The Gladiator (2 page)

The tiger's tail swished on the mosaic-tiled floor, the only sound in the evening's stillness. Footsteps approached in the corridor, drawing his attention and a low growl from Cat.

A fist pounded on the door. “Master,” Gaius, his elderly steward, called through the heavy wooden portal, “a slave caravan has arrived. There are a few good prospects. Do you wish to have a look?”

Eager for a distraction from his thoughts, Caros left his post at the window. He'd lost four men in the ring the day before and needed to replace them. “I'll be down in a moment, Gaius. Tell them to wait.”

Caros pulled on a fresh tunic and reached for a weighty bag of coins on his desk. Moments later, he joined Gaius in one of the long side yards that ran the length of the house. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies made him grimace.

The slave trader, a stout man, paced the straw-covered stones next to a swaying elephant.

In the torchlight, the newcomer came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Caros approaching. He flashed his rotten teeth and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of a probable sale. He stepped forward, sweeping his stubby arms wide to prove he carried no weapons.

“Sir, I am Aulus Menus. You are known as the Bone Grinder, no? It is an honor to meet you.” The slave trader bent at the waist in a flamboyant bow. “I saw you fight once four years ago. You took down five gladiators without a single wound to yourself. I can still hear the crowd chanting your name. It is easy to understand why your reputation as Rome's greatest champion is hailed far and wide.”

“I'm sure you exaggerate.” Unimpressed by the trader's flattery or the odor wafting from his person, Caros hoped the man visited one of the city's baths at the first opportunity.

“I assure you I don't exaggerate. I've heard your name praised as far as Alexandria. Some even hint you're a son of Jupiter. They whisper your name in hallowed tones and—”

“Enough. If you seek to gain my favor with compliments, be warned, you will not. I'm in need of four able-bodied men, no more. The taller, stronger and healthier the better.”

“No more than four?” Some of the gleam left the slave trader's eyes. “I have thirty such men.”

Caros looked toward the row of ragged beggars on offer. Sitting in the dirt, most appeared too weak to stand. Others sat beside them, skinny, dejected, already defeated. A few slightly stronger ones leaned against the wall. None of them would do. “Are you trying to swindle me? I need men for gladiators, not lion fodder.”

In the torchlight, Aulus's face grew red, as though he sensed a hefty profit slipping through his fingers. “This is not my best merchandise. Follow me and I'll show you a host of potential champions.”

Unconvinced, Caros nodded and followed anyway. Aulus carried a torch as they walked past the wheeled cages filled with reeking animals and all manner of degraded humanity. The sight of dirty, hollow-eyed children clenched his stomach. A youth sitting beside them reminded him of his own capture and sale into slavery. His loving mother and sisters had been tortured that day, then crucified while he was forced to watch.

Caros pushed the nightmare away. Resigned to the ways of the world, he hardened his heart and continued after Aulus.

“Here we are.” The trader halted beside a wagon. He held up the torch, giving Caros a better view into the small prison where a score of men stood packed like fish in a net.

With a practiced eye, Caros considered them. Swathed in loincloths, all were healthier than the wretches in the first lot, but only two or three had the makings of a fighter.

“I told you, no?” Aulus flashed a confident grin. “Any one of these men could be your next champion.”

Caros snorted. “How many champions have you trained?”

Aulus's smile faded. “None, but—”

“Then let me be the judge.” He pointed to the three best men. “I'll take them if you offer a decent price. Otherwise be on your way.”

“Seven hundred denarii each,” the trader said without a blink.

Caros laughed. “You
are
a swindler, Aulus. These slaves aren't worth two hundred. You'll have to do better.”

“Five hundred, then.”

“Two-fifty.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Two-sixty,” he said, enjoying the barter and the slave trader's increasing dismay.

Aulus glanced at his wares, obviously weighing his costs. “Four hundred.”

Caros walked away. Several wagons ahead, he saw Gaius inspecting a pair of giraffes.

“Wait!” Aulus sounded pained. “You didn't let me finish.”

With a glance over his shoulder, Caros raised a brow and waited for the price.

“Three-fifty.”

He sensed the other man's defeat. “Two-seventy.”

“Three hundred,” Aulus said in disgust. “My final offer.”

“Done.” Caros returned to the beaten man and opened the
pouch he held. Coins clinked into the trader's outstretched palm as he counted out the correct sum.

While they waited for the new slaves to be released from the cage and led around to the barracks at the back of the house, Aulus counted the coins for a second time. Satisfied, he dumped them into his own drawstring pouch as they started back to the house's side door.

“That's only three men, Bone Grinder. You said you need four. If you won't purchase the men or children I have on offer, would you consider a wench?”

“We have enough women to meet our needs.”

