Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (38 page)

“You know Caius, yes?”

Chloe nodded. “Ursus? Of course I do. You won’t treat him for some reason.”

“No,” said Aeliana. “I want you to do it. Why haven’t you already?”

“I...” Chloe looked surprised. “I just do what you tell me to, medicae.”

“A little initiative is always a wonderful thing. You take so much in your other affairs. I’d like to see more.” She handed Chloe needle and thread. “Tonight.”

“You want me to bring him up now and sew up his wound?”

“I want you to do it in the cell block. And,” Aeliana smiled. “Make it look jagged. A big scar. Like he had done it himself.”

“Like he had...?” Chloe stood, pulling on a shawl over her shoulders. “This has nothing to do with me taking initiative, does it?”

Smart girl. Aeliana should count herself lucky to be working alongside such a smart girl. But for now, she simply needed Chloe to obey.

“The less questions you ask, the better.” She took Chloe’s hands, painfully aware of how this was how Porcia had tried to manipulate her. The difference was that Porcia was horrible. A tool was a tool; it was the purpose it adhered to that mattered. “Will you do this for me, please Chloe? It’s important. He is hurt and he needs help.”

“Of course I won’t, Aeliana,” she said, smiling. “He’s going to do it himself.”

Smart girl
, Aeliana thought again.

––––––––

T
he games approached, and training continued. Every day Caius felt himself getting stronger, better. His form quickly returned—a habit as familiar as walking—and only his strength and speed had to catch up.

He doubted he would be as strong as he was before. Not before the games, at any rate. In his absence, Caius had not tried to get out of shape, and did not eat or drink his way toward some early grave. He had a daughter to raise. But there was a difference in the muscles needed for manual labor and the strength needed for the flashy showmanship the arena required.

The skills of a fight were, in essence, quite simple. Keep your footing; block incoming blows; slash with your sword; thrust when you have to; parry if you can.

But the crowd of the arena required more than blood—they required a show. Special time was taken with a retarius like Lucius, for example, to make his killing blows come from leaps and spins. A thraex like Caius was expected to brawl almost as much as he dueled, to slide through the sand and hone in on his opponent’s open sides with hard shield blocks and overhand strikes.

And all the while during his training—at the back of his mind when he was able to keep her somehow from the front—was Aeliana.

First she refused him service. Then she sent Chloe after him to stitch his wound, but do it ugly. Ugly, as if some novice gladiator had stitched himself up. Chloe would answer none of his questions, but she did not have to.

Caius was not stupid. Someone didn’t want him treated. But who?

It made no sense for Rufus to wish him dead. A lanista in general didn’t want his gladiators to die, being such a large investment of time and money. And Caius in particular was a windfall waiting to happen, so long as they put him in a match worthy of his reputation.

Murus the doctore could probably threaten Aeliana somehow, but again, that made no sense. He had not insulted Murus, and had taken care to be deferent to the man’s knowledge since arriving. It was only good practice; Murus knew his trade better than anyone.

And it was not another gladiator, either—not even Flamma. Should a gladiator threaten the medicae, he would be flogged and imprisoned.

It had to be have been someone in the house; someone not a slave. That left either a guard or Porcia, and of course—Caius knew Porcia had it out for him. He didn’t know why. Her fickleness angered him, but there was nothing he could do about it  without endangering himself and every slave in the house. If a slave—even a gladiator—attacked his Dominus, it usually meant the death of most of the house’s slaves.

His suspicion was that she had some money riding on him to lose. She was such a gambler, after all. The thought made him smile. If only she knew his plan!

There was one upside to all of this, though. The heat in the kiss with Aeliana was real, not imagined. That was the best part of Chloe coming to stitch his leg.

That knowledge carried through in every thrust he parried, every swing he forced into his sparring partners on the sands. The thrum of that simple fact pushed his legs forward for another lap around the yard with the Hell Log weighing him down. The memory of her lips, untainted and perfect, vibrated through him like a sword rapped against stone. At night, the air was cold but his thoughts, his flesh was all hot. Not hot enough—not hot with the thrill of her touch.

