Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) (7 page)

They continued their small, awkward stare down. Hoping to relieve them, Caius coughed briefly.

Porcia glared. “Oh, I see now. Yes. You must save your money to let the
fighters
walk through the house. Very clear.”

She stormed away, casting daggers at Caius all the while.

“Just a moment, Caius,” said Rufus. “I must finish my affairs before we can speak.”

Two new arrivals walked in behind Caius. One was Quintus Pompilius Buteo, a rival lanista to Rufus. And the other was Felix—a gladiator, no doubt being used as a bodyguard, and the brother of the last man Caius had killed in the arena.

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A
s Rufus and Quintus hashed out their deal inside the office, Felix and Caius were left alone with one another. Guards stood nearby, as they always did in the house, but they were not much in the business of listening to slaves.

“I understood that you had retired.”

“I had.”

Felix was tall, pale, and bald. He had dark blue eyes that seemed to soak in every breath Caius made. They were cold eyes, like snow smashed a hundred times under a tree in winter.

“I thought it a smart move,” said Felix, “considering you would have been a dead man if you stepped in the arena with me.”

“I myself considered it a smart move at the time.”

“Quintus would have made it happen, a match between us. It would have been a great story for the crowd. To avenge his brother’s death, the young veteran must fight the Champion of Puteoli.”

“I don’t remember you being much of a veteran.” Caius smiled. “And it would not have been very much of a fight.”

The fight with Vox, though—Felix’s brother—that had been a fight for the ages. Caius only wished it hadn’t ended like it had. But Felix didn’t seem ready to listen to him on that account.

“You’ll forgive me for disagreeing, Caius. And now you’re back. Here. Ready to fight again?”

“That’s the idea.”

Felix smiled. His teeth were small and white. “I’ll see you in the arena then.”

“Anything is possible when it comes to the games.”

“No. I’ll see you in the arena. Quintus owes me a favor or two. And your man, Rufus, owes everyone in this town thanks to the debts of his mad wife. I’ll see you in the arena. And then I’ll kill you.”

Caius was tired, and Felix angered him. Life and death in the arena was often in control of a gladiator’s hands—but Vox’s death was not. And everyone knew it. And it angered Caius to no end to be blamed for something he was merely a tool in delivering.

So, he lashed out. “That’s tall talk for a bald pup who begged me to spare his brother’s life.”

Flame sparked in Felix’s eyes and he shoved Caius hard. Caius shoved him back and punched him across the jaw. Within seconds, the nearby guards had them separated. Felix twisted and kicked, gnashing his teeth.

“I’ll kill you, Caius. I’ll kill you and wear your bloody skin like a cloak. Cloak from a bear, how about that?”

Caius just smiled, seeing the bloody lip he gave Felix. That had felt good. One of the few things he had heard over his years in peace was the constant badmouth Felix had given him. Felix spread rumors that Caius had wanted to kill Vox, or had paid off Senator Otho to order Vox be executed. It was all lies. Vox's death never should have happened.

He knew he would pay for striking Felix one way or another, but he enjoyed lashing out. A gladiator, through and through. The old stuff was coming out already.

Rufus and Quintus exited the office, neither looking very surprised. Gladiators fighting among themselves was, after all, nothing new to a lanista.

“I shall take care of all of it, make no mistake,” said Rufus. “Pleasant travels back home.” He turned to Caius and the guards holding him. “Bring him in.”

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R
ufus sat on his table, legs wobbling just above the floor. In many ways—an exceptional many—the man was like a child. But he had a good mind for quality in a fighter, and he had never spoken but truth to Caius. Across from him were Caius and Murus.

As a doctore, Murus had considerably fewer restrictions on his movement throughout the estate, though he was still a slave. He was considered thoroughly part of the household.

Caius, who had sold himself into slavery as a gladiator, also enjoyed fewer restrictions than most slaves who had been forcefully brought into the trade, or born into it. Still, he didn't want to flaunt such things around. Judging from this afternoon, there was already enough ill will in the ludus against him.

