Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  What sort of day was it that so many circumstances aligned together? A small slip here, a tiny misstep there, and all these favorable outcomes could be lost. And yet if they went well...

  If they went well, then Caius could deem himself the luckiest slave in the Empire. The luckiest freed slave.

  Across from Caius, standing tall in the hot sands, was the man who would kill him if Caius let it happen. He did not intend to. But then, there was no place like the arena for Fortune to express her favor—or displeasure.

  Between Caius and Vox—the handle of the opposing gladiator—was a referee. A large, bald man in a brief tunic and loin cloth, sweating profusely in the heat of the day. They all were covered in sweat. The referee held a whip in one hand to urge the gladiators on if they refused to fight.

  Such a thing was more tradition than necessary in this fight. If Caius won, he would be a free man. And if Vox won, he’d earn a bigger purse than any in his life, and his name would be carved out on the Wall of Turmedites as a legend of the arena. With such stakes, there was no need for the urging flogs of the referee—the two warriors were more than willing to fight.

  They waited only for the signal from the editor sitting in the stands. Today, the editor was Senator Otho, the nephew of the Emperor Severus. Puteoli was not where the Roman Senate was held, of course, but it was within a day's riding distance, and Otho made special trips to every arena in the peninsula to see as many fights as he could. The crowd waited for the signal too, urging the fighters on with cries of support. This, the last fight of the day, was sure to be the most spectacular.

  The Puteoli arena was one of the largest in Rome. It could seat more than twenty thousand spectators, and every row of seats was packed tight today.

  The rows of seats were made from stone, most with wooden boards attached for ease of sitting. A tall wall of stone surrounded the arena sands to prevent fighters from trying to escape through the crowd. Men in the front rows stood on their feet, calling out names of their favorite fighters. Far above them, in the top rows, were women and children cheering on their own favorites. Each spectator, regardless of class, gender, or age, was equally bloodthirsty.

  Both fighters were long veterans of the arena. Caius—his arena name Ursus, the bear—could hear his supporters cheering him on. Their cries for his victory were matched not unfavorably by cries still for the tall, lean Vox.

  Caius was a thraex—one of many particular kinds of gladiators. As such, he wore a manica, or thick scale armor down one arm. His sword was short and curved, his shield little bigger than the circumference of his chest. Heavy metal greaves wrapped around his legs, supported there by cloth to prevent chafing. A helmet, wide-brimmed and heavy with a wide, flat visor, fit on his head.

  The smell inside the helmet was old and well-worn. The helmet would—if he let it—drag his head down to the sand and bring him to an early death. The weight of the greaves was a trial. The armor across his arm would tug relentlessly on his shoulder if not held properly. But the biggest weight he held, after a career of fighting and killing lest-he-be-killed, was the bladed edge of the sica in his right hand.

  Vox fought as a murmillo. He looked not that much different than the thraex, with a few key differences. His shield was heavier and larger. His helmet was decorated with the figure of a golden fish said to be blessed by Neptune himself. His sword—a gladius—was straight, instead of curved, and his other pieces of armor—the greaves on his legs and manica on his arm—were considerably heavier than what Caius wore.

  It was a classic match-up: speed versus strength, skill versus brutality, dexterity versus endurance.

  In the stands, the robed editor gave the signal, and the two began to the adulation of the crowd.

  Caius thrust quickly, knowing Vox would block him. He used the momentum of the blocked sword to rush in with his shoulder, bashing with it against Vox’s own tall, heavy shield. And then he rolled aside, sliding down to the sand and back up again, narrowly avoiding the counter-attack from Vox’s short sword.

  Vox continued with his attack, thrusting over and over with the deadly edge of his sword. Caius blocked and blocked again, hacking where he could and beating a strategic retreat backwards. Jeers from the crowd sounded up, decrying Caius’s cowardice, as he lost ground and Vox gained.

  The crowd was a fickle mistress as ever, and Caius knew from years of experience that all he had to do to ensure they were on his side was to wow them in the end.

