Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) (15 page)

They had been chanting his name and he had not heard them.

He held his sword ready. If he did not kill Felix and Set at the editor’s command, his own life was forfeit. A fear took him then—it was not something he had done for over a year, an execution.

The last one had sent him into a depression so dark he did not think he would ever leave.

But it was a fear obligated to nothing. The governor waved his handkerchief, smiling broadly to the crowd. His jowls shook from their triumphant cheers.

Live, the handkerchief meant. All fallen fighters would live.

And slowly the crowd began again to chant Conall's name—and this time he heard them.

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D
irectly after the fight, the event was ended. All that was left at the end of the games was for the customary tokens to be thrown out to the crowd. Slaves entered the arena, carefully stepping around blood stained sand, and tossed light wooden balls up into the crowd.

The balls were marked with signs, which, when matched with vendors outside the arena, would bestow upon the owner of the ball some gift. Meat and cloth were common gifts, but sometimes there were even new horses or houses up for grabs. It depended entirely on how extravagant the editor wanted the affair to be—and the governor wanted this affair to be as extravagant as any in the city of Puteoli.

Right away, all Leda wanted to do was run down to the underbelly and wrap her body around Conall—never once letting him go for as long as he lived.

She would shower him in kisses and tell him he was fantastic and wonderful and
gods
maybe do something about how unstoppably turned on she felt.

It was a stupid, base feeling, she knew. But there was something inescapable about the arousal she felt when watching a man—
her
man—beat another in the arena. In that moment, he was the best in the city, maybe the best in the world. And it drove her wild to know that at any moment she liked, she could have this invincible warrior unleash everything he had on her.

And—she thought, with some great relish—inside of her.

Other women would no doubt want the spot. Prettier women. Silly strumpets with too much make-up and plenty of fine words for a victorious gladiator. Great fires of jealousy blazed in her mind at the thought, and so did the inescapable conclusion that she had to lock him down for herself with great permanence.

But she could not go to see him.

No, she was stuck in the box seats with the senators and the lanistas until the rank and file of the crowd emptied out into the streets and back into their homes. Or, more likely, their taverns where they would have a week’s worth of wine in a night. Already, heavily armed guardsmen prepared the roads for the nobles to make their way home unimpeded by the drunken ramblings and rages of the mob.

The lanistas all shook the hand of the governor in turn, thanking him for the privilege of having their gladiators fight in his games. The governor smiled at each with grace—taking extra indulgence in the lanistas of House Malleola and House Vibius.

“We do thank you for your mercy, Governor,” said Julius Calcus Malleola.

“Of course, Julius. Of course. Your Felix has a great many fights still left in him, I expect. And you, Titus. Your Set will no doubt need medical attention, yes? I think we ought to hire the best medicae in the city to get the job done. You’re so far from Capua. He’ll need rest before the journey back. That was a terrible wound in his side.”

“It’s already done, Governor. But thank you. We contacted the medici weeks ago.”

“Did you?” Trio gave a shrug, corpulent shoulders sliding like mountains in water. “Wonderful.”

But something about the way he looked made it seem as though he was already very well aware of that. He was a man who loved his excesses, the governor, but he seemed perfectly aware of his surroundings and his influences. It occurred to Leda that he wouldn’t have made it as a governor in Puteoli if he was a drunken, obese dimwit.

Somehow, that he was a drunken, obese mastermind made him rather scary.

The other guests left, and Leda’s hopes rose that she would be able to run and wrap her arms around Conall—but the governor placed a hand on Publius and kept him in the room.

“A word.”

Publius nodded, and they waited until the guests had passed through the doorway. In the interval, Publius turned to Leda.

“Have this,” he said. “I’m tired of keeping it on my person. You haven’t tried to steal it once.”

It was the letter he had kept from her.

“You expected me to steal it, Dominus?”

His mouth twitched. “Most slaves would have. You have integrity. I respect that.”

