Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (43 page)

At one point in his life, all of this had seemed readily exciting to Caius. But now it felt somewhat empty. Soulless. He did not want to think of what lay ahead in the arena for him.

His thoughts filled instead with Aeliana—holding her body against his. Feeling her in that intimate way. He wanted only to fall into her arms, but with the business of the day, it was not possible. He barely saw her at all.

Near sunset, the gladiators from all the competing ludi were brought out in front of the crowd at the base of the amphitheater and assessed. Some few thousand were in attendance. Nearby merchants sold their wares beneath heavily tented tables to keep out of the midday sun. The gladiators had no such luck, but all were tanned thoroughly and well used to the heat of the day on their strong, cut-hard bodies.

The poultice Caius wore over his arm was strapped down with bandages beneath a thick tunic. It looked as a sort of shoulder pad, making it seem more as an affectation of his character than a bandage. He wondered how many were fooled.

A tall man in a purple-striped robe read off their names, their win-loss record, and their style of choice. He also read off the names of their opponents and their win-loss record and style. This was the first many were brought aware of the nature of their competition. There were not a great many surprises. Conall, a thraex, found he was to fight a murmillo, which was fortunate, as that was what the ludus had trained him for. Septus, a secutor fighting with heavy armor and a short sword, was paired against a nimble hoplomachus armed with a spear and shield. Flamma would be in a heavy melee near the end of the day's matches with several other fighters—just the right fit for his brutal style.

When the time came to reveal Caius’s opponent, the crier reading the list made a big show of it.

“Men and women of Rome, we have for the games tomorrow a thoroughly sensational event for you. Beyond the bounds of our mortal understanding, a god of the arena has returned to us. The Great and Mighty Ursus, the most famous and talented gladiator in all of Rome outside of perhaps the Titan of Rome himself—”

At this point, Caius snorted in derision. He quieted, though, after the crier admonished him with a glance.

“—yes,
that
Ursus will fight in the arena tomorrow!” He paused for cheering, which lasted for nearly a minute. “And he fights not by himself, oh no! He fights with the Champion of Puteoli, the incomparable Orion!”

More cheers now, though the crowd did seem somewhat puzzled. Who was left in the ranks to face two such peerless fighters?

“They will be the defenders of civilization,” the crier continued. “They are to fight the champions of nature, the very wild that stands beyond the bounds of Rome. Here are their opponents!”

A portcullis opened at the mouth of the arena, revealing the tiger and bear beyond as slaves pushed them forward.

The bear and tiger were caged, of course. Young men hovered meat in front of their cage to ensure that they would snarl appropriately, making them look fearsome. Though the beasts had been starved, they were as large as such animals came, and showed no signs of weakness. The Romans had suffering down to a science.

That the beasts were enormous was the first thing Caius noticed. Whoever had caught them had probably lost several men doing so. The tiger was probably half again as long as Caius was tall, and easily came up to his chest. The bear had to be stuffed inside of two cages bolted together, and even then its frame pressed hard against the bars.

The beasts would be a hard fight for a man at the top of his game. Caius felt laughter coming up from his chest at how ridiculous and futile it all seemed. Here was Fortune’s calling card. A little bit of goodness—Aeliana, and that sweet embrace—and a whole lot of anguish to somehow even the scales back out.

All his sins weighed down the scales heavily—and Caius could not argue that he had not earned his way for a fate like this.

His laughter continued, and the crier took advantage.

“He laughs!” His robes twirled and flourished. “The Mighty Ursus laughs in the face of the most fearsome beasts we could pull from the depths of the wild! Have you ever seen such bravery? Is there another man in the world even half as brave as he?”

It would have been counter-productive, Caius supposed, to tell them the real reason he laughed.

After the fighters were all displayed, the crier announced the very real possibility of free tickets the following day for early comers, suggesting “anything” could happen. This was a bit of theater, of course—everyone knew there would be tickets handed out to the crowd. The entire purpose of the games was to keep the mob satisfied.

