Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (28 page)

The Dominus of House Varinius was Rufus Antonius Varinius. His family had been training gladiators for more than two hundred years, commissioned to duty by Augustus himself when the great Princeps had placed control of the bloody games directly in the hands of imperial power.

The Varinius ludus was east, outside of bounds of the city proper and buried in the base of a small hill. The walls of the ludus were tall, built just as much for keeping the gladiators
in
as they were for keeping bandits
out
—though not many thieves in their right minds would dare to infiltrate a school full of the city’s most terrible fighting men.

The training grounds for the gladiators were placed just next to the walls, with several plots of sand allotted for their maneuvers. Beyond the training grounds was a raised, green hilly area, where the Dominus and any guests could watch the fighters at work. Trailing upward next to that hill was a long stony stairway, leading up into the hill, into the meat of which was where the Dominus and his family lived in a large house.

Guards were posted at different intervals through the grounds, patrolling regularly. Some were paid for by imperial decree—the games were entirely under the purview of the Emperor, after all—and still some others were personal bodyguards paid for by Rufus. Their weapons were kept razor sharp, and a gladiator approached a guard only with his life at risk. Guards were intrinsically wary about letting gladiators near them.

It was the middle of the day, and so the gladiators trained already. Their toned, heavily-muscled bodies were nearly naked but for sandals, loin cloths, and heavy belts around their waists. This is what they wore at all times—eating, training, resting, and traveling. A great many, Aeliana had found out, slept naked as a result—the only time they could wear something that was not the norm.

She did her honest best not to think too hard about such a great number of perfectly chiseled men completely naked for a third of their lives.

And with
that
thought, she was suddenly imagining Caius naked—a thought not unwelcome to her mind. He was well-formed in every respect, and even with the teeter-tottering of her anger/apology cycle, her fingers twitched with the desire to slide over his biceps. They were large and lovely, and looked good for biting.

More than any other fighter she had seen in this ludus, she wanted to know what it was like to slide underneath such a man. To feel her hips thrust upward and join him in that most perfect of ways...

But that was folly. Nearly every gladiator she knew was a lout and savage. Her emotions did not need to traffic with such men.

The only time the outfits of the gladiators truly changed was in the arena, when the lanista rolled out their personalized armor and wanted them to look as spectacular as possible. The gladiators trained from dawn to dusk, most days. Their days off were on special holidays like Saturnalia at the end of the year, or traveling on the way to a fight.

If a fighter won a good match, he would be granted a reprieve for, at most, two days. That is, assuming he wasn’t injured—and most gladiators were injured at the end of a fight come win, lose, or draw.

Their ways kept Aeliana busy, that was for certain. As she and Caius entered, several dozen faced off in duels with heavy wooden shields and swords. The weight was to train their muscles so that the sword felt light in their hands. Some dozen more attacked stationary wooden targets, building strength and form. Every man was in remarkable shape, like statues in motion, muscles glistening in the sun.

If she didn't act soon, Caius would be lost in the crowd of fighters, and Aeliana would feel guilty forever. She had learned well over the years that it was best to face these situations head-on.

“I'm sorry if what I said offended you,” Aeliana said to Caius. Her tone was terse.

Caius raised an eyebrow. “You don't
sound
sorry.”

“Well.” Her feet shifted. “I am. I don't like to offend others.”

“But you do like to voice your opinion.”

Her hands shifted down to her hips. “Yes.”

“It seems those two desires would often run over each other.”

This Caius was a bit more eloquent and incisive than most gladiators she had run across. Perhaps the years in freedom had done him well.

“Even with that being the case,” said Aeliana, “and even
if
you want to do something stupid with your body and your life like throwing it into a meat grinder for the entertainment of fools, that doesn't mean I should go out of my way to hurt your feelings.”

“If there were medicae for apologies, Aeliana,” he seemed to relish the name on his tongue, “I think yours might be declared dead.”

