by Lydia Pax
“As your doctore, I have waived the need for permission into your space.” Lucius smiled. “Not that any space is truly yours, anyway. You may fix that eventually. Every gladiator is his own manager, in a way.”
“And every gladiatrix her own?”
“Sure. Why not?” He coughed. “You’ll have to choose a name for the arena, you know. I was thinking maybe Artemis.”
“Artemis?”
“Greek goddess of the hunt. A powerful virgin.”
Gwenn snorted. “I have terrible news for you if you think me a virgin, Doctore.”
“I have terrible news for you if you think I think you’re a goddess, little flame. It’s a stage name. One for people to get behind. It separates you and the…the person in the arena. It’s an old tradition.”
“Artemis, hmm?” It was not so bad a name. “I like it.”
“Good.”
She stepped forward, moving halfway across the cell.
“What are you doing here, Lucius? Or was it just to give me a name?”
Years of training had made him quick. The only warning she had was a small flash in his eyes—a clear, direct desire of undistilled lust that made her shiver. And then his lips were on hers, her tongue sliding into his mouth with an urgency she did not know she had.
For several seconds, surprise and pleasure overcame any sense she had. His chin and jaw were rough, but his lips soft, and her own lips wrapped against his with sliding heat. But then, slowly, her thoughts returned to her—this was not what she wanted.
She pushed him away. Regret stabbed at her immediately, and she ignored it. That it had been against Murus’s stupid rule about fraternization did not bother her. What did bother her was that she had not made the kiss happen.
“No,” she said.
Lucius nodded. “Okay.”
“I said no, do you hear me? That is not what I want from you. I want your knowledge, not your…not anything else.”
“Okay, I said. I just…” he looked her up and down. “You make it hard not to kiss you, the way you are. All your fire. But I won’t.” He held up a hand. “Promise.”
He slumped against the wall, tapping his amphora against the stone. The amphora made a heavy thudding noise as he tapped it against the wall. It was full, she realized. Full and still corked.
“That was a mistake.” He rapped his fingers against his skull. “Gods. I am sorry. You don’t need that. That was truly dumb. How many men have done that to you and you couldn’t say no?”
“I always said no. When they did not believe me, I made it plain I was serious.”
He smiled. “I bet you did.”
“Did you bring that—” she pointed to the amphora, “—because you thought you could get me drunk?”
“This?” He laughed as if she had told a great joke. “Oh, little flame. No. This will hardly be enough for me if I go after it. I don’t share well.”
“I see.”
“I shouldn’t drink this,” said Lucius, swishing the amphora. “If I do, I’ll hurt myself one way or the other. I hurt myself earlier today, in the sands. Now I have medicine in my veins. And if I drink, the medicine will make me throw up.”
“Then don’t drink it.”
“I shouldn’t.” He shrugged. “I still want to.”
“Why are you telling me this, Lucius?”
On her lips, she could still feel his heat, his presence. She may not have appreciated the way he kissed her, but the kiss itself…that was something else.
“I don’t know.” He sat down on the ground across from her and placed the amphora between them. He positioned it so the handle faced back toward the hall. “I don’t know.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. His torso stretched out. He had nice, visible muscles in his abdomen. His chest was rugged and hairy. She wanted to rub her hands through the mass of hair there and squeeze on his pectorals. They could kiss again…on her terms.
“You knocked some sense into me earlier. I thought maybe you’d do it again.”
“I don’t want to hit you anymore. Unless you start saying idiot things about what I can and can’t do.”
“That’s fair.”
“Okay.”
“Can I tell you something? Something you won’t tell someone else?”
“A secret?”
“Something like that. Sure. Yes. A secret. Call it that. Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes.”
She was very good at it. Nobody except Lucius knew her father was Leonidas in the arena. In fact, she didn’t talk about any of her history, nor the long nights she’d had on her way filled with despair at her place in the world. Would she only ever be a slave, relegated to nothingness? Would she die at the hands of some abusive master who thought to use her as a lesson for others?
These were the constant threats of her life until she had arrived at this ludus—the ludus which Lucius had brought her to.
“I don’t know how to stop with that.” He pointed at the amphora. “I’ve got no idea. And it terrifies me. I don’t have any idea how to go to sleep without wine. How to wake up without a quick sip to steady my hands. I don’t know how to justify anything I do during the day without a drink at the end of it. That’s not right. That’s not what other people live. But it’s what I live.”
“My brother had this problem,” she said.
That was an old memory, the sort that was better known than recalled. It had been before her tenure in slavery, before the Romans came to their land.
It almost killed him. At one point his liver had been bulging out from his side. It looked like a bad meal trying to escape his body. She watched him get better under the care of their mother.
Their mother had known what to do. She kept him accountable. She would take him in whether he smelled of wine or not, but she would not let any in the house. She showered him with love and trust and eventually he learned.
“What happened to him?”
