Seduced by the Gladiator

by Lauren Hawkeye

  “Apologies, Dominus.” I assumed the quiet, expressionless posture of a humble slave, though in my head I was anything but. But if the dominus forgot that I was there, then I would not be required to answer questions. This was good, because at the moment my head was full.

  It took great will and a whispered prayer to Providentia, goddess of forethought, not to pepper the man with questions about his newest acquisition to the ludus.

  As we closed the gates to the ludus, I forced my fingers to relax, to fall back to my sides.

  “To which god do I owe the pleasure of this journey, Dominus?” I inhaled deeply of the fresh air—air that did not hold the stink of sweat, flesh, or blood. Most times, being outside the gates of the ludus was an enormous pleasure in itself.

  Today, however, I could not find the enjoyment in it. There was too much confusion swirling through me, worries about my place in the ludus, about the renewed threat of Bavarius, about the forbidden feelings that I had for Christus.

  “The gods have naught to do with it. I wished to show you something, Lilia. Something very important.” The dominus strode ahead of me, and I had no choice but to follow. I did, and felt my palms begin to dampen against the dryness of my subligaculum. As always, it irritated some small part of me that, no matter how it was phrased, I did not have any choice but to follow along with my dominus’ wishes. No matter how many times I reminded myself that this was my life, that nothing about it would change, there would always be a fraction of my soul that did not enjoy the lack of freedom.

  Since this was indeed my life, and because I could have had it much worse, I tamped down the feeling, as I was always forced to.

  Even through my irritation, I noticed that the dominus cast a look back my way, one to check on my well-being. This gave me pause, for no matter that I was a pet to him, I was still a slave, and my well-being not generally at the top of his thoughts.

  What did he need to show me? The weight in my belly was a warning that whatever it was, it would not bode well for my future.

  My heart skittered in my chest, my blood fizzing hot and fast.

  Did he somehow know about my tryst with Christus the night before? Did he not approve? It occurred to me that I did not know my dominus’ thoughts on the matter of relations between his slaves—relations not ordered by his hand, for the pleasures of others.

  I did not know how it was with the slaves in the house above the ludus, but I was the only woman among the gladiators, and while I had heard of men in ludi becoming involved with one another, never in my years there had I witnessed such a relationship, myself.

  Casting an uneasy glance back down the path toward the house, I swallowed around a thick mouthful of anxiety.

  I could plead ignorance, I supposed. But that would not be honest, and I had always tried to live my life by the virtue, even when it might have been easier for me to do otherwise.

  The walk to the large market near the ludus was short and silent, the tension as thick as honey but not nearly as sweet. I stayed close behind my dominus, doing my very best to appear an obedient, docile slave.

  The dominus seemed troubled as he bought a jug of cheap wine from the first vendor that he saw without checking for quality or attempting to bargain. Though he had no particular talent for bartering, it was a very strange thing in the Roman marketplace, to pay the price asked without question. Vendors always first named a price that was much higher than an item was worth, with the expectation of an argument.

  My nerves unable to take more, I took the jug from my dominus’ hands before he could give it to me to carry. I clutched it tightly in my sweaty hands. The man had never before offered to carry anything for me, for that was why he owned slaves, after all, and incessant training meant that I was far stronger than him, at any rate. I saw him watching me struggle to get a grip on the jar that was too large around for my arms, and uttered an exclamation of surprise when he tried to take it from me.

  Without thinking, I clutched tighter. “I will carry it for you, Dominus.” Though the jug was too large for me to carry comfortably, I could do it.

  I wondered, not for the first time, how much attention the man paid to the goings-on in the ludus beneath his feet. Did he know that Bavarius was again challenging me? Did he think me weak, a woman who could not hold her place among men?

  I was rewarded for my comment with a glare that had me loosening my grip on the wine instantly. My master did not look pleased.

  “You would argue?” I shook my head to reply, abashed. The dominus took the jug from me and held it to his side, fingers looped through the handle. He leaned sharply to one side, and it would have been comical to see, had I not been wondering why he was insisting on carrying the jug himself.

  As I looked at him, I saw a hint of . . . surely that could not be pity? Patricians did not pity slaves, no matter how favored they were.

  “Let us walk this way.” I was startled yet again when the dominus grasped my arm. It was not common for a master to touch his slave, not unless it was to administer a beating, or for sex. He pulled me between the stalls of a man selling mottled quinces and another vendor with bolts of white wool. He nearly dropped the cumbersome jug of wine when jostled by one of a parade of slaves carrying an ornate litter.

  The scarlet silk curtains of the litter parted with the movement, and I caught a quick glimpse of the man inside. I had never seen his face, but the number of slaves that accompanied him, and the ornate decoration of his litter and his clothing, told me that he was someone very important in the Roman Empire.

  “Do you know who that is?” The words of my dominus were spoken low in my ear as my eyes met those of the man in the litter. His gaze was a very pale blue, the color of seawater captured in a jar, and were ringed with charcoal pencil. Those eyes widened slightly as the man saw me, and I thought that it must have been excitement at meeting a gladiator outside of the arena.