She was about to snap back with something pithy when a tall, lithe gladiator approached the two with a gentle smile on his face

This was Septus. His beard had made him unique among gladiators for a time, who often were close-shaved. Now the beard was peppered with gray, as was all of his hair. He was old for a gladiator—more than thirty-five years of age. The artifacts of his career were written in his skin in long criss-crosses of scars across his chest and shoulders.

“Ho, Faun.” Somehow the nickname had transferred from the garrison where she had been trained to the ludus. She blamed the guards. “I see you brought back some trash with you.”

“Septus.” Caius stepped forward. “I wouldn’t go around calling people trash. Someone might get ideas and toss your old ass out with it.”

They laughed and clasped each other as brothers. Aeliana struggled not to roll her eyes. Gladiators only knew how to express affection with insults.

“I expected you tomorrow?” said Septus. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. All is well. I just wanted to get started. No point in delaying.”

Septus shrugged. “I’ll go let Murus know. He’s been excited to see you back in action.”

Aeliana drifted away, letting the two men talk.

For a brief time—far too brief—she’d been very taken with Caius. But now that she knew he was a gladiator, the entire complexion of their meeting had soured. He would ignore her now, as all the gladiators ignored her.

When first she worked at the ludus, it had bothered her. Whenever they were allowed to leave the grounds of the ludus, the gladiators were treated as celebrities—better even than the highest families that Puteoli could offer.

Gaggles of women followed them wherever they went, all so taken with the apex of masculinity that these warriors offered. Built like gods, muscles hard as rock, in peak physical condition for
every
kind of activity, the gladiators had a definite appeal to the women of the Empire.

And Aeliana was the reason they stayed alive to
meet
that crowd, to
enjoy
those gaggles of women. She did not want to be treated as some third-rate floozy and be on the receiving end of their (if rumors were to be believed) fevered, rough loving for her efforts.

But she
did
want some measure of appreciation. A kind word here and there.

She disliked this weakness in her—this seeking out of approval for the people she treated. She was a slave to that more than she was to the ludus.

But, over time, she had grown to rather enjoy the way they ignored her. For the most part, from what she could tell, gladiators were even worse than soldiers when it came to drinking and fighting. They were a savage, brutal lot by and large, and the less time they focused on her, the better.

“Aeliana,” called Caius.

Surprised, she turned to face him. Several silent waves of critique rushed down at her heart for beating so fast at the simple sound of his voice wrapping around the syllables of her name. She was halfway across the yard now, on her way to her office inside the main complex of the domus. “Yes?”

“Perhaps I shall call on you later and you can tell me more of how I am a fool?”

There was a way to say such a thing and be biting about it—to be cruel and petty. And yet there was also a way to say it in a jovial, happy manner, and this is how Caius clearly meant it. She just smiled and nodded and returned on her way.

Perhaps he wasn't completely a brute. Hope throbbed in her—hope to see him more, to feel his touch upon her, hope for a dozen brilliant, aching, thrilling acts that blazed in her mind with a startling urgency.

She would see him again, and that was certain. If only to browbeat him for making her take leave of her senses in the way that he had.

But Aeliana couldn't focus on that for long. The day wasn’t even half over, and there was much to do. Her duties never ceased.

––––––––

T
hree years ago, on the day of the last fight of the Great Bear of Puteoli, Aeliana stitched the arm of an injured soldier.

Her thrusts were even and measured. Sewing skin back together was an old art, one that required practice and diligence. She had gotten rather good at it in the last two years of her service at the barracks.

“Mind your needling, woman,” said the soldier. “I plan to use this arm again.”

He had started to sit up. Aeliana shifted her weight and slammed him back down to the table. If his head knocked a little on the surface, well—he shouldn’t have moved, should he?

“I mind it entirely, legionary.” She did not know his name on purpose. She did not want to know any soldier’s name. They could die any day on the job. “It is my job to mind it. And your job,” she jabbed her finger into the meat of his shoulder, “to be
still
.”

