Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) (19 page)

“Perhaps not.” Lucius shrugged. “But that doesn’t make your life any less tough. I wonder...” Lucius’s face twitched. “Look, there’s not an easy way to talk about this with you, all right? But Caius and I have talked about it at length. And it’s something we want to do.”

Already Conall knew where this was going.

“Buying my freedom?”

“Yes. I know when Caius spoke to you about it, you were insulted. He felt terrible.”

“That was my fault.” Conall shook his head. “I get angry. I can’t...no, I
can
help it. I didn’t help it then. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“He knows that. He's been your friend too long to get hung up on some misunderstanding.”

“Tell him anyway.”

Lucius smiled. “Of course I will. Of course.” His mouth shifted from one side to another. “Will you take us up on it? Get out of this fight?”

Conall straightened. He could feel that rage coming up again. But he did not want to lash out at Lucius. Not him.

“It’s not what you think, Conall. I know you’ll fight the Titan. I know you’ll do it valiantly and skillfully. I don’t put it beyond you to win. But you don’t
have
to. That’s what we’re offering you. Not a way out of sure death. Just a way out.”

“...no.”

Even Conall had trouble believing he’d said it. His voice was a croaking mess.

Lucius shook his head, smiling softly. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s all right. I don’t understand myself.”

“Is it the buying aspect of it all? If that’s what it is, I can take you away, now, from the entirety of this business. Slip you out clean as a knife through a sheet. No longer a slave. We’ll keep you safe and alive for as long as you need. We’ve made some connections in North Africa. You could work there. Make a life for yourself. You’d be a hell of a bodyguard, Conall.”

“I don’t want to be a bodyguard. I want...”

He didn’t know how to explain it. The love for the arena wasn’t gone in him. He didn’t relish any thought of killing other men. He was not a madman. And yet there was no other place in the world with anything with the same structure of reason and purpose. Outside in the world, he would be just another heartbroken man. At least in the arena he was a heartbroken man who could do what he was supposed to.

“I want you to understand that I’m not going to leave. I’m going to fight this man. And perhaps I’ll die. But I’ll die with every man and woman in Rome knowing what I am capable of.”

Lucius blanched. “If they know your name, that is little difference in the long term, my friend. All names die. Even those on the Wall of Turmedites.”

“I did not say I would be on the Wall. I said they would know what I am capable of. And I would too, finally. This is the task—the biggest in the world, the one that cannot be overcome. And what doubts would be left in the world for the man who overtook them? What doubts would be left in the man?” Conall had started standing as he spoke. He sat, shaking his head. “I suspect none.”

“Trust me, friend. The doubts of a man follow him wherever he goes, no matter what he accomplishes. Fighting doubts is wrestling with shadows and sunlight. They will be there, ever visible, even though you toss and turn. The better to accept them and move on with your life.”

“I don’t know that that is possible without doing this first.”

Lucius shrugged. “Aye. Well. In case you live, then. Be sure not to seek out another Titan in your life.”

Conall hoped that he would not.

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L
eda’s head felt it was splintered in a thousand pieces. It was dark. She raised her fingers to her forehead, touching there, and felt the thick knob of a bruise. It was tender, and pressing against it made her head swim.

She remembered everything. Being taken. Being fooled. Waves of shame flowed through her. She should have known—why didn’t she
know
?

It felt so obvious now. But the lure of freedom—the lure of her family's forgiveness—had simply been too sweet. Her hands were bound, the ropes narrow and rough, biting against her skin. It felt futile to struggle against them.

“Ah, she awakens.”

She was in a wagon, she realized, creaking slowly along the road. The voice came from the driver of the wagon.

Her captor. Her assassin.

In the wagon with her was the collection of the armor and weapons from the guards. The tied spears were jammed against her back, slowly knotting her muscles tight. Props, all of it. She wondered if the gold on the armor and weapons were even real. The wagon rode over a bump in the road and she looked over the side.

