Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (10 page)

Aeliana had heard the speech so many times that she expected she could recite from memory:

Welcome to House Varinius. Some of you will earn a place here. Some of you may die here. Some more of you will die in the arena as failures in your old life, shamed and purposeless.

But if you listen, and you work, you can shed the bounds of that old life. You will earn the favor of the crowd, and your name on the Wall of Turmedites, where you shall live in immortality!

I will shape you from men into gladiators. If you falter, I will work you. If you fail, I will drop your carcass into the sea. And if you succeed, I shall be the first to hold you up.

There was a pause. Aeliana knew he grinned with wicked, ready mirth.

It is my hope that you men take great pleasure in training. I certainly do.

The veteran gladiators began to form a circle—similar to the way they had when Caius arrived last week. They all knew the drill. There would be a sparring match between two fighters, and it would be dirty. The first one always was, to cow the other novices into submission.

“Chloe, go prepare our table.”

“But I want to watch the—”

Chloe’s voice fell as she saw the steel in Aeliana’s eyes. The medicae would have attended the table herself, but she had to watch the match, because that was the best way to know how the injury occurred.

Because there would definitely be one.

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“C
onall, is it?” Caius had to lean down to hear the man in the din of the crowded gladiators.

“Yes, Sir. Conall.”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir.’ My name is Caius.”

“And Ursus?”

“The both, that’s right.”

The man, Conall, was about the same age as Caius had been when he first entered the ludus. He had thick reddish-brown hair and bright blue eyes vibrating with youth and pain—much the same as any young slave who had found his way into a ludus. Long bruises and scars lined the flesh of his back; evidence of repeated floggings.

“I’ve seen a lot of people in my time. You look as if you’re from a Germanic tribe. Is that right?”

Conall nodded, somewhat surprised. “Goth. I lived near the border to Rome in the East. We learned your language. But the Romans invaded anyway.”

“You’re bad at taking orders, I see.”

“I don’t take well to submission.”

“That could bode very ill for a gladiator.”

Conall crossed his arms. “Death awaits us all.”

“True,” Caius laughed. “I was not particularly good at taking instruction either.”

Flamma entered the middle of the circle, holding one training sword high.

“One of you will fight me.” His grin was as wicked and yellow as ever. He circled with the sword, looking from fighter to fighter. The sword point cast briefly over Conall, but Flamma shook his head. “No. Too small. Not even a challenge.”

Caius felt Conall stir, but put a hand on the boy’s shoulders. He clearly had fire, but Flamma was not someone to fight with fire alone.

He stopped on the very next fighter, though. A tall young man with a wild mass of red hair. “You, boy.” Flamma kicked a sword through the sand at him. “Fight me.”

The lad, hesitating briefly, picked up the sword and entered the ring with Flamma.

It was a short, brutal, ugly affair. Toying with the lad, Flamma let him swing his sword several times, “narrowly” parrying each blow. As the lad grew in confidence, he opened himself up to more and more attacks.

“He thinks he’s doing well,” said Conall. “Poor bastard.”

Caius could only agree.

After a few minutes of this circus act, Flamma finally became serious. With one blow, he disarmed the lad. With another, he knocked the air from his chest. And with another series of swipes to the chest and head, he knocked him out cold. His blood sprayed on the sand, spouting from a heavy gash in his forehead. The lad, struggling to stand, rotated woozily. Flamma reared up for another blow, and to everyone’s surprise, Conall jumped out in front of him.

“You won, all right? You clearly won. So let him be seen to.”

Caius, perhaps, was too well-ingrained in the systems of the ludus to protest as Conall had. Once you were in this place long enough, he knew, you simply became used to the brutality exhibited on a daily basis.

There was a sort of code. If the lad had asked for mercy, for instance, or if Murus had ordered them to stop, then Caius would recognize that it needed to stop. But as these things hadn’t happened, the match would end at Flamma’s discretion.

And there was Conall, doing the right thing just because he knew what it was. Caius felt a sudden stab of envy at his moral clarity.

“It’s over, is it? I won?” Flamma laughed harshly. “Oh, terrific.”

