by Lydia Pax
“The money from my sale would make your lives simpler. And less dangerous for not owing money.”
Seneca and Camilla exchanged a glance. “Yes,” said Camilla. “But it would mean that the money would not go to your intended purpose.”
For returning to the arena, Rufus had arranged for Caius to be paid a hefty sum. Caius was an investment for Rufus, one that he could earn quite a lot of money for by booking at arenas around the peninsula.
That money had been intended to pay for schooling for Fabia. Nice clothes. Proper food to eat. She was not to be a financial burden on their family. They would do what they could, of course, but even with their income they were not rich folks. And with two children to feed besides...
His damnable luck! Even when he made the right move—the only move he could make—Fortune still decided to toss stones at him from afar.
“It’s all right.” He took a breath. His hand had been moving up and down Fabia’s back, approaching almost a claw-like massage. He calmed himself, patted her once, and set her down. “It’s quite all right. You’re making the right decision. I’ll make up the difference in the arena. It will all go to you.”
But would he make up the difference? He’d had little plans outside of dying in his first fight back. The return of Ursus to the arena surely would draw a crowd and a heavy purse. That had been intended to set up a small fortune for his daughter to enjoy as she approached adulthood—something to help her marry well, or even better, to establish whatever craft she desired to learn and live by.
But now—he would have to fight several times to make back the amount he’d put down for his daughter’s future. One hand drifted down, and landed on Aeliana’s. She did not move, and neither did he. When he squeezed, she squeezed back.
The five of them talked for an hour or more, changing the subject and reminiscing. But his family had to leave before too long—it was dangerous to travel at night. And immediately after they left, Aeliana got up to leave as well.
“I think you’re wrong, you know. I think it’s good for you to see your daughter, even while you're in this place.”
She stepped away, but Caius held her hand. With an easy, cool strength he pulled her in to his body. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but not with fear. Her lips parted just so. She was lovely, every part of her, and the feel of her was right in his arms.
“There’s something we have to do.”
“Caius...?”
They leaned in together and slowly their lips met. Tentative at first. Caius had not kissed a woman for years. His tongue slipped over the soft passages of her lips and flicked lightly on her teeth before meeting hers. Her moan was low and breathy, one hand sliding up his naked back. She smelled like jasmine and a half-dozen other herbs he could not name.
His hand pushed in on her back, holding her closer still as the kiss extended. He could feel the soft bud of her breasts through her robe sliding against his hard chest. One leg slid against his thigh, skating slowly upwards. Beyond that graceful limb he could feel her center of heat expanding into him.
Her knee pushed up further still—and with his hand on her back, he lifted her slight frame into him—and the flesh of her leg pushed against his own growing hardness. The loin cloth was not much of a barrier. She would be able to feel everything of his erect desire soon, and if she did, he did not know if he could hold back.
Regret already niggled at his brain, but he pulled away. Her face had caught fire, eyes heavy with lust.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I see what you mean. We had to do that.”
She smiled and they both laughed softly.
“I was glad as ever to see my people,” he said. “But that is what I wanted to do tonight when you appeared at my door.”
From prudence, or caution, or outright fear, they left it there for the night, and Aeliana returned to her quarters.
A taste was enough. For now.
Chapter 14
Caius was not the only one receiving unexpected visits from family.
A long, long time ago—in the time of the Republic—Aeliana’s family was a noble house, and well on its way to the ascension of the social ladder. Several of her ancestors had been named as praetors, and one was even consul for a year. But, time in politics in Rome required money, and money (at least the sort that bought political offices) most often required borrowing.
After a series of unsuccessful campaigns from one generation to the next, and miserable military failures, her family finally succumbed to the indignity of trade. It was more profitable than any of their previous ventures, and despite almost no one else in the Empire carrying a foul taste in their mouth from accruing their wealth as a merchant, Aeliana’s father—Vitus Galerius Rutila—was a traditionalist to his core.
He thought it improper, always, for a family with noble ancestry to earn money from the low profession of trading goods.
Her brother, Aelianus, was supposed to turn the fortunes of the family around. All the wealth Vitus and his father and his father’s father had accrued was to be put entirely toward the earning of a political office after Aelianus finished his military tenure. And instead, he had been killed in a bar brawl like a fool, and Vitus stuck Aeliana with the blame.
The morning after Caius’s family arrived, Aeliana was surprised when her Aunt Vitalla showed at her door just after dawn. Aeliana was up already, as she always was at that time, preparing for the events of the day. Training at the ludus could get bloody fast, and so she always kept a few items prepared.
Keeping them out all the time—during night, when she was asleep—just meant that they got dirty. So, she had to rise early and prepare. She had been readying to eat a small breakfast of fruit when Vitalla walked in. Aeliana’s appetites, largely, were small.
“Good morning, Aeliana.” There was a letter in her hand. “This is for you.”
“Vitalla!” Aeliana approached her with enthusiasm, and hugged her tight. “How are you?”