  The retreat was part of the plan. Vox knew it too—a savvy fighter. His thrusts were not intended to hurt Caius, most likely. A thrust in the arena was more complicated than one might imagine—such a movement with the sword was made mostly for killing. But the crowd wanted blood, not death. Slashes were the name of the game for a lot of blood.

  This was why gladiators wore no armor over their torsos. This was tradition; this was immutable. Caius was built solid, made entirely of muscle and bone after years of training and fighting. His muscles tanned and toned, rippling underneath a sheen of sweat in the heat of the summer day.

  Besides titillating the women (and some of the men) with the virile display of their battle-hardened bodies, the lack of covering on their bodies also allowed for a greater show of ripped flesh to the crowd.

  Vox thrust again and Caius spun on the thrust, jamming his armored arm into the sword and whirling around to Vox’s back. He slashed down, leaving a thick diagonal stretch of rent flesh down the fighter’s back. Vox cried out and turned, hoisting his shield to protect from another blow.

  A low laugh sounded off through the heavy helmet Vox wore. The slow, burning warmth in Caius’s arm let him know the reason for his humor—the maneuver had paid off for Caius, but it had also cost him. His sword arm had a slash right above the shoulder where Vox’s sword had cut through.

  Both men steadied for a moment, circling, adjusting their footing in the uneven sand. And then, as the crowd roared on, they swept toward one another again and continued their bladed dance.

  Trading blows like this went on for nearly half an hour. By the end of it, Vox had several more cuts down his back—all relatively shallow—and Caius had earned a long gash on his side. His rib had caught most of the blow, diverting its trajectory from any major organs, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

  If there was one thing Caius prided himself on, it was conditioning. He felt confident that he could have fought for another hour if he needed to. Perhaps Vox was strong enough to do so as well—he was a strong, well-muscled man, even despite all the blood he had lost.

  But mental conditioning was just as important, and Vox’s was lacking. The end was near.

  The murmillo let out a roar of frustration, enraged that he could not put Caius away. And so, he gambled and charged.

  It was a dangerous move for a murmillo—so slow and heavily encumbered. If Caius were not injured, it would have been suicidal. No doubt Vox hoped that Caius would have been slowed enough by his injury to not be able take advantage.

  But, this was not the case.

  As Vox closed, Caius roared himself and leapt up and to the side—changing his spin in mid-air—and swept his sword down Vox’s bare shield arm.

  The slash hit home. The metal tore through Vox’s shoulder and, crying in pain, he lost his shield. Caius attacked and, in another series of strikes, banged Vox's sword to the ground.

  Caius kicked the sword away and slammed Vox down to the sand. With a flourish, he swept his arms up and pandered to the crowd. The fight was over.

  For those brief moments, he thought that it would all indeed work out as he hoped.

  Today, he won his freedom. Today, his child was born.

  And though Vox was hurt, he would live still. From the fight the two of them had put on, two immortals raging blow for blow for more than half an hour, no man—and no crowd—would ask for the death of the defeated.

  Caius turned his gaze to the editor, Senator Otho.

  Otho had arranged the games—as games a
lways were arranged in the Roman Empire—to ensure his political advancement and popularity. He was a pale man, with wispy blond hair and dry blue eyes. Handsome, however. And rich. Very rich. If he was rich enough for a slave like Caius to know of his income, then he was rich indeed.

  The crowd’s roars dimmed somewhat as Otho held up his hands. A handkerchief in one hand. A closed fist in the other. Waving the handkerchief meant the missus was granted—mercy for Vox, and the chance to fight another day.

  Caius waited for the handkerchief to wave. Otho held him and the crowd in suspense, a true showman.

  But then something terrible happened. Otho held up his thumb out, jabbing forward with it like the tip of a sword. He pocketed the handkerchief. The crowd erupted in cheers.

  Death.

  Death for Vox.

  Death on Caius’s hands on this day, of all days. On the day when he needed Fortune on his side.