That after so long, he could find affection like that again...

His usual doubts—his terror, really—of Fortune souring on him was present. But not as present as the memory of their kiss.

When the hooded form suddenly shadowed his portal, he thought it was Aeliana at first. But after a moment, his vision corrected—no. Too tall, and wearing too much perfume. Guards flanked her on either side, keeping their distance from the cell door.

“Hello, Domina.”

“Slave.” She pushed her hood down, revealing her beautiful,  severe face. “I heard our prized Ursus was injured.” She gestured at his leg. “Show it to me.”

“As you wish.”

He pushed into the light and showed her the jagged, healing scar that formed. The flesh around the black stitches was thick and purple. The stitchwork was ugly, but it did the job. Another ugly scar on Caius’s form did not trouble him much. He felt it gave his thigh some character, even.

“Who did this?”

“I did, Domina. I did a little sewing work as a freedman.”

She turned up her nose. “And where did you get the needle and thread?”

He shrugged. “Iunius supplies every man here with whatever he should need.”

“I did not authorize him to sell that to you.”

“Do you authorize him to sell extra rations to Flamma? Or olive oil to a fighter who wants to braid his hair? Pen and paper for letters? He sells, and we buy.”

Caius had already paid Iunius to keep the story going. He was well used to selling things he shouldn’t—and being revealed that he had. He was as much a foundation in the ludus as the stones in the walls. Porcia would do nothing to him without Rufus’s approval.

She sniffed and turned. “This place is so foul. I am glad you’re here, at the least. By which I mean I am glad that you'll die soon. You're too old to fight, Caius. Didn't anyone tell you that? You're going to be positively slaughtered.”

“Anything for the glory and honor of House Varinius, Domina.”

Her expression was foul. Too foul, thought Caius, for a face otherwise so symmetrical. “I understand you’re to fight in the upcoming games.”

“Yes, Domina.”

“I expect you’ll die soon enough, then. Has-beens always do, in the arena.”

She eyed her guards; at her word, they would do most anything to Caius. But there had to be some provocation first. She baited him, but Caius was no starving lion.

“I thank you for the vote of confidence, Domina.”

She did not like his blasé attitude. “You mark my words, slave. Your end comes, in the arena or otherwise. You were a fool to bring yourself back within my grasp.”

A few cat calls rang out as she left the cell blocks, but they were few and far between. There were great consequences for dishonoring the Domina, both official and unofficial.

––––––––

W
ith a week left before the games, Caius, Conall, and Lucius decided to enact their plan on Flamma.

Conall, being the brains of the operation, took special care to do poorly in training that day. Caius slammed him to the ground more than five times in a row all due to Conall’s “faulty” footing.

“Enough!” Murus roared at the smaller man. “You run. Now.”

“Run?” Conall put his hands on his hips. “For how long?” 

If there was any question that was sure to enrage Murus, it was one that had to do with the severity of punishment.

“How long? How
long
, novicius? You’ll run until your feet bleed.” Murus picked up and then tossed the Hell Log at Conall. It landed at his feet with a heavy thump. “Hold that up while you do. If it drops below shield height, I’ll brain you dead.”

Caius knew the Hell Log's weight well. He had carried it for enough miles to cover the whole distance of Rome’s borders, it felt like. Conall was in for a hard trip.

“Yes, Doctore.”

Conall cast Caius a grim smile and a look—
don’t make this for nothing
.

There was an herb, mudflower, that grew in a small green patch catty-cornered to the cellblocks and the training sands. It had special laxative properties.

When the gladiators broke for lunch, Conall ran still, his pace keeping up. Caius was impressed—no doubt the lad had the endurance to be a gladiator, if not the size.

With only a few days until the games, the mood in the small mess hall was serious. Little was said, largely because Murus was tense. He did not want his gladiators thinking lightly before entering the arena. Their failure was his failure.

As was usual, Caius sat with Septus and Lucius. A few minutes into the quiet meal, Caius stood suddenly, shoving Septus on the shoulder.

“You’re calling me a
coward
, Septus?”