Wine was served. Murus never drank, citing always too many bad memories. He liked his mind fresh.

“No, thank you,” Caius said, seconding Murus. “Gladiators are not allowed such, except in victory.”

Rufus sighed and nodded, taking a gulp of his own glass. “Yes, well. Tell that to Lucius.”

“Someone should,” Murus agreed. “Though he lives on the wave of several victories, we worry he forgets his place.”

Murus sounded like a concerned parent more than a doctore, which Caius supposed was due to his long tenure at the House Varinius.

“I can talk to Lucius if you should like,” said Caius. “He listened to me. He may yet. Is that why I’m here?”

Taking another swig, Rufus shook his head. “No. We must talk, you and I and Murus. We must assess.”

“Your concern stretches past Lucius,” said Caius, “and onto me. Because of what happened with Flamma.”

At this, Rufus and Murus exchanged a glance. Slipping off the table, Rufus pulled a chair in front of Caius.

“What are the qualities of an exceptional gladiator, Caius? Do you recall me telling you when you came here?”

Caius did. He had been raised as a slave from a very young age. When he was fourteen, he was a troublemaker. He constantly got into fights with other slaves and even some freedmen, and when he struck a boy of noble birth, that was the end for him. He was sent to the mines for the rest of his life.

Or so he thought.

When Rufus arrived in the mines one afternoon, years later, to round up good, young fighting men, Caius was one of many who volunteered. As far as he knew, he was the only one who survived past his second fight.

A quick, bloody death in the arena seemed a preferable fate than the slow, agonizing end facing him in the mines. Caius had no issue volunteering then.

“A gladiator requires courage and strength,” answered Caius. “Discipline and training. Tenacity. Stamina. Fearlessness in the face of death. The will to win.”

“And?”

“And...” Caius smiled small. “A desire for fame.”

“Is that what has pulled you back here?”

Since that morning, he'd felt a terrific pull on his being, and most all of it from Aeliana's burning presence. But he'd been planning to return to the ludus now for several days.

“I told your agent when we signed the contracts. I am here for my daughter. That is my purpose, and I am cleaved to it.”

“For such a purpose,” said Murus, “I could see a man with great courage and strength. Tenacity. The building of discipline by training. Stamina. The will to win. But not fearlessness. And not a desire for fame.”

“Whether I live or die is of no consequence so long as my daughter is attended to,” said Caius. “Love of a child makes any man fearless. And as far as fame, well. I have a desire for the money it brings. So there is that.”

Rufus mulled this over for a moment, spinning his wine in his cup.

“It would not be, perhaps, so extraordinary a fate as glory in the arena,” said Rufus, “but a man like you, with the knowledge you have, could work well as a doctore for us. Murus has been pulling double duty teaching the Thracian style and administrating.”

“I want to fight, Dominus.”

I want
, he thought,
for this sour run of luck to be done, and permanently.

“Be reasonable, Caius. Flamma lashed you soundly.”

“Place him against me another time, when I have training behind me. When my stamina is back at its old levels. I will take him in half a minute.”

Standing, Rufus snapped his fingers and had the attending slave take the tray of wine and cups away.

“Very well. We’ll wait and see, if that’s what you like. There are games coming next month. If I can find a place for you, I shall.”

“But if you slip up—we won’t put you in the arena,” said Murus, standing with Rufus. “We can’t afford such embarrassments now. And I will not go lightly on you in training.”

Caius took his hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He only wished he felt as good as his bravado sounded.

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G
ladiators, fools that they were, did not come in to see Aeliana upon the moment of their injuries.

Oh, no.

Instead, they waited until the end of the day, when Aeliana was readying for rest and allotted herself personal time for writing letters to her family. They waited, indeed, until the end of the day when their wounds had been hit more, overworked, and layered with dirt and grime from training.

And so at the end of the day, Aeliana was always her busiest. Her last client in that night was Lucius, hoping for a bandage on the cut Caius had left on his nose.

“Your touch is as gentle as ever, dear Faun.”

Aeliana grumbled. “Don’t call me that, Lucius, and I won’t stomp on your toes like I promised myself I would.”