“I have one you could train for the ring,” the trader persisted. “The mob loves a woman who can draw blood. They'll froth at the mouth when they learn she's a Christian as well as a maiden. I can see it now—”

“How do you know she's pure?” Caros interrupted, impatient. “Have you touched her?”

“Her uncle made the claim, and she's remained unsullied while in my possession.”

“Her uncle?” A frown pinched Caros's brows. “Her own kin sold her?”

The slave trader shrugged. “It happens often.”

“Were they starving?”

“Far from it. On a better day, I imagine the old man is quite rich.”

“How can you believe a swine who would sell his own family?” Caros asked, the question tinged with disgust.

“He swore it by the gods.”

“And why should I believe
you?”

Aulus laughed. “Do you think I would lie to you when you could crush me like an acorn? Besides, why would I allow anyone to touch her and ruin a chance for greater profits?”

“Because you're a swindler.”

Aulus didn't deny the charge. A grin spread across his lips. He stopped beside an open wagon where three piteous women sat chained to the sideboards. He lifted his torch, pointing to a fourth female stretched out on the floor.

Caros's gaze flicked over the sleeping girl. Purple bruises marred her small face. Long dark hair fanned out around her head, shining in the torchlight. “You intend to pawn this child off as a woman I can train for the ring?”

“I assure you she's no child.”

“Why was she beaten? I've no need for a troublesome wench.”

“My scout said she disagreed with her uncle's plans to sell her and the fellow disciplined her for it.”

“When?”

“Earlier this morning.”

“She hasn't woken?”

“Once, not long after midday.” Aulus waved a fly from the tip of his nose. “She'll come to, but there's a nasty bump on the back of her head.”

Intent on the girl, Caros's heart beat with an unfamiliar pang of compassion. Having been the recipient of the emotion so little himself, he'd almost forgotten it existed.

“I planned to sell her to a brothel, but since she's a Christian, I'm weighing my options.” A wicked gleam sparked in the trader's eyes. “I was told the authorities will pay…three thousand denarii for such criminals.”

His eyes narrowed on the slave trader. The claim wasn't true. The authorities might send her to the arena if she didn't deny her illegal sect, but they wouldn't pay for the privilege. He knew what the other man was up to. Aulus thought he had designs on the girl's virtue and would pay any price to have her. “I'll give you fifteen hundred for her.”

Aulus laughed. “Oh, no, you won't cheat me this time. I'll take three thousand, nothing less.”

“I
cheat you? It will cost me a fortune to fatten up those wretches you sold me. Fifteen hundred is an expected price for any female slave.”

“Ha! This isn't just any female. Virtue is rare these days. Three thousand, nothing less.”

“Seventeen hundred.”

“Three thousand is my final offer, Bone Grinder. Take it or leave it, it matters not to me. I'll have my profit from you or the authorities. Either way, she'll end up in the ring.”

The girl moaned, drawing a concerned glance from Caros. A voice in his head warned him not to let her go. “You know the authorities will pay you nothing.”

“Perhaps.” A triumphant smile tugged at the trader's lips as though he sensed Caros weakening. “If they won't, a brothel will. There are few uses for a woman, but something tells me I'm bound to make a profit off this one.”

His pride chafing, Caros realized he'd fallen into the weasel's trap. If he paid the three thousand denarii, Aulus would walk away with the exorbitant amount he'd originally demanded for the slaves
and
a healthy profit from the girl.

After another glance at the pitiful creature in the wagon, he didn't even mind being bested. Why her plight touched him when he was surrounded by a sea of human tragedy confounded him, but he had to have her.

Calling for Gaius, he gave him instructions to fetch the necessary funds. Once Gaius ran to carry out the order, Caros took the torch from Aulus and returned to the wagon. Chains rattled as the other three women tried to scatter from his presence, but he ignored them. His newest slave consumed his concern.

He reached over the wagon's side and caressed the girl's
flowing dark hair before examining the egg-sized bump on the back of her skull. With great care, he lifted one of her hands in his, noticing the fine bones and the soil caked under her fingernails.

“Master?” Gaius said, out of breath when he returned with a large bag of coins. “Shall I tell Lucia to prepare a mat for the new slave?”

The slave's hand still in his grasp, Caros nodded. “Tell her to fix one of her herbal concoctions as well. When the girl awakes, she's going to need relief from her pain.”

As soon as his steward walked away, Caros heard Aulus's knowing laughter erupt behind him. “You're already besotted with the wench, no? I wonder what she'll think of
you
when she learns the number of Christians you've slain.”

A
ngry, unfamiliar voices penetrated Pelonia's awareness. Floating between wakefulness and darkness, she couldn't budge her heavy limbs. Every muscle ached. A sharp pain drummed against her skull.

The voices died away, then a woman's words broke through the haze. “She wakes. Fetch the master.”

