The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “He is away from the city. I can speak for the family and make all necessary arrangements,” said Sersa.

  “Then I will be off,” said Albinius. “I am going to see the next set of games and find a Roman gladiator willing to travel to Novum Comum. That is, if you agree, Sersa.”

  Her uncle gave a quick nod. “I think that is a splendid idea. Come back tomorrow and we will discuss all the final details.”

  All the final details. Of what? Her life? Was Sersa really going to put Fortunada in a position where she had to choose between remarrying Albinius and losing her children? Both were unthinkable. It was not in Fortunada’s nature to negotiate or acquiesce. She wanted to fight Albinius and find a way to keep her children with her.

  How could Sersa not understand?

  Even so, Fortunada was blessed—or was that cursed—with the ability to see the entire truth. While she had an uncle as a champion who would one day be a king, Fortunada had no power against the laws of Rome or those who made them.

  Men. She wanted to spit. Although beyond that, there was nothing she could do.

  “Albinius,” she called out. “Wait.”

  “Yes.”

  Fortunada knew not what to say. It was all happening so quickly, she did not even have time to think.

  Albinius strode purposefully across the room and stood in front of Fortunada. He placed a hand under her elbow, then lifted her from the seat and softly kissed her lips. Without another word, he left.

  Stunned, Fortunada pressed a hand to her mouth.

  Sersa moved to her side. “Even though Albinius has never been a favorite of mine, I sense he has changed. Wanting to rear his children is a testament to that.” He rested his hand upon Fortunada’s shoulder. “You were happy with him once before, and you will be again. Trust me, my dear.”

  Fortunada felt only bereft. Empty. Alone.

  “Besides,” said Sersa as he reached out to take another piece of fish from the platter, “it is not as if you planned to marry another.”

  Fortunada forgot how to breathe. Ceres, help me. What am I to do about Baro?

  Chapter 5

  Baro

  From the bowels of the arena, Baro waited for his fight. He stood behind one of the two doors that led to the field of combat. The match before his had not ended, and the flat peal of iron striking brass resounded with such force that Baro felt it in his teeth. A cheer from the crowd arose a heartbeat later. The ceiling shook as the spectators above jumped to their feet. A fine dust fell from the rafters, coating his well-oiled skin.

  His upcoming fight with the Gaul was to be only to first blood. Neither lanista wanted to risk damaging or losing such valuable commodities. With that in mind, Baro was dressed in only a minimal kit. Thick leather bands circled his wrists, and greaves covered him from ankle to calf. He wore a skirt of leather flaps and carried a small, round shield and his sword. The lack of armor facilitated movement and made it easier to draw first blood. Or, Baro thought, to have first blood drawn.

  The door leading to the arena opened. Slamming into the wall behind Baro, it missed his face by a hairbreadth. Two slaves dragged an unconscious and bloody gladiator across the threshold. The man’s calf was bent where no bend should be. A fresh cut to his chest bled freely, soaking the ground and turning it black. Like a copper pot that had boiled dry, the scent of blood filled the cramped corridor.

  The arena physician approached at a trot. Examining the chest wound, he pulled back a flap of flesh to reveal pink muscle and shiny white bone. “He might yet be patched up, but never will he fight again with that leg break,” the physician said to the slaves. “Bring him to my rooms. Find out if the lanista wants him mended.”

  Baro clenched his jaw against the fury that boiled up inside him. Should he fall today or tomorrow or even next month, Paullus would be given the same choice. What would his lanista choose then? After their confrontation this morning, Baro knew it would be money over mercy. It was yet another reason he wanted to retire.

  The injured gladiator was dragged away. His life’s blood wet the entire corridor. By the time he reached the physician’s rooms, Baro knew, the other man would be in Elysium, and his lanista would have no decision to make.

  Careful to straddle the puddle of blood, Baro retook his place by the door. In his years as a gladiator, he had learned that the key to winning was not just to be a superior fighter; he also had to believe that the victory was a given. Using that technique, he fixed his mind upon Fortunada and a villa with her children and a dog. He saw it. He knew it was possible. It was already his.