––––––––

A
eliana did her best not to look through the gates into the sands of the arena as the fights went on. It was all too brutal for her.

Besides, she was busy with her own table. She had set herself up in a small, well-lit corner of the arena's underbelly. She hung up a tall sign with the large “V” of House Varinius to indicate the area was  for her fighters. The day before, as the gladiators paraded through the city, she had unpacked her crates and prepared the area around, ensuring that all necessary tools were on-hand. From the gates to her table was only about a thirty second journey. She knew already that would be too long for some men.

There was a clear program for any day at the arena. It started with the beast fights in the morning, where bestiarii fought beasts one on one or in great melees, sometimes with dozens of beasts at a time. The bestiarii usually died—and did that day as well. It took a great deal of her self-control to not think about how Caius and Lucius were both fighting beasts in the primus that afternoon.

After that were the hunts, featuring the acclaimed venatores showing off their considerable skill with bows and spears. Then, at midday, as a “break” between the contests, were executions of criminals. During these breaks, noble men and women would retreat to lunch. The common people did not want to leave, as they might lose their seats. So, a long time ago, the visionaries of the munus games gave these common people something to watch—more blood and guts.

By the afternoon, when the gladiator games began, the crowd had been subject to a considerable show of frenzied gore from the executions.

Of course, this did not deter their frenzy in the least. They had seen all they wished of the preliminaries—but the real prize of the day was the gladiator fights.

Conall fought in the very first match. Though she did not want to witness the fight, she had developed a maternal liking to the young man. He was headstrong, but a good friend to Caius. Aeliana found that mattered to her quite a lot.

He battled as Aeliana had been worried he might—with reckless abandon, heedless of any harm he might come to as a result of his wild strikes and ceaseless attack. She had watched him training, and saw his same lack of reserve back in the ludus as she did in the arena.

The man he fought was a veteran of four matches, with an even record between wins and losses.

Aeliana watched, with growing admiration, as Conall’s constant harrying drove the murmillo back and made him make mistake after mistake. Conall was a flurry of sword and shield, blocking and striking with equal alacrity.

Inside the bounds of his apparent wildness was the very real training that Caius and Murus had instilled upon him—his footing was never out of position, his shield never falling to leave him vulnerable. The murmillo took blow after blow, arms and chest slashed open in many places. In attempts to retreat, his feet got crossed over one another and he fell. The crowd roared with glee, and the murmillo held up his two fingers for mercy.

The editor of the games was Senator Otho. His love for the games, and his thirst for blood, was well-known among the people of Puteoli. It was said he regularly bribed imperial officials so that he might attend and be the editor of the games to which games he went. This role placed him in full control, at the end of the fight, of who lived and who died.

It might have been strange for the nephew of the princeps to have to bribe imperial officials, but this was simply how Rome worked. As the Emperor’s nephew, he received a great deal of deference—but even the Emperor bribed his own troops in the Praetorian Guard to keep him safe.

Seedier rumors had Otho training with gladiators in his private time, which would have been scandalous indeed were it true. Gladiators, in terms of social ranking, were below even members of the theater, themselves lower than whores and pimps. Well out of line for a Senator, in any case.

Aeliana’s heart swelled as Otho decided for mercy, and again when Conall returned through the gates without a scratch upon him. There was some light bruising around one arm, but nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own. The decision for mercy was out of character for Otho, though perhaps he wished to see the fallen fighter die on another day.

Holding power over life and death meant, for someone like Otho, equal pleasure in granting life and death.

Aeliana chose to take it as a good omen for the rest of the day. She could only hope that Caius would be half as fortunate as Conall.

––––––––

T
he rest of the fights passed without much pause between matches. Attendant slaves of the arena barely had time to toss new sand out in the ring before the crowd became restless and thirsty for more.

Twelve men died—six in one large melee—but only three from the Varinius ludus. Flamma survived in the melee, much to the mixed-feelings of Caius. He had thought he’d had a handle on the man, but low in nature though he seemed to be, there was also an honor to him.

