Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

“Daughter.”

  She reached in to hug him, but he held up a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t have you crying in the street.”

  Any act of emotion, in her father’s mind, was something of a weakness. And a woman, therefore, was only about two steps away at any given time from breaking down in tears.

  “Your duties have brought you to town?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You received my letter?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. And I expect the news struck you in a positive manner?”

  “I am...” she chose her words carefully. “I am grateful you are looking out for my future, Father.”

  “Wonderful.” He clapped his hands together slightly. The old, withered skin of his palms made a soft puffing sound. “You should know that it is possible for me to expedite the process. The General of the Danube legions makes his summer home here. He styles himself after Sulla in that way. I supply his men with more than half of their olive oil and almost all of their fruits. He owes me a favor or two. With a nudge, I could have him buy you before your contract is even up.”

  “Sold and bought and sold again,” said Aeliana, voice lifeless.

  Vitus cocked his head. “What was that?”

  “I...” She imagined her insides as hard. As hard as Caius’s skin. And a pole through her back, forcing her stand up straight. “I would not like that, Father. I don’t want to serve the Legion.”

  His laugh was harsh. “You wish instead to remain serving at a ludus? Serving murderers and rapists and the worst of the lot?”

  He knew nothing, and would never bother to correct his ignorance. She knew better than to correct him.

  “No. I have my own plans. Those that circulate outside of the bonds of servitude.”

  “We all serve, Aeliana.”

  “Yes, but you do not serve as a slave.” Her voice was heated now. Years of holding her tongue in his presence had built a reservoir of anger. “You want honor in your family, and yet you put me to this task you find so dishonorable. You were my agent in all of this.”

  “For your own good.” Vitus stepped back. “You had to learn the trade. This was the best way to—”

  “This was the best way for you to imagine that other sons, other brothers, other versions of Aelianus might not die, Father. But you sold your daughter to do it. You sold your family. And now you will sell me again.”

  Vitus straightened now. “I did what any father would. And I do not like this talk from you. You must be feeling ill. You should see a medici yourself. I can send for one, if you like. He’s a good man, thorough. Within the hour, you’ll be right as ever.”

  “No, Father.” She shook her head. “I...I hope you will think on what I’ve said. I have. I would like my own freedom. I have my own plans, if you’ll only let the leash off.”

  She turned back to the market and continued on her morning duties. It was only much later, when she had nearly returned to the ludus, that she realized that for the first time in her life, she had gotten the last word in a discussion with her father.

  Chapter 28

  Neither Caius nor Lucius understood why exactly they had been brought up to the house of the Dominus. When they were escorted all the way into his office and sat down across from a somber Rufus and a cheerful Porcia, the situation only became more confusing.

  A liquid tension filled Caius, expecting the worst. Porcia's happiness rarely coincided with his own.

  “As you know, you will be fighting in three days time in Capua,” said Rufus. “You travel tomorrow.”

  Caius and Lucius both nodded. “Yes, Dominus.”

  “There were concerns about your readiness, Caius, from many fronts. From myself, from the editor at the fight in Capua, from the other ludi. They all want a good fight. A good show.”

  “Did Murus express doubts?”

  “No,” said Rufus. “He has been complementary of your efforts. But you and he have ever been close. It is difficult to gauge the truth in such situations. He may have wanted to protect you.”

  “If he wanted to protect me,” said Caius, “recommending me to fight in the arena is a strange way of doing it.”

  Lucius laughed at that, but Porcia and Rufus remained silent.

  “Am I not to fight, then?”

  “No, you will fight, dear Ursus.” Crossing from one end of the room to the other, in front of Lucius, Porcia tittered. “You’re going to fight in a great spectacle.”

  “The decision was made,” Rufus cast a long, wearied eye at his wife, “that the two of you would fight together, so as to better your odds.”

  “It’s uncommon, is it not,” said Lucius, “for a retarius and a thraex to fight together?”