  From outside, the door to the arena opened. The sun—obscured by thick, gray clouds—appeared as a brighter spot in the sky. Wind whipped through the arena, turning the air brown with dust and bits of sand. The crowd cheered as Baro emerged.

  The door opposite Baro opened. A tall man with scraped, knobby knees and long red hair hanging down his back rushed out. He held his sword high and screamed at the crowd, who, pleased by his antics, rose to their feet and cheered. There was something about the bravado that did not suit the other gladiator. Was it that he was barely muscled, or that he gripped the sword with his thumb too high? The Gaul, certainly named thus because of his red hair, turned to look at Baro. Then he saw it. The Gaul’s eyes were dull and clouded with fear. Faint but unmistakable bruises circled his neck.

  Through violence done to his body, the Gaul had been coerced into fighting. Gripping his sword tighter, Baro wondered who owned his opponent, and how to exact revenge against an institution he started to revile.

  Baro and the Gaul stood on opposite sides of the editor, the man responsible for maintaining order throughout the fight. He explained the rules of the contest, which were many, in a voice loud enough to carry to even the highest seats. Baro paid scant attention. He cast his gaze around the stands. It was ridiculous to expect that Fortunada might have come. Still, he hoped, nonetheless. The section reserved for women was in the uppermost rows. He saw only figures, no faces, and none that reminded him of his golden love.

  The sponsor’s box sat at the front edge of the spectators’ seats. A yellow awning had been stretched overhead. A ginger-colored cloth, draped over the horseshoe-shaped half wall, snapped in the breeze. The man who had paid for the games stood at the very front of the box. With him were his important guests—senators and wealthy patricians—along with both lanistas. Baro spotted Paullus at once.

  He wore a gray silken tunic, and from Baro’s vantage point, his lanista looked like a shiny silver denarius. The opulence made Baro ill. He could not win again for a man who was so greedy, so changed. Nor could he bring more shame to his opponent, a man whom life had already defeated.

  With a swipe of his baton between the two gladiators, the editor began the contest.

  Baro reminded himself of the first rule of gladiatorial combat—establish a space.

  Defend the space.

  Focus on victory and glory.

  Never lose. Never give up.

  Why not? a small voice in the back of his mind asked.

  Dark clouds blew in from the south. In the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky in two. A fat raindrop fell. The ground soaked it up in an instant, leaving only an indent in the sand.

  The Gaul shifted his weight. Left. Right. Left. It was an instinctual move of which Baro doubted his opponent was even aware. With a scream, the Gaul ran forward—his blade flat and the hilt held in close to his side. It was as futile an assault as Baro had ever seen. Unsure of whether he should laugh or cry, he stepped aside and avoided the attack with ease.

  His opponent’s back had been open. Why had Baro not drawn blood?

  That was when Baro knew. Freeing himself would not be done through victory, but defeat.

  Laughing, the crowd jeered. Wild-eyed, the Gaul swung around, his sword arm outstretched. Baro saw four places he could stri
ke with little effort. The wrist. The side. The abdomen. The thigh.

  To win the adoration of the entire republic, Baro had become the victor. To ensure the love of one woman, he would become the vanquished.

  Overhead, thunder roared, echoing across Rome’s seven hills. Rain fell in earnest, turning the sand underfoot slick and shifting. Baro wiped his face and fixed his mind upon triumph, but not for the fight.

  A villa, set atop a hill, with mountains in the distance.

  Fortunada stood in the doorway.

  Two children with golden hair ran to offer him greeting.

  At their heels loped a large black dog.

  How long had he stood and thought of Fortunada? Seconds? A minute? He forced his mind to return to the reality of the fight. The one who rushed toward him was neither child nor dog. It was the Gaul, with his sword raised high. Baro offered only the slightest defense, letting the other man come in close.

