The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “I have no choice. She is my family, my responsibility. Antonice is all I have.”

  “I wonder if she appreciates what you are doing for her.”

  “She does not even know.”

  “Go home tonight. Get your affairs in order. Come back in the morning. You will need to live at the ludus and become a gladiator again if you want to win.”

  “To save my sister, I must win,” said Valens.

  Before leaving the ludus, there was one last thing Valens needed to do—find a way to get Antonice from the city. If she were not in Rome, then she could not be taken into custody when—or if—he died. His former trainee, Baro, had family in Padua. Baro owed Valens nothing, yet options for removing his sister from Rome were limited. With an imperfect plan, Valens sought his former trainee.

  Baro practiced in the middle of the arena, fighting two gladiators at once. Valens saw the eventual outcome well before the final blow fell. Without question the student had surpassed the master. Valens’s chest swelled with pride, and at the same instant contracted with shame. Pride that Baro had become an exquisite fighter, shame that Valens no longer possessed those skills himself.

  “Hail, Valens Secundus,” said Baro as he walked away from opponents who limped, gripping their backs and sides. “I heard interesting news about you. Is it true, then? Are you returning to the games?”

  “I wish it were interesting news and nothing more.”

  “Are you daft, man? Why?”

  Valens shrugged. “Might I have a private word?”

  Baro accepted a clay cup of water from a slave and nodded his head to the far wall. They stood in the shade for a moment before Valens spoke. “I need a favor for my sister.”

  “For the pretty Antonice, you can ask anything.”

  “She is in trouble. I need her out of the city.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It is the kind that makes it necessary for me to return to the arena in order to keep her out of it. Do you still have family in Padua?”

  “I do. My aunt just birthed her seventh babe. Seven children, can you imagine?”

  “With all those children, your aunt might need help,” said Valens.

  “I could write to her and ask,” said Baro. “I assume you want this kept private.”

  “Be as silent as the dead.”

  “How will I find you when they reply?”

  “Simple,” said Valens. “I am not just returning to the arena. I am going to live in the ludus again, too.”

  Chapter 22

  Phaedra

  The walls surrounding the villa closed in upon Phaedra. The noonday sun, a great white ball in a cloudless sky, heated the garden. Near a bench grew an orange tree; a single shriveled piece of fruit clung to its stunted branches. Oppressed, she sought the cool and the dark of her rooms and stared outside.

  She recalled the events of the morning—Acestes and his formal proposal of marriage, her refusal to answer, and her father’s encouragement to accept. Phaedra shifted on the sofa, the silk gown clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Her father was right about one thing: she had grown accustomed to living as her own mistress, and residing in his house no longer suited her.

  Life with Marcus had been full of freedoms. She traveled often with him, but there were times when he was in Rome and she, Pompeii. During those times she answered to no one. As a daughter in her father’s home, he controlled her every move again. Or did he? Could she simply walk to the market and purchase, say, an orange and tear through its dimpled skin, releasing a spray of citrus into the air?

  Well, why not? Her father had not forbidden her to leave the villa. Rules had not been established since her return as a widow. The air pressed down on her skin. She sat up.

  The Capitoline Market sprawled out at the base of the hill, close enough to walk with just Terenita as her escort. She could avoid calling for a litter and guards, making her trip much less likely to draw her father’s attention.

  Phaedra stood. “Terenita, I would have an orange.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid clapped her hands, and another slave entered the room.

  “No,” said Phaedra, “not from the kitchens. We shall go to the Capitoline Market and buy one.”

  Terenita hesitated. “Whatever pleases you, my lady.”

  Leaving the claustrophobic villa pleased her very much. They walked to the front door without encountering anyone else. A guard outside dozed in the shade. He opened his eyes and stood taller as she shut the door. He did not stop her or try to keep her from leaving. It was his job to keep people out of her home, not in.