Leda did not know what to say to that. She cracked the seal on the scroll—still intact. Publius had his own integrity. She held it open, but did not read—Publius caught her hands, indicating for her to wait. The room was empty and it was just Leda, Publius, the governor, and his own slaves.

“This has been a rousing success, I would say.”

“I agree, Governor.”

“Good. That means you were paying attention. But how closely, I wonder? This was one step of many for me.”

Trio turned a seat slightly and sat down again. The cushion beneath his wide behind sagged heavily.

“I don’t know that I follow,” said Publius, “but I should like to, if you lead me along.”

“I want more for myself,” said Trio. “And more for this city. Rome is changing. Ever-changing. How many emperors have we had that did not even make their homes there? How many that were not even born in Italy?”

“Quite a few, Governor.”

“Rome’s star is fading. Believe you me, it is going down. Not the empire. Just the city.”

“I see.”

“Now.” The governor leaned forward. “Rome is
holy
, and I’ve no wish nor intent to claim otherwise. But Puteoli is a fine city. An honorable city, with a long history of doing what needs doing for the whole of this Empire. I want recognition for our work.”

“It would be well-deserved, Governor, especially given how much you have done for the place.”

“Thank you.” Trio nodded amiably. “But I was not fishing for compliments. I want to take a fighter from this city and send him to Rome. And I want him to fight in the most spectacular fight imaginable. I want him to fight their Titan, and I want him to win.”

Publius raised his eyebrows and let out a small breath. “That is quite the want, Governor.”

The Titan? That was the monster that Conall referenced. The unbeatable one. The one that he so desperately wanted to face. Her pulse elevated quickly. She forgot about the scroll in her hands.

“And I want that fighter to be from your ludus. You have provided me with show after show, excellence after excellence. I am tired of being outdone by Rome. If we beat them in the arena, we shall see how many of their fine nobles suddenly want to come visit Puteoli. They’ll want fine things, and so the purveyors of fine goods will set up shops here. Their money will go into the market, and so on and on. We will all be
rich
. And I will make you as rich as I can. But I need a win in the Colosseum, Publius. I need you to give it to me. It’s what I want. It’s what this city needs.”

“Do you have a preference in the choice of fighters, Governor?”

“Your Pertinax performed admirably today, of course. I expect word of him will spread like wildfire. But you know your men, and you can choose best.”

Publius's face was inscrutable. “Thank you, Governor. I will send word to you in a day’s time with my decisions.”

Her thrill for Conall’s victory felt small and hollow now. There would always be one more fight for him, she realized suddenly. That was the life of a gladiator. This thrill, this great adrenaline of winning, would always be balanced out by another life-threatening combat down the road.

She had to do her honest best to ensure that Conall never heard a single word of this conversation.

“I have a name in mind, Governor” said a voice from the hall.

Leda’s stomach dropped as Conall entered the room.

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D
irectly after the fight, Conall had entered the underbelly of the arena to great cheers from the other gladiators in the ludus. They clapped him on the back and shook him heartily, congratulating him on the win.

Some of the comments he got were a little insulting.

“I wasn’t convinced at first, but you really took it to them!”

“By the gods, I knew you’d die. You cost me fifty sestertii. But I’m glad you won!”

Thankfully, not too many of them were like that. Mostly it was men telling him what a good show he’d put on. That they were thrilled to have another Champion back in their ludus. And they should be, Conall knew, because it meant a bigger payday for all of them come time to fight again.

Diocles was in a corner, sulking. Conall made a mental note to rub the victory in his face at a later time.

But right then, what he wanted more than anything was to wrap his arms around Leda. And so he rushed up to the box—the guards knew him now, and would no more stand in the way of a gladiator fresh from such a victory than they would a ball of fire—to take his princess and kiss her until the sun came up.

And maybe more than that. His blood was up from the victory. While his manhood was not hard, he could definitely tell the switch was turned in his brain—he was
ready
for her in a way that he had never felt before, not even after long minutes of touching, petting, and kissing.