  His blade slid in with more power than Baro had anticipated. The tip pierced his thigh, cutting through flesh and slicing muscle. The pain was instant and white-hot. His training, his focus, his stupid musings about giving up, all vanished. Baro gripped his leg as hot, sticky blood pumped out of the gaping wound.

  The editor grabbed the Gaul by the wrist and held his hand high. “I give you,” he said, “the victor.”

  Unable to keep himself upright, Baro stumbled to the ground. Above him, charcoal-gray clouds roiled. Needle-sharp drops of rain pelted his face. As he rolled to his side, he looked toward the sponsor’s box. Paullus stood at the very front, his face now as gray as his clothes. For a moment, their gazes held. Then with a hand to his chest, Paullus collapsed.

  Chapter 6

  Baro

  With one hand, Baro clenched his bleeding thigh. With the other, he held tight to a canvas-wrapped pole as two slaves carried the stretcher down the interior corridor of the Forum Boarium. The arena physician, a round man with stooped shoulders, led the way. From behind, Baro could hear the feeble breathing of Paullus as he, too, was rushed to the infirmary.

  Since the arena’s main use was as a cattle market, wooden pens and metal cages stood one next to the other. There was but a single room in the circular hallway, and the physician rushed to it and pushed the door open.

  “Put Baro over there.” The physician pointed to the bed under the window. Watery light barely illuminated the room, turning everything gray as the fresh, cool kiss of rain-washed air filled the tiny room. “And place Paullus here,” he said of the bed near the door.

  A tall man with thinning hair and an orange tunic stood near a worktable. He pressed backward as the slaves carrying Baro passed. Without a word to the tall man, the physician brushed past him and rummaged through the detritus of his ministrations after the last fight.

  What had happened to the other gladiator, the one with the broken leg and the chest wound? Had he survived, he would be on one of the two beds, recovering. Baro wondered if he had died of his injuries. Or had his lanista enacted a mercy killing, an overdose of poppy syrup, perhaps?

  Thread and needle in hand, the physician sat on a stool at Baro’s side. “This will hurt, but not nearly as bad as when you got stabbed.”

  Baro’s desire to offer a comment was cut short by pain piercing his leg. He looked at the ceiling and focused upon a crack. If truth were told, he could almost imagine the outline of a dormouse. Then another pinching prick of pain seared through his flesh. Baro draped an arm over his eyes. If there was only one thing that he had learned as gladiator, it was that stitches hurt less if he did not look.

  Casting one eye aside, he hazarded a glance at Paullus. His complexion was as gray as the stormy clouds that pressed down from the sky. His red-rimmed eyes leaked, and he rubbed his breastbone. The tall man with the thinning hair stood nearby, but did nothing to minister to the ailing lanista.

  “You.” Baro’s word came out like a thunderclap. The tall man started. “Do not just stand there. Help the lanista.”

  The man stared wide-eyed at Baro. “I am no physician,” he said.

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  With his mouth hanging open for a moment, the man stared at Baro. “I am a lanista,” he said.

  “Was the other gladiator yours? The one they just brought back here?” Baro asked. Could it be that the new lanista was so overwhelmed by the loss of his gladiator that he knew not what to say or do?

  “The other gladiator?” The man drew his brows together. “No, he was not mine. I come from Novum Comum and am here to make Paullus an offer.”

  “If you really are a lanista, then you know how improper it is for you to interrupt while the physician is tending to my gladiator,” Paullus said. The effort it took to speak colored his cheeks bright red and covered his forehead with a thin sheen of perspiration.

  The physician pushed the needle through Baro’s skin again, pulling the flesh tight. “The wound is not deep and you lost only a little blood,” he said, as if at the mention of his name he needed to report on Baro’s condition. “Expect to be tired for a day or two. I would say no training for a fortnight, maybe even a month. But it is up to you, Paullus, and to your ludus physician, to develop a stratagem for recovery.” The physician tied a knot in the final stitch and cut the thread. He turned, placing his needle and thread back on the worktable. “I will send a slave to your ludus and have a cart brought around, since neither of you can walk,” he said as he left the infirmary.

