Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  The breeze tonight was soft. It pushed through the window slow, twirling the curtain at the door.

  “You know what I want, Domina. Those women are going to shame this house.”

  “Then I suppose you had better train them well.”

  “You can’t train women to fight. The best you can hope for is…a less-active slaughter.”

  “I expect you’ve seen many men walk into this ludus without any hope of survival who nonetheless were molded from clay to marble under the watchful eye of a doctore.”

  “That’s different. Those men came ready to fight. These women are all scared. Terrified.”

  “Then reassure them, doctore. Must I tell you your every duty?”

  “I am not some wet nurse to milk the starving younglings bleating for help. I am a gladiator, and I am—”

  “You were a gladiator, Lucius.” Porcia sat up now. Her elbows rested on the table. “Now, you are whatever I say you are. And I say you are a doctore. And I say you will train these women. Do a poor job or a good one. I don’t care if they live or die. What suffices for me is that you are shamed by it.”

  “I don’t understand. If you don’t care whether they live or die, then why buy them?”

  Porcia had made plenty of poor, impulse purchases over the years. When a good lanista would have been spending most of his money investing in his fighters—buying new equipment, new fighters, and renovating facilities—Porcia had instead spent her money on the domus where she lived. The many decorations and extensions of the house looked beautiful, of course, but behind all that beauty was the great emptiness of a woman who wanted to beautify all her surroundings at the expense of her own well-being.

  Most of her purchases were done on credit. Even though her gladiators kept winning—thanks mostly to her expert staff of doctores—Porcia could not stop gambling. She won enough to pay down some of her debts at every new set of arena games, but she spent far more time losing money at the chariot races.

  Now, the fighters trained with weapons that needed constant upkeep. Part of Lucius’s duty as a doctore was, theoretically, helping Murus, Septus, and the other doctores with polishing and sanding down the wooden tools. When they fought in the arena, their armor was dinged and nicked, and their weapons invariably in need of good sharpening. Many times gladiators leaving a fight had to hand off their weapon to the next in line.

  “Senator Otho, a good man, is arranging Puteoli’s next series of games. The anniversary shows are incumbent upon us. He wishes to make such a spectacle that even Emperor Severus will come to see them.” She made a face. “I doubt that last part, truly. Part of his marketing. Severus seems more a Roman creature these days, you know.”

  Lucius did not know, and Porcia knew it.

  Lucius did know, however, that Romans loved their anniversaries. The games she spoke of were in honor of a series of temples opened quite near one another on the calendar. Lucius forget which temples, and which gods.

  In truth, religion held little interest for him except for the purpose of swearing. It was rather satisfying to exclaim “Jupiter’s cock!” once in a while.

  But in sum, there was little point, he had thought, in imagining that this God or Goddess watched him. He wanted to be left alone to drink, most of the time. If someone was watching, judging, guiding, then he would never truly be on his own as he wanted.

  “At any rate,” Porcia continued, “Otho wanted some special attractions. I suggested a show of gladiatrices. He fell in love with the idea. Women in combat seemed to strike a very…virile chord with him.”

  Lucius grimaced. “It is strangely generous of you to indulge your Senator in this way, Domina.”

  “He thinks it exciting. Who am I to second-guess a senator?” She shrugged. “It’s this or nothing, Lucius. What say you?”

  It was not much of a choice, and he had to assent.

  Chapter 9

  Lucius woke with a start, his head aching from the night. He had settled in with Ajax and Perseus once again. Between them, they knocked off at least four amphoras of wine.

  He doubted they felt as he did, sore and with a head trying to eat itself whole. They were younger than him and more moderate besides.

  Outside, he heard the day’s training begin. Gladiators clacked wooden swords against tall poles in the sand to practice technique. The voice of Murus, the doctore, could be heard even deep in the cell blocks.

  To train gladiators, one had to establish authority from somewhere. Murus derived his from years of experience in the arena and a loud, loud voice. Lucius joked sometimes that Jupiter had trouble issuing decrees during the training hours of House Varinius because it meant he would have to out-shout Murus.

  As with most humor, Murus did not appreciate the jest.

  He stood up from bed slow, trying to shake some feeling back in his withered, mangled arm. Slowly, he felt the blood sweep back into it. He opened and closed his hand, grunting at the effort.

  There was a bowl of water at the front of his cell and he splashed his face with it. Lucius tugged on a fresh loin cloth and grabbed the long stick he kept hooked on the wall. Going right out, no exercises or preparation.

  Nyx would be angry with him. The medicae had spent hours trying to teach him rehab techniques for his arm. The best time for them, though, was in the morning or the night. In the night, he drank and forgot. And in the morning, he was always late, and had no time to dally around and press his arm in strange positions against the wall.

  The arm would heal or it wouldn’t. Lucius had resigned himself more and more to the idea that it never would; that he would always be a lesser man than he had been.

  Just before stepping out into the sun, Lucius took a moment to compose his face. All too often when he woke, he had that freshly hungover scrawl in his expressions, disappointed and angry at everything that wasn’t a drink in his face.

