by Lydia Pax
“A gladiator requires courage and strength,” answered Caius. “Discipline and training. Tenacity. Stamina. Fearlessness in the face of death. The will to win.”
“And?”
“And…” Caius smiled small. “A desire for fame.”
“Is that what has pulled you back here?”
Since that morning, he’d felt a terrific pull on his being, and most all of it from Aeliana’s burning presence. But he’d been planning to return to the ludus now for several days.
“I told your agent when we signed the contracts. I am here for my daughter. That is my purpose, and I am cleaved to it.”
“For such a purpose,” said Murus, “I could see a man with great courage and strength. Tenacity. The building of discipline by training. Stamina. The will to win. But not fearlessness. And not a desire for fame.”
“Whether I live or die is of no consequence so long as my daughter is attended to,” said Caius. “Love of a child makes any man fearless. And as far as fame, well. I have a desire for the money it brings. So there is that.”
Rufus mulled this over for a moment, spinning his wine in his cup.
“It would not be, perhaps, so extraordinary a fate as glory in the arena,” said Rufus, “but a man like you, with the knowledge you have, could work well as a doctore for us. Murus has been pulling double duty teaching the Thracian style and administrating.”
“I want to fight, Dominus.”
I want, he thought, for this sour run of luck to be done, and permanently.
“Be reasonable, Caius. Flamma lashed you soundly.”
“Place him against me another time, when I have training behind me. When my stamina is back at its old levels. I will take him in half a minute.”
Standing, Rufus snapped his fingers and had the attending slave take the tray of wine and cups away.
“Very well. We’ll wait and see, if that’s what you like. There are games coming next month. If I can find a place for you, I shall.”
“But if you slip up—we won’t put you in the arena,” said Murus, standing with Rufus. “We can’t afford such embarrassments now. And I will not go lightly on you in training.”
Caius took his hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He only wished he felt as good as his bravado sounded.
Chapter 11
Gladiators, fools that they were, did not come in to see Aeliana upon the moment of their injuries.
Oh, no.
Instead, they waited until the end of the day, when Aeliana was readying for rest and allotted herself personal time for writing letters to her family. They waited, indeed, until the end of the day when their wounds had been hit more, overworked, and layered with dirt and grime from training.
And so at the end of the day, Aeliana was always her busiest. Her last client in that night was Lucius, hoping for a bandage on the cut Caius had left on his nose.
“Your touch is as gentle as ever, dear Faun.”
Aeliana grumbled. “Don’t call me that, Lucius, and I won’t stomp on your toes like I promised myself I would.”
“Point taken. Did Caius enjoy your gentle touch? He seems fond of you.”
With great presence of mind, Aeliana managed to not flush. She hoped.
It had been difficult, over the course of the day’s work, not to pull herself into a corner and think entirely about this mysterious gladiator who had arrived so suddenly in her life. This morning, all she had cared for was doing the best possible job she could as a medicae.
And while that was still vital to her being, it was matched—if not outdone entirely—by this heated and fervent need to make time somehow to see Caius again. To see him from afar, perhaps, but even better to see him in person.
To be alone with him again. To see what else he might dare to touch, if she were to touch him first.
“You would have to ask him such things.”
“I’m serious, you know. I saw how he looked at you. It was rather clear.”
“He was out of his head from Flamma’s blow. I put little stock in such things.”
Even to her, the words rang false. There was real tenderness she had felt with Caius when his thoughts had gathered once again. Even that, she could write off—but the look in his eyes…
Aeliana huffed softly. She wished she was used to such attention so that she could tell the genuine from the fake. But she simply wasn’t accustomed to such things.
Her attention turned instead to frustration with the dirt in her office. It was everywhere. It was even in the bandages, no matter how much she washed them or where she put them to dry. Dirt always got in—and as a medicae, what she wanted more than anything was to be clean with the clients she saw. There was no trust in a house that was not clean.
Once again her thoughts returned to that old dream—buying up a taberna in the city and setting up her own shop. A shop where she could control everything—the supplies, the clientele, the cleanliness. Maybe she’d have a small washing pool outside and demand that her clients clean themselves before entering.
Lucius looked as though he might have broached the subject again, but the lady of the house, Porcia, suddenly entered. She had her long blue stola bunched up in one hand so that the fabric, clinging so tightly to her delicately pretty frame, did not touch the floor.
“Again,” she said simply, holding out a hand.
It was little secret that Aeliana and Porcia did not get along well. Aeliana was never quite sure why. From the moment she had entered into service at House Varinius, Porcia had been a hard case on Aeliana—telling her all the various ways in which she had failed. Whenever a fighter died in the arena, or suffered an injury, or did not perform at his capacity, Porcia placed the blame squarely at Aeliana’s feet.
Luckily, Murus and Rufus did not place stock in such talk, knowing themselves the true reasons for any failure lay more in training, the fighter himself, and the luck of the day.
