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

by Lydia Pax

  As she was halfway to the platform, she saw the other gate open. Seven gladiatrices streamed out, each rushing for the platform opposite of Gwenn. Three thracians, three hoplamachi, and a secutor bringing up the rear.

  It was a race now. If she didn’t make it up in time, then it wouldn’t matter how well she could fight.

  The stairs upward were inside the platform itself. Once at the top, she had to go through a small trapdoor in the floor of the ceiling to get on the top.

  The stairwell was sturdy even despite her extra weight. The armor was heavy on her bones. She had thickly wrapped cloth on her calves, wrapped again by plates of hard metal. Over her sword arm was a long scale-like manica, a sort of plated sheath for her arm that was affixed with leather straps about her chest. She held a shield in one hand, about the size of her torso, and a helmet fitted over her head. The visor was pocked with holes, giving her a full range of vision as she ran.

  Her torso—her breasts in particular—had no armor, but they were strapped down with several layers of cloth. Her midriff, muscled and oiled, was kept bare.

  The climb up the platform would have been no problem except for her armor. It was heavy and awkward, not made for stairs. She scrambled up, terrified that she would not make it first—or that she would make it up and the other fighters would already be there, ready to strike down on top of her.

  Luckily, though, they had held one another up in their ascent, each trying to get past the other.

  Gwenn had time, then, to position herself in the middle of the bridge and to wait for them. The bridge was loose. Two lines of rope ran on either side—one line connected to the boards making up the walkway, and the other connected at about hip level to a series of posts.

  Cutting the bridge down meant that they all forfeited, so that was out of the question. The long rope contraption was prone to swaying this way and that over the flames and spikes. The fires were loud, popping and hissing in anticipation of burning any falling gladiatrix.

  The crowd was louder—jeering at the women as they ascended.

  Standing on the bridge and waiting for them felt like a death sentence. One good push would send Gwenn over. Instead she crossed over to their platform—to meet them as they came up. Each platform was about fifteen square feet. Some room—but not a surplus by any means.

  Being knocked from the platform was a forfeit for any fighter, and the Romans were stickler for the letter of their rules, if not the spirit.

  Gwenn found this out when the first thraex raised up through the small trap door from inside the platform. Gwenn kicked her full in the chest. The thraex stumbled and then tumbled off to the ground. She landed heavy in the sand, safe from the fires and the spikes. Those were gathered under the bridge itself.

  The crowd emitted some sounds of disapproval at this tactic; however, Gwenn heard others lauding ‘that Artemis’ for her initiative.

  The second to come up was another thraex. Gwenn tried with the kick again, but her new opponent bashed her leg away with a heavy shield blow. They landed in one another, exchanging volleys of blows. Gwenn kept her driven back, trying not to let her compatriots through the narrow door onto the platform. She thrust and thrust again, pushing the thraex toward the edge.

  But then she missed a parry, only narrowly dodging a complete dismemberment from the thraex’s heavy sword. Now the thraex was on the attack, driving Gwenn back. A hoplamachus entered through the portal, and there were three of them now on the narrow platform. The hoplamachus carried a long spear with a silver globe on one end as a counterweight. Its reach could land well across the entirety of the platform.

  The thraex landed heavy blows on Gwenn’s shield with her curved sword, and Gwenn could not keep up with the blocking and trying to stay abreast of the situation. The hoplamachus looked torn between helping the thraex and going after the gate. There was a prize bonus for whomever touched the gate first, Gwenn knew—and any fighter would want a bonus. But there was a bonus also for landing the killing blow on a gladiatrix.

  Gwenn lost track of her footing. She retreated one step too far and tripped over the edge of the platform.

  For a moment, she thought that was all.

  Arms flailing wide, she grabbed the edge and kept herself in the game. Now the hoplamachus did try for the crossing, hoping perhaps to touch the gate before the thraex did Gwenn in. The trapdoor flung open and another hoplamachus scurried upward, followed by the last thraex.

  But all of this was hard to worry about.