  Many patricians, particularly those who found little excitement in their daily routines of wine, food, and fucking, found it terribly arousing to meet such a warrior. As the sole female gladiator in Rome, I was well known.

  I had a brief impression of a man who looked to be not much more than a boy. Curls of hair the color of sunshine were cropped closely to his head. His face seemed attractive to me, but the curtain swung closed again before I could see more, hiding the man from view.

  “Did you recognize him?” The dominus searched my face with much more intensity than I cared for, and the answer seemed to be of vital importance to him. I could not understand the reasoning behind the question, and pondered it momentarily.

  The dominus raised the dark arches of his eyebrows in both irritation and surprise when, seeing him red in the face, jiggling the jug in his arms, I took it from his hands without him asking me to. The last thing that I wanted was for him to collapse from the effort, for then I would have to carry both him and the jug.

  Though the man’s angular face showed displeasure that I had disobeyed his earlier order, I saw that he breathed more easily, and the ruddiness faded from his face. He said nothing, instead wiping the sweat from his palms on the lap of his tunic, so I knew that I had been spared punishment.

  He waited, his tall figure casting a long shadow on the ground. I realized that he wished for me to answer his question.

  “I do not.” The dominus nodded, his expression troubled. I wished that I knew what it mattered to him—that I knew why he had brought me here, to the market.

  What did he so badly need to show me?

  Tiring of the game, I lifted my face to stare directly into the eyes of the man who owned me. He might punish me for my impudence, pet or not, but I thought I brought enough coin to his house to be excused my forwardness. “My dominus, apologies for being abrupt, but enough. What is it that you wish to show me?”

  He narrowed his eyes at my forwardness, but did not scold me. He did not answer immediately, instead gesturing with his hand for me to follow him, then snaking his way through the
vendors of the market.

  I followed as best I could, through the throngs of people, the jug of wine clasped tightly in my arms. At the end of the line of vendors was an alley, a slender corridor of rock between homes. Here the dominus turned, walking briskly to the end, where some activity was taking place.

  He paused in the group of men, gesturing for me to move to stand beside him. Still puzzled by the trouble that I read on his face, I watched him for a long moment before realizing what he was looking at.

  The dominus was staring thoughtfully at a line of slaves who stood against a wall of stone, hands and feet chained together and to one another to prevent escape. Ten men and two women, all were naked, what could be seen of their skin beneath the streaks of dirt the sickly hue of the malnourished. Businessmen strode back and forth in front of the line, looking in mouths, fondling genitals, pulling hair.

  It had not been so many years ago that I had stood in their place, a ware to be hawked to the highest bidder. I shuddered when the thought came that, despite events that had occurred when I first came to the ludus, I had been lucky in the man who had purchased me—my dominus.

  I could have been purchased by a brothel, where my tits and cunt would have fetched a price. I could have been sold to a master who beat me and fucked me when he felt like it. If no one had wanted me, I could have been taken to the pits, where I would have lived another year, perhaps two, before exhaustion and starvation combined to kill me.

  Instead, I was famous in Rome and had plenty of coin to my name. I might have been locked inside the walls of the ludus—I may have been forced to kill in the arena in order to preserve my own life.

  It could have been much, much worse.

  I struggled to swallow these thoughts, returning my attention to the dominus and the line of slaves.

  “Tell me, Lilia. Do you see potential in any of these slaves?” I could barely see over the jug of wine in my arms, but I felt that I must answer correctly, or disappoint my master. Stepping closer to the line of slaves, I squinted at each in turn, taking note of the manner in which the experienced businessmen treated them. All of the slaves looked sickly, and none seemed to be causing excitement or starting a bidding war.

  “I do not.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood. Did the dominus intend to acquire yet more men for the ludus? Our cells were nearly full as it was.

  The dominus chuckled, but it was a sound that was hollow and without mirth. I had not answered correctly.

  “Do you see that man at the end, the tall one?” A strand of yellow came loose from my long tail and fell into my eyes, and I huffed at it with my breath. The man in question was larger than the others, and was pulling at his chains with murder and bloody vengeance in his eyes. The tattoo of a Roman soldier was on his arm.

  The manner in which he outwardly struggled put me in mind of Christus, just the slightest bit. Though Christus was often calm on the outside, I often sensed a simmering rage that pressed against his skin from the inside, a rage just like this slave showed. Still, I thought that he looked unwell enough to be a poor purchase. While large and likely intimidating when fed properly, at the moment the skin of the slave stretched tightly over his bones, without any visible muscle or fat beneath it. He was filthy, and his skin was tinted a sickly yellow.

  I noted my observations out loud, and the dominus laughed again, the sound grating like metal on stone.

  “They all look like that in the beginning. You were better than most, but still nothing like you appear now. Slaves come from the pits, from the prisons. They are criminals and deserters. They are captured and sold, and then sold again. They have fleas, they sit in piss and shit. You must see their potential through all of this.” He looked down at me expectantly, and I felt my temper finally boil over. Was the point of this exercise to remind me where I came from, that I was no better than these filthy, naked slaves?

  I set down the jug with a large clack and let the words rush from my mouth as sensation flooded back into my fingers.