  And Caius had to obey. For even in those final moments, he was still yet a slave. And a slave obeyed or he died. Somewhere, his child was being delivered into this world, and Caius could not bear to leave that baby without a father.

  “Do it, go on,” said Vox. His voice was rough. He had crawled up to his knees, easing the way for Caius’s sword to slip through his shoulder blades. “I earned my way. You go on.”

  Caius nodded. “I shall see you in Elysium, brother.”

  And then, hoisting his sword up, he ended the affair with a thrust.

  Chapter 5

  The Varinius ludus was outside of bounds of the city proper. People felt safer, generally, when gladiators were not kept directly inside urban centers.

  The most massive of the slave revolts in Rome had been so long ago that they were thought better of as legends among most common people, and yet civic leaders chose to take few chances when it came to securing the peace. Rome depended heavily on slave labor for everything—building, transporting, farming, and—in Caius's case—entertainment. If even one slave revolted, freedmen and citizens became nervous that more might get the same idea and throw the entire society to shambles.

  Rome, for its many problems, was a system that worked year after year, century after century. Systems of propriety layered on each other like enormous cakes to keep everyone, in every class, affixed to their proper place and to keep the society running for all.

  Slaves, largely, were kept in their proper place with an abundance of rights (masters who killed slaves without reason were subjects of punishment), the possibility of wages, and the promise of freedom if they served their owners well. A slave with a harsh master had the worst of all possible lives, but a slave with a kind master was not necessarily worse off—and in many cases, was much better off—than a freedman who could not find work because of all the slaves.

  And yet, the Varinius ludus was miles outside the town anyway. Romans were superstitious, and having gladiators live close to the public was one fear that would not break easy.

  Such a placement was fine by Caius. When he had walked away from the gladiator life three years past, he’d thought it for good. He thought, in fact, that it would be all the better if he’d have to walk out of his way to return to his old haunt.

  Return, like he did now. The fact held heavy on his heart, and the only thing that had cheered him in the last several days since he had made the decision was seeing the face of this lovely young medicae who had set his heart ablaze with a passion he'd forgotten he'd had. She had a fire to her, that was for certain—and he intended to see her again.

  But, the intoxicating form of Aeliana drifted from view and Caius found himself in a circle of a great many fighters, each one wondering if he knew their names and their glories in the arena.

  He pretended as best he could, not wanting to dishearten or insult anyone unduly. It would be a hard pill for most of them to swallow, he expected, that he had not gone to a single match since his last one—since the birth of his daughter three years ago.

  But one man in particular Caius knew very well.

  “Lucius!” he cried, exuberant. “Brother.”

  Lucius was a younger man, ten years Caius’s younger at twenty-four years of age. He had a boyish handsomeness to his face, making him a hit with the women of Puteoli and also the reason he fought as a retarius.

  The retarius was a strange form of fighter found only in the confines of the arena, modeled after a fisherman. He fought with a heavily weighted net swung in one hand a deadly trident in the other. He relied on mobility and visibility, and so was lightly armored—which included no helmet. When Lucius fought, his thick dark locks and bright blue eyes were there for all to see and the women swooned.

  Caius knew Lucius to be headstrong and aggressive, but also stubbornly loyal. He was a good man to have on your side, and a beast as an enemy.

  The two embraced. Caius had taken Lucius under his wing when the man had first arrived—in a similar way to how Septus had taken Caius under his wing. In this way, the brotherhood of gladiators was a long chain of men in the deepest, foulest mud in the world, pulling one another away from death one slippery step at a time.

  “Haven’t you been watching the games, Caius?” Lucius’s breath had a gentle stink of wine on it. “They call me Orion now.”

  “They call you Orion in the arena,” came a voice.

  It was Rufus, the Dominus. His official title, for those who weren't his slaves, was a lanista—a gladiator trainer. He was dressed in a simple white robe with a long red sash. His hair was dark and poorly cut. A tall, rough gladiator walked behind him.