Perhaps she had been swept away last night by Caius’s affection for his own family, and their clear affection for him. No—she definitely had been swept away by that. And in that sweeping, she had forgotten how very cold and impersonal her family preferred matters. Her aunt hung stiffly in her arms, returning the hug with as much affection as a whale gave a barnacle.
“I am well.” Vitalla extricated herself stiffly. “The family is well. This letter is from your father.”
Aeliana took it. Of course the letter was from her father. She got letters from no one else. Were it not for the constantly berating nature of their contents, she would have believed it was his way of showing affection.
Once upon a time, he had hired a Greek tutor for Aelianus. An expensive endeavor by all accounts. Aeliana, with nothing else to do, stayed in the room during the lessons and copied as best she could, learning her letters.
When she showed her work to her father, trying to impress him with what she could do simply by being taught second-hand, he chastised her twice over. Once for interfering with her brother’s lessons, and again for not performing as well as Aelianus had.
Vitus Galerius Rutila had never wanted a girl for a child. A daughter was a liability, like a flood or a terrible storm, that had to be accounted for and insured against.
She noticed a slight hobble in Vitalla’s walk.
“Are you alright, Vitalla? I see you are limping.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I could examine you. It’s usually not busy here in the mornings. It would be little trouble.”
The flare of disgust in her aunt’s eyes was all the answer she needed. But Vitalla smiled curtly, her lips thin and dry. “No, thank you. I would prefer to see a real medici. One who plans on his patients being alive for more than a few months at a time.”
An argument boiled in Aeliana’s throat. Some of her patients were in the best shape of their lives, thanks to her—and had lived for years longer than they would have otherwise. But she swallowed it, as she swallowe
d most things with her family.
“Of course. Thank you for the letter. Have a safe trip back.”
Her aunt took the farewell as a shot from a ballista, and sped away from her office and the ludus with all haste.
Chapter 15
Down the long stone stairs outside her office and across the training grounds, she could hear the gladiators eating breakfast. Somewhere, Caius was there, eating his food.
And smiling, probably.
He was always smiling. She had never known anyone so sad who smiled as much as he did. His every front was a fight—even just forcing a smile on his face as he learned his daughter’s life had been thrown into turmoil.
And he had held her hand. Just remembering that set her heart aflutter. His hands were strong and calloused. Thick fingers, dense as iron. It felt like sliding her hand across the paw of a lion.
Or a bear, she thought wryly.
And even after that, he had kissed her. And she had kissed him. And it had been good.
Very good.
Of course nothing could happen between the two of them. Her father already hated everything about where she worked. Imagine what he might think of her bringing a gladiator home! The thought brought a low smile to her face.
It always took a reserve of will to read a letter from her father. She knew it was going to hurt. She didn’t know how it was going to hurt, and that was always part of the hurt. One could defend very well against the attacks you knew were coming. But with her father, the attacks were always new, even though the substance was always the same.
It all went back, always and entirely, to her being lesser.
And yet still she could not shake the need to make him proud. Despite everything, despite all his harsh words and stern looks, all his doubts and sabotage, she could not help but love him. It was a weak love, stretched long and thin, but somehow it remained intact. She had been born with love for him, and whatever reserves existed there had not yet been exhausted.
The morning light crested over the walls of the ludus. She crushed some dried jasmine with one hand, letting the pleasant, strong scent fill the area of her office. Then, with a sigh, she opened the letter.
Daughter,
I expect you are well. Your aunt reports no trouble.
Business continues. The Illyrians are buying a great deal of grain this year.
I spoke with a man recently who has a good working relationship with the legions along the Danube. With any luck, the second your contract expires, we can have you sold over to the Legion protecting our borders. Nothing more in the garrison, as I recall your distaste for such things. Once your contract comes to terms for renegotiation with Varinius, I will explore the subject with him. A contract of another five years, working for the Danube Legion, would be sufficient for you to learn your trade in its entirety and no longer be confined by the bounds of slavery. No doubt Varinius will see the logic of moving a woman away from a distasteful place such as his. Then, finally, you will be doing honorable work.
- Vitus Galerius Rutila
“Oh, Father.”
Another five years as a slave for her. That was his plan.
Aeliana set the letter down,
Then, finally
put her head in her hands,
finally, you
and did her very best
you will be doing honorable work.
not to cry.
Chapter 16
The best thing for her was to keep moving. She headed outside with dry eyes and a mind set on emptying itself. Chloe stood on the top of the steps, utterly transfixed as the new recruits for the ludus finally arrived through the gates below.
“Look at those two,” she pointed. Her voice was heavy. “Ajax and Perseus. They’ve fought for over a year, now. Rufus really must have put out for them.”
Aeliana had to agree. The two young men looked to be in tip-top shape. Both were tall and toned, with long hair. Ajax was blond with a broad nose and a heavy brow. Perseus was dark of skin, with small deep-set eyes. Both walked with confidence, seeming above the jeers of the gathered gladiators.