He whipped Conall over the side of the head with his sword, knocking him down. Now Caius stepped forward—and as Caius stepped forward, so did a number of other gladiators. Flamma grinned at Caius, goading him forward with an evil glint in his eyes.

But just like clockwork, Murus sounded out the air-splitting crack of his whip—and all the fighters stood down, Flamma included.

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F
lamma had done a number on the poor lad. The gash on his head was large, but not untreatable. Aeliana approached it with her normal vigor, first stopping the bleeding with a sequence of compresses and herbs, and then starting in on stitching the flesh back together.

The mending of the flesh was the easy part. Whether the lad would ever be the same again was another. Flamma had hit him
hard
, and a blow like that could change a person entirely.

In the past, Aeliana had seen hard blows to the head turn ferocious lions of men into middling kittens. She had seen mild-mannered types turn into unstable hotheads, liable to go off the handle from the slightest provocation. She had seen men slip into comas and never come out.

“Do you think I can start today?”

The question was from Conall, the small German who—apparent fool that he was—stood up to Flamma. At the very least, though, he was a noble fool. Aeliana was just finishing the stitchwork on the other young man now, a task easy enough to accomplish and speak at the same time.

Conall's own injuries seemed more superficial. He had a long cut down his cheek, and a bruise forming there that threatened to take over the whole side of his face, but otherwise he was fine. She had given him a poultice of herbs to apply to his face, which he held now.

“I would wait out the rest of the day before returning to training.”

Conall shook his head. The poultice sprinkled some green matter down. “I can’t.”

Aeliana knew he couldn’t, and she knew why.

If Conall missed the entirety of the first day, he would be out of place for the rest of his tenure in the ludus. He would gain a reputation as a coward. The veterans would not trust him, as they had not been able to subject him to the hazing that was so common. And the novices would not trust him either, as he would not have suffered as they did.

“You asked for what I thought. That is what I think. I cannot stop you from doing what you will.”

“Did you see that Caius? He leapt in right after me.” Conall smiled. “A good man, him.” He paused. “Is he a good man?”

“He’s as good as I’ve seen in this place. Short of someone stepping between Flamma and his intended victim.” They laughed. “But yes. I like him dearly. He is...there is something altogether right about him.”

Conall rapped his knuckles on the table, smiling broadly.

“I’ll tell him you like him, payment for fixing my head here. Maybe you’ll kiss.”

Her stitching threatened to go crooked. She stopped and turned. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“It’s clear you like him. Where I come from, we don’t hold for this waiting and seeing nonsense. You like someone, you tell them. Life is short. And shorter here than in most places, from what I can tell. You should kiss him before someone kills him.”

That, thought Aeliana, was exactly why they
would not
kiss.

What was it with men in her office telling her to kiss Caius? Was he running a campaign? First Lucius and then this one.

It would have been altogether ludicrous if she did not want to comply so badly.

“Thank you for your input,” she said, voice slightly rough. “I think you mentioned you wanted to return to training?”

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T
he rest of the day passed without incident. When Conall returned to training, Caius took him under his wing and sparred with him. He went easy on him, but not so easy as to keep him green. Just hard enough to keep Murus and the other doctores from suspecting any light treatment, but not so hard to hurt Conall further.

When they broke for dinner, he sat in the mess hall with Conall, Septus and Lucius. The barley gruel, dried fruit, and bread they had for meals was not the most appetizing of food, but after a day of training, it tasted as good as any feast.

Caius had eaten it nearly every day for so many years that it surprised him now, after his absence, that he had forgotten how much he missed the singularly belly-filling sensation from the gruel. The only times he would have eaten other sorts of food was—like most of a gladiator’s niceties—when the Dominus felt especially nice or when he had won a fight.

Lucius was in a talking mood at the table, which was normal for him. At the end of the day, he always got excited. It was closer to a drink then.

“Do you think,” Lucius asked Caius, “that you could win a match against the Titan?”

“Now, or three years ago?”

Lucius smiled. “Three years ago, let’s say. In your prime.”