“He died. Something else. Unrelated.” Now, she knew, she would have to follow up. “He was run over by a nobleman’s horse years later when we were both slaves. He died in the street after…an hour? The horse though, tripped and broke its neck instantly. To make up for the loss to the horse, I was sold to the noble’s family. He exacted his ill feelings upon me. That’s where these came from.” She pointed to her back, the long, thick scars running from her neck down to her rib cage. “He was not a good man. I fought him often.”
“You don’t have a lot of family left, do you, Gwenn?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Neither do I.” Lucius tapped his head against the wall. “Or maybe I do. I never knew them. I was born into slavery.” He smiled. “Let us say I know of your distaste for foul owners.”
Hopeless man. After all she had said, that was all he gave her? Hopeless.
“I know you want to fight in the arena,” he said. “I know you want to prove yourself there. But sometimes, the things we think we want are so far beyond us that they seem like we can grab them, if only because they’re so far above us, it’s all we can see. And then we jump off the highest ledge we can find to get them…and fall just the same.”
Taut leg muscles supported her as she squatted down before him. “Then build me a better ledge, Lucius. Train me.”
“You helped your brother stop drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “Then here’s the deal. I want you on me. Sobering me up. Just…I don’t know. Someone to talk to. Because when I talk to you, I don’t think about the future or the past. I just think about…” He smiled and stopped. No doubt flashes of their kiss ran through his mind, just as they did hers. “I don’t think about drinking. So you’re going to do that with me.”
“And in return, you’ll train me in murmillo?”
“You’ll be the fighting glory of this ludus, little flame.”
She slapped his thigh. “I like this deal.”
They shook hands, and his touch lingered on her for many mome
nts. For a moment, she thought he would try to kiss her again.
“Good.” He pointed to the amphora. “There’s your first task. Get rid of that thing.”
Chapter 22
He woke without a hangover for the first time in what felt like years. It was not that long, truly—he’d put together a good six months after Caius had left.
But all that time, it felt like his desire to drink had just been chopping away in the sands, getting stronger and better without him noticing. And this last year of drinking had been more egregious than any other. As if the desire were some scornful woman, punishing him for walking away.
Last night, he recalled with a smile, he had kissed Gwenn. He had kissed her, and she had enjoyed it—though it had been thoroughly stupid of him to do. Better than the kiss, strangely, was the plan they had made. There was hope in it.
His hands shook. Immediately, he searched for a drink to steady them, but remembered he had thrown out all of the booze the night before. Given it away. Perseus and Ajax seemed glad, if surprised, at all the free booze.
Still feeling bad about what he had said to Conall, Lucius had also taken the short gladiator one of his finest vintages yet to be consumed. Conall took the amphora, but did not seem as if he would use it. His brow was low, his eyes haunted with shadows.
There was something correct to say to Conall, but Lucius didn’t know what it was. But giving him something without expecting anything in return was a start.
He had not slept well, tossing and turning frequently, but what sleep he did have was restful and real. When drinking, most of his sleep had only ever been on the surface of unconsciousness. Resting in that gentle, fragile limbo between wakefulness and daydreaming. Real sleep was a luxury Lucius had forgotten.
Lucius soaked his hands and head in water until all the shaking stopped. It took several minutes before he felt steady enough to hold his walking stick.
Were it not for the steady nutrition and training from the ludus, he did not think his body would be in as good a place as it was now. He had been forced to maintain some health even with all his drinking; otherwise, he might have been one of those louts in the streets of Puteoli with his mind half-eaten by wine.
Outside, he was one of the first men to hit the sands. Breakfast was a quick piece of hard bread, eaten slow on the way outside. The ludus thought it better to begin the day hungry so that that hungry may better translate into a drive to win.
There was a sheet nailed to the shaded stand where the gladiators gathered to drink water during the day. On it were the matches for the upcoming anniversary games. He saw matches for many of the esteemed gladiators at the Varinius ludus, among them Conall, Flamma, Ajax, and Perseus.
But more important to him were the matches listed for his current trainees.
He had given a list of four names to Murus a few days prior for recommendation for the games. Ros, definitely the superior in fighting skill of the sisters, who had trained with distinction and bested nearly everyone in sparring matches. Onane, an Eastern woman well-suited with a spear who never said anything above a whisper. Sabiana, probably one of the most natural fighters he’d seen in the ludus, with the exception of Gwenn—who, naturally, was also chosen.
He saw their names listed now. Ros and Onane were to fight in a team. Sabiana and Gwenn both had one-on-one matches, both fighting against hoplamachus. He would have to speak to Murus to correct his earlier decision to make the two retiarii. Sabiana and Gwenn would fight now as murmillos.
All of them fought women from another ludus—from House Malleola. It was impossible to know what the quality of the other women were—they would all be unknowns.
Lucius could only hope that he took the training of his novices more seriously than House Malleola. It was probably a safe bet, considering the low opinion of women fighters in general—but even safe bets were still gambles.
House Malleola had risen to be the main rival of House Varinius over the last year or so. Their previous rival, House Buteo, had fallen when their lanista was charged by the Governor of Puteoli with charges of treason—something along the lines of hoping to use his veritable “army” of gladiators to assassinate the emperor.