Caius could always appreciate honor in a man.

Septus stumbled badly in his own fight, leaving himself open to a long shallow cut across his ribs and a heavy battering from the shield of the hoplomachus faced against him. But, up until that point, he had fought bravely, and the crowd insisted he live. The editor Otho was forced to go along with their opinion or risk the wrath of the mob.

It was a strange privilege of the veterans—the longer you lived, the longer you were likely to live.

Finally it came time to prepare for the great display of man against nature. To properly arrange the spectacle, great trees had been chopped down from a forest in Germany and shipped—in whole—to the amphitheater.

As the crowd waited and clapped their hands in rhythm, chanting for more, the trees were set up inside the arena to simulate a wooded area. The crowd wouldn’t mind that the bear was from Gaul and the tiger from Asia—it was all a metaphor for them.

Caius dressed in his standard armor, worn for years before from the time when he first began his undefeated streak. It had been gifted to him along with his freedom, and he wore it again. A manica covering his arm, thick greaves across his legs, a heavy leather belt across his waist. He would wait to don the helmet until stepping out into the sands. The crowd would want to see his face.

Luckily, the manica covered his injured arm. Unluckily, that was the arm for his sword. With some consideration, he switched his shield and sword between hands. He was more awkward fighting with his left, but he couldn't use his right at all. Better to have the one arm covered entirely and keep one open for attack. His bad arm wouldn’t be able to lift the shield very much. Hopefully, with Lucius's help, it wouldn’t need to.

His sword was short and curved at one end, razor sharp and about the length from his elbow to the tips of outstretched fingers. A short sword to fight a tiger and a bear. He chuckled. All his requests for a spear had been denied—at Otho’s insistence, of course.

He wondered if Porcia and Otho worked in tandem, somehow, or if they simply both loved the thought of seeing blood spilled in their name.

After armoring up, Caius tried to talk strategy with Lucius. He saw the retarius, holding an amphora of wine still, in deep conversation with Conall. He knew Lucius liked to fight with a little warmth in his veins, but hadn’t he seen him drinking earlier in the day as well? It was hard to recall. Caius’s nerves were shot, and his thoughts were split between Aeliana—who he could not touch nor speak to in front of so many of Porcia’s eyes—and the fight ahead.

Iunius cornered him. “My friend,” said the eunuch, opening a small pouch. “I have a few concoctions here that would help with your arm.”

“No, thank you.”

The discussion with Conall and Lucius had devolved into an argument. Conall snatched the wine away from Lucius. Murus approached, looking concerned. Lucius just smiled, swaggering about and hoisting his trident up.

“Something for the pain? Something to make you more alert? Just a few sestertii from your purse.”

“No, Iunius.”

“You wish to die out there?”

“I will die out there, Iunius.” Caius gave him a little half-smile. “I would prefer to do it with my wits about me.”

Whatever Lucius said, it seemed to mollify Murus. The call for the fighters to approach came. Lucius cast him a strangely tilted smile as their wrists were chained together. Bang, bang, from the smith's hammer, and their fates were sealed.

Just as they were about to enter the arena, Conall grabbed Caius and brought his lips to his ear.

“Drunk,” he hissed. “Drunk as I’ve ever seen.”

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T
here was no such thing as a forest upon sand, but some visitor, only just arriving to the games, might have been hard-pressed to believe it. The trees stood easily, weighed down with sand and iron. Their heavy leafy curtain was patchwork in places, but this did not hurt the illusion so much as it enhanced the viewing pleasure of the crowd.

The crowd roared as the two gladiators waved and stepped out onto the sands, holding their weapons high. There were so many people in the crowd that it was hard to tell one from another. They were a throbbing, thriving sea of arms and faces, cheering voices and endless calls for glory.

It was all the strain Caius could manage simply not to let the shield fall from the grip of his bad arm.