  The thraex above Gwenn closed in, swiping down heavy with her sword. Gwenn blocked with her shield, and then blocked again. She still held onto her sword. Summoning all her strength, she thrust into the thraex above her, piercing her between the ribs.

  Ah, Gwenn thought distantly. There it is.

  Kill or be killed.

  The thraex, shocked, dropped her weapons.

  Gwenn grabbed a hold of her and used her falling weight to swing herself back up on the platform. Crying loud, she rushed with her shield and slammed the newly-arrived murmillo and hoplamachus in the side. Unprepared for her aggression, they were banged straight off the platform and into the fires below. Still rolling with the momentum, she leapt after the hoplamachus on the tottering bridge, slicing at her legs. She hit on target. The hoplamachus cried out and Gwenn knelt down and tipped her over the ropes of the bridge, sending her to the depths below. She died instantly, hitting hard on the spikes.

  Gwenn felt a slow empty tug in her chest, followed again by a heady rush of adrenaline.

  The other two lived. There was more sound than sight to their pain for Gwenn. The cries were great, and they rushed out of the fires immediately—rolling in the sand to put themselves out. Attending slaves dragged them away.

  Gwenn dragged her tired body over to her own platform, trying to gain her bearings. That was five down. Two to go.

  Those two had emerged from the trap door, both of them looking at the carnage around them with some surprise. One more hoplamachus and a heavily armored secutor. The armor of the secutor—shield, greaves, manica, heavy belt, and helmet—were much the same as the armor for Gwenn as a murmillo. The main difference was in the density of the metal used and the size of the shield.

  The armor of this particular secutor looked made special just for the gladiatrix, which surprised Gwenn. It fit well to the womanly curves she possessed. That was a lot of expense to lay down on a gladiatrix. She suspected, as a result, that this secutor was their best, as Gwenn was the best from her own ludus.

  The crowd’s mood had turned. They had never seen anything like this. Gwenn was a favorite to die within the first few minutes of the fight. Now she had fought for nearly ten minutes, and had either killed or eliminated five others. They cheered for her—chants of “Artemis! Artemis! Artemis!” filled the air.

  “Come on,” she shouted to the two fighters. “Come on!”

  The secutor gestured for the hoplamachus to go first. She was lighter and smaller. Thick blond hair could be seen trailing down her shoulders. She crossed the bridge slow, expecting some counterattack from Gwenn. But Gwenn waited, holding her shield up. Patient.

  You see, Lucius? I can learn patience.

  Below, slaves threw more fuel on the flames. They rose higher, tickling the bottom edges of the planks. The heat was nearing unbearable levels. No doubt the flames could eat the bridge away entirely. If the secutor did not cross soon, she would lose her chance to touch the gate and lose by default.

  When the hoplamachus crossed the halfway point of the bridge, Gwenn rushed forward in a feint. The hoplamachus backed up, her footing unsteady.

  That was when Gwenn shook the bridge. It veered wildly from side to side and the hoplamachus scrambled, trying to keep her footing. It was for naught—the momentum of the bridge too much. She tipped over one side with a scream.

  Gwenn had no time to consider the fate of the fallen hoplamachus. The secutor, with surprising agility, crossed the bridge in two big leaps. Gwenn’s fe
et scuffled and twisted, trying to hold back the sudden onslaught of shield bashing and heavy thrusts.

  The secutor’s helmet was different than most other fighters’. It had two holes in the front, allowing for excellent frontal vision, but poor on the peripheries. The rest of the face was covered by curved metal. Inside this secutor’s helmet, Gwenn saw burning blue eyes, eager for the fight.

  Gwenn was just as eager. She slammed back on the secutor’s shield with her own, trying to drive the woman off the platform. It did not work. The secutor held her ground and thrust with her sword, pushing Gwenn back again.

  The sword of the secutor was shorter than Gwenn’s by some inches. As a thraex, Gwenn had the advantage in mobility and reach. In a normal fight, this would be a great advantage, but on the small platform, that advantage was almost completely nullified. It left the secutor’s advantages—particularly those of size and protection—with a much deadlier edge.