“Do not think to run away, Princess. I will hunt you down. I can run faster than you.”

She believed him. Her legs were bound at the ankles.

Something else suddenly occurred to her—he spoke to her in her own language. His pronunciation was perfect. He must have been native to Armenia.

“Why are you doing this? Aren’t we from the same place? This will help none of our people.”

The man laughed. “Oh yes, this is all part of my plot to better our country. I’m very political. Can’t you tell?” He rapped the side of the wagon, amused with himself. “No, of course not. Money, Princess. It is always money. Even when it is political, it is money.”

Of course. A reward on her head. It must have been very large to bring him from so far away.

But there must have been some way to escape. There was always a way, somehow.

The knife. The knife on her thigh. Had he thought to look there? Would anyone? Men never thought a woman held a weapon on her person. Many slaves and prostitutes survived the night more because of the low expectations of men.

She carefully pushed her thigh against the wagon, feeling carefully. Something bumped.

Yes.

Her heart caught as she felt the hard leather sheath press against the wood of the wagon.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

She didn’t care about the answer. Anything to keep him talking and distracted. The knife was in her grasp. Slowly, carefully, she let it out from the sheath. It sang quietly as it freed from its hold.

“Ah, that.” He sounded pleased with himself. “You are worth a great deal dead. And indeed, that was what I was hired to do. But then I began to think. What might you be worth alive? Not to your family, of course. They sent the order.” He made a small crowing sound. “That must hurt, yes. I expect you’ll get over it in time. But who benefits from your life? Who might think you valuable?”

He waited for an answer. She hid the knife between her hands.

“The Parthians, of course. Their star is fading. They would want the Armenians in their pocket again. And what better way to make this happen than by putting the royal Armenian daughter into their hands? A simple marriage, and all of a sudden they have a claim to the land there. Vahram is a smart man. They will see my value. They will reward me greatly.”

The ropes on her hands split in two. There was no reason to delay. Wasn’t that how Conall had put it? In a fight, you were either on the offensive or you were dead. She reached up with terrific speed and drove the knife into the base of his thick neck.

For several moments, it was ugly.

Conall sometimes described violence as triumphant. Glorious. Honorable. But it was dark outside and there was no one on the road except for Leda and her captor. And there was nothing triumphant about a man stabbed in the back. He groped, mouth gurgling, hands patting uselessly at the short handle of the blade.

Eventually, he fell over dead.

Leda had to take the knife out to cut her ankles free. She waited to do it, in some way rationalizing the blade as a poison that needed time in the skull to do its job. When she wrenched it free, a small pop of blood followed. It covered the seat of the wagon and dripped to the road.

She cut her ankles free and hopped to the front of the wagon. Unguided, the horses had veered off the road and started to graze.

In the stories, it was always smart to search a man’s clothes before getting rid of his body. She did this now, finding nothing but a large key. She kept it—perhaps there was a chest with some food on it in the wagon. She would check in the morning.

Now, at night, the most important thing to do was to discard the corpse.

With some effort, she managed to push Vahram’s body off the wagon and into the brush in the side of the road. He would be found some day, no doubt. She wondered, perhaps, if whoever found him would be sorry.

She was not.

The truth about her family, her parents, wounded her deeply. But there was nothing she could do about it by hurting. The assassin’s admission would have hurt more had she not already known it for the truth from the second she received her sister’s letter. And even that would have hurt more if such an act was not so typical of them.

What hurt most was that they knew her better than anyone. They knew her better than anyone, and this was still what they chose to do to her. If Leda were to allow others to determine her value for her, this would be crushing.

The horses whinnied, turning the wagon hard away from the road. She let them. That was a dreadful thought, that her parents knew her better than anyone.

Except they didn’t.

They knew her better than
almost
anyone. Her sisters knew her better. And Taniel, yes, him too.

And especially Conall.

Leda straightened. There was work to be done. She could see it as clearly as a letter written out on the land in front of her. The reins of the horses were old leather, and they cracked appropriately when she whipped them, spurring the horses back onto the road.

