Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (29 page)

Even the unskilled or unsuited were being given a shot at military life in efforts to bolster the ranks; if the plague was going to kill a certain percentage of everyone anyway—it had even killed Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Commodus’s father—then it only made sense to train as many soldiers as possible. But, that meant a lot of bloody, awful work for Aeliana.

“Oh,” said Tatius, a small smile on his face. “Probably. But that’s not what I mean. I’ve arranged the papers. You’re no longer my apprentice.”

This was a surprise. “Truly?”

“Truly. You are to be known as a medicae from now on. And,” he said, face barely changing expression, “I have extended your contract to five years for a term serving the House of Varinius.”

In her life, Aeliana was well-accustomed to words biting at her.

She had never been worthy enough for her father. She imagined herself presented to him as a panacea of disappointments. Her attitude never virtuous and stoic enough, and yet he chastened her for the lack of warmth he received upon arriving at home. Likewise, her mousy appearance and small frame was never fetching enough for a proper husband—he imagined her slightness of body would kill her in childbirth—and yet on the rare chances she had to be presented to society he would proclaim her whorish.

Meanwhile, in his estimations, her intelligence was not sharp enough to off-set any of these.

Such disparaging remarks had only evolved over the years for Aeliana in the company of other men as she progressed to the garrison, where the only thing looser than a soldier’s tongue were his hands around his cock. Her father's views of her worth were shared, whether they knew it or not, by many a soldier.

Her appearance—small of stature, short dark hair in a severe bowl cut around her head—was boyish enough to keep her from certain kinds of unwanted attention. Only once had she been cornered by a drunken soldier, but a scalpel held to his neck had warned him off. She told him she carried the scalpel everywhere she went—and he told the rest of the garrison. And so the insults had started.

The Boy Doctor. The Faun.

She earned the name of Faun after stomping on a soldier’s bare feet one morning when he’d called her a boy. She didn’t understand what the problem was. Didn’t boys stomp on toes all the time? Aeliana had been proving him right.

And so, after the soldier’s many complaints of her having feet like hooves, she had become “The Faun” to these men. Goat legs, human torso.

So yes. Words had hurt her. But over the years she had developed a great series of walls and moats, doubts and redoubts built to withstand the most severe destruction that could be lobbed at her from the mightiest siege engines in the world.

But these words from Tatius—these words had snuck directly to the heart of her fortress. A direct hit.

“Five...five years?” Her voice was heavy with disbelief.

Her contract had been set to expire a little more than six months from that day.

“Yes, dear. My son, you see, is getting married. I required a
significant
down-payment for his celebrations. And the ludus is in need of a skilled medicae. Which you now are. So you see, it all worked out nicely.”

The man was actually smiling. He said this as if his recognition of her skill would soften the blow.

It did not.

Five more years as a slave. And not just that...but in a
ludus
. A training school for gladiators. The one place in Puteoli where she was likely to stitch and mend more bloody, mangled bodies than in the garrison.

Tatius could not see well from the clouds in his eyes. But perhaps he could sense her mood anyway.

“Yes, I know, it was not what you expected. But this life has many turns. You will find your way, Aeliana. I am quite certain of it. If anyone can, it is you, little Faun.”

Slowly, she nodded. With all her resolve, she gathered her breath, and hoped for the best.

––––––––

F
ortune’s ways had ever been a mystery to Caius.

Three years before, as Aeliana learned that she would be sold to a ludus, Caius expected the best day of his life.

That was the plan, at any rate.

For a long time, his life had been one miserable struggle after another. Raised as a slave. Trained to fight to stay alive. Surrounded by death and violence at all ends of his existence. And then he met Fabiana, and his life had turned for the better.

Caius stood in the hot sands of the arena, about to put his life on the line—with freedom and a massive purse as the prize should he win. At the other end of the city of Puteoli, his wife was in labor, their child on its way.

What sort of day was it that so many circumstances aligned together? A small slip here, a tiny misstep there, and all these favorable outcomes could be lost. And yet if they went well...

