All too soon I found myself ensconced in our balcony at the arena. Though there was a canopy of striped silk overhead, and though Drusilla fanned me with a large, waxen leaf, the heat was dreadful. Two layers of cloth covered my body—my tunic and my palla, my woolen shawl—and sweat rolled in fat, wet drops down my spine. My toes felt swollen against the closed covering of the bright yellow shoes that I wore when I left the house. My scalp itched dreadfully beneath its covering of tight white gauze and fashionable yet damnable yellow silk hair, but it was better than it had been on our way to the arena, when I had had to cover my head. My skin felt thick, layered as it was with chalk and charcoal.
Sitting beside my husband was more dreadful still. I would have been displeased with him even if the evening had stopped with my tryst with the masked gladiator, but Lucius’ forceful visit to my bed made the situation nearly unbearable. Worse, he had made no mention of it. There was certainly no apology, not that one would have made amends.
It was as if it had never happened. As if he did not remember. And, given the amount of drink he had consumed, that was a very real possibility.
I gained no small amount of pleasure from his very obvious, and very distressing, aching head. He was wan, and the smell of the wine being consumed all around us was visibly turning his stomach. And there was plenty of wine, provided by our host, a hopeful senator. This game—most of the arena games—were munera, or public demonstrations, provided by the wealthy or the politically hopeful, to appease and entertain the common citizens.
This senator was seeking the favor of the upper class plebeians and his patrician fellows as well as the common Roman citizen, and so we were plied with expensive honeyed wine, the freshest quinces and figs, and rare sweets.
It might have been petty, but it made me feel ever so slightly better that my husband could not partake of the bounty due to his roiling stomach. And I would take what pleasures I could, for the circumstances were dreadfully uncomfortable for me. We were surrounded by our friends, though I privately considered them no more than acquaintances, for I knew that they would turn on one another and on us for the smallest of gains. I had to smile and laugh with them, had to appear to enjoy myself and the games to the fullest, and all the while I could barely contain the anger and betrayal that being near Lucius brought.
Or the dread and delightful anticipation of what the night would bring.
“Oh, who have you put up against Corvinus’ Januarius, Alba?” asked Iuliana, who was possibly my favorite of the lot that surrounded us. The wife of Sextus, a fellow businessman, she was silly and vain, certainly, but she possessed a kind heart.
I blinked. I could not remember. Corvinus was our rival, the owner of another fine Roman ludus—though Lucius daily pronounced it to be trash. After the tedium of the early matches today, in which pair after pair of inconsequential gladiators would spar and warm up the crowd, the prestigious matches would begin.
Januarius was considered to be in the running for the title of Roman champion, along with our Caius, Appius, and Marcus.
“I . . .” I could not think past Marcus. The thought that he might be put up against Januarius, might have to take part in a duel in which he would be very nearly matched, made me sick to the marrow.
“I have not yet decided,” offered Lucius with a show of joviality, stretching an arm casually over the back of my seat and brushing my shoulders. I flinched away and was frowned at reprovingly.
I did not care. I would not have him touch me, not anymore.
With eyes narrowed to show that he would tolerate my behavior—because he needed me that evening, no doubt—but that I had best watch myself, Lucius snapped his fingers and quickly received a cup of water from Marina, one of our slave girls. His fingers lingered on hers, something he did so that I would see, and I wrinkled my nose with distaste.
He might have cared for me, but he was also a man of pride. He was clearly not happy that I had not permitted him to be in the room while I mated with the gladiator the night before—this was my punishment.
The insolent chit giggled in response to Lucius’ touch, and a bitter taste coated my mouth.
I could not believe how quickly the bond with my husband had deteriorated. I had not seen it coming.
Maybe I had been fooling myself blind.
“I am waiting to see how our three perform today. Then I will decide.” He winked at Iuliana, who giggled at the obvious flirtation, which was simply a way of communication amongst the well-to-do plebeians and the lower-classed patricians of Rome.
Iuliana signaled for her own cup, though it held wine instead of water. “I had heard that it would be Marcus. I do so wish to see that battle!” She wriggled her eyebrows at me lewdly, and I knew that it was not the fight that she wanted to see, but rather the straining, sweating muscles of two potential champions.
“Is this true, Lucius?” My voice was sharp and higher-pitched than usual. “Will Marcus meet Januarius?” I wanted to vomit.
With a sidelong look at Iuliana, whose attention had been temporarily caught by the bloody spectacle below us on the sand, he spoke out of the side of his mouth to me. “No. I would not chance losing Marcus now. Appius will meet Januarius.”
He would not chance losing Marcus now? Why, by the gods, would that be his reasoning? A gladiator could lose his life at any given moment in battle. That was the danger that they accepted when taking an oath to the brotherhood of their ludus.
Was it because he needed him for another purpose?
I could not deny that the thought excited me, thrilled me, in fact, and it kept me occupied throughout the long hours until the midday sun had ceased its relentless pounding, and the match in question came to a head.
Beside me, Lucius stood. After Corvinus called out his chosen man, Januarius, Lucius named ours. Appius. But it was not Appius who stalked through the barred iron gate.