  Terenita held a silk parasol overhead, and their footfalls echoed on the quiet streets. No vendors pushed carts up and down the hill, calling out for people to buy their wares. No slaves washed the high walls or swept in front of red-roofed villas. Everyone had been, like Phaedra, hiding away to escape the midday heat.

  As she descended the Palatine Hill, the houses became less opulent, and the drowsy spell lifted. Lower mud-brown walls surrounded smaller homes. A few people milled about on the uneven, narrow lanes. A woman tossed a bucket’s worth of refuse into the gutters before shutting a wooden door with a loud crack. Two thin dogs snarled at each other as they ate whatever the woman had just thrown away. Phaedra crossed the street, not wanting to be too close to the mongrels or the bucket’s contents. Too late she saw a group of men huddled on a shaded corner. They stopped talking as she passed. Sweat trickled down Phaedra’s back, and her pulse beat fast. She should have been content to eat an orange from the kitchen.

  Just as she decided to return home, the avenue widened and the market stretched out in front of her. Wooden stalls with roofs and walls of colorful cloth spread out before her. Singular voices mingled until they became one sound—no longer words, just noise. She caught the spicy scent of cinnamon and the heavy fragrance of fennel mixed with the seductive undertones of jasmine. Phaedra did not know what to see, smell, or listen to first.

  At that moment Phaedra realized why she had wanted to come to the market. She did not care about the orange or the freedom to roam at will. She wanted to find out about Valens Secundus. Perhaps she would hear a pleb mention his name as they passed, or spy a tattered and weather-worn bulletin announcing his next game. What she most wanted was to see him in the flesh. She scanned the market and saw faces, thousands of faces, in all skin tones. But she did not see Valens with his hazel eyes. She gave a passing thought to finding his ludus. She discarded it quickly. Even though Phaedra had seen most of the civilized world, she was still not bold enough to seek out the company of a gladiator at his ludus.

  Today she would settle for a memory.

  “Terenita,” she said, “can you find the silk merchant I used before my wedding?”

  Chapter 23

  Valens

  Valens left the ludus unsure of even a single victory, much less his ability to win all three matches. Was he prepared to die in the arena? During his time as a gladiator, Valens had glimpsed his demise many times over. But life during the past two years had been gentle and kind, if a little less than exciting, and he loathed the notion of leaving the world just yet.

  What would fulfill him on this day, his last day of freedom? Her name came to him as easily as a breath. Phaedra. He wanted to see her once more and to let her know that her challenge to change their fates had held the power to change his life.

  How could Valens see Phaedra again? He doubted any slave would let him enter her villa even if he asked for her. Senator Scaeva might grant an audience. He had, after all, hired Valens for his daughter’s wedding. What kind of excuse could he give to the senator?

  Damian’s sister knew Phaedra, yet after what had happened, Valens doubted his welcome there as well.

  As Valens strolled through the market, he realized that he might have to be satisfied with a memory. His feet had carried him halfway to the silk merchant’s stall before he could acknowledge to himself that he wanted to go there.

  I
t still sat in the same place. Squares of color hung on a string and fluttered in the breeze. He spied the exact shade of red Phaedra had worn on her wedding night. He still had her veil and secretly looked at it often, so his eye knew the color well.

  Several wealthy, well-dressed women stood near the stall talking to each other. With a slight lift of the chin or a raised eyebrow, they summoned their female slaves. A quick nod of the head and the slaves were dispatched to the merchant to haggle over prices.

  So well trained were the slaves that their aristocratic or noble mistresses never needed to voice a desire for anything or agree to pay a price. All communication happened with subtle changes of the face and stance. The noncommerce of the patricians and equestrians amused and confounded Valens. The powerful of the republic spent fortunes without ever buying a thing.

  He looked at each and every face and did not find the one he sought. He had been foolish to think that, in a city of a million people, he might find her here, yet he felt ill with disappointment all the same.