It seemed a ridiculous plot, but the dominus Quintus Pompilius Buteo was disgraced and exiled for it, and all his property put up for auction—including his slaves. House Malleola took advantage. Their paterfamilias had expressed a long-standing interest in gladiator shows, and bought up as many of the newly available fighters as he could.
And apparently, House Malleola now wanted the good attentions of Senator Otho by providing him with some gladiatrices just as he wanted for the upcoming games.
On the sands, Lucius’s trainees filed out slow. He got to watch them arrive on the sands for the first time in weeks of training. Gwenn was there first, smiling as ever. Then Sabiana, Ros and Kav. Then Carly, Lilie, Elisa, Callia, Asoll, Rhinea, Onane, and Tullia. It surprised him that he knew all of their names without trying.
He bid them good morning and shared the news of the upcoming fights. They wouldn’t know to check the listing at the water trough. Veteran gladiators checked it on the mornings near games on instinct. He could remember the hot thrill of learning he had been given the honor of fighting in the primus—the main event, the last fight of the day—some years ago.
That same hot thrill was reflected in Gwenn’s face now as he gave her the news of her fight. It pleased him to communicate something that made her normal smile intensify so very much.
“But what do the rest of us do now?” asked Kav. “Do we just take the days off until the fight?”
“Kav wants to know if you lot get to take the day off.” Lucius walked up and down their line. “Does anyone care to answer that?”
Sabiana volunteered. “The gladiatrices who do not fight still train, Doctore.”
“And why is that?”
“A gladiatrix trains every day until she wins a fight, Doctore.”
Lucius smiled. That was correct.
Chapter 23
“Hello Lucius,” said Porcia. “It’s nice of you to come.”
“You requested my presence, Domina. And so here I am.”
She sounded drunk. She smelled it too, even from a distance. The material of her gown was so thin that he could see her nipples, pink and firm. Her breasts were pale in the moonlight. She had dotted her neck and chin with spots of deep red wine.
They were in her bedchamber. There were skylights in the ceiling in a square formation around the panel of her bed. She was not in the bed yet—Porcia hated to be that obvious—but she was in a long couch directly next to it. Outside, cicadas hummed, filling the night air with their song. Young, smooth-skinned slaves stood at the ready at the entrance of the chamber and next to Porcia, able to serve at a moment’s notice with more wine or fetch some new treat for their mistress.
The object, he understood quite clearly, was for she and her to sleep with one another.
It was less than a week now until the anniversary games. Lucius had lost himself in training. He performed his exercises for his injured shoulder in the morning and at night. His arm felt looser as a result, though by this time of night he was usually sore.
All day he helped the women train. At night, if he had something on his mind, he would say it to Gwenn.
She felt like his captive, sometimes. He was not sure that she had a choice in listening to him. But she did not act as if she was imprisoned—by him or by the ludus. This place was her home, and she thrummed with the incumbent glory of her wins in the arena.
As days with Gwenn pressed onward, it was harder and harder to justify his great, gleaming lie to her. And yet he could not stop himself from continuing with it.
It wasn’t entirely a lie, he told himself. Just an omission. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
And she clearly had adjusted to the death of her father already. Why bring it up again and mix around all those horrible feelings?
He had never met another woman
like her, not in all his life. Not in a lifetime of being around women who adored the arena and the men inside. None of them had understood, truly. They only saw the men—masculine and ripped, hungry for battle—and the women would feel their hearts race and their thighs wet from watching their displays of skill and strength.
But Gwenn knew the arena for what it was, or she seemed to. She loved the arena for the sake of the arena, for the freedom it represented. That slick thrill of being within the crowd and yet outside of it, the subject of their adoration.
Sometimes, he spoke to her of the places he had been that were not the ludus of House Varinius. Other times, he spoke of fights he had lost. They discussed strategy in the arena, and what she might do to keep herself alive. He told her of how an opponent hunching over was likely to run out of breath quicker. An opponent showboating often was open to many counterattacks. An opponent not showboating at all was so focused as to become tunnel-visioned, and so an intelligent fighter could run circles around their strategy.
They did not talk about their kiss. The heat of it, the passion on both sides. They both seemed afraid of the subject—like it would ruin what good had begun to develop for them.
Other than that, it didn’t matter what he said to her. All he wanted to do was look at her lovely countenance and speak. She made him live in the moment. All uncertainty about his past and his future melted away, and the desire to drink left him.
The desire came back, of course. But just knowing there was some outlet he could look forward to—that was enough. For now. In all honesty, he had not been tested that much.
Until this night, now, where he stood in front of Porcia dressed in a sheer gown and holding an amphora of her finest wine.
This tactic had been employed many times since they had “ended” their affair. Always, Lucius would see through her offers to share wine for what they were—she was lonely, and any male callers she had been relying on to relieve her sexual tension either hadn’t shown or had disappointed her.
Porcia was a woman who was rather used to having a gladiator for a lover; that left rather a lot to live up to for any normal Roman citizen who made his trade in softer pursuits.