It was Marcus.
My heart leapt into my throat, choking me, both at the breathtaking sight of him, rigidly militant, and in terror. Januarius was a huge brute, with long, unkempt hair, a plethora of missing teeth, and battle scars slicing his face into segments. He was not known to fight with honor, and if there was one thing I now knew about Marcus, it was that the virtue of honor was what he swore by.
Though he was a large man himself, Marcus appeared small beside him.
“What is this?” Lucius was still on his feet, agitated. “Marcus! No!”
But it was too late.
Collectively the group in our balcony drew in a breath and leaned forward. The two men were frozen on the sand, which glittered like a million miniscule jewels in the gilded light. I very nearly swallowed my tongue at the sight of Marcus, so fierce and so proud, every sharply defined muscle tensed in anticipation, his face a study in concentration.
It reminded me so much of our time in the bath, our clandestine encounter. He had had the same look on his face when he licked my cunt, that same expression of do or die.
I quivered with need even as I tensed with fear.
He couldn’t defeat this giant. Could he? I had seen men beat more unlikely odds, but I had not harbored illicit feelings for those men. Ultimately, whether they lived or died had not mattered all that much to me, though I had often reflected on the tragedies of lives cut short.
This did matter to me, very much.
Beside me, Lucius was tense with rage, muttering his disbelief. But I sensed desperation beneath his anger, that the upset was mostly for show.
Could it be that he depended on Marcus for something else? Say, to bear him a child?
I wanted to cover my eyes. I could not watch. I would not have had to know what was going on, at any rate, for beside me Iuliana kept up a high-pitched running commentary.
But in the end I dropped my hands from my eyes. I could not take my eyes off of the man in front of me on the sand. I knew then that m
y feelings for him were getting out of control, but I could not seem to stop them.
He was bare-chested, as was traditional. Gladiators did not cover their chests in the arena, the bare skin seen as a sign of virility. Manicae, wraps fashioned from leather and cloth, wound around the large trunks of his arms and wrists, and his balteus—the band of leather that held his weapons—made a singular stripe over his chest.
He was not wearing his cingulum, which protected his midsection from fatal blows, and that worried me greatly.
Still, even through the worry, it was impossible not to notice that the way he fought was a thing of beauty. Hard ridges stood up on his arms as he sliced toward Januarius with his sword. He managed to slash through the flesh of the giant’s upper arm, and blood, thick crimson blood, sluiced down through the air and mixed with the granules of sand, boiling in the heat of the day.
The giant, whose arms were unprotected, roared and charged. He got his meaty hands around Marcus’ arm, yanked him close, and bit. As blood spurted, Marcus pulled back with an unimaginable strength and then retreated, just a slight bit, before slashing again.
He moved as if he was uninjured, and his focus amazed me.
I knew that this could not end well. Knew that one of them would die before this match was over. They were too evenly paired, despite the advantage that Januarius had in size.
I kept my eyes on Marcus, praying to Fortuna, the goddess of good fortune, that it would not be the last time I saw him alive. Knowing that, despite the wrongness of it, despite my enforced mating with a warrior who might or might not be him, I would make certain to see him again, would make certain to feel him again, if only he lived.
As he moved below on the sand, thrusting his sword out, cutting through flesh more than once, and retreating from the bitter kiss of the other man’s weapon, I thought I might be sick. I distracted myself by studying his frame, looking for similarities to the man who had used me so well the night before.
It could have been him. And then again it might not have been. I had done my best to not look, to not make that kind of contact. And I had not studied this man’s body when I had had him the time before, had focused more on the bliss of the joining than on the details of his flesh.
And now I might never again feel that flesh against mine.
The tension was unbearable. Beside me, Lucius was transfixed by the sight as much as I was. Januarius had been injured, and so had Marcus. He did not wear a helmet, and I feared for his head, which was so exposed. So easily cleaved from its neck.
Then Marcus fell, and I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes as I jumped to my feet and screamed. The scream was noted by no one, for the entire arena was standing, screaming, and cheering, caught in the throes of bloodlust. Women flashed their breasts in a show of support for their favorites, and the entire spectacle seemed suddenly like a warped scene straight out of my worst nightmare.
This was it, then. Marcus was going to die.
As Januarius charged, I focused on that lean golden body and prayed to the gods. Prayed to Fortuna to let him live.
The very moment before Januarius would have thrust his sword into the exposed ribs of my gladiator, Marcus thrust up and out with his shield. It sent the larger man to the ground with an impact that raised a storm of dust and sand. Using muscles that had to be exhausted, he staggered to his feet, clearly weary but not defeated.
Before Januarius could react, the metal battle sword of Marcus cleaved the tension-thick air in two and separated the head of Corvinus’ potential champion from his body. Blood spurted as if from a fountain, spewing in a wide circle, staining the sand with florid markings.
I gasped. The sight was gruesome, one that I never became accustomed to, no matter how many times I had seen it. But all that mattered to me in that moment was that it was not the head of Marcus rolling on the ground. No, Marcus was standing tall, bloody, clearly weary, but alive.