  He turned from the silk merchant and caught a glimpse of something, someone. Was there a similarity in the curve of the chin or the deep brown shade of hair? The hairs at the nape of his neck tingled; his pulse increased and echoed in his ears. As his mouth went dry, his palms grew damp. In that moment the noises quieted, the smells grew fainter, and the air surrounded him like a comforting blanket.

  “Phaedra,” he said.

  The woman glanced in his direction, her eyebrows drawn together in a look of questioning and confusion.

  She found him and their gazes met.

  “Greetings, Valens Secundus,” she said. “I had hoped to see you in the market today.”

  Chapter 24

  Phaedra

  How could Phaedra have said such a thing and in such a forward manner? In her years away from Rome, she had become accustomed to speaking her piece. Now that she was back in the center of politics and intrigue, she needed to be mindful of her words, and vowed to choose more carefully before she spoke.

  “Greetings, Phaedra,” Valens said. “I heard of your husband’s death and that you had returned to Rome. Accept my sympathies for your loss.”

  Of course Valens would know of Marcus’s passing. She then wondered if he ever thought simply of her. So great was her desire to know that Phaedra feared she would blurt out her question. Instead she said the expected, “I thank you for your sympathies.”

  “You look well.”

  “You do, too. I am surprised to see you in the market without guards,” she said.

  He laughed. “I fought more men in the arena than most soldiers do in their lifetime. I do not need a guard. Besides, I won my freedom two years ago.”

  Valens’s freedom came as news to her. Fearing that she would hear something unpleasant about him, Phaedra had made a point to avoid talk of the games. “I congratulate you.”

  Valens nodded, smiling but tight-lipped. Then he smiled again, larger and more genuine this time. “I could ask the same of you—where are your guards? Or have you taken up the sword, too?”

  “I just wanted a moment away from the villa,” she said, fearing again that she had been too honest. “What of your life?”

  “I live on the Aventine with my sister.”

  “Just you and your sister? No wife?” Oh, may the gods preserve her and help control her emotions and the words that follow!

  “I never found a woman I wanted to bind myself to,” he said.

  “Good.” Good? Good? Had she just said good? What must Valens think of her? “It is good to wait and marry when you find a person you favor, I mean.”

  “I thought that was what you meant.” His eyes twinkled and she looked away, her cheeks feeling flushed.

  Phaedra saw other patrician ladies she knew standing near the silk merchant’s stall as their maids purchased goods. What would the gossip be tomorrow if Phaedra talked to Valens for much longer? Yet what did she care? Acestes’s marriage proposal had not been accepted by either her or her father. She was a widow, not an unmarried virgin. Even though she once again lived with her father and his rules, she did have a certain amount of freedom.

  Valens stepped toward her and her skin tingled. She had forgotten how standing close to him brought about a primal need like the drawing of two halves together, as if they were trying to become whole. The first time she felt it, Phaedra had not entirely understood the feelings and emotions. Now she did.

  She understood something else as well. Her father meant for her to marry Acestes. True, her father loved her and he wanted her to be happy, but he cared much more for his own comforts and his position. Although he had agreed to consider all suitors, she knew he would not. He had given her a week to find another husband to appear benevolent and nothing more. That left her with seven days in which to enjoy the autonomy she craved. With her newly understood freedom, Phaedra could ask Valens to come to her villa late in the night. It was scandalous, but why not?

  Without thinking of the consequences, Phaedra leaned close and said, “Come to my father’s villa after the tenth bell this evening. My maid will let you in.”

  Chapter 25

  Phaedra

  Somewhere near the forum, the ninth bell rang. Blackness crept across the sky, stealing the day’s warmth as the light faltered. Phaedra sat in a small dining room with her father as he read. A single candle sat at his elbow, the glow illuminating a small circle. He rolled up the papyrus with a sigh. “I cannot see a thing,” he said, pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “We need more light. More candles, more oil for lamps.”