  “It is,” said Porcia, her glee barely restrained. “And even more uncommon for them to be chained at the wrist.”

  Lucius cast a long eye over to Caius. That would make life difficult for the both of them.

  “Who are we to fight?” asked Caius.

  “Not who, dear Ursus,” said Porcia. “But what.”

  “Yes,” said Rufus. “The decision was made that you would fight as bestiarii.”

  Lucius stood. “You must be joking. I’m the Champion of Puteoli!”

  Caius understood and shared Lucius's indignation. Other than the prisoners executed at the arena, bestiarii were considered the lowest of the low in the hierarchy of fighters at the games. Their survival rate was low and their purses light in victory. To be treated as one was an insult.

  “A bear and a tiger,” continued Rufus. “Good specimens, I’m told.”

  “Do you not hear me, man? I am the Champion, not a bestiarii. You would insult this house with this deed.”

  “Sit down, Lucius, before I have you shackled and beaten for the next three days and lock you up for the remainder of these games.”

  Taking a breath, Lucius sat. “I just...I don’t understand, Dominus.”

  “It will be a spectacle,” said Porcia, eyes shining. “One for the ages. The returning champion and the current champion fighting the champions of the natural world. You will be our pillars of civilization, defending all that is noble and good against the onslaught of the wild.”

  It was clear something was amiss here. Rufus appeared nearly as unhappy about this fight as Lucius. A lanista for nearly thirty years, and from a family that had run a ludus for generations, he knew exactly the sort of dishonor available to his house if a single wrong move was made in the fight.

  The crowd might love it, certainly, but they could just as easily hate it. And no fight, ever, was certain.

  What would it mean to House Varinius to have their best fighter—and their returning champion—brought down by animals in the middle of the biggest celebration in years?

  The only one who could make such a decision was someone who cared very little about House Varinius—someone who had her own machinations on Caius and Lucius.

  Caius knew Lucius slept with Porcia regularly. Had he scorned her or angered her somehow?

  It didn’t matter now. The die was cast.

  “I’ll fight,” said Caius.

  “Oh, Ursus. Dear Ursus.” Porcia’s grin was positively predatory. “Of course you will. You don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter 29

  After the meeting, Caius and Lucius sat down at the small common area near the front of the cell blocks. Conall and Septus joined them, and soon they were playing a friendly round of dice.

  Lucius had a tall amphora of wine nearby, taking long gulps. Caius didn’t know how he drank so much and managed to keep his front side lean and flat as a washboard.

  At hearing the news of their incumbent fight, Septus was disgusted.

  “Don’t they know you’re the Champion of Puteoli?”

  Caius rolled. Threes only. “They know, all right.”

  “Can we do something to change their minds?” Conall asked.

  “You mean make them shit their pants?” Lucius snatched up the dice. “No. I don
’t think so, Conall.”

  The smaller man laughed under his breath, but with some nervousness. They had agreed that they weren’t supposed to talk much of that incident. It was better to keep others away from the up-and-up for their own safety. But, Lucius’s tongue was loose from the wine.

  Shortly after the affair, Septus had asked Caius if he’d had anything to do with it—always a smart fellow. Caius had fessed up, unable to lie to his old friend.

  “I still can’t believe,” said Septus, scratching his beard, “that you left me out of that. I would have helped.”

  Lucius patted him on the back. “We know that, old friend. We just didn’t want to violate your sensibilities.”

  “My sensibilities are to help my friends when they want it. Especially when it comes to an ass like Flamma.”

  The air was tense. This could go wrong in a hurry.

  “I think we can all agree,” said Caius, glancing pointedly at Lucius and Conall, “that you’re as steadfast as any man. And we were wrong to hide anything from you.”

  “Agreed,” said Conall.

  Lucius took another long swig and burped. “Agreed, of course. We meant no harm, as I said. And we only—”

  “We did you wrong,” interrupted Caius.

