Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) (9 page)

“You know, I can just go to the Domina and have her make you do it. And then you won’t have a choice.”

“And will you do that?”

From his face, she could see that he might. But it would be costly to him. He did not like talking to the lady of House Varinius, for whatever reason. Rumors abounded that they had slept together once.

And why did that send needles of jealousy into her heart? It was none of her business who he had slept with in the past.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asked.

She thought she had prepared her explanation. But as she spoke, great waves of emotion shook through her.

“My father fought in the arena. He was a murmillo. He was a great fighter. Many victories. They put his name on the Wall of Turmedites. They would not let me see him fight. Not even when he died. I will fight as murmillo, now.”

Lucius let the spoonful of gruel in his hand pass back down to table. He pushed the bowls away. Flies circled around the food, landing and taking off in short circuits.

By this time, the mess hall had mostly emptied. They had the place practically to themselves, outside of the cook circling around the tables and cleaning up the dishes left behind. He wiped with a heavy rag that filled the hall with soft swooshing sounds.

“What name did he fight under?”

“My father, he was a lean man. Dark hair. Very tan. He looked Greek so long as no one saw his tattoos. His were like mine, easily hidden under armor,” she pointed to her shoulders. “So they called him Leonidas.”

“Leonidas the murmillo, hmm? When did he die?”

She considered for a moment. “He fought to his death some five years ago.”

Lucius drummed his fingers, clearly lost in thought. The cook walked by and Lucius handed him the still half-f bowl of gruel he did not finish. He had a ball of something in his mouth that he sucked on, making his mouth twitch every few moments. She enjoyed looking at the shape of his face up close, in detail like this. He had a pleasant face. It was a face that made it easy to let her imagination run away from her.

She could see it, perhaps, as the first sight when she woke up in the morning. Maybe they were far away from here, in a field somewhere. On the run together, fighting at each other's backs.

“I thought that I wanted to fight against the Titan once upon a time,” he said finally. “I was close to it, too. Very close.”

“The Titan of Rome?”

“You know him, huh?”

“I know all about the arena. I know as much as someone can know without being there. So yes, I know of the Titan. I know he is undefeated. I know he fights only to the death. I know that he refuses freedom so that he can continue to fight.”

The look he gave her was of mild surprise.

Oh yes, she thought with biting sarcasm. The
girl
can't know anything about the arena. Nor can she
fight
in the arena, oh no. It would be as sacrilegious as a champion like
him
sharing his bed with a woman who wasn't drooling after his every piece of heavily muscled, chiseled beauty.

She would not drool after him. Even if she could feel a part of her desperate to sink her teeth into his chest. She would not.

“Well. I was high in the rankings,” he said. “Undefeated in this town for years. They wanted a big show—a big memorable game for the Saturnalia. But I got sick. Down for weeks in my bed. Fevers. Shakes. Weak limbs. Head clogged full of snot, the works.”

“You didn’t fight him.”

“No. The man who fought in my place was a veteran from the Near East. Probably better than I was, and a retarius besides. A noble champion. I hoped one day to fight him in the ring too.”

“But he didn’t win,” said Gwenn. “The Titan is undefeated.”

“That’s right. He didn’t win. He was slaughtered wholesale. The Titan toyed with him for a bit. Put on a show. But for the Titan, the sands are a butcher’s block, and he’s the butcher.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to fight him. Maybe you would have found a way to win.”

Lucius shook his head. “You’re not hearing me. Dreams...they get you nowhere in this life. Probably death is on the end of them. You have this eagerness to fight. It’s like you’re optimistic about it. Even someone like Flamma,” he pointed out to the cell blocks, “doesn’t have your attitude. He’s all about glory. Honor. I mean, me too, don’t get me wrong. But you want this because it’s all the life you’ve imagined. It’s nuts.”

“It’s what I want. I will fight as murmillo. I will win the crowd. They will know what I can do. They will want more of me.”

At this, Lucius snorted with laughter. “Come now. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“No woman has ever fought well in the arena. It just hasn’t happened. It’s not going to. It’s not
done
, little flame.”