If they went well, then Caius could deem himself the luckiest slave in the Empire. The luckiest
freed
slave.

Across from Caius, standing tall in the hot sands, was the man who would kill him if Caius let it happen. He did not intend to. But then, there was no place like the arena for Fortune to express her favor—or displeasure.

Between Caius and Vox—the handle of the opposing gladiator—was a referee. A large, bald man in a brief tunic and loin cloth, sweating profusely in the heat of the day. They all were covered in sweat. The referee held a whip in one hand to urge the gladiators on if they refused to fight.

Such a thing was more tradition than necessary in this fight. If Caius won, he would be a free man. And if Vox won, he’d earn a bigger purse than any in his life, and his name would be carved out on the Wall of Turmedites as a legend of the arena. With such stakes, there was no need for the urging flogs of the referee—the two warriors were more than willing to fight.

They waited only for the signal from the editor sitting in the stands. Today, the editor was Senator Otho, the nephew of the Emperor Severus. Puteoli was not where the Roman Senate was held, of course, but it was within a day's riding distance, and Otho made special trips to every arena in the peninsula to see as many fights as he could. The crowd waited for the signal too, urging the fighters on with cries of support. This, the last fight of the day, was sure to be the most spectacular.

The Puteoli arena was one of the largest in Rome. It could seat more than twenty thousand spectators, and every row of seats was packed tight today.

The rows of seats were made from stone, most with wooden boards attached for ease of sitting. A tall wall of stone surrounded the arena sands to prevent fighters from trying to escape through the crowd. Men in the front rows stood on their feet, calling out names of their favorite fighters. Far above them, in the top rows, were women and children cheering on their own favorites. Each spectator, regardless of class, gender, or age, was equally bloodthirsty.

Both fighters were long veterans of the arena. Caius—his arena name Ursus, the bear—could hear his supporters cheering him on. Their cries for his victory were matched not unfavorably by cries still for the tall, lean Vox.

Caius was a thraex—one of many particular kinds of gladiators. As such, he wore a manica, or thick scale armor down one arm. His sword was short and curved, his shield little bigger than the circumference of his chest. Heavy metal greaves wrapped around his legs, supported there by cloth to prevent chafing. A helmet, wide-brimmed and heavy with a wide, flat visor, fit on his head.

The smell inside the helmet was old and well-worn. The helmet would—if he let it—drag his head down to the sand and bring him to an early death. The weight of the greaves was a trial. The armor across his arm would tug relentlessly on his shoulder if not held properly. But the biggest weight he held, after a career of fighting and killing lest-he-be-killed, was the bladed edge of the sica in his right hand.

Vox fought as a murmillo. He looked not that much different than the thraex, with a few key differences. His shield was heavier and larger. His helmet was decorated with the figure of a golden fish said to be blessed by Neptune himself. His sword—a gladius—was straight, instead of curved, and his other pieces of armor—the greaves on his legs and manica on his arm—were considerably heavier than what Caius wore.

It was a classic match-up: speed versus strength, skill versus brutality, dexterity versus endurance.

In the stands, the robed editor gave the signal, and the two began to the adulation of the crowd.

Caius thrust quickly, knowing Vox would block him. He used the momentum of the blocked sword to rush in with his shoulder, bashing with it against Vox’s own tall, heavy shield. And then he rolled aside, sliding down to the sand and back up again, narrowly avoiding the counter-attack from Vox’s short sword.

Vox continued with his attack, thrusting over and over with the deadly edge of his sword. Caius blocked and blocked again, hacking where he could and beating a strategic retreat backwards. Jeers from the crowd sounded up, decrying Caius’s cowardice, as he lost ground and Vox gained.

The crowd was a fickle mistress as ever, and Caius knew from years of experience that all he had to do to ensure they were on his side was to wow them in the end.

The retreat was part of the plan. Vox knew it too—a savvy fighter. His thrusts were not intended to hurt Caius, most likely. A thrust in the arena was more complicated than one might imagine—such a movement with the sword was made mostly for killing. But the crowd wanted
blood
, not death. Slashes were the name of the game for a lot of blood.

