Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (45 page)

Porcia was still in Capua, enjoying her stay with the Senator Otho. She was beyond blame, much though Aeliana wished otherwise. Anything to see the woman hang at last.

Aeliana was kept busy, trying to attend to the burns of anyone she could. Chloe, already, had done enormous work—keeping a number of men and women alive. But the governor had also hired out a number of medici to look after the wounded, and so very quickly Aeliana and her assistant were pushed aside to let “the men do their work.”

An insulting gesture, and one that probably did more harm than good. Aeliana felt confident in her ability to treat burns. But it was not a time for arguing, and if she did argue, it would only make her life harder—and delay treatment for those who needed it.

She had plenty of wounded to tend to in the first place from the fights in Capua. And so she returned to them, helping to situate them in their cell blocks and detailing the course of everyone’s treatment to Chloe.

Some two hours after nightfall, a measure of normalcy returned to the ludus. Aeliana had enough free time to daydream about kissing Caius and guiding his fingers back down to where they had been before. Certainly, she had touched herself from time to time, but his fingers, so large and so rough, so strong...

And one man had been responsible for almost never feeling Caius’s touch again.

She entered Lucius’s cell block with Chloe, and nodded curtly to the girl. Right away, the assistant went to work, gathering up first the discarded and broken amphoras, and then what full ones remained. Aeliana, meanwhile, pulled up a stool next to Lucius’s bed. A wind caught in the cell, raising the stink of his lifetime of hangovers. Finally his eyes fluttered open.

“You are going to stop drinking,” she told him.

Lucius, torn ragged on his bed, just laughed at Aeliana. He could not make it safely up the stairs to her offices, so she had been required to move many of her supplies down to him. Needle and thread and herbs for poultices sat on a small table in the corner.

“Do you think I’m joking?”

“I think you’re living in fantasy,” said Lucius. “I will stop drinking wine when all the wine is gone, and no sooner.”

“Are you proud of yourself, then? What you’ve done?”

Lucius frowned. “I
was
proud. And then I was made to fight beasts. If that’s what I am to them, then I will be the low fighter they ask for, and I will drink.”

“You drank before that.”

“And now I shall drink ever
more
after that.”

“That business in the arena had nothing at all to do with you!” Aeliana was furious. “It was a way to get at Caius, you dolt.”

“And yet I got drawn in, simply by being the man’s friend. Some friend, I say. Some friend that would pull me into that.”

That was too much. She slapped him. A hot rush of guilt followed—hitting an injured man. She could not help herself. His self-pity was aggravating to her very core; for Aeliana, who had spent her whole life trying to shed herself of any pity for herself so as to rise above all expectations of men, self-pity was a cancer.

“That friend is your brother. And he saved your life in the arena, more than three times over. And you ought to be grateful.”

“What for?” The argument had left his eyes now. It was replaced with confusion. “What for? Grateful for...this?” He looked down at his torn body. “I’m useless as a fighter now. And you know it. I won’t be in the arena again.”

“Stranger miracles have happened, Lucius.”

“I won’t fight again. I have made my life by being the best. And I was. And it returned me to this helpless, useless state.”

Her anger began to subside. What she saw in him now was not truly self-pity, that was just one mask of many. He was a man without hope.

“I do not think you are helpless. And I do not think you are useless. And I think the only way you could be is if you convince yourself to be as such. And the only way, really, that you are truly useless, is that you do not recognize that you are still alive. And being alive, you have chances.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“And if you do not apologize to Caius, and
mean it
, I will...” she paused for a moment. Lucius was at her mercy, technically, but she would never allow him to come to harm. “I will make your recovery as long and as painful as I possibly can.”

He laughed in disbelief. “You wouldn't.”

The ludus was a brutal world, and it was time he learned she was part of it.

There was a scalpel nearby. It fit neatly into her hands. “Tigers are small-minded students in the art of surgery, Lucius. I have been doing it for years. Do not test me. Apologize to your friend.”

His eyes widened at the blade. He could see she was not joking.

There was little protest now. “Yes, Aeliana.”

“Thank you.” She set the scalpel aside. “Now, let's change that bandage, shall we?”