She did not know exactly what road Vahram had taken her on. But all roads all led back to the same place eventually.

––––––––

T
he road to Rome was well-paved and well-guarded. This far inside of the Italian peninsula, everything surrounding the city was heavily protected by propriety. Any slight retreat on any upkeep—the maintenance of the roads, the roadside shrubs and trees, the regular guard towers, the regular guard patrols—was met with heavy protest by the citizens of Rome.

They would not allow their precious capital to ever be infringed upon by any sort of squalor—except of course the sort that ran rampant within the walls of the city.

The ludus of House Varinius traveled in a short column. At the front were three armed guards on horseback. Behind them were a series of wagons holding gladiators and supplies, followed again by a few walking slaves and a carriage with Publius and a few chosen servants inside. At the rear of the column were more guards still.

Conall walked behind one wagon full of gladiators, his arms tied to the railing. Publius didn’t trust him—even though it was Conall who had demanded to fight in the Colosseum, Publius suspected something terrible.

The only terrible deeds Conall would commit would be in the Colosseum, however.

Septus, as a doctore, was allowed to walk as he pleased in the column. He matched his pace with Conall’s, taking up beside him.

“Ho, gladiator.”

“Doctore.”

“How do you feel?”

“Ready.” Conall smiled darkly. “That’s the correct answer, isn’t it?”

“Is it the true one?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ve always been ready or I never have. I don’t feel different, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

“You miss the girl.”

“Yes.”

Septus clapped his shoulder and nodded. “That’s a sorry business.”

Conall looked at him in surprise. “I would have thought you’d say she is better off.”

“No doubt she is, gladiator. I have little doubt of that. I told you the affair was bad news, and would wound you, didn’t I? Still, it must hurt, and for that I am sorry. I would have liked to have my hands on a princess some time.” He must have seen the look on Conall’s face. “Not yours, naturally.”

“You don’t stop being an ass, do you?”

“Every man must follow his nature or be destroyed by it. You’re a true enough example of that. Look at all this.” He gestured to the column. “You made this happen, friend. Every step of the way.”

“I know.”

“And I know there’s no sense in trying to get you to back out of it somehow.”

“I can’t. The fight is set. There’s no turning back now.”

“With everything else you’ve done,” said Septus, “I have a hard time believing that you couldn’t do something about it now if you really wanted.”

Conall shrugged. He supposed he could, but not many peaceful ways sprung to mind. All paths ended in bloodshed for him now.

“You make my point for me,” said Septus. “You followed your nature here. You could do naught else. Were you to try otherwise, I expect you would have been struck down by now. Now you’ll be struck down in the arena where you belong. Some men in their nature pull others with them. You pulled an entire ludus into yours. I have little doubt you’ll continue to follow your nature and put on a show that none in Rome have ever seen.”

Conall laughed quietly. “That’s the idea.”

“I’ll say this over the next few days, I’m sure,” he said, clapping Conall on the back. “But good luck. You will need Fortune on your side in this one.”

Conall said nothing. But deep down, he knew Septus was right.

––––––––

“I
t’s all settled, Princess. You are officially recognized as a free woman—and visiting dignitary—by Rome.”

The imperial official's office was in a small cubicle in Rome attached to a series of much larger tabernums for all manner of official business. The imperium ran everything, and so there were offices for every part of the economy and the government. On her way to this office, she had walked by three others for taxation, two for ship building, and another for coin minting.

The man Leda spoke with was a small freedman, his hair slicked over to one side. He was young, acne still pocking at his face, and probably eager to take some girl for a wife. That, or he was in dire financial trouble with the wrong people.

Whatever this agent’s circumstances, fortune had favored her choice when she walked into the small office that morning and began the negotiations to change her status. Already, the assassin Vahram had freed her—but a freed woman in Rome had little in the way of privileges and—most importantly—protection.