Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  Only four had been scheduled, it was true—but sickness could take a fighter overnight. Lucius had seen it happen many times, leaving a man to fight who was woefully under-prepared. Beyond that, Otho might change his mind at the drop of a hat and ask for more gladiatrices. Different gladiatrices.

  Lucius was only glad the madman hadn’t thought to ask the women from the same ludus fight one another.

  During training with the posts and sparring, Lucius was just as merciless as he was with the running. He ran drill after drill, correcting their forms endlessly, holding up the swords and shields himself when he needed. His arm felt better every day. The exercises Nyx gave to him worked.

  The danger here was clear to him. He was letting himself get far too invested in the lives of these women.

  If a novice of his died—when a novice of his died, his experience corrected him—he would be devastated. He ought to look to Murus, confer with the man, ask him how he kept himself so distant and whole after more than a decade of watching good men be cut down in the arena.

  But these warnings burned up in a soul hot with a passion for Gwenn and her sisters-in-arms. He wanted them to show the world what they could do. By the gods, he wanted Gwenn to show the world what she could do.

  He had been wrong about her. About all of them. He was man enough to admit it.

  Seven on one was bad odds indeed. A gauntlet worse than any even he had ever taken apart. A normal woman wouldn’t have even made it into the arena if they knew that’s what they had to face. A normal anyone wouldn’t have, man or woman. They would have strung themselves up by their sheets and given themselves the dignity of choosing their own deaths.

  But Gwenn trained on, smiling and furious.

  She was a wonder, and his biggest wondering of all was how he was going to keep himself from lusting after her like he did day after day.

  Chapter 31

  When Lucius broke for water in the middle in the day, he stood in the shade and watched the other gladiators train and spar. They had their own games for which to prepare. He saw Conall and Flamma, both of them heavily bruised. They held nothing back with one another.

  Conall’s bruises were all from attacking as reckless as he normally did, without heed to any defense. Flamma easily landed blows on his arms and side as Conall flung himself headfirst into one volley of strikes after another. But at the same time, Flamma couldn’t avoid the return blows—so quick and precise—that Conall showered out.

  There was intensity in Conall’s face, but it was strangely empty. It reminded Lucius too much of Otho and the horrible, abyss-like gaze he had when fighting Gwenn.

  Hours later, after dinner, Lucius walked over to Conall’s cell. The smaller man was on his cot, head hanging over his knees. Brooding.

  “May I sit?”

  Conall kicked a stool over to him.

  “You’re not training for a fight out there.” Lucius thumbed back to the direction of the sands.

  “I’m training.”

  “Yes, but not for a fight. You’re training to die. Aren’t you? You want to give them a good show, take a piece or two off the other man. But you want to die.”

  Conall looked up at that. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’d rather not see my friend die.”

  “Is that what we are, then? Friends? Because you don’t act like it.”

  Lucius inhaled and swallowed down the bad response that had been about to spill out. He thought about his words. He wanted to help.

  “I gave you some bad advice. Bad intentions. Bad everything. I know I did. You wanted to talk to me and I turned you away. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  The rage that had seemed ready to burst from Conall like a flood from a dam faded drained out instead. His eye stopped twitching and he turned his head back down to his knees.

  “S’okay. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

  “I think it does. I think it matters if you live or die.”

  “You said I was fighting to die. I don’t know. Maybe I was. I think I’m fighting like I don’t care which.”

  “That’s a hole, my friend. That’s a hole without bottom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you let it, that hole will run you dry.”

  “I know that. I’ve been…” Conall spread his hands. “I’ve been counting on it. Can I say that? I said it. I’ve been counting on it. I’ve wanted it. I don’t know why.”

  “Because you don’t feel like you have a purpose.”

  Conall shrugged. “I suppose not.”

  “Make your purpose her, then.”

  It took Conall a moment before he understood what Lucius said. When he did, he laughed, like someone had told a bad joke that he found funny anyway.

  “Gwenn?” He smiled. “I don’t think you would like that.”

  “No. Not in that way.” A jealous cloud rose up quickly in Lucius’s chest. “And we’re not…why wouldn’t I like that?”

  “You and her…” Conall’s smile grew. “You’re not…?”

  “No. No, of course not.” Lucius cleared his throat. His face felt strangely flushed. “Look. She’s the best thing that’s come to this ludus in a long, long time. Not just how good she is. Her energy. Her spirit. I want to see it thrive. Her thrive. Help me with this.”

  “Help you how?”

  “You can train with us. Train with the women. Teach them.”

  “If I train with them, I could lose my edge in the arena.”

  “Have you seen Flamma? He’s lacquered in bruises at this point. I think you’ve got a fine edge. Train with us. Lend your purpose to them until you find one of your own.”

  It took some doing and some more talking. They reminisced about old times, about missing Caius, about glorious fights. And at the end of the night, Conall agreed.

  The next morning, he was up early, running with the women. He took Ros as a sparring partner.

  By the end of the day, his smile matched the rest of the women’s. It matched Lucius’s. It matched Gwenn’s.