“Is that how it is? I'm past my prime?” Caius punched Lucius in the shoulder. “Very well. Against the Titan, in my 'prime,' let’s say.”

“Who’s the Titan?” asked Conall.

“Who’s...” Lucius’s jaw dropped. “Come now. I know you’re a savage barbarian and all of that, but no one is
that
savage.”

“Oh yes,” said Conall, mouth half full. “My people are quite savage. We went out of our way to live directly next to the empire that runs on slave labor and kills people for entertainment, and never once did we try to move away. Except for, of course, when we
did
, and the Romans held us at the tips of their swords and told us we couldn’t move, unless
more
savage folks moved in to our region.”

“He’s got a mouth,” said Septus. “He ought to watch it.”

Septus was born a slave, like many gladiators. But he had been granted his freedom at a young age by a beneficent Dominus, and joined up with the army shortly after. When, starving in the North African desert on a doomed patrol, he was caught stealing provisions, his legate sold him to the nearest slaver as punishment. Even today, he still did not like talk against the Roman Legion.

“I’m right here if you want to watch it for me, old man.”

Caius put a hand on Septus, setting him back down on the bench.

“What say we not talk of soldiering?” said Lucius. “I asked Caius here a question. And to clarify, Conall—the Titan is the worst being on the planet. He’s probably more god than man. That’s the story anyway. He’s undefeated in the arena. As in, ever. Not just on a hot streak like Caius was for...what, five years?”

“Six.”

“Anyway, who's counting? The Titan fights in whichever style he chooses, unlike the rest of us. You come at him as a retarius, he fights as a murmillo. You come at him as a hoplomachus, he fights cestus, with his fists, just to show how good he is.”

“I thought,” said Conall, “that someone who won that much had earned his freedom?”

“He’s earned it six or seven times. He keeps throwing his rudis back at the crowd. He just wants to fight. And kill. I don't think I've ever heard of a match of his that didn't end in death.”

“Is he still fighting beasts?” asked Caius. “I don’t keep up.”

“Three bears last games. With a club. And a hand tied behind his back.”

“Come on,” said Septus. “Now you’re just making it up.”

“It’s all true,” Lucius insisted. “Ask Murus.”

Conall spoke up now. “I bet I could beat him.”

They all laughed heartily.

“Come on, Conall. You’re not even trained.”

“But when I am. I could beat him. I bet you I could.”

“You won’t even get in the
arena
with him, little man.” Lucius shook his head. “I don’t stand much of a chance of it, and I haven’t been beaten for more than three years.”

“Then I will go five years without a loss. And he’ll have to fight me.”

Caius was not listening. The mess hall was one of the longer buildings made for the gladiators, but it still was not very large. The several dozen gladiators were packed inside, often sitting shoulder to shoulder.

And so Caius was not so very far away from where Flamma sat, miming the duel against the red-haired lad earlier that afternoon. Flamma ate quite a lot of food, usually receiving a double portion for his status in the collegium.

He used the gruel now like fake blood, pasting the face of one of his friends. The gruel was spread out in the same pattern as the lad’s wound from earlier. It was one thing to beat a man. But to mock him when he wasn’t around was too much. His blood began to rise, and he found he could not stop his voice.

“Maybe you ought to brag of something more worthy than you, Flamma.”

“What?” Flamma stood up immediately, closing the distance quickly to Caius’s table. “You mean like beating you, is that it?”

“What I mean is that if all you have to brag of is victories in the training sands, you’re as much of a champion as I am of a kitchen.”

Laughs and heavy “oohs” filled the air.

“Why don’t you stand up and say that to my face, you bear shit?”

Caius stood. “You are bad for this ludus. And you ought to know it. And if I have to beat you to a pulp to drive that point home, I will.”

Guards approached now. Flamma began to back off, but as he did, he shoved one of his friends into Caius.

The man’s name was Cammedius. He was large and thick of body, like Flamma, but had deeply olive colored skin. Cammedius swung wildly at Caius, and Caius dodged and swung back. His aim was true; Cammedius reeled, knocking his head on a pillar. Now Lucius and Septus tugged at Caius, who still shouted obscenities at the retreating, smiling Flamma.