  But he was to start training the women in proper today, wasn’t that right? Might as well try and make an effort. Give them a little authority to dance around.

  Outside, it was cloudy. It looked like rain was on the way. That was fine by Lucius. He particularly despised the heat of the summer months, and more rain always meant a break from the heat, at least for a while. Sometimes it turned muggy afterward—in fact, most of the time it turned muggy afterward—but that was just the price paid for a moment’s relief.

  Lucius was well-accustomed to being on the poor end of deals with mother nature.

  The women were at the sands already, striking at their posts. Their forms were wrong.

  Better than yesterday?

  He had no idea.

  Gwenn was there, and of course his heart caught as he glanced upon her. She, like all the other female novices, wore a loin cloth, a tight sleeveless tunic, and hard sandals strapped to her feet. The sheen of sweat on her skin only made her beauty all the more evident. His want shifted in his belly, aching for release. Lucius thought very hard for a moment trying to ignore all the useless feelings his body sent out.

  He stepped up to the sands and relieved Murus, earning a long glare from the lead doctore for his lateness, and started in.

  “Thrust!” he commanded the line of women.

  They obeyed. All of their footing was nonsense. Like bad dancing.

  “Keep your weight on your heels. Otherwise, your toes will go numb and you will lose your balance and you will die. Thrust!”

  Again, they obeyed. The smarter ones, or the more body-capable ones, kept more of their weight on their heels. None of them were particularly good.

  “Dying in the arena is an honor,” said Lucius, knowing he mimed Murus from his own early days in training, “so long as it is honorably done. But first you must have good form. Thrust!”

  He watched them try again, with none of them performing up to task. His frown felt permanent.

  A woman raised her hand. “May I ask a question?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Ros, Doctore.”

 
“No questions, Ros.” He made a circle in the air with a finger. “Take a lap. Run to the stables and back, and there and back again. That is one lap.” She started. “Wait. Grab that log.”

  He pointed to the Hell Log, a thick wooden pole banded with iron. It probably weighed half as much as she did. Skinny thing. The total amount of time Lucius had suffered under it probably amounted to close to six months of his life.

  She struggled with pulling it up, but eventually got it in front of her chest. She carried it like a sack of bread. Useless. Perhaps later she would figure out to put it on her shoulders.

  He turned back to the line and continued with the instruction. “Thrust! Back foot planted. The blow comes from your legs, not your arms. Snap your hips.”

  Somewhere, he understood there was better instruction he could give. But his mind was addled from booze and he honestly did not care all that much about their progress. There was an entire wealth of knowledge he possessed, and even if they progressed as rapidly as he had when he arrived at the ludus, they would never catch up with him.

  He had made his mind up to teach the women, at least, how to thrust and hold a shield. Anything beyond that would be a miracle.

  But as the morning stretched on, the women showed promise. They obeyed as he snapped out his commands. For every minor slip-up, he sent them on laps as he had Ros. She did not ask any more questions. The tall walking stick was in his hand, and occasionally he cracked it upon the stones, but there was no part of him that was about to hit a woman.

  He did not think they were worth very much, but that did not mean they were worth beating. Lucius was disdainful of them, but not a monster.

  Gwenn showed progress quicker than the rest. Her thrusts at the pole were dead-on almost from the beginning. Twice he’d had to make her fetch a new sword when she broke hers from the force of her blows.

  She thought this was doing well. Her face, all day, was etched with a terrific smile.

  It was a far cry from the stern, angry cloud her face had been when he bought her. It was as if she enjoyed this training—enjoyed even the thought of being a gladiatrix.

  Lucius, if he cared, could have explained that striking dead center into the pole wasn’t the whole point. The only reason the sword broke was because she was out of position with her footing. He would have guessed that her wrist and forearm hurt terribly after breaking the training swords. That would be much the same as what happened when a sword hid dead on in an opponent’s rib cage and you didn’t have the strength to follow through.

  But Lucius didn’t care. He didn’t care about her fire, so clear on her face. He didn’t care about her efforts. He didn’t care about the glistening sweat tending to her skin or the firm turn to her body as she moved.

  He didn’t care about any of that, no matter how he watched her with his heart aching for more to see.

  Chapter 10

  At the end of the day of training, Gwenn felt her confidence shaken but not broken. Her arm was sore and twinged with pain. It was the sort of pain that let her know that unless she rested her arm tomorrow, it would only get worse.

  But she lived the life of a gladiatrix now, and there would be no rest.

  They sat down to dinner in their corner once again. The mess hall, which yesterday had appeared far too small with too many eyes from the men, felt much larger now somehow after working for as long as all the men. It was a comfort.

  There were a great many benches and tables in the hall. The walls were made from stone. Torches hung in the corners and small metal bowls full of embers hung from the ceilings, pushing more light out between the rows of tables. It seemed like once the ludus could have hosted hundreds of fighters.

  It was down now to perhaps fifty people, not counting the women. The men gathered in the far corner, occasionally staring long at the women. Some called out in their native tongues, no doubt full of ludicrous obscenities.

  There were men from every corner of the globe represented. Every port that Rome landed on had at least a few good fighting men to put in chains.