  If Lucius talked more, he was liable to keep apologizing and justifying himself. That would only make it worse. Best to change the subject and let his drunken thoughts attach to something else.

  “Was there any indication of any other fights?” asked Conall.

  “You mean for you? No. But don’t worry, little lad,” Lucius rubbed Conall’s hair hard. “You’ll get your time in the sun.”

  Caius worried about that. Conall was brave, but reckless. The arena rewarded the one and punished the other. It was a delicate balancing act he ran, rushing headlong into attacks without thinking them through, and Caius did not wish to see his new friend killed so early.

  Many men felt fear in the face of standing before the arena. But when Conall spoke of fighting, the only fear he seemed to have was to not be allowed to fight.

  Germans, Caius thought, have a stranger set of priorities than other men.

  Although, he considered, he himself had thought that way, once upon a time. It was a great dishonor—an insult!—to be left off the list for the day’s fight. It was an honor to be closer to the last fight—the nearer one was to ending the day, the greater the prestige.

  And, naturally, the greater the purse. There was a great pride in the work he did, and he was celebrated so often and so well for his butchery that the fact of his slavery was almost unimportant.

  The arena was a seductive environment. Men and women came to watch as normal citizens, and by the end of the day they were bloodthirsty avatars of lust, wanting only to consume and to be consumed with the sight of violence. But it was not seductive only for the crowd, no.

  Within the confines of the arena, a man’s fate rested entirely on his actions. Every sword stroke, every heft of the shield, every step in the sand was a man’s essence as it rode on the razor’s edge between life and death. He was, for those spare few moments of the fight, in control of his destiny.

  At the end of the fight, if he lost, the editor may save him, leaping in on destiny’s claims like a vulture at a fallen antelope. But before that—in the fight itself—there was no man in the empire who could say that his life was entirely in his own hands. Not even the Emperor.

  And wasn’t that something?

  It truly was. And the closer Caius got to the games, the more his heart filled with the memory of that intoxication.

  He may have hated being a slave; he may have hated being away from his daughter; he may have hated the idea of all the killing and slaughter; but that freedom, that clarity of choice in the arena—kill or be killed—had a fix on his soul as sure as it did the day he had first fought.

  The four went around a few more times, rolling dice. Iunius walked by and asked if they should like to play him.

  “Should you men enjoy playing a real game? With real stakes?” he asked.

  As a eunuch, Iunius had a heavy paunch, his hair wispy around the dome of his head.

  “Well—” Conall began.

  Septus stood. “No. Iunius. Forever, no. And we would kindly ask you to go and scam someone else.”

  Iunius smiled. “I think I will. Best of luck.”

  The most unique sort of scoundrel, who took no shame in the low opinion others held him in. In that way, Caius supposed, he was protected.

  Lucius held the dice in one hand, clinking them together softly. “This is my fault, you know.”

  “Your fault?” Septus returned to his seat. He grabbed Lucius’s amphora of wine and took a quick gulp, ignoring Lucius’s look of mild betrayal. “What? Bringing Iunius around?”

  “Oh, that.” Lucius laughed. “Perhaps. Gods know he’s taken enough money from my winnings. He has an ear for a great many investments.”

  Septus burped, and returned the wine to Lucius. “All for the securing of his own future, I expect.”

  Lucius shrugged. “He’s not so bad.”

  “What did you mean?” Caius asked. “Your fault?”

  “Let us say it, to be discreet, that I have had a number of conversations with Porcia.”

  Conall stifled a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

  “To be discreet,” Lucius rapped his knuckles on the table, “yes. That is what we’re calling it. And on one such occasion, not too long ago, she found me in a boisterous mood. I told her, fool that I am, that I could kill a dozen tigers with one hand. She challenged me on it, obviously seeing the boast, and so I lowered the amount to three.”

  “Three tigers with one hand?” Caius raised an eyebrow.