I shook, swamped with an onslaught of emotions, ones that had been bottled up since the day before, and fresh ones releasing their tension, spewing out into the day as the blood did onto the sand.
“Champion!”
Beside me, Lucius was riotous with excitement. Never mind that this was not how he had intended the match to go; he would reap the rewards. And it was true enough, we now had the champion in our fold, having defeated the only other potential outside our school.
I should have been exuberant.
Lucius would not now pair either Caius or Appius against Marcus. Marcus was champion.
I cared little for that. Instead I reveled in the fact that he was alive, alive and the most sinful thing I had ever laid eyes on, even covered in dirt, sweat, and viscous red blood. As he raised his arms to the sky, his face a study in solemnity and so different from the celebratory expressions of many, I felt need begin to grow.
I did not want to fuck the masked gladiator that night. Not unless he was Marcus. No matter that he had brought me such pleasure the night before.
My heart had spoken, and it wanted Marcus. It should not have, but it did.
He had given no indication that he wanted me in return. Yet even as the thought permeated my mind, he turned and faced the balcony where we sat. He gestured toward us, giving the gladiator’s standard dedication of his win to the house that held his vow.
But my heart lurched. There was something in his expression that made me believe he was dedicating it to me. And the thump in my chest, the clenching in my gut as I wondered if I could possibly be right, had me vowing to myself that I would unmask the golden-haired gladiator that night.
I would see if I was right.
“Where did you get that stunning necklace, Alba?” Iuliana was easily bored, and she had moved past the excitement of Marcus’ win. She reached out to stroke a small, thin finger over the largest of the blue stones, an expression of envy on her face, and the movement attracted Lucius’ attention. He must have been puzzled, for if he could not remember the previous night clearly, then he could not remember the circumstances in which he had given me the gift.
I smiled, melting the bitterness that wanted to play out across my face. I made sure that Lucius was listening when I replied.
“It is payment for being a good wife.”
“Have you ever fucked one of them?”
Hilaria was an acquaintance, one of many who had gathered at the impromptu party to help us celebrate our new champion. Her words were spoken with the smug amusement of a woman who enjoyed shocking others, and I provided exactly what she was looking for.
Wine, much finer wine than we usually drank, slopped out of my cup as I started, staring at the other woman incredulously. I fought a telltale flush.
“No!” I knew without looking in the direction she was pointing that she spoke of the gladiators, who were lined up on the far side of the room. “Hilaria! I am a married woman!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” She laughed, the sound low and as rich as she was. “It certainly did not stop me.” Snapping her fingers, she gestured for Drusilla to bring her the platter of glistening sliced figs that she could easily have reached herself.
I busied myself with my wine, pouring myself more since I had slopped mine on the floor. I could have had Drusilla do it, but wanted the time to calm myself. When I looked up, I hoped that my face was more composed.
“I will be with no man but my husband.” I felt shame for the lie, but what could I do? I certainly could not confide in the woman. Not only were we not close enough for me to feel comfortable doing so, but I had no doubt that by the next day the entire patrician class would know not only that I had had a tryst with a slave, but that my husband was using one to try to impregnate me.
“How dull.” Popping a fat green grape and a slice of fig that was dripping with juice into her mouth, Hilaria rose to her feet with the sinuous laziness of a woman with both money and free
dom. She held out a hand for me, which I had no choice but to accept.
I did not want to go look at the gladiators. I had spent the better part of the evening trying to ignore them.
But Hilaria had never liked the word no. Though my feet dragged on the cool marble floor, I found myself being pulled through the thick crowd of revelers to the line of hard male flesh.
The gladiators stood in a line against one wall, clean yet dressed in the leather subligaculum of battle. They had nicer garments, short tunics of light cloth that we provided them for formal occasions, but at a party like this their near nakedness was expected.
More, it was appreciated.
“Oh, do relax, Alba.” I kept my stare trained on my feet as Hilaria spoke, noting a slight scuff on the dyed leather of my left sandal. After a tense moment she placed one of her long fingers under my chin and tilted my face up. “Surely Lucius will not divorce you for appreciating the . . . talent . . . of your livelihood.”
I looked nowhere but at Hilaria, though I was aware of the cliff of a naked chest directly to my left. I could not think of what to say, and so remained silent.
My stiffness merely made the other woman laugh. She reached out with her soft hand and ran a finger down the nearest hard chest.
I looked up involuntarily, jealousy rearing its head before I could even think. But it was not Marcus. It was Caius, one of the men who had been considered a potential champion until that afternoon’s games.
He did not respond to Hilaria’s caress, at least not to the eyes of most. He was not permitted to. The men were allowed to do nothing but stand rigidly in formation, decorations at the party.
I, however, saw the shiver roll over his skin, perhaps because I was watching so intently for it. It was not, I thought, a reaction caused by desire.
No, I rather thought that the man wanted to step back, to remove his body from the touch of the woman.
“Mmm.” The expression on Hilaria’s face suggested that she had tasted something delicious and sweet and was savoring the sensation on her tongue. “How delightful.” Her fingers trailed down, down, coming to rest lightly on the top of the leathers that saved Caius from indecency.
My Wicked Gladiators Page 7