro had a right to know. Yet, the words she needed to say had failed to come.

  Breathing deeply, Fortunada searched inside herself for the courage to speak. Her throat was raw, and yet she knew not what to say. In truth, it appeared to her that there was more than one way to lose her voice.

  From the periphery of her vision came a flash of silver, along with the form of a man a moment before a clatter echoed from the triclinium’s doorway. An unuttered scream escaped from her lips, and she spun to face the sound.

  White-faced and trembling, Albinius stood on the threshold. For a moment, they all regarded one another. Even in her overwrought state, Fortunada could not help but notice the differences between Baro and her former husband. The most obvious were those of their physicality. Though of a similar height, Baro was larger and broader, and Albinius was long and sinewy. After that quick assessment, the incongruities in their manner became obvious. Baro was quiet power, wrapped under a thin layer of amiability. Albinius was coiled, nervous energy—ready to strike at any moment.

  Albinius broke the silence. “What is going on here?”

  Baro stood. The muscles in his shoulders and back were visible under the tunic he wore. His arms and legs were bronze. The early-morning light broke through the still-open door and caught the copper in his hair, giving him the look of one cast in gold.

  “Your wife was attacked. I came to her aid,” Baro said.

  Albinius swiped a hand across the back of his neck and rubbed his palm on the side of his tunic. “How is it that you know of this attack? And if that is true, where is her attacker? I see none. Explain yourself, Fortunada. I leave you here alone because you claim fatigue. When I return to my villa, I find you with another man.”

  “It was Dax,” she said, but as her voice was lost, she made no sound.

  Baro rose and stepped in front of Fortunada, separating her from Albinius. He clenched his hands into fists and braced his legs against the floor. The stance was nothing if not menacing, and Albinius took a step back.

  The pounding of feet on stairs rang out, and an instant later the old trainer, Decimus, breathlessly entered the room. “Pardon the interruption, lanista. There is a dead man on the practice field.”

  “The domina was attacked,” said Albinius. “I imagine the corpse that litters the practice field is that of the unknown assailant. Leave the body where it lies and fetch the magistrate. He needs to know.”

  With a quick nod, the trainer took his leave.

  “It was Dax,” said Baro, speaking for Fortunada. “The marauder who attacked our caravan.”

  “Decimus,” called Albinius. “Tell the magistrate that it was the same man who attacked my wife’s caravan.”

  Fortunada disliked seeing Albinius take control of the situation. Baro was the one who had come to her rescue. He was the one who should be giving the orders and asking the questions, not Albinius.

  “As you wish, lanista.” Decimus turned to leave. He took a step. A flash of silver skittered across the floor, teetering and scratching shallow arcs in the tile as it went.

  A dagger?

  Baro strode across the room and picked up the blade and held it up to Albinius. “Is this yours?”

  “I heard noises and feared an intruder,” Albinius said. Without pause, he added, “Decimus, take Baro to the ludus. I understand that his entire kit was lost. Make sure he has everything he needs for today’s combat.”

  Flipping the dagger around, Baro caught the flat of the blade between his fingers and held the grip out to Albinius. Though spinning a blade was merely a trick to entertain the crowd, Fortunada could not help but smile and want to cheer.

  Albinius took the offered hilt.

  “Dax tried to strangle Fortunada,” he said. “She lost a fingernail defending herself. Her voice is gone.”

  Ah, there was another difference between the two men—Baro cared for her, while Albinius had yet to even ask about her welfare. Had Fortunada been a less pious soul, she would have cursed the gods for this reversal of love.

  “This way,” said Decimus. He gestured to the single door that led to the rest of the villa. As the two men turned to leave, the trainer clapped Baro on the shoulder. “It is a rare honor to meet the Champion of Rome.”

  Albinius tucked the dagger into the belt he wore round his waist and watched them leave. The sound of their footfalls faded, and the room was silent. Turning to Fortunada, Albini
us asked, “Are you certain the man who attacked you here is the same one who ambushed your caravan?”

  She nodded.

  “I know you have little voice,” he said, “but I would hear what happened. Calvinius, the magistrate, will want to know.”

  She reached for the cup of watered wine and took a sip. “Dax came within minutes of your departure,” she whispered. Each word clawed its way up her throat as she spoke. “I thought it was you.” She took another sip and continued. “I was on the terrace. He found me there and we struggled. Had Baro not seen me when he did, I would now be dead.”

  “How did the gladiator come to be here?” Albinius asked.

  What did he guess about her relationship with Baro? What did she want him to know? “I know not,” she said, looking toward the balcony. Where was Baro now? He would be in the ludus, meeting the other gladiators. Famous. Beloved. Happy. “He just came.”

  The front door opened with a bang, and Fortunada jumped. The chattering voices of children floated up from the atrium. Albinius placed a hand under her elbow and lifted Fortunada up from the sofa. “Come,” he said. “It will upset Genaro and Cornelia to see you in such a state.” With his hand still on her arm, Albinius guided her from the triclinium. “Rest now. You need not attend the feast at home nor the gladiator match this afternoon.”

  “It is Saturnalia,” said Fortunada, her voice stronger than she would have thought. “I would like to be at both.”

  They stopped at the door to her chamber, and Albinius placed a kiss upon her forehead. “You are a strong woman. When we first married, I was too young and your strength threatened me. Now that I am a man, I desire a partner of equal measure. We will be good together.”

  She gave him a small smile. This time, their union was not formed out of love or passion. Could those be replaced with respect? “I will take to my bed now,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.