Hurried footsteps trailed away, while someone moved close enough for Pelonia to sense a presence kneel beside her.

“My name is Lucia. Can you hear me?” The woman pressed a cup of water to Pelonia's cracked lips. “What shall I call you?”

Pelonia coughed and sputtered as the cool liquid trickled down her arid throat. Swallowing, she grimaced at the throbbing pressure in her jaw. “Pel…Pelonia.”

“Do you remember what happened to you? You were struck on the head and injured. You have bruised ribs. From the swelling, one or more may be cracked, but I believe none are broken. I've been giving you opium to soothe you, but you're far from recovered.”

Her eyelids too heavy to open, Pelonia licked her chapped
lips, hating the rotten taste in her mouth. Uncomfortable heat warmed the right side of her face.

Gradually, her mind began to make sense of her surroundings. The warmth must be sunshine because the scent of wood smoke hung in the air, yet she heard no crackle of a fire. Her pallet was a coarse blanket on the hard ground. Vermin crawled in her hair, making her itch. Dirt clung to her skin and each of her sore muscles longed for the tufted softness of her bed at home.

Home.

Her muddled brain latched on to the word. Where was she if not in the comfort of her father's Umbrian villa? Where was her maid, Helen? Who was this woman Lucia? She couldn't remember.

Icy fingers of fear gripped her heart as one by one her memories returned. First the attack, then her father's murder. Raw grief squeezed her chest.

Confusion surrounded her. Where was her uncle? She remembered the slave caravan, his threat to sell her, but nothing more. Had Marcus succeeded in his treachery, or had someone come to her aid?

Panic forced her eyes open. Light stabbed her head like a dagger. She squeezed her lids tight, then blinked rapidly until she managed to focus on the young woman's face above her.

“The master will be here soon.” A smile tilted Lucia's thin lips, but didn't touch her honey-brown eyes. “He commanded me to call for him the moment you woke.”

“Where…am I?” The words grated in her throat.

“You're in the home of Caros Viriathos.”

The name meant nothing to Pelonia. She prayed God had heard her plea and delivered her into the hands of a kind man, someone willing to help her contact her cousin Tiberia.

The thought of Tiberia brought a glimmer of hope. Somehow, she must contact her cousin at the first opportunity.

Her eyes closed with fatigue. “How…how long have I…been here?”

Lucia laid her calloused palm to Pelonia's brow. “Four days and this morning. You've been in and out of sleep, but now it seems your fever has broken for good. I'll order you a bowl of broth. You should eat to bolster your strength.”

Her stomach churned. Four days and she remembered nothing. Tiberia must be frantic wondering why she'd failed to attend the wedding.

As children, she and her cousin had been as close as sisters. They'd corresponded regularly and maintained their deep friendship ever since Tiberia's family moved to Rome eight years past. When Tiberia wrote of her betrothal to a senator, that the union was a love match, no one had been more pleased for her than Pelonia.

She opened her eyes. “I must—”

Lucia placed her fingers over Pelonia's lips. “Don't speak. Rest is what you need. Now that you've woken, Gaius, our master's steward, says you have one week to recover. Then your labor begins whether you're well or not.”

“My cousin. I must.

“You don't understand, Pelonia.” Lucia hooked a lock of pitch-black hair behind her ear. “You're a slave in the Ludus Maximus now. A possession of the
lanista,
Caros Viriathos.”

Lanista?
A vile
gladiator
trainer?

“You have no family beyond these walls. You'd do well to accept your fate. Forget your past existence. Your new life here has begun.”

“No!” She refused to believe all she knew could be stolen from her so easily.

Lucia frowned as though she were confronting a quarrel
some child. Tight-lipped, she crossed her arms over her buxom chest. “We will see.”

Heavy footsteps crunched on the rushes strewn across the floor. The new arrival stopped out of Pelonia's view, but the force of the person's presence invaded the room.

The nauseating ache in her head increased without mercy. What had she done to make God despise her?

Focusing on Lucia, she saw the young woman's face light with pleasure.

“Master,” Lucia greeted, jumping to her feet. “The new slave is finally awake. She calls herself Pelonia. She's weak and the medicine I gave her has run its course.”

“Then give her more if she needs it.”

The man's deep voice poured over Pelonia like the soothing water of a bath. Despite her indignation, some of her tension eased. Curious to see the man who had such a unique and unwelcome effect on her, she turned her head, ignoring the jab of pain that pierced her skull.

“Don't move,” Lucia snapped. “You mustn't move your head or you might injure yourself further.”

Pelonia stiffened. She wasn't accustomed to taking orders. Neither her father nor the tutors he'd hired to teach her had ever raised their voices.

Lucia glanced toward the door. “She's argumentative. I have a hunch she'll be difficult. She denies she's your slave.”