  “In the arena, where you transcend your mortality. You are not in the arena, Lucius. You are in my ludus, and here you are a man like any other.”

  With all haste, Lucius broke the embrace with Caius and nodded his head. “Of course, Dominus. It was a jest for an old friend.”

  A ripple of surprise pushed through Caius. The years had changed Lucius. The young man he had known would have sooner punched Rufus in the face and suffer a month in the mines than apologize.

  “Welcome back, Caius.” Rufus smiled. “Welcome home.”

  He raised his arms with a grand flourish, as if Caius had not spent ten years inside these very walls, dreaming of a way to get out.

  Rufus had always been a bit of a fop, but Caius never thought him a bad man. He was the sort who would serve you his cheapest wine and talk at length about the intimate efforts gone into creating it simply because he thought knowing more than you did might wow you into submission. For a lot of the gladiators in his ludus, Caius supposed he was right. Most were not exactly mental giants, and all were more cunning than smart.

  “Thank you, Dominus.” Caius nodded, surprised at how easily the deference returned to his voice. “I am glad to be here.”

  “That makes one of you.” The gladiator behind Rufus shook his head. “I don’t think any freedman belongs in this place at all.”

  “Easy, Flamma.” Rufus held up a hand. “Caius here is as much a gladiator as any of you.”

  Flamma was a tall man, thick of belly and chest. Some gladiators attempted to earn the favor of the crowd with a body cut from stone, as Lucius did. Others were not able or willing to trim down, and so developed layers of protective fat to have more flesh they could safely lose.

  This one—Flamma—was definitely the latter. He had not been here when Caius was here last, and even with his ignorance of the games, he had heard of the brutal wins of Flamma. Maimings. Mutilations. Decapitations. All at the crowd’s behest.

  That was the other way to win the crowd’s favor—to be as brutal as humanly possible to your opponents. Flamma had a wicked, dirty smile. Long, dark hair sprouted from the back of his head and knotted in several long tails down his back.

  The presence of all this past hit him hard:

  Rufus, who had owned him for ten years.

  Lucius, fair-haired and handsome, who had been a younger brother to him.

  Septus, grizzled and lean, who had been an older brother to him.
<
br />   Flamma—who Caius had not known, but of whom he had known a dozen others like—as mean as the day was long.

  And because he had known a dozen men like Flamma, he had expected this sort of protestation. That he was only a freedman now, now a fighting man. Caius slipped his pack down from his back. It contained mostly just some spare clothes from his house and a number of sweets that he thought might earn him some points with the bonafide fighters in the ludus.

  Reaching in, he pulled out a short wooden sword.

  “This is my rudis,” he said, holding it up so all could see. “Given to me the day of my last fight. The symbol of my freedom.”

  “I know it well,” said Rufus. “I had it commissioned myself.”

  With a flourish of his own, Caius broke the rudis over his knee. The crowd of gladiators around them was stunned silent.

  “I am not a free man any longer,” said Caius. “I am a slave. I am a gladiator. And I am one of you.”

  The crowd roared now with laughs and approval. Septus stayed quiet, however, stooping low to gather up the pieces of the rudis before they were crushed or spirited away.

  Waves of overwhelming feeling threatened to pull Caius under. He knew that by returning to this place, he risked drowning again in the bloody zeal of honor and glory that the ludus advertised.

  But there were parts of himself he had discovered over the past few years—fatherly parts, sensitive parts built from raising his dear Fabia. These were parts of himself that he liked.

  His relentless ability to hold her tight and love her for everything she was and would be; his ability to wake early in the morning to feed her; his ability to work from dawn until dusk and dusk until dawn, just to put food on the table.

  Not that it was enough. If there were some cosmic drawing of numbers in the universe, then Fortune had Caius’s number, and had no intention of changing his luck anytime soon. A dozen bad investments—each one seeming more promising than the last—had destroyed his finances since his last win over Vox in the arena.