“And who’s been teaching these women? Men like you?”

“I expect so.”

They both were standing now, nose to nose. She could taste the breath from his lips.

“Men like you who write them off before they even step foot in the sands? Who don’t give them a fair shake in training? And you’re saying they don’t come out fighting well? Mystery of mysteries, Lucius.”

“It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. A woman can’t understand the finer aspects of training. It takes bloodlust. It takes
balls
.” He made a gripping motion with his hand.

“I’ve got more balls than half the men here.” She banged the table. “Train me like you train a man. I’m tired of you holding back. We can see what the others do in training. You understand we have eyes, don’t you? We see what they practice. We want the same.”

Their lips were just inches apart. The closeness was agonizing.

“And besides all that?” Lucius did not seem to be hearing her. “Besides all that, you’ve got to work with armor and weapons. Half of the girls out there can barely hold up their sword after the first hour. They’ll be cut down like flies. A woman just isn’t strong enough. Hell, the armor alone is half your weight, I bet, and—”

She punched him. Startled, Lucius shuffled a bit and then fell. He landed sitting down on the bench. Blood dripped down from his nose.

“Is that strong enough for you?

“Anybody can sucker punch someone when they’re not ready.” He held his nose and his voice was a bit nasally.

“I’m going to punch you in three seconds, then. Are you ready, gladiator? That should be plenty of time, even for you.”

It was evident he did not believe her. And so, she punched him again, this time in the forehead. Lucius wavered on the bench, shaking his head.

“Gods, you’ve got a temper.”

“Blood lust, some call it.”

Lucius laughed, but his face was grim.

For a moment, she thought she would kiss him. Or he would kiss her. And she could tell, looking at his face, that he had been thinking the same thing. If only he hadn't been so stupid, if only he hadn't been so bullheaded and wrong...

“Armor can be made proportionally,” said Gwenn. “Muscles grow by the day. Any woman out there would fight to defend her life, just like any person would. And I can beat anyone in that arena if you show me how. Train me.”

She held out a hand to help him up. Instead, he touched his nose and frowned at the blood there.

“I think you should get out of here,” he said, standing up without her hand, “before I tell the guards what you’ve done.”

Hopeless, she thought. A completely hopeless man.

––––––––

I
t took Lucius a few moments, but he realized he recognized the name Leonidas.

Leonidas the murmillo.

It eluded him until after Gwenn left the mess hall, until he left as well and returned to his cot to rest.

Her presence made memory difficult. There was so much pain in his memories, so much struggle, and it was easier in her presence to simply focus entirely on the moment. The wisps of hair that refused to stay out of her eyes. The curve of her lips, ever upward, even when she clearly felt rage.

Little flame. Smiling flame.

Punching him had felt like foreplay for some reason. Thoughts of holding her body tight to his, kissing her madly, crossed his mind even after she had punched him.

They may have had a difference in philosophy, but what he wanted—what he noticed more than anything—was the passion she brought to her every endeavor.

Her fervor was nigh-irresistible. Thoughts rose up in him of giving in to what she wanted. It would be easy to give in to her desire. And gods, did she ever have desire.

His heart raced with the simple conclusion of all her clear beauty and all that open, bold desire—what if it was turned on to him?

The thought was not a safe one to have while alone. Lucius may not have been able to fight in the arena as a gladiator anymore, but he still felt as virile as he ever had. Seeing those stark blue eyes burn with desire for him was something he did not think he could walk away from.

Even imagining that now would have brought his shaft up to a particular hardness and length that was hard to ignore—except for what he had just realized.

And now he knew, to a certainty, that it was an impossibility. Because
if
she wanted him like that, then he’d have to tell her the truth. And the truth was that she shouldn’t trust him. She shouldn’t want him as a doctore.

And she should never, ever want him.

A long time ago—five years ago, in fact—he had faced her father in the arena, and he had won.

It was a close fought battle. The sands had been hot that day, and the air thick with the smell of blood and struggle.