  Gwenn kept her back to the gate at the edge of the platform. All it would take was a single touch on the gate from the secutor to lose the fight.

  And Gwenn had not fought this hard already—she had not killed—only to lose now. She kept on the offensive, landing blow after blow on the secutor’s shield, hoping to drive her energy down. It was a heavy shield she had to carry, and the heavier Gwenn made it, the better for her.

  The secutor’s steps faltered, and she fell back toward the bridge. Sensing the advantage, Gwenn rushed at her—but it was a trap. Huge shield bursting forward, the secutor bashed Gwenn to one side.

  Light and sounds mixed together. Her head rang with pain. Gwenn tumbled into the bridge, legs tangled in the ropes. Her shield and sword dropped down into the fires below. She could feel the flame licking at her heels. The ropes of the bridge were burned almost all the way through.

  Thunderous cheers started in the crowd, urging the secutor to victory.

  Rolling forward back onto the platform, Gwenn grabbed the secutor by the thigh and lifted. Hot, piercing pain filled her shoulder, but she had committed.

  With a great roar, she dumped the secutor’s heavy frame over her head and down on the other side of the platform. The secutor landed with a bang just in front of the bridge. She was knocked senseless. After a moment, the secutor tried to stand, but her legs gave out and she fell to the burning sands and metal below.

  Even volcanoes would have been put to shame. The crowd erupted in cheers, chanting the name of Artemis so the whole city of Puteoli could hear.

  Chapter 35

  The tally at the end of the fight was three dead, three injured, and one relatively unharmed. It wasn’t a bad count for a novice’s first fight. Lucius, striding tall through the ludus, felt only pride for the work of his trainees.

  Sabiana had won by forfeit when her own opponent tried to quit after a grueling fifteen minute duel. Otho did not take pity on the woman for her perceived cowardice, and ordered her killed. Sabiana was spared the duty when her opponent tried to run—leaving the job to the guards at the gates.

  Ros and Onane captured victory against their own opponents, injuring both to the point of stoppage in the heat of the battle. Otho ordered one loser slain, the other to live so as to properly “receive the lesson.”

  The crowd had called for all the women to live. Otho did not seem to care very much.

  It was amazing what one could get away with as an Emperor’s nephew.

  None of the girls, thankfully, suffered serious injuries. Gwenn took a sword to her shoulder in the last moments of her amazing struggle on the bridged platforms. The wound was deep but narrow, and Nyx assured Lucius she would heal within a few weeks.

  As was tradition, now that the women had survived their first fights, they were no longer novices, but true gladiatrices in the ludus. As such, that night after their victories, Sabiana, Ros, Onane, and Gwenn were gathered under the moonlight in the ludus and all swore the gladiator’s oath to House Varinius.

  They swore to fight with honor, to pursue glory in the arena, to serve House Varinius to the best of their ability, and to shed the blood of others to achieve victory. Their shoulders were branded in turn with the “V” symbol of the house.

  When it was over, Lucius ended up—as he did most nights—in Gwenn’s cell.

  She had her back to him as he entered. Her fingers rubbed around her bandages, itching the skin just beyond the cloth.

  “It’s not fun having bandages on both shoulders,” he said.

  She turned and smiled at him. “So I’ve noticed.”

  He pointed to one shoulder and then the other. “I had, once upon a time, a spike driven through the meat here, and then was sliced open with an ax on this side. I had to wear two slings.”

  “Two slings?”

  “Yes. You can imagine, with my love of doing nothing at all, how that affected me.”

  “What I imagine is you coming up with some clever ways to walk up and down walls.”

  He laughed. She patted the cot next to her, and he sat down without thinking.

  Soon, her hands began to trail up his bare torso. “What about this one?” she asked. “Where is it from?”

  She touched a long puckered scar along his rib cage. In the right light, which the cell might have been for Gwenn, it looked like a comet trailing through his flesh.

  “That one is from a heavy whip from a laquearium. The sort who fights with a lasso and a dagger. His lasso, though, was spiked. He managed to catch me in it.”