  “If I had to do it,” shrugged Lucius, “I think it’s possible.”

  “So,” said Caius. “She thinks you’d have no trouble surviving the fight.”

  “I expect so.”

  “You’ll be elevated. I’ll die, I suppose she thinks? She gets everything she wants.”

  Lucius nodded. “I would guess also, gambler that she is, that she made a few bets to that very effect. No doubt she placed a mighty sum down on you to die, and for me to survive.”

  Taking a moment, Caius considered. Did Porcia think so little of him that she thought he could not kill a tiger and a bear when working in tandem with Lucius?

  It was the wound, he realized. She must have arranged all of this when he was wounded from the shard. That was why she hadn’t wanted him stitched up. But now he was healed, mostly, and she still looked as happy as ever...

  The swift, cold knowledge that he was in danger hit him just mere moments before Porcia appeared in the door. Behind her were two guards, and at her side was Flamma.

  “Dice, is it?” Porcia smiled. “An excellent game. My own tastes are more sophisticated, of course. But I recall enjoying dancing with chance and the bones in my youth.”

  “May we help you, Domina?” asked Septus.

  “You will leave. That is how you help. All of you.”

  They all stood, obeying. Caius got up slowly, already knowing what her next words would be.

  “Not you, Caius. You and I have business.”

  It took them a moment, but the rest all left. Lucius shifted for a moment and looked as if he might try to talk to Porcia, but Caius sent him on his way. Whatever was coming was coming. There was no sense in his friends getting hurt on the way. Once they had exited, Caius saw what Flamma held in his hands. A long metal pole, at the end of which was a large “V.”

  “Do you know the mark of House Varinius?” Porcia asked.

  Flamma held the end of the pole into a nearby torch. The metal became red with heat. Caius felt time slow down.

  “All true gladiators in this house must wear it. Now, normally, a novice has to prove himself in the arena. But we thought we would make an exception in your case. Being a former champion and all.”

  “I suppose you know already,�
� said Caius, “that you can see the mark on my shoulder already.”

  The scar tissue was heavy with age and almost the same hue of his skin after being there for so long. In many ways, he had gotten used to it; in other, more important ways, he never would.

  “Yes.” Porcia drew her hands under her chin. “But—that was for your old term of service, wasn’t it? Why, we only thought it fair to ensure you had another mark for this term. Right on top of the old one.” Her fingers danced on the scarred, elevated flesh. Caius struggled not to recoil with disgust. She was a demon, he realized. Some foul spirit putting on a woman’s flesh like another woman would put on her robes.

  “Flamma,” she gestured.

  Grinning madly, Flamma approached him with the brand. “You’re not laughing now, are you, Caius?”

  Guards held Caius tight. Even though he did not resist, they pounded him down to the table, holding him fast. Maybe not resisting would make it better, he thought distantly. If he didn’t thrash, the brand would likely find its mark easier.

  For several moments, the brand hovered in front of his face. He could feel the flesh-melting heat of the mark, and struggled not to shiver.

  “Who’s laughing now, you bear shit?” Flamma chuckled harshly.

  The mark hovered in front of his eye. It would not take much of an impact to blind him. The cool fear of pain was replaced suddenly with the heavy, intense dread of living a life with just one eye.

  “Flamma.” Porcia put her hands on her hips. “Stop playing and do it. I want to see him hurting.”

  But Flamma stopped instead. The brand drew away from his face. Caius let out a long breath.

  “I thought you said we were just going to scare him?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone is scared by the smell of their own burning flesh. Now, do it.”

  “He’s...he’s got the mark already, Domina. It’s not right.” He shifted. “I’m no easy man, Domina, but he’s a gladiator. If you think—”

  “I think that you shall do it,” said Porcia. “Or I shall do it to you a dozen times over. And my husband will hear about how you cornered me and tried to rape me, and how valiant my guards were for saving my life.”