  “Have I become too proud, my dominus? Is this why you would bring me here?” The dominus looked startled at my question, but what else was I to think?

  “Do not be difficult, Lilia.” Deftly stepping around the jug that sat on the ground, the dominus began to walk back the way that we had come, leaving me paces behind, blood roaring in my ears. I saw the expression on his face, and found that it was once more distorted with frustration and anxiety.

  I wanted to yell. I did not, instead swallowing down the harsh words that I wished to spew forth.

  “My apologies, Dominus.” Though I was tempted to leave it there, I once again hefted the jug in my arms and scurried after my master. “I do not mean to be difficult, but I truly do not understand your purpose in bringing me to the market today.”

  The dominus paused in his steps, allowing me to catch up to him. He tried to tug the wine from my hands, but I shook my head and held tight.

  “People will talk.” I felt that I had to point this out. Masters did not carry their own goods home from the market when they were in the company of a slave. It was simply not done.

  He nodded, acquiescing. As we stood still at the end of the market, he looked at me, deep into my eyes, then around at our surroundings, rather as if he thought that someone might be watching us.

  “I showed you that slave for a reason, Lilia.” We began again to walk. I was still confused.

  “You knew that man would be for sale?” How would he have known that?

  Frustrated, the dominus huffed out a breath and cast me a stern look. “No, Lilia, not that man in particular. However, there are always men like him for sale. Men like him, women like you. The fight in him is what set him apart from the others, and it is what I wanted you to see.” Again he looked around furtively, and I wondered who made him so nervous.

  “I . . . I do not know what to say.” Why could he not speak plainly?

  He heard the irritation in my voice, and rounded on me. I was surprised by the fierceness in his manner.

  “I try to do you a favor, Lilia.” He nodded to emphasize his point. “I cannot tell you more, not yet, or be sure that I would. But you must remember what I showed you today. You . . . you will need it.” With a glare, he spun on his heel and continued up the road, his shoes disturbing the dust so that it danced around his ankles.

  After a moment I paused, nerves washing over me like an icy rain. The dominus had traveled nearly all the way down the road before I gathered my wits and hurried after him.

  I was favored in the household, true enough, but I was also a slave. The dominus did not need to warn me of anything, not even if he had knowledge that would save my life. What could he know that was so important he felt the need to warn me of its approach?

  I thought of Christus, and of how shadows seemed to haunt him. Whatever it was that the dominus knew, I did not think that it boded well.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  The trip into town with the dominus had left me uneasy, the feeling a faint but present aftertaste that clung to my mouth. I worked through the afternoon’s training with fierce focus, doing my best to put both Christus and the dominus’ warning out of my mind.

  After training, I stayed on the sands, jesting with Darius. I made certain to appear unconcerned about events that had transpired in the ludus recently. As I stood with my tall friend, however, I noted that Bavarius still watched me with mocking on his face. I pretended that he did not exist.

  I also noted that Christus hovered on the edge of the sand, his eyes never straying from my frame. I knew that he was waiting for me, was waiting for me to come to him.

  Though I very much wanted to do just that, and though I had not been able to keep him from my thoughts all day, I stubbornly stayed behind. I did not wish to tell him of the day’s events, for he would worry.

  I did not know why I cared so much about what the man said or did. I had allowed him access to my body once, and would not do so again. He meant nothing to me bey
ond that.

  When I could delay it no further, I crossed the sand to the outer door of the chambers that I now shared with Christus. I knew that I would face an angry man inside.

  Before I could think our actions through, Christus wrapped his arms around my waist and half carried, half dragged me across the room to the bed. When we reached the wall beside it, he pressed me up against it, and the chill of the stone against my back was a delicious contrast to the heat that pressed against my front.

  My exclamation of surprise was muffled against his mouth, which devoured mine, hot and fast. After a second in which I pushed against him, startled, I returned the kiss as fervently as I received it.

  In that moment, I didn’t know why I had ever felt unsure. I did not know why I protested so much to myself. This—Christus’ skin against mine—felt so right. I knew that I always felt the need to prove a point, but as soon as he touched me again, I could not think at all, not when his hips bucked against mine, causing his cock to rise and to thicken against the soft swell of my belly.

  His tongue swept inside of my mouth, and at the same time he worked his hands between my back and the cool stone of the wall. Tracing fingers gently up my spine, he found the knot that held the band of leather up and worked it free.

  I shivered when my breasts were kissed by the air, the leather pulled down around my waist.

  Christus hissed in a breath at the sight. Small, they were pale and tipped with red, and he palmed one with something close to reverence.

  My mouth watered. I wanted him to taste them.

  Sliding his other hand from my back, around my hip, and up my abdomen, he cupped a breast in his right hand. He cursed when he discovered that he wasn’t touching skin—his hand had become caught in the thin cloth that had lined the leather, which had banded at my waist.

  But when the covered hand brushed over the rigid tip of my nipple, I emitted a low moan from the back of my throat. Burying his face against the slender arch of my neck, he rubbed that nipple between his fingers, the touch buffered by the smoothness of the cloth.