Some grunts of discontent erupted from him, but he stilled long enough for her to finish her work.

In a few minutes, she had patched his wound entirely. Taking a rag, she cleaned off the excess blood.

“Return in a week’s time to have the stitches removed. Don’t hoist your shield until then.”

The soldier frowned. “That’s my sword arm.”

“Don’t use your sword, then. You have to let it heal.”

The legionary stood, rotating his arm around. Right away, she could see the stitches strain in his shoulder. She fought the urge to push him down again and wrap his arm to his torso.

“No,” said the legionary. “No, I think it will work fine. My family are fast healers. You’ll see.”

She would see. In a week he would return with an infection, and unless she caught it quick enough, he would lose the arm.

This was a discussion she had held with soldiers like this one—perhaps
even
this one—many times. But you couldn’t tell a legionary anything. Like all men of the Roman Empire, what mattered most was strength, honor, and toil. Any infringement upon these was not to be tolerated.

And yet a part of her could not help thinking that maybe she should make him see sense. Wouldn’t that be
something
—to make a man see sense?

If more men saw sense then Aeliana’s job as a medicae wouldn’t even be necessary in more ways than one.

The notion was more than just the simple truism of men valuing blood more than reason. Her father had tasked her to learning the medical profession when her brother Aelianus—a soldier in the Puteoli garrison, like the one she just treated—had been gravely wounded in a bar fight—also like the one she had just treated. He returned home afterward, his belly ripped to pieces, and Aeliana hadn’t been able to save him.

She'd had no experience at the time. A frightened girl desperately holding cloth to her brother's torn midsection, that's all she was.

Aelianus had gone out that night, his head full of revenge on a man who had cheated him in dice, and Aeliana tried to talk him out of it. But she hadn’t been able to save him.

On every account, a failure, and so her father had sold her to a medici to train her so she would not fail again. The medici, in turn, sold her services to the Puteoli garrison—where Aeliana re-experienced her brother’s injuries every few nights.

They used to frighten her terribly. Now, such grisly sights had become old hat. And in fact, that was what infuriated her the most about all of it—it would have been
simple
to save Aelianus, if only she had known what to do. If only she’d had that knowledge
six months
earlier than she did, her entire life would have changed direction.

But then, of course, she knew that she would not have been able to
have
that knowledge without Aelianus dying in the arms of her and her father.

“If the stitches rip,” Aeliana tried with the soldier, “at all...if there is any pain, I entreat you to see me again. You should not suffer unduly on account of a wound already made.”

The legionary harrumphed and left her small office in the bottom floor of the barracks. It was an off-putting place, with its blood-stained tables, dark stone floors, and all the various surgical implements in jars and baskets. Sewing threads spooled in one corner, and a series of stools stood in another, all of varying heights.

She had only moments alone before Tatius entered. With wrinkled, gray skin and cloudy black eyes, he was an old man—old enough to have seen Trajan as emperor as a child. He had lived through a golden age in Rome, and lamented that he could see it coming to an end.

“I dislike this Severus. Truly, I do,” Tatius would say. “Smacks too much of the tyrant for my tastes. Nothing like Trajan. Trajan. Oh, Trajan. There was an emperor. But this Severus? All he wants to do is pay the soldiers and damn the rest. I don't trust him.”

There was no such grave talk foreshadowed on Tatius’s face today. Usually Aeliana could read him like a book—after serving under his hand for more than two years, she felt sure she had learned his every mood. She was more than sure she had learned all he was able to teach her, but, as she was a slave, she couldn’t exactly pick herself up and start her own office.

“My dear, I have news for you.”

“Oh?” She straightened. “Another training exercise gone wrong?”

It was a safe guess. Life as a Roman legionary was about as harsh as a life could come, and the recent waves of the Antonine plague had wiped out many veterans. As a result, there were more trainees than ever—and more injuries than ever.