Silence followed Lucia's remark. Pelonia's nerves stretched taut as she waited for a response. Would this man who claimed to own her kill or beat her? She'd heard of men committing atrocities against their slaves for little, sometimes no reason. Was he one of those cruel barbarians?

She sensed him move closer. Her skin tingled and her tension rose as if she were prey in the sights of a hungry lion. At last, the lion crossed to where she could see him.

Sunlight streaming through the window enveloped the giant. A crisp, light colored tunic draped across his shoulders and the expanse of his chest contrasted sharply with his black hair and the rich copper of his skin. Gold bands around his wrists emphasized the strength of his arms, the physical power he held in check.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She could only stare. Without a doubt, the man could crush her if he chose.

“So, you are called Pelonia,” he said. “And my healer believes you wish to fight me.”

Her gaze locked with the unusual blue of his forceful glare. For the first time, she understood how the Hebrew David must have suffered when he faced Goliath. Swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, she nodded. “If I must.”

“If you must?” Caros eyed Pelonia with a mix of irritation and respect. He was used to grown men trembling before him. With her tunic filthy and torn, her dark hair rippling in disarray across the packed earthen floor and her bruises healing, his new slave looked like a wounded goddess. But she was just an ordinary woman. Flea-bitten and trodden upon. Why did she think she could defy him?

To her credit, she wasn't a simpering wench. Her resistance reminded him of his own the day he'd been forced into slavery. Beaten, chained by his Roman adversaries, he'd sworn no one would ever own him. He'd been mistaken, of course. This new slave would be proven wrong as well.

“Then let the games begin,” he said, his voice thick with mockery.

“Games?” she asked faintly. “You think…this…this is a game?”

The roughness of her voice reminded him of her body's weakened condition—a frailty her spirit clearly didn't share. Crouching beside her, he ran his forefinger over the yellowed
bruise on her cheek. She didn't flinch as he expected. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed as though his touch somehow soothed her.

Her guileless response unnerved him. The need to protect her enveloped him, a sensation he hadn't known since the deaths of his mother and sisters. As a slave, he'd been beaten on many occasions in an effort to conquer his will. That no one ever succeeded was a matter of pride for him. Much to his surprise, he had no wish to see this girl broken, either.

“Of course it's a game.” He lifted a strand of her dark hair and caressed it between his fingers. “And I will be the victor. I live to win.”

“It's true.” Lucia moved from the shadows. “Our master has never been defeated.”

Defiance flamed in the depths of her large, doe-brown eyes. She didn't speak and he admired her restraint when he could see she wanted to flay him.

Challenged to draw a response from her, he trailed his fingers over her full bottom lip. “You might as well give in now, my prize. I have no wish to crush your spirit. I own you whether you will it or not.”

She turned her head toward the stone wall, but he gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Admit it,” he said with no pity for her loss of pride. “Then you can return to your sleep.”

She shook her head. “No. No one owns me…no one but my God.”

He dropped his hand away as though she'd sprouted leprosy. “And who might your god be? Jupiter? Apollo? Or maybe you worship the god of the sea. Do you think Neptune will leave his watery throne and rescue you?”

“The Christ.” For the first time, her voice didn't waver.

So, she admitted following the criminal sect. Caros studied her, wondering if she were a fool or had a wish for death. “Say that to the wrong person, Pelonia, and you'll find yourself facing the lions.”

“I already am.”

He laughed. “So you think of me as a ferocious beast?”

Her silence amused him all the more. “Good. It suits me well to know you realize I'm untamed and capable of tearing you limb from limb.”

Her fingers clutched at the dirt floor. “Then do your worst. Death is better…than being owned.”

Lucia scoffed under her breath, drawing Caros's attention to where the healer waited by the window, the noonday sun coursing through the open shutters.

“What foolishness.” Lucia came to stand by a roughhewn table littered with the bottles and bowls of her medicines. “I warned you the girl would argue, Master. I'd wager she deserved the thrashing she received if all she did was quarrel.”

“The slave trader did mention she'd been beaten for a disagreement with her uncle.” Caros's attention slipped back to Pelonia, who'd grown pale and weaker still.

Concerned by her pallor, he berated himself for baiting her, for depleting her meager strength when he should have been encouraging her to heal. Without pausing to examine his motives, he reached down and lifted her into his arms, prepared for her to protest.

When she sagged against his chest without a fight, her acquiescence alarmed him. She weighed no more than a laurel leaf and it occurred to him she'd eaten nothing more than tepid broth for the last several days. In her weakened state, had he shoved her to the brink of death?

Holding her tight against his chest, he whispered near her
ear. “Tell me, Pelonia. What can I do to aid you? What can I do to ease your plight?”

“Find…Tiberia,” she whispered, the dregs of her strength draining away. “And free me.”