“Point taken. Did Caius enjoy your gentle touch? He seems fond of you.”

With great presence of mind, Aeliana managed to not flush. She hoped.

It had been difficult, over the course of the day's work, not to pull herself into a corner and think entirely about this mysterious gladiator who had arrived so suddenly in her life. This morning, all she had cared for was doing the best possible job she could as a medicae.

And while that was still vital to her being, it was matched—if not outdone entirely—by this heated and fervent need to make time somehow to see Caius again. To see him from afar, perhaps, but even better to see him in person.

To be alone with him again. To see what else he might dare to touch, if she were to touch him first.

“You would have to ask him such things.”

“I’m serious, you know. I saw how he looked at you. It was rather clear.”

“He was out of his head from Flamma’s blow. I put little stock in such things.”

Even to her, the words rang false. There was real tenderness she had felt with Caius when his thoughts had gathered once again. Even that, she could write off—but the
look
in his eyes...

Aeliana huffed softly. She wished she was used to such attention so that she could tell the genuine from the fake. But she simply wasn’t accustomed to such things.

Her attention turned instead to frustration with the dirt in her office. It was
everywhere.
It was even in the bandages, no matter how much she washed them or where she put them to dry. Dirt always got in—and as a medicae, what she wanted more than anything was to be clean with the clients she saw. There was no trust in a house that was not clean.

Once again her thoughts returned to that old dream—buying up a taberna in the city and setting up her own shop. A shop where she could control everything—the supplies, the clientele, the cleanliness. Maybe she’d have a small washing pool outside and demand that her clients clean themselves before entering.

Lucius looked as though he might have broached the subject again, but the lady of the house, Porcia, suddenly entered. She had her long blue stola bunched up in one hand so that the fabric, clinging so tightly to her delicately pretty frame, did not touch the floor.

“Again,” she said simply, holding out a hand.

It was little secret that Aeliana and Porcia did not get along well. Aeliana was never quite sure why. From the moment she had entered into service at House Varinius, Porcia had been a hard case on Aeliana—telling her all the various ways in which she had failed. Whenever a fighter died in the arena, or suffered an injury, or did not perform at his capacity, Porcia placed the blame squarely at Aeliana’s feet.

Luckily, Murus and Rufus did not place stock in such talk, knowing themselves the true reasons for any failure lay more in training, the fighter himself, and the luck of the day.

Aeliana’s real suspicion was that Porcia disliked her because of her ability with medicine. Porcia’s skill set did not seem very broad. A beautiful woman from a modestly well-off family, she had been trained well in the social niceties, and knew how to throw a moderately lovely party and could navigate the cut-throat social politics of Puteoli with moderate grace.

But Aeliana had skill—real skill, valuable skill—and that threatened Porcia’s conception of womanhood. Just by being, Aeliana surmised, she made Porcia feel lesser—and to be lesser than a slave was an impossibility in Porcia’s mind.

As of late, however, Porcia had been increasingly kind. Her outrageous gambling habit on the chariot races had led to the crafty Domina searching out alternative revenue streams when her husband would not pay her. One of these was selling the medicines Aeliana had available to her for the gladiators.

Sighing, Aeliana retreated back toward her cabinets and pulled out about an ounce of opium poppies.

“Here you are, Domina.”

It was no use protesting. The last time Aeliana had tried, Porcia had not taken it well. Aeliana had made a very logical case, stating that the money needed to replace the supply was just going to hurt Porcia’s cash flow from Rufus, and she was slapped and threatened for the trouble.

Lesson learned.

Porcia smiled at the quick compliance. It was a pretty, wicked little sight. She turned then to Lucius. “Your reading lessons continue tonight, Orion. I hope you will come prepared.”

“Of course, Domina.” Lucius nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”

Obviously, she was not talking about actual reading lessons. Smartly, Aeliana kept her gaze to the floor. After a moment, Porcia had left.

“‘Reading lessons,’ is it?” Aeliana asked. “How lucky for you to have such a pretty teacher.”