––––––––

F
ires happened all the time in Rome. Caius’s uncle had been killed in a fire in the city of Neapolis. Twice in the past year, Caius had been roused in the middle of the night because of a fire in Puteoli, holding his daughter tight and preparing to run should the flames come close enough.

But, that was in the middle of the city, where drunks abounded and there were nearly as many flames as people. The ludus of House Varinius, while technically part of Puteoli, was not in the city at all, and fires were much less common in the country than otherwise.

Suspicion of arson was already in his head. When Rufus called him to his bed the morning after their return from Capua, those suspicions began to solidify.

The bedchamber was luxurious. The one place in the house, it seemed, untouched as of yet by Porcia’s attempts to sell whatever she could to afford her gambling habits. It had also been untouched by the flames, though the evidence of smoke was everywhere. The curtains, rugs, and blankets still were covered over with the thick grime of black-and-gray ash.

Rufus, reclined in his bed, looked like the ferryman of death—Charon—at rest.

“I was sick before you left, you know,” said Rufus.

“Yes, Dominus.”

“The smoke...” he paused. His words had not failed him—his lungs did. If he spoke more, then he risked coughing for minutes at a time, and possibly coughing up blood. Frustration filled his face. “The smoke made it worse.”

His voice was little more than a whisper, harsh and hard to hear through the breeze of the day.

“Yes, Dominus.”

“I wanted to apologize to you. Strange, I know.” He smiled. “A master apologizing to a slave. But that was a poor fight to put you in. I am glad you survived. How is the arm?”

Caius lifted it slightly, straining the sling. “It will heal.”

“Good. That is good. And the crowd? Did you give us reason for pride?”

“They were quite happy, Dominus.”

“Good. Then...” Frustration again. He paused, taking a small sip of wine. Caius could smell the honey and lavender in it from where he stood several feet away. Good for calming a throat. “Then, perhaps there is hope for this place yet. I am told the purses were quite neat. With the crowd happy, we can increase our fees. And perhaps rebuild...”

He drifted, and Caius thought that the sickness had taken his mind for a moment. But, Rufus had simply changed the direction of his attention. At the doorway was Quintus Pompilius Buteo and Felix.

Quintus rushed toward the side of the bed, hands outstretched. “My dear Rufus, look at the state of you.”

Rufus waved off his touch. “I am sick as well as injured. Better for you to stay away.”

As if seeing a snake, Quintus withdrew. A myriad number of rings adorned his fingers, some two to a hand. “I see. That’s terrible. A terrible run of luck. Fortune gives and it receives, does it not? Your fighters win, and yet they are injured beyond repair. Your house gains fame, and yet...” he gestured toward the wreckage.

Felix had no weapon, but it hardly mattered. He was a large man, clearly made for fighting. His face, young, looked like it had seen the conflicts from a hundred wars—and in each one earned a victory more dire than the last.

Over the past several weeks in the ludus, Caius had heard ever more about Felix. The man was a prodigy, undefeated since the day of his brother's death in the arena. Fighting as murmillo, he had the crowd completely on his side with every new victory. His star was rising and—with Lucius now so grievously injured—perhaps set to shoot across the cosmos.

Quintus wanted to feel protected. Little better protection could be found than that of a gladiator. Caius suspected that Felix had a knife hidden somewhere on his person, probably somewhere in his tunic.

“Fortune is mysterious, it’s true,” said Rufus.

“And I have heard that due to the success of the Capuan games, our own games here have already sold every last ticket. Did you know they are even doubling our fees? We’re set to make a fortune.”

“Lucky for me all of the gladiators and their supplies were out of the ludus. Why, if Fortune truly wanted to throw me a hand...” Rufus coughed slightly. It was an ugly, garbled sound. “Bandits would have set upon them on their return when they were most vulnerable. That would have been a blow...irrevocable. Buildings, homes can be rebuilt.”

A slight red glow had appeared in Quintus’s cheeks. “Y-yes. Yes, oh my. Oh my, Rufus, you
do
look on the bright side, don’t you? That is what I love about you, my dear friend.”