  Chapter 32

  The day of the games, Gwenn had never felt more ready for anything in her life. It seemed like every step she had ever taken had prepared her for this day.

  Life arrived on a straight line, ever in danger of curving. Every step would have prepared her for this day one way or the other—but this was a line that suited her well.

  The day before, all the gladiators from the ludus had been brought out in a parade through the city. They were showered with treats and wine and flowers, all of which they were forbidden to take as their own. The parade ended with the announcement of each fighter and their match in front of the arena so that they crowd could pick their favorites. It was a joyous affair for most of the gladiators, one final shot in the arm so that they could see how much the crowd loved them before each fighting man entered the arena.

  The gladiatrices, however, were left behind.

  Murus informed them this was because Otho wanted their presence to be a surprise. Gwenn wondered, however, if it wasn’t because no self-respecting crowd would bother to choose any favorite in fights between gladiatrices. Perhaps if they knew, they wouldn’t even bother to arrive at the arena at all. The suspicion stayed with her, and she let it fuel her fire.

  She would give these people a show they would never forget.

  Guards transported the gladiatrices in the very early morning—just before dawn—to the arena. They kept them, and the other fighters, in the underbelly of the arena. Columns and arches abounded in the damp area beneath the sands, with a great many passages and portals for loading in slaves, prisoners, animals, and gladiators to cells and up to the arena proper above.

  The gladiatrices were partitioned off to their own area, away from the gladiators. Other “special attractions” had their own areas: the bestiarii, or beast fighters; the venatores, or beast hunters; and the noxii—prisoners condemned to die (often at the mercy of beasts).

  An iron gate held the entrance to the
gladiatrices’ area. It was designed in a rectangular grid, and so had many spaces between the bars where Gwenn could look out. Lucius sat down directly on the opposite side of the gate, holding counsel with whichever woman approached.

  Gwenn leaned against the stones of an arch and looked about her. She stayed close to the gate, enjoying the closeness of Lucius there, but she did not hog him. Ros looked nervous. Her loose hair was in a tumble around her face and she continued to pace from end of the sand to another. Onane, tall and brown, followed after her with calming words in one ear. Kav had asked to come to support her sister, and Lucius had seen no reason to deny her. Now she sat with both Onane and Ros, telling jokes and spinning tales about their sure victories.

  Sabiana sat directly next to the gate, discussing strategy with Lucius. Gwenn could not overhear them entirely; they made several stabbing and crossing motions with their hands, and after a few minutes she understood them to be talking about what to do if the hoplamachus flanked Sabiana.

  The other fighters—the ones from House Malleola—paced in the same area. It was strange to be locked with them. They were more than those from House Varinius—a whole ten of them to their four. Seven were to fight against Gwenn later that afternoon. They looked at her like a condemned woman.

  She thought them fools if any of them thought the fight was already up. She just grinned as they stared.

  Outside, she could hear the roar of the crowds as the games began. First were the beast fights and the hunts. In the bowels of the arena, she could hear the cries and roars of wild cats and bears as their handlers rattled their cages and poked them with burning irons. The tempers of the beasts had to be up for the fights, or else they wouldn’t fight.

  A human didn’t need such encouragement. If Gwenn didn’t fight today, she would be killed—either by the other gladiatrices or by the referees patrolling the fight. With as much choice as a leaf adrift in a maelstrom, she embraced the coming conflict with everything she had.

  Some familiar faces crossed her field of vision. Ajax and Perseus, fighting now for House Buteo. They drew up in front of the gate into the gladiatrix area.

  “Would you look at that,” said Ajax. “It’s probably the best woman fighter I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Perseus raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Oh sure. And there, beyond the gate? There’s some gladiatrices.”

  They howled with laughter.

  “You think it funny to call me a woman?” Lucius stood up. “That is your game?”

  Ajax grinned. “I think it’s almost as funny as you training them, yeah. You always got on our nerves. All your damn boozy stories about the arena. We saw you fight.” He spat. “Not impressed. Our new Dominus won’t have no traffic with some fool drunk in his house. A smart man. A better man than your own Domina, but then,” he shrugged. “What can you expect from a woman?”

  “Not much,” said Perseus.

  “Any one of my women could give you hell in the arena,” said Lucius. “Don’t you doubt it for a moment.”

  “Friend, I’ll doubt it all the way to the end of time, and not once will I have reason to stop.” Ajax pointed. “You let me know when they’re going to fight, yeah? I want a good nap. I expect the crowd’ll be dead silent for that lot.”

  “Why don’t you get out of here, friend,” Lucius spat the word, “before I remember your manners for you?”

  Howling still like animals, Ajax and Perseus left.

  Gwenn approached and touched his arm. The skin there was hot. Want, severe and undeniable, surged up in her briefly. She had to take steps to remember there were more pressing matters for the day.

  “You don’t have to fight our battles, Lucius. We are fighting women.”

  He smiled, his hand closing over hers. “I like some of your battles, little flame. Allow a man to speak up for the ones he cares about.”

  Chapter 33

  Lucius found a certain comfort in the day of any game. The bloodlust had left him some time ago, he felt—perhaps many months or even a year before he finally stopped fighting.