  “And you caught him, I expect?”

  Her hands trailed down and over, sliding over a scar on his side. Her hands were no longer curious. They were purposeful. Fingers tugged at his flesh. Her breaths became heavy and slow. They were warm on his chest. He could see easily down into her cleavage, bound by the straps of her small tunic. Her breasts were small and beautiful. The thought of taking them in his hands and never letting go struck him.

  “That one,” he gestured to where her hands gripped, “was from a spear from a very determined hoplamachus.”

  Her smile was soft and warm. “I have a few bruises from one myself.”

  He pushed his hand onto the bare skin of her thigh, turned yellow and brown. “Yes, you do.”

  She had soft, warm flesh too—an easy thing indeed to hold tighter and pull against his body.

  Upon entering her cell, he’d had no intention to do this.

  No intention, yes, but every desire.

  His guilt from his history with her faded deep to the background, drowned by a torrent of lust from feeling her lovely, warrior body with such ease and intimacy.

  They had said it was a terrible idea to do this with one another, but those words faded from his mind. He forgot why they made sense.

  All he knew is that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman.

  One hand sank behind her hair and pulled her close to his mouth. She smiled—gods, how she smiled!—and he kissed her deep. Their lips melded eagerly, tasting one another with the fruitful precision of long-time lovers. Her tongue was sweet, tasting of the citrus-filled water she kept at her bed.

  Her hand sank down beneath his loincloth. She found his stiff member there, already leaking wetness from his arousal at her touch.

  “Oh my.” Her voice was soft. “It appears somehow you have a spear left in you as well.”

  Whatever witty response he had planned left him in a long, needy grunt as her hand slid upward on the shaft. He lost himself in her kiss again, jockeying his own hands for position at her thighs.

  His fingers found her moist entrance and sank inside. A thumb remained on the mound in her folds, pressing with firm, gentle pressure.

  He had been with hundreds of women if he’d been with one. Over his years, he had acquired some expertise with what a woman wanted from a man’s fingers. She moaned from his touch—an open approval.

  Training with a sword or a spear all day made a man’s fingers tireless and strong. He had perfect muscle control as he slowly began to ease in and out of her ent
rance, all the while rotating his thumb on her clitoris.

  She gasped for air, urging her hips forward against his body. Her strokes had not ceased or slowed—in fact, the increased pleasure seemed only to drive her to stroke faster on his shaft as he pleased her.

  “Oh…oh, L-Lucius!”

  His smile was dense with arousal. He liked making her cry out like that—making her forget all that composure. His other hand ran through the dense blanket of her hair, so red and thick, tugging her head back as he pushed inside her.

  They could not remain at such foreplay for long. Their need had been too long denied.

  Soon, he had her on her back on the cot. He dropped to his knees, wrapping her legs over his shoulder and around his head.

  “Here’s something else I can train you in,” he said wryly.

  “I’m dying to know.”

  The strong muscles of her thighs squeezed his head, urging him forward. His mouth landed soft against her folds, and for a few moments his tongue probed—searching for that perfect center. Her sudden cry confirmed his finding, and he maintained in that spot with his tongue.

  He rotated one direction, then another, and then flicked up and down. It was important to find what she liked the most.

  The up-and-down motion was what did it for her. Finding that pattern, he kept steady at it. On a gladiator, every muscle was strong and filled with endurance—even the tongue. Her thighs squeezed so hard that he almost could not hear her soft little cries any longer as she told him to keep going.

  Every thought left him. There was no past, no future. Only the beautiful now, with his mouth pressed to her, his tongue sliding against her most sacred part. His cock strained for release—every new lick seemed to double his arousal—but he controlled himself. This, now, was for her.

  Her cries increased, and she moaned a warning he could not entirely hear.

  Suddenly, the pleasure vibrated through her, exploding from her pelvis through her legs and then doubling back up to her head. She contorted with ecstasy beneath him.

  He got on the cot with her, perched at her thighs, intending to lay himself next to her.