“What?” Septus's mouth was half-full. “I said nothing, Caius. Calm yourself.”

“Did you all hear that?” Caius roared, throwing his arms about. “Septus called me a coward.” He shoved him again. Now Septus stood. “How long has it been since you’ve been trusted with a fight, old man?”

It was clear Septus took offense. Caius struggled to hide his smile. Gladiators began to get up, crowding around the two. Some tried to calm them—they were old friends, after all. But others still cheered them on—any chance for blood was a good one.

“When was the last time
I
had a fight?” Septus shook his head in disbelief. “You would well do to watch your words with me, Caius. Let’s not forget where you have
been
.”

With the drama rising, the gladiators became more enthralled. Lucius, meanwhile, snuck around them and applied the mudflower to Flamma’s unattended food. From across the room, Caius saw him finish—and quickly took Septus in an embrace, laughing.

“Did you see?” he asked the gathered gladiators. “Did you see his face?”

Septus took a moment, surprise and confusion melting from his face and replaced with a tall, bearded smile.

“You rotting shit.” He clapped Caius on the back. “You rotting...Gods.” He shook his head. “You really had me going.”

For a moment, the mess hall filled with laughter. No one thought Caius had such a joke in him. And he didn’t, naturally—the idea had been Conall’s. They would have let Septus in on the plan, but he was always a bit straight-laced, and friends with Murus besides. They couldn’t run the risk of him doing the honorable thing and letting the air out from their plot.

Murus shouted for them all to sit back down. The laughter was shut away like figs in a bag, and they resumed their meal.

An hour later, they had returned to sparring, every man pairing up to prepare for their expected matches. As a thraex, Caius matched up against the new man, Perseus, an Egyptian who fought as a secutor. He was an arrogant sort, Perseus, as was the retarius Ajax who arrived with him. Most men didn't only go by their fighting names unless they'd already built a bit of a legend about themselves. Most of the legend of these two was built by their flapping mouths at mealtime. But, when they trained, they trained as hard as any man, and Perseus kept Caius hard on his toes.

Conall ran still, hefting the Hell Log. Now that it was late in the afternoon, his pace began to slow, but still he trudged onward. Murus appeared to making good on his word.

“Flamma,” Lucius called out. “Would you spar with me? I have heard rumors of fighting a dimachaerus in the arena. I should like some preparation.”

Flamma shrugged, casting a few laughs at his grisly friends.

Being the elite of the ludus, the two had trained together before. There was no crowd gathering around them, but in the small breaks between attacking, defending, and resetting, the other gladiators spared their eyes over to the two. Caius joined them, watching carefully even as Perseus tried his honest best to knock him down.

It took about five minutes before Flamma began to show his discomfort. He hunched over more, stayed more on guard. Normally, a man fighting with two swords was on the constant attack, being that the swords offered little defense.

But he simply tried, again and again, to fend off Lucius’s insistent attacks.

At the ten minute mark, Lucius landed Flamma in his net and—to simulate the kill—thrust his training pole directly into Flamma’s midsection. There was no dignity in Flamma’s sudden howls of discomfort. The cries scrambled across the sands, begging for release.

“Let me out!” he demanded. “You’ve got to let me out, right now!”

“All right, Flamma, take it easy.”

Across the yard, Conall slowed down in his run to watch the proceedings. Despite all his sweat and exertion from the hours of hefting the log around, there was a great grin on his face.

“Now! Now! Gods! Get me out now!”

“I’m sorry, Flamma,” said Lucius, barely trying. “It’s a bit tangled.”

“It’s not tangled, you shit. You’ve got to—err...”

Finally Lucius let the net go. Flamma rushed back to the latrine, but it was too late. He tripped over his feet, great portly body turning awkwardly through the air, and when he rose, there was a great brown stain covering the back of his loin cloth.

The entire regime of gladiators burst out laughing, Conall most of all.

“Stop laughing! Stop it!”

There was real, desperate fear in Flamma’s eyes, losing all the respect of the men in the ludus. Perhaps it wouldn’t be permanent, but in that moment, the loss was total. Despite everything, Caius actually felt a little bad for him.