  “Since it looks as if the physician is done, perhaps we can discuss business now,” the tall man said. “My name is Albinius Faenius, and I am newly arrived in Rome from Novum Comum. I have come to find a gladiator willing to travel north and face my ludus’s champion.”

  Albinius. Only rubes were named Albinius. “You will find no challenger here,” Baro said. “Now, go. You’re a distraction to the lanista. Paullus needs his rest.”

  Paullus lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Only his chest moved, rising and falling, with his breath.

  “I—” Albinius stammered as he leaned forward to look at Paullus. “Apologies,” he said with a shallow bow. “I will take my leave.”

  Good, and good riddance.

  Lifting a pale and shaking hand, Paullus said, “Do not go just yet.” He opened his eyes and turned his gaze to Albinius. “It takes a certain amount of confidence to sneak into an infirmary and waylay an ailing man to talk business.”

  Baro could hardly believe what he had heard. Was Paullus really going to entertain this rube? Propping himself up on his elbow, Baro leaned forward. White sparks shot through his vision, and his stomach turned. Sucking in a lungful of air, he lay back.

  “I have long wanted to work with you, Paullus Secundus. You are the most famous lanista in the republic, and it is my desire to have one of your gladiators come to Novum Comum for a fight,” said Albinius. “I am recently settled in the north, and bringing a true Roman gladiator to our province would do much to establish my reputation.”

  “How long would a trip take?” Paullus asked.

  “Less than two weeks if you take the water route. Almost a month if you travel, as I did, with a caravan.”

  “Two months is a long time to lose such a valuable commodity,” said Paullus. “When you count the trip there and back.”

  Valuable commodity. When had Paullus started seeing his gladiators as chattel? Or had it always been so, and Baro was too busy being famous that he never took the time to notice? That notion pained him more than the wound to his leg.

  “I can provide ample coin for his troubles,” said Albinius. He paused. “Providing you send your champion, Baro the Equestrian.”

  “He is not just my champion,” said Paullus. “Baro is the Champion of Rome. So, I doubt that your coin is enough.”

  “He is not Rome’s champion, not anymore. Not after that loss,” Albinius said. His eyes narrowed and
he regarded Baro as one would view refuse intentionally thrown into one’s path. “But the people of Novum Comum will delight in seeing a former champion.”

  “No one speaks to me like that,” said Baro. Of their own accord, his fists clenched.

  “Funny,” said Albinius. “It seems as if I just have.”

  It had been years since Baro actually hated another person. And yet his loathing for this other lanista was so intense that it tasted of rot upon his tongue. He spat upon the floor.

  Albinius turned away from Baro and directed his attention to Paullus. “Even though Baro the Equestrian is well past his prime, I can offer you a more than generous price,” said Albinius. “Thirty thousand sesterces.”

  Thirty thousand sesterces? Either Albinius was a true rube or he was mad. Even Baro, the premier fighter in the republic, made only six or seven thousand sesterces per fight.

  Then, when Paullus said, “You have my attention. For whom would Baro be fighting?” Baro knew that Albinius was no dolt. He was scheming, opportunistic, and the smartest bastard alive. There was no way that Paullus would let that kind of coin slip through his fingers.

  Yet, Paullus’s question was a reasonable one, and the negotiations had claimed Baro’s attention. Public gladiatorial matches took place for two reasons—funerals and the festivals of the deities. Funeral games were paid for by the family of the deceased and happened soon after the death. Matches fought to honor the gods were funded by someone who wanted to gain the public’s favor—someone scheming, opportunistic, and willing to spend a small fortune.

  It came as no surprise to Baro when Albinius said, “I have a foreign investor with a very large coin purse. We will pay for the games.”

  “You?” Paullus choked on the word.

  “The fight will take place during the festival of Saturnalia. It is not quite a month away, and will be the perfect time to make my mark upon the town of Novum Comum,” Albinius said. He did not pause before adding, “Do not turn me down out of hand. I will not make this offer again.”