The jeering was a common initiation. Aeliana expected it to escalate quickly. In the past, she had seen fighters killed on their first day in brutal sparring matches. Not on purpose—or, seemingly not on purpose. But training did not go easy for the novices, and they were put through the wringer just as hard as a man who had been fighting for years. Even harder, perhaps, as the novices were not used to such treatment.
There were a dozen men in all. Ajax and Perseus were clearly the “gets” of the group, and they looked like they knew it. One or two others showed some promise, but many seemed fit only for slaughter.
One was barely taller than Aeliana, and though he had a grim determination on his face, his stature made him a surefire candidate for a swift death come the next bout of games in a few weeks’ time.
Aeliana made a mental note of all their faces, trying to recall with certainty every man she did not want to know any more intimately than she had to. It was a helpful exercise with the memory of her father’s words still stinging. She took a moment and imagined a glove made from ice, wrapping slowly around her heart. Each one in turn, each face, brought a new squeeze from that ice glove.
As she searched the crowd, she saw Caius greeting the fighters. He was smiling and shaking their hands. Other gladiators, the established veterans, looked at him like he was crazy. Aeliana, though, felt that ice glove—so well-composited, begin to thaw just slightly.
Murus cracked his whip—and all the men stood at attention. When the doctore spoke, people listened. Not doing so would have them punished, but even besides that, his voice carried authority. She could not hear him totally, but no doubt he was welcoming the new fighters to the ludus.
Aeliana had heard the speech so many times that she expected she could recite from memory:
Welcome to House Varinius. Some of you will earn a place here. Some of you may die here. Some more of you will die in the arena as failures in your old life, shamed and purposeless.
But if you listen, and you work, you can shed the bounds of that old life. You will earn the favor of the crowd, and your name on the Wall of Turmedites, where you shall live in immortality!
I will shape you from men into gladiators. If you falter, I will work you. If you fail, I will drop your carcass into the sea. And if you succeed, I shall be the first to hold you up.
There was a pause. Aeliana knew he grinned with wicked, ready mirth.
It is my hope that you men take great pleasure in training. I certainly do.
The veteran gladiators began to form a circle—similar to the way they had when Caius arrived last week. They all knew the drill. There would be a sparring match between two fighters, and it would be dirty. The first one always was, to cow the other novices into submission.
“Chloe, go prepare our table.”
“But I want to watch the—”
Chloe’s voice fell as she saw the steel in Aeliana’s eyes. The medicae would have attended the table herself, but she had to watch the match, because that was the best way to know how the injury occurred.
Because there would definitely be one.
Chapter 17
“Conall, is it?” Caius had to lean down to hear the man in the din of the crowded gladiators.
“Yes, Sir. Conall.”
“Don’t call me ‘Sir.’ My name is Caius.”
“And Ursus?”
“The both, that’s right.”
The man, Conall, was about the same age as Caius had been when he first entered the ludus. He had thick reddish-brown hair and bright blue eyes vibrating with youth and pain—much the same as any young slave who had found his way into a ludus. Long bruises and scars lined the flesh of his back; evidence of repeated floggings.
“I’ve seen a lot of people in my time. You look as if you’re from a Germanic tribe. Is that right?”
Conall nodded, somewhat surprised. “Goth. I lived near the bor
der to Rome in the East. We learned your language. But the Romans invaded anyway.”
“You’re bad at taking orders, I see.”
“I don’t take well to submission.”
“That could bode very ill for a gladiator.”
Conall crossed his arms. “Death awaits us all.”
“True,” Caius laughed. “I was not particularly good at taking instruction either.”
Flamma entered the middle of the circle, holding one training sword high.
“One of you will fight me.” His grin was as wicked and yellow as ever. He circled with the sword, looking from fighter to fighter. The sword point cast briefly over Conall, but Flamma shook his head. “No. Too small. Not even a challenge.”
Caius felt Conall stir, but put a hand on the boy’s shoulders. He clearly had fire, but Flamma was not someone to fight with fire alone.
He stopped on the very next fighter, though. A tall young man with a wild mass of red hair. “You, boy.” Flamma kicked a sword through the sand at him. “Fight me.”
The lad, hesitating briefly, picked up the sword and entered the ring with Flamma.
It was a short, brutal, ugly affair. Toying with the lad, Flamma let him swing his sword several times, “narrowly” parrying each blow. As the lad grew in confidence, he opened himself up to more and more attacks.
“He thinks he’s doing well,” said Conall. “Poor bastard.”
Caius could only agree.
After a few minutes of this circus act, Flamma finally became serious. With one blow, he disarmed the lad. With another, he knocked the air from his chest. And with another series of swipes to the chest and head, he knocked him out cold. His blood sprayed on the sand, spouting from a heavy gash in his forehead. The lad, struggling to stand, rotated woozily. Flamma reared up for another blow, and to everyone’s surprise, Conall jumped out in front of him.
“You won, all right? You clearly won. So let him be seen to.”