This was why gladiators wore no armor over their torsos. This was tradition; this was immutable. Caius was built solid, made entirely of muscle and bone after years of training and fighting. His muscles tanned and toned, rippling underneath a sheen of sweat in the heat of the summer day.

Besides titillating the women (and some of the men) with the virile display of their battle-hardened bodies, the lack of covering on their bodies also allowed for a greater show of ripped flesh to the crowd.

Vox thrust again and Caius spun on the thrust, jamming his armored arm into the sword and whirling around to Vox’s back. He slashed down, leaving a thick diagonal stretch of rent flesh down the fighter’s back. Vox cried out and turned, hoisting his shield to protect from another blow.

A low laugh sounded off through the heavy helmet Vox wore. The slow, burning warmth in Caius’s arm let him know the reason for his humor—the maneuver had paid off for Caius, but it had also cost him. His sword arm had a slash right above the shoulder where Vox’s sword had cut through.

Both men steadied for a moment, circling, adjusting their footing in the uneven sand. And then, as the crowd roared on, they swept toward one another again and continued their bladed dance.

Trading blows like this went on for nearly half an hour. By the end of it, Vox had several more cuts down his back—all relatively shallow—and Caius had earned a long gash on his side. His rib had caught most of the blow, diverting its trajectory from any major organs, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

If there was one thing Caius prided himself on, it was conditioning. He felt confident that he could have fought for another hour if he needed to. Perhaps Vox was strong enough to do so as well—he was a strong, well-muscled man, even despite all the blood he had lost.

But mental conditioning was just as important, and Vox’s was lacking. The end was near.

The murmillo let out a roar of frustration, enraged that he could not put Caius away. And so, he gambled and charged.

It was a dangerous move for a murmillo—so slow and heavily encumbered. If Caius were not injured, it would have been suicidal. No doubt Vox hoped that Caius would have been slowed enough by his injury to not be able take advantage.

But, this was not the case.

As Vox closed, Caius roared himself and leapt up and to the side—changing his spin in mid-air—and swept his sword down Vox’s bare shield arm.

The slash hit home. The metal tore through Vox’s shoulder and, crying in pain, he lost his shield. Caius attacked and, in another series of strikes, banged Vox's sword to the ground.

Caius kicked the sword away and slammed Vox down to the sand. With a flourish, he swept his arms up and pandered to the crowd. The fight was over.

For those brief moments, he thought that it would all indeed work out as he hoped.

Today, he won his freedom. Today, his child was born.

And though Vox was hurt, he would live still. From the fight the two of them had put on, two immortals raging blow for blow for more than half an hour, no man—and no crowd—would ask for the death of the defeated.

Caius turned his gaze to the editor, Senator Otho.

Otho had arranged the games—as games always were arranged in the Roman Empire—to ensure his political advancement and popularity. He was a pale man, with wispy blond hair and dry blue eyes. Handsome, however. And rich. Very rich. If he was rich enough for a slave like Caius to know of his income, then he was rich indeed.

The crowd’s roars dimmed somewhat as Otho held up his hands. A handkerchief in one hand. A closed fist in the other. Waving the handkerchief meant the
missus
was granted—mercy for Vox, and the chance to fight another day.

Caius waited for the handkerchief to wave. Otho held him and the crowd in suspense, a true showman.

But then something terrible happened. Otho held up his thumb out, jabbing forward with it like the tip of a sword. He pocketed the handkerchief. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Death.

Death for Vox.

Death on Caius’s hands on this day, of all days. On the day when he needed Fortune on his side.

And Caius had to obey. For even in those final moments, he was still yet a slave. And a slave obeyed or he died. Somewhere, his child was being delivered into this world, and Caius could not bear to leave that baby without a father.

“Do it, go on,” said Vox. His voice was rough. He had crawled up to his knees, easing the way for Caius’s sword to slip through his shoulder blades. “I earned my way. You go on.”