Only a few times had Lucius been closer to death than that day against Gwenn's father.  Leonidas had long, wiry arms. This made his reach long as well, negating some of the advantage that Lucius’s trident gave him. As a damnably good murmillo, he was patient, and chose his shots wisely.

Four times, the gladius of Leonidas raked against Lucius’s skin. He still had the scars along his back, though they had faded some. The cuts had been deep and nearly fatal. He’d needed to rest for close to a month before the wounds healed.

But Lucius drew him out of his defense, taking his time. He neutralized his arm and then took away his shield. The net could be used as a sort of a grappling hook if you caught a man off-guard. Leonidas rushed him, then, Lucius losing all his own weapons.

They scuffled on the ground, tangled together. Wrestling for their lives with a gladius between them. It ended, finally, when  Lucius gained the upper-hand for just nearly two seconds and ran Leonidas’s throat against his own blade.

He’d had no choice in the matter. If he had not killed Leonidas, then Leonidas would have killed him.

It was a long, bloody battle. Lucius barely survived. Leonidas fought honorably and earned himself much glory—to the point of immortality, as Gwenn had said, on the Wall of Turmedites. He’d held great respect for the man, both before and after the battle. It was a memory that he had carried with pride, winning that fight.

And now it was one he carried with shame.

––––––––

H
itting Lucius had made her blood rise. Gwenn retreated to her cell and began knocking out push-ups and crunches, unable to think clearly.

He was mad at her. That was clear. She shouldn’t have hit him. But she couldn’t help herself. It seemed like the only language he would hear, the hopeless man, and violence was as much a tongue to her as any fighter. She had little issue using it if it meant her point came across.

Still, she had shamed him. And for that, she felt regret. People did not listen to shame. They did not appreciate shame. It was no way to communicate a point. She’d have to learn. Take stock. Approach him again tomorrow, maybe apologize, and try a new tack on her road the arena. She would fight as murmillo or die trying.

And beyond all that, there was the shame she felt at the lost opportunity—those brief seconds where their lips had come so close...

She did not need to wait until the next day to speak with him. Lucius entered the women’s wing of the cell blocks once again. She overheard him greeting the others on his way. He complimented Sabiana on her progress with the trident, and suggested something she couldn’t quite hear.

The realization that he would be at her own cell soon arrived slow. She felt a need to prepare, and then felt stupid. She was in a cell. There was nothing to prepare. And yet, all the same, she wanted to impress him somehow. Show him that...what? That she was worth his attention?

Her hands went to her hair, arranging the thick red locks for a moment before she realized she had no idea what she was doing. With a cloth from her cot, she wiped down her face and chest, clearing away some of the sweat she had worked up from her impromptu workout routine.

Gods, she wished he didn’t put her head in a tizzy like this.

He walked into her cell and pushed into the corner, not quite facing her. He had a tall amphora in one hand.

“Come right in.”

“As your doctore, I have waived the need for permission into your space.” Lucius smiled. “Not that any space is truly yours, anyway. You may fix that eventually. Every gladiator is his own manager, in a way.”

“And every gladiatrix her own?”

“Sure. Why not?” He coughed. “You'll have to choose a name for the arena, you know. I was thinking maybe Artemis.”

“Artemis?”

“Greek goddess of the hunt. A powerful virgin.”

Gwenn snorted. “I have terrible news for you if you think me a virgin, Doctore.”

“I have terrible news for you if you think I think you're a goddess, little flame. It's a stage name. One for people to get behind. It separates you and the...the person in the arena. It's an old tradition.”

“Artemis, hmm?” It was not so bad a name. “I like it.”

“Good.”

She stepped forward, moving halfway across the cell.

“What are you doing here, Lucius? Or was it just to give me a name?”

Years of training had made him quick. The only warning she had was a small flash in his eyes—a clear, direct desire of undistilled lust that made her shiver. And then his lips were on hers, her tongue sliding into his mouth with an urgency she did not know she had.