  “Shall I have someone fetch them?”

  “No. My accounts are empty. Oil is expensive. Candles are more so.” He sighed as he stood. “I am off to bed and will rise with the dawn.”

  “Splendid idea,” said Phaedra. Her pulse raced. As expected, her father planned to take to his bed early. “Perhaps you should send all the slaves to their beds as well.”

  Her father nodded to the steward who waited nearby, giving a silent order that the villa should be dark. She followed her father through the corridors and entered her dim bedchamber. He lit a taper on her cosmetics table.

  “Do not let it burn long,” he said.

  “Of course not.” Phaedra waited until her father was out of earshot before turning to Terenita. “I have a visitor arriving tonight.”

  “The gladiator,” said the maid.

  “His name is Valens Secundus. Wait by the door and bring him to me.”

  “My lady, I must caution you that this is foolish.”

  “Tonight,” said Phaedra, “I care nothing for caution.”

  “My lady, why do you insist on bringing the gladiator into your life? He is handsome, even I acknowledge that. But General Acestes is pleasing to look upon as well.”

  It was a valid question. Did Phaedra only want Valens Secundus to prove that she could take a lover? That her father did not control every aspect of her life? No, there was more than that. It was the man. “When Valens looks upon me,” she said, “I am seen.”

  Terenita lowered her eyes. “I understand, my lady.”

  Phaedra tilted the maid’s chin up until they looked into each other’s eyes. “Do you sincerely understand?”

  “I do, but this gladiator makes me uneasy. You risk much for little gain, and I would not want to see you hurt.”

  To be seen, and heard, and to exist once more, Phaedra would have risked more than the consequences of an illicit love affair. “I appreciate your concern. But my mind is set. Please bring Valens Secundus to me when he arrives. The regret that would come from wasting this moment would be more injurious to me than the safety that will come from forgoing his company.”

  “I think I understand,” said Terenita with a small smile before she walked silently from the room, which left Phaedra alone to wait. She watched the sands of her hourglass slip from one bulb to the other, thinking, wondering, all the while.

  This was the first time she had
invited a man to her villa for sex. How did one wait for a lover? Dressed? Naked? Lying across the bed? What if he did not come at all?

  She poured a glass of wine and sipped it to warm her insides. Two fat candles burned on a table. They lit a small circle of wood, and the rest of the room remained in shadow. She lifted another taper from its holder and went to light it.

  “Phaedra.”

  He had come.

  He moved to her, covering the space between them in a few steps. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue slipped between her lips, and she allowed him to explore. She tasted him in return. Her head spun with Valens’s kiss, and every part of her tingled with the nearness of him. As much as she had longed for this moment, as much as she thought about him, and for all the times she had tried not to think of him and failed, Phaedra reminded herself that what she felt now was lust and not love.

  His touch skimmed from her shoulders to her arms. Their hands joined, palm to palm, fingers intertwined. Valens moved his lips to her neck as he placed leisurely kisses under her chin and behind her ear. Every part of Phaedra shivered with anticipation.

  He cupped her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple through her gown and the linen strips used for binding. Even through both layers of fabric, she responded. Her nipple hardened and she arched her back, pressing herself closer to him. She wanted—no, needed—Valens inside her, to complete her.

  Her hands moved down his arms, feeling the contours of his muscles as they shifted each time he changed his grasp. She traced his broad shoulders and tight chest before tugging at his tunic, hoping to get even closer to his flesh. Valens obliged, and slipped his clothes over his head. He did not wear a loincloth, and his erect phallus stood out. He was larger than Phaedra had anticipated, and she gave a fleeting thought about the pain she might feel when he entered her.

  Phaedra still wore the same dress she had donned earlier in the day, red silk with a woven belt of golden wool. She tried to untie the belt, but her fingers fumbled, and the knot refused to come loose. Valens encircled her wrists with one hand and raised her arms above her head. His other hand moved to her middle.