Aeliana’s real suspicion was that Porcia disliked her because of her ability with medicine. Porcia’s skill set did not seem very broad. A beautiful woman from a modestly well-off family, she had been trained well in the social niceties, and knew how to throw a moderately lovely party and could navigate the cut-throat social politics of Puteoli with moderate grace.
But Aeliana had skill—real skill, valuable skill—and that threatened Porcia’s conception of womanhood. Just by being, Aeliana surmised, she made Porcia feel lesser—and to be lesser than a slave was an impossibility in Porcia’s mind.
As of late, however, Porcia had been increasingly kind. Her outrageous gambling habit on the chariot races had led to the crafty Domina searching out alternative revenue streams when her husband would not pay her. One of these was selling the medicines Aeliana had available to her for the gladiators.
Sighing, Aeliana retreated back toward her cabinets and pulled out about an ounce of opium poppies.
“Here you are, Domina.”
It was no use protesting. The last time Aeliana had tried, Porcia had not taken it well. Aeliana had made a very logical case, stating that the money needed to replace the supply was just going to hurt Porcia’s cash flow from Rufus, and she was slapped and threatened for the trouble.
Lesson learned.
Porcia smiled at the quick compliance. It was a pretty, wicked little sight. She turned then to Lucius. “Your reading lessons continue tonight, Orion. I hope you will come prepared.”
“Of course, Domina.” Lucius nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”
Obviously, she was not talking about actual reading lessons. Smartly, Aeliana kept her gaze to the floor. After a moment, Porcia had left.
“‘Reading lessons,’ is it?” Aeliana asked. “How lucky for you to have such a pretty teacher.”
Lucius grinned. “She has not taught me much. But her wine is very good.” His smile turned more serene for a moment. “And it’s a good, quick way to shut her up and keep her off my back. And the backs of people I like. I see she took my advice
about using your drug supply.”
“You told her to do that?”
“She felt your very presence an insult for some reason. I had to give you value. It seems to have worked.”
“I should dislike to be on the opposing side of a scheme of yours, Lucius.”
“Then you should seek after Caius, lest I ensnare the two of you together regardless.”
Aeliana wiped her hands together for a moment. In conversation, as in the arena, once Lucius found a weakness he wanted only to return to it again and again.
“He told me he was a father.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “From what I know, his wife died in childbirth on the day of his last fight.”
Her heart swelled with emotion. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes.” Lucius stood up to leave. “Life is hard, little Faun, and harder still for a gladiator. You two have some connection. I say pursue it with all haste before life gets harder still.”
Chapter 12
Three years ago, Caius walked with the rest of the regimen of gladiators from the House of Varinius into the Puteoli Arena. The sub-floor of the arena where the fighters gathered was built solidly, but had low-hanging ceilings. Most gladiators sat in long ellipsis, trading jokes and tell boisterous tales of women they had slept with. All wore little else but sandals and a loin cloth. They would armor themselves as they were called to fight.
Low hanging braziers lit the area. Smoke would have filled the lungs but for clever openings in the walls to catch the air flow. There was a breeze, and Caius enjoyed its steady feel upon his skin. It came from the South, which was fortunate. Some directions of breeze in the city carried unpleasant scents. Northern breezes would have brought the dismal stenches from the animal menagerie where dozens of starved, angry beasts waited for their inevitable deaths in the arena.
Being in the primus of the games, Caius would wait a long time—nearly ten hours—before his fight. His nerves were steady, though, and the only nervousness he felt was for his wife Fabiana and the labor she had been in since early that morning.
There was no getting around the day of the games. As a gladiator scheduled to fight, Caius had to be there, dictated by long held religious tradition and enforced by the swords of Roman legionaries.
Best day of your life, Caius reminded himself.
Interspersed in the jovial, laughing crowd were several men who clearly were going to fight for the first time. They cried or they huddled against the wall on their knees. One man dragged sand over himself in some strange ritual, shivering all the while. Should they try to join the crowds of laughing men, they would be pushed aside and reprimanded—sometimes with fists—for their intrusion.
To be a gladiator meant a man was in a brotherhood, but it meant also that a man had to earn the respect of his new fellows. These novices weren’t real gladiators in the eyes of the rest until they had fought and survived in the arena.
Caius reminded himself, with some compassion, that it had not been so very long ago that he had been one of them.
He approached the sand-dragging man, touching him on the shoulder. He was more boy than a man, with wild red hair and eyes the color of the sea.
“It gets better,” he told him. “Much better.”
“I don’t know…I don’t know how to fight,” said the boy. “They didn’t teach me anything. They just gave me a sword and expected me to hack and learn at a post.”
Caius nodded. Better fighters got better training at better ludi. This one wasn’t a member of House Varinius.
“It gets better,” he said again. “You just have to survive. That’s all. That’s all that matters. Don’t try for anything else but that.”
“But how?”
With a shrug, Caius smiled. “Pray to Fortune for luck,” he said. “And when in doubt, attack.”
These were the words Caius had lived by. And from the moment of being bought by Rufus up until he held his dead wife in his arms, he had believed every last syllable.