  But, there was much to be said for the feelings that tradition stirred up in a man, and the games in the arena followed the same traditions as were handed down to them from centuries past when the gladiator fights were moved from burial sites to arenas.

  The way that the games were organized was always the same. They lasted all day and went on until sun down. In the morning were the beast fights and the hunts. In the afternoon were executions. Romans did not parley much with the idea of prisons. If a man was not fined, he was sent to the mines; if he was not sent to the mines, he was executed.

  This business left the sands bloody and gory. But, the Romans had long been used to cleaning the sands of the arena. For centuries now, slaves had run out to sweep the sands and add new portions until the grains appeared fresh.

  The bodies of the dead, meanwhile, were dragged off by a man wearing a black mask to take on the appearance of Charon—the gatekeeper to the depths of the underworld.

  After the executions, finally, were the gladiator fights themselves. First, the gladiators were brought out before the crowd, warming up with their weapons. This was to show the crowd any new fighters they may not have heard of, and to let them see their magnificent, god-like bodies in action. Every man cut from stone, and every stone rippling with life.

  The first the crowd heard that there were women fighting at all came after the display of the gladiators ended. The gladiatrices entered the sands then, sparring briefly with training swords and showing off their own physiques. Each was honed to a model of perfect fitness, every single woman having trained for weeks on the same regimen and diet as the gladiators.

  Unsurprisingly, the crowd booed heavily at this display. They had come here for bloody sport, not some ridiculous spectacle. They all knew without a doubt that women couldn’t fight. Catcalls and jeers flooded the arena.

  Senator Otho, sitting in the editor’s seat, had to stand up to quiet the crowd. He gestured to the men at his side, and there was a bustle of movement.

  In a few minutes, after the gladiatrices left the arena, the crowd was broiling up to a fever pitch. Then, from special servants located high in the amphitheater, small wooden balls began to rain down.

  Lucius was surprised. Usually, this was reserved for late in the day. Every ball would have a word written on it, representing a small gift of some sort. Clothing. Sweets and food. A tool, sometimes.

  There would be stands outside the arena where those who managed to catch a ball could redeem their prize after the games ended.

  With the crowd thus sated, Senator Otho nodded at the men at the gates—the first gladiator games were to begin.

  They couldn’t start with the gladiatrices. Even Otho had probably realized that. It would sour the crowd too much—or at least that was the fear. Lucius, perhaps lone among the attendees, expected the crowd would enjoy the gladiatrix fights more than they realized. And naturally, the gladiatrix fights couldn’t go on last—they were all novices and none of them had come close to earning the primus.

  So they were to be sandwiched in the middle, with enough of the tradition buffeting their fights so that the crowd would not become unruly.

  Lucius watched as Conall fought—a bit less reckless than usual. But still, he labored with enough heat and fervor to get the crowd clamoring for him. His small stature often put him as an underdog, and today he was pitted against a tall, heavily armored secutor. When he won—beating the secutor senseless inside of his own helmet—the crowd erupted.

  Flamma fought as well and won handily against a retarius with excellent form—his twentieth victory in as many fights. There was talk that he was close to winning a rudis soon—a wooden sword, handed to him by an editor as a symbol of freedom.

  But Otho was not one to hand such out today. Or at all, ever, as far as Lucius had heard. As an editor, Otho was known for his brutality—and his desire to see executions at the end of a match.
>
  Every fight today would be to the bitter end.

  Chapter 34

  A tired male slave with old eyes called out Gwenn’s name.

  She approached, already armored and ready. “I am Gwenn.”

  The slave sighed. “You are Artemis, today, do you understand? Artemis.”

  “I thought I was Horatius?”

  “You are Artemis fulfilling the role of Horatius, fulfilled by whatever your name is.”

  “Gwenn.”

  “Never mind that. Artemis. Okay? Listen. Artemis. That is what they will call you. When the referees are reprimanding Artemis for not fighting hard enough, they reprimand you.”

  Her grip on her sword tightened. “I will hear no such reprimands.”

  The slave smiled grimly. “Perhaps not. The editor speaks now. You can listen or not. When he stops, this gate will open. You will attend yourself to the platforms. You will rise up the stairs. You will—”

  Outside, the crowd roared in pleasure as a great “fwump” sounded and heat blazed through the arena.

  “There’s the fire,” said the slave. “You will not run into the fire. You will rise up the stairs. Defend the gate.”

  “I know. They cannot touch it.”

  “If a single opponent does, you forfeit. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “The crowd wants blood today. The editor too. A forfeit will mean your life. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I will win. Do not worry.”

  No doubt this was something he had heard a thousand times. The slave shook his head. “You have the attitude for it, anyway.”

  The gate swung open. Gwenn ran for the platforms in the middle of the arena. They were tall and wooden, at least fifteen feet off the ground. Hot sand kicked up around her heels as she ran. On either side of the platforms was a circle of fire. Through the smoke and haze, she could see that inside of the circle was a metal plate layered with spikes facing upward. The intent was for falling from the platforms to be fatal, that was certain.