“And I do love your attentions, Quintus. You are kind to visit so soon. It was sad to hear you were pushed out of the Capuan games. What was the reason? You displeased the governor there?”

“It's nothing to mind. A gentle dispute over payments. We'll be back there soon enough.”

“I see. I suppose the rumors I heard about flung insults were overblown. You have such a temper, my friend. Sometimes I forget whether you are in control of it or not when I hear news of you.”

“Yes. Well.” Quintus smiled, the air gone out from him. “We must be going. I am sure you have much to attend to.” He stopped at Felix’s side, just before exiting. “I forgot—there
was
another reason I came here today. I wanted to share a bit of good news. I’ve been assured by the arena agent that Felix here, our Hector, has landed the primus. We’re still rounding up an opponent worthy of him.”

Felix just glared at Caius. Unimpressed, Caius winked at him.

In short order, the two had left, and Caius was alone with Rufus again.

“It’s funny, you know,” said Rufus. “One of my men was sure he saw a man with a bald head and thick scars upon it yesterday around the time of the fire.”

If Caius’s suspicions were not already raised from their conversation, they would have been then. The description matched Felix in exactitude.

“I asked for the guard this morning. But he disappeared last night. Isn’t that strange?”

But Rufus’s look communicated he knew it was anything but strange. Likely the man, if found at all, would be found dead.

––––––––

I
n the late afternoon of the day after their return from Capua, Aeliana walked with Caius through the cell blocks. There was no training for the day and for perhaps another after as the entire household tried to create some semblance of structure in the heavy disarray after the fire.

It took some doing, but Aeliana convinced Caius to come and speak with Lucius. At the sight of her—and with the threat of Porcia far away—all he wanted to do was sneak into some dark corner of the ludus and kiss her madly. Truth be told, that was all she wanted as well.

But this had to take precedence. Porcia would not return for some time yet, and they could kiss—and more—later. Lucius needed reinforcement of what Aeliana had said right away.

She stepped outside the room as they spoke, listening in. She felt a little dirty for eavesdropping, but she had to know that Lucius apologized. The admission of his guilt for what had happened was important—and Caius would want to hear it.

“It appears we both have bum arms,” said Caius.

“Aye. Brothers in arms, if naught else.”

They both chuckled. 

Lucius’s voice was tired when he spoke again. “I should like to speak with you, brother.”

“So Aeliana told me.”

“I am...my drinking. It has put me in a state. And I do not understand it. I do not know why I acted like I did. I do not know why getting drunk was more important than fighting at your side.”

“It’s all right.”

“Thank you. But no. It’s not. It is...not all right. It hasn’t been all right for some time. I am sorry, Caius, for the spot I put you in. Truly, I am.”

There was no speaking, but Aeliana heard them shift—and she supposed—hug. Caius then began to laugh about the fight—the sorry state Lucius had been in, and Aeliana could listen to none of that. She wanted as few reminders of that awful time as possible. How Caius could stand recalling it, and laughing about it, was rather beyond her understanding.

For now, she would let them talk. In an hour she would return and fall into Caius’s arms, assured in his strength and in the fact of Porcia being long gone for some time. Outside the cell blocks and up the stairs, slaves were busy clearing wreckage from the burnt mass. A pile of discarded wood and stone formed near the gates beneath the watch tower on the wall.

Many of the walls, while damaged, still stood. They could be repaired so long as adequate masons were employed.

In her office, Porcia waited for her. She wore a thin ivory gown, a long yellow sash cinched tight around her thin waist.

Aeliana could not hide the surprise in her voice. “Domina!”

“Yes.” Porcia stood. “Domina. You do remember the meaning of that word, don’t you?”

“I...yes, Domina?”

“Oh, good. I suppose you had forgotten. When Caius survived the fight—and when Lucius was
harmed
during it—I supposed that you had forgotten. Or did we not agree that Caius was not to receive treatment?”

“I delivered no treatment to Caius, Domina.”

“Then how was he able to use his arm in the fight? It was burned.” Her smile was macabre. “Viciously. I suppose you want to tell me it was a miracle?”