  The women were quiet at first, like they were the day before. This seemed to bother both Ros and Kav. Coming from a large family, they seemed used to conversation during every task.

  Across from Gwenn sat Sabiana. They glared at one another. Both were too tired to fight now, but both wanted the time to come. Sabiana no doubt wanted revenge for her humiliation in the mud pit the other day, and Gwenn wanted to trounce her again before she got any ideas about enacting that revenge.

  Gwenn had been coming along handily in the matters of the day, as far as she could tell. Probably the best of any of them, and with a smile on her face. But, Sabiana was right behind. Gwenn assumed the other young woman’s progress was inspired largely by the desire to get back at her for their scuffle in the muck the other day.

  There had not been any attempts to steal Gwenn’s food since, however.

  “I’ll say it if none of you will,” said Kav. “Murus is a better doctore than Lucius. And I think Lucius is going to get us killed.”

  “At least Murus was insulted by how bad we are,” said Ros. “It’s like every poor step was an affront. Lucius just wants to…I don’t know. Harm us?”

  “No.” Gwenn shook her head. She wouldn’t believe that. “He doesn’t want us harmed. I just don’t think he cares. Which is a shame.”

  Some inane part of her wanted Lucius to care. She didn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if she was attracted to him, not truly. She simply couldn’t stop thinking about him, that was all.

  Sabiana laughed. “And how is it a shame, little flame?”

  Gwenn glared at her. “Should we toss around bad nicknames, Mudface? Or do you have a legitimate question?”

  “I’d like to know,” said Ros. “Shame or not, I don’t think any of us had much of a chance to begin with. I’m scared to death. You seem excited, and it’s driving me mad. Are you saying it’s a shame he can’t train you to fight better?”

  “Isn’t it? He was a champion once. He’s lost his way. He could train us to be better than any man here.”

  All the women all laughed at that. Gwenn scowled.

  “You listen to me. There’s not a thing in that arena any of them can do that we couldn’t do. It’s just a body moving around on sand. You move in one place, and then another, and another, and you do it well enough, and fast enough, and you survive no matter what happens. And all of you have all got a body the same as me, the same as they’ve got.”

  “They’ve been training for years, Gwenn,” said Ros. “And they’re stronger.”

  “And some of them haven’t trained for years. And some of them aren’t stronger. Some of them are probably barely newer than us. And you’re writing us off the same as any of them. I won’t do it.”

  Sabiana shook her head. “Better to risk your life in other ways.”

  “Like what?” asked Ros.

  “Run away,” said Sabiana. “Live off the land. Something like that.”

  Now it was Gwenn’s turn to laugh. “If you run away, they find you. And anyway if they don’t, you can’t work anywhere as an escaped slave. You can’t go anywhere. Rome is all there is. I wouldn’t know how to get back to my home land if I tried. Anybody that would know would just turn me in for a nice reward. Didn’t your family own slaves?”

  “Yes,” said Sabiana. She sniffed for a moment. “You’re right. If you had come to us, we would have turned you in.”

  The admission surprised Gwenn. Almost, she was ready to tease Sabiana for giving up so easy, but then she realized that bringing up her family had made her face become eerily distant. There was more sadness there than anger. Gwenn did not like Sabiana very much, or her snobbish attitude, but there was no pride in pushing a woman when she was down.

  Gwenn watched Sabiana reach for something in her clothes, and then stop. That same disk with her family’s seal on it, no doubt.

  “So what?” Kav asked Gwenn. “You die in the arena? You’re that ready?”


  “Die?” she scoffed. “Who said anything about dying in there? I’m going to fight in there. And I’m going to win. And I’ll be the first gladiatrix the crowd loved so much that they gave her freedom.”

  “Oh sure.” Kav bumped Ros. “And why not a fortune, too?”

  She smiled. “Sure. A fortune, too. Why not? Winners get purses. I aim to win.”

  Chapter 11

  After mealtime, the gladiators had a few hours in the evening to do as they pleased so long as they confined themselves to the cell block. A standard cell was about eight by ten feet, usually shared with another fighter or two.

  Lucius, as a former champion and now a doctore, got a larger amount of space for himself, though not all that much. His cell was his alone. With the low fighting population of the ludus, however, many gladiators were able to have their own cells if they put in a request and Murus was in a good mood. After lights out, their cells were locked and were not opened until the morning.

  The women were in the same cell block, but in the far wing. Two guards were posted in front of its hall to prevent any of the gladiators from entering.

  And even so, Ajax and Perseus had somehow managed to grab one of the few pieces of property belonging to the women. Lucius was in their cell, a cup of wine in his hands. It was his fourth for the night, which was two too many and one more than the three he had promised himself he would stop at.

  That Lucius had issues with drinking was no secret at all to him. He liked to pretend his worst issue was that he couldn’t find enough to drink.

  “We thought you might want to know,” said Ajax, “training them now and all.”

  Perseus was stout, with brown skin that shined perpetually with sweat. He struck an imposing figure, and was more imposing still in the arena covered in armor and with a sword in his hands. Septus—his doctore and Lucius’s old friend—said he had never seen someone quite so strong.