His hope was perhaps to catch her in the box and spend precious minutes alone with her. Hanging just outside the door, though, he overheard everything Publius and the governor spoke of.

As he entered the room fully, he paid no mind to Publius's barely-concealed scowl.

“You saw the display I put out there, Dominus” said Conall. “Put me in the match. I can win it.”

“Gladiator.” Publius’s back straightened. “I see you are once again flagrantly disregarding the rules of conduct for a slave.’

“Yes, Dominus. Breaking tradition is the word of the day. Or did you not just witness me beating two men in a primus?”

Trio chortled. “He has a point, Publius.”

Publius cranked his neck to one shoulder and then the other. Loud bony pops filled the box. “Governor, I respect your opinion a great deal. However, I would like to talk to you about a few other matters, privately...”

He put an arm around the Trio’s heavy back, guiding him past Conall.

Publius stopped for a moment, turning back. “Do not miss the wagon train. All property must be back in the ludus at the same time.”

Conall’s throat burned with words—but Leda was making strange sounds in the corner. He’d forgotten about her, almost, in his rush to be put into the Colosseum against the Titan. How often was it that two dreams were in the same room?

Leda was reading something. She was reading and she was trembling. Conall forgot about his protests and went to her.

“What is it?”

She handed him the scroll. He could read, but it was written in some language he did not know.

“What does it say?” he asked. He could make out nothing. “It’s short.”

“Gaiane was always a fan of brevity.” She smiled. “We made a code when we were young. You wouldn’t be able to read it even if you knew our language. It’s a simple code. Not enough to stop someone smart, but it worked well enough, I suppose.

She held it up, tracing her fingers along the words for him. “Father under sway of counselors. Assassins sent for you. Stop letters for Taniel. Trying to help.”

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V
ahram stewed in an inn for weeks after the attempt on Princess Leda. For the first several days, he got drunk and tried to shrug it off. But there was nothing doing. He had to fix it.

Somehow, he had to come up with a new plan. He sat on his bed with wine jostling at his side, rolling a coin in his hands this way and that.

He cursed the Gods high and low for the failure to take the girl on the streets.

It had been going well. Another thirty seconds and her throat would have been slit, her dying body covered by a sheet.

And then that gladiator had to act so damned noble. Who knew a gladiator had morals—would want to defend a woman with his very life? They were killing machines. What mattered to them one more corpse on the streets of Puteoli?

Nonsense. It was all nonsense.

Occasionally the innkeep wandered into his room and asked how long he would be. Vahram merely took out another bar of silver and told the man to shut his mouth. Vahram would leave when he left.

The room was dirty and small. Often, like most inns, it would have been used for several people at a time. It was only by Vahram’s high rate of pay that he kept it to himself. A girl downstairs offered herself to him several times, clearly hoping for silver bars of her own. He took advantage, and even paid her, though he had not enjoyed the experience.

Everything about this town, about himself, stunk of his failure. Even sex could not be enjoyed under the shadow of that disappointment.

He knew the girl had family in Armenia who wanted her dead—they had, indirectly, hired him. He wasn’t supposed to know she was a princess, or that she was connected so high-up.

It was a good thing he
did
know. Vahram sat on a fortune from his thefts over his travels. Enough to buy a plot of land and then some. He hoped to use it to retire. The life of an assassin was a good trade—even an honorable trade in his mind—but it was also a dangerous one. He had no thoughts of ranching or farming. There was enough money in his chest to come up with another idea for earning his way through life. But after he had the land.

Not that these dreams mattered. Supposing he did buy some plot and abandon the attempt on the princess, he would have been dead inside of a year. Royal families did not take kindly to being ignored, in his experience.

So, he had to come up with a solution. He wondered how much the girl knew about her family. She must have been scared all the time. Former royalty living as a slave in a school for gladiators. It was hard to imagine a rougher life.