Chapter 13
Training in the ludus continued, and just as Murus had promised, he did not go easy on Caius.
Every day he woke, ate a light breakfast, and then readied on the sands. Training began immediately, and discipline never stopped.
When he did something right, he got no more than a small satisfied grunt from the old doctore. When he made a mistake, Murus lashed him with the whip. When he appeared tired, Murus made him run across the grounds—often with a heavy, iron-banded log on his shoulders.
This was the Hell Log—and Caius knew it well. Its weight and burden were legendary among the gladiators of House Varinius. Rumors abounded that the original lanista of the estate had ventured deep into the underworld to find the perfect tool with which to mold his boyish fighters into men of valor and honor. The joke was, after a few laps carrying the Hell Log around, death did not seem so harsh a fate.
This was how Murus treated everyone else. And Caius was glad for it all—even the whip. A lack of that attention—even that negative attention—would have shown that Murus didn’t care.
Caius received double-duty with Murus. The beginning of the day started with the gladiators fighting tall posts stuck in the ground. This was for attending to their posture and positioning, and making sure they could keep their defenses up when placing a blow. Murus oversaw all of this with the help of his other doctores, of which there were three.
At midday was a brief lunch. It was the same food as breakfast—a thick barley gruel that kept the men strong and fit, with plenty of energy for their work.
After lunch was training in sparring matches with the weapons of each gladiator’s style. Murus was the doctore for the thraex style, and so oversaw Caius again. If Caius dropped his shield too low, he was flogged. If he attacked when he should have defended, or vice versa, he was flogged. If he hesitated in his actions, he was flogged.
Caius had to do his absolute best to not get flogged at all, which was the entire idea. The flogging hurt—enough to leave a few bruises on his back and shoulders—but would not leave permanent marks. The whip had a thick head, and would not cut the skin unless Murus wanted.
It was a martial world he had re-entered, and it was unforgiving. But a whip in training was preferable to a sword through the gut in the arena, and so Caius worked.
He would die in the arena, of that he was sure. But he would not be an embarrassment. He would go down with honor, or not at all.
This routine went on for many days, and Caius felt little improvement. He ended the day beaten, hungry, and tired—and that was how he woke as well.
In his free time, what little there was of it in the evenings and late afternoon, he tried his best to catch sight of Aeliana. She was the bright spot in a hard time.
They had conversed—what? Twice? And yet there was a connection he felt with her that he could not deny. Every time he saw her his heart began to race and his mind deluged with images of what skin she bared in her stola. The shape of her calves, the long lines of her neck and jaw, the fine muscles of her arms. He wanted her body, and all of it
When she made her rounds through the training grounds in the early afternoon, checking on who needed treatment and re-examining those who had been injured previously, he had a hard time focusing. Part of him wanted to train better, harder just to catch her eye and impress her.
A stupid, boy’s notion that he couldn’t exorcise completely, no matter how he tried. Another part of him wanted just to stop, sit, and stare as she worked—to memorize the lovely turn of her chin, the sweet angle of her petite breasts in her robes, the rich chestnut color of her hair.
But one way or the other, they had not been able to talk. A slave’s time was never truly his or her own, and always when there might have been a free moment long enough to be with her, she was gone. And once or twice, when he had been commissioned by Murus or Rufus to attend to some manual labor around the house (for who better for such heavy lifting than the strongest slaves in Rome?), he heard upon returni
ng that Aeliana had wandered the barracks of the gladiators.
His thoughts went wild at the knowledge. Had she been looking for him? It was possible.
On the seventh day of his new tenure, he had a visitor in the evening.
His living space was a small cell, the same as every gladiator’s except for the real champions like Lucius. Once upon a time, Caius had Lucius’s quarters—which contained room enough for living spaces for his wife Fabiana (a slave to the House of Varinius herself) and even for a child.
For the past several nights, feeling generous, Lucius had called Caius in. Amphoras of wine littered the living space now. One corner was populated exclusively by shards of clay, the remnants of amphoras Lucius drunkenly tossed into the wall.
Caius worried about his friend and all that drink.
Women were thrown regularly at gladiators after victories in the games. Lucius had won enough that he could have a woman anytime he pleased, so long as he petitioned Murus and Rufus for one. But his affairs with Porcia—a miserable open secret if ever there was one—kept him committed to one woman. Wine seemed to be taking the place of all those other escapes he might have had.
The cell Caius lived in now was just a little taller than himself and about five paces deep to four paces long. Torches burned along the wall, leaving a thin layer of smoke in the air. The cells were constructed to catch breezes to air them out continually, but there was no such breeze tonight. He was just settling down to rest his battered body from the day when Aeliana arrived at the front of his cell.
“Greetings.” Caius sat up. “I’m happy to see you.”
Aeliana smiled. “And I you. But I found someone wandering the grounds who looked rather lost.”
Fabia burst into his cell, hopping up on his bed like a cat and tackling her father with a hug. A mix of surprise, affection, and concern passed through Caius.
“Daughter!” He held her tight. Her arms were small around his neck. “What are you doing here?”
