The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (2 page)

Acestes leaned in closer. “Lower your voice.”

Phaedra took a long swallow of wine. It tasted like vinegar and slanderous tales told by envious men. She stood and turned to Marcus. “I think I shall refresh myself and then retire.”

Marcus stood, also, and pressed dry, paper-thin lips to her temple. “Of course, my dear. This has been a long day for us all. I will be along directly. I need to speak a bit more to the consul, and that will give you time, as well.”

Phaedra’s childhood nurse—now her maid, Terenita—stepped from a shadow behind the table. She wore, as she always did, a cream-colored turban and a shapeless, buff-hued tunic that fell to the floor. For the festive evening, the maid had tied a belt at her waist, accentuating her womanly curves.

Terenita followed Phaedra from the dining room. Torches in the garden smoldered on their stakes, the sharp scent of pitch unmistakable. A half-moon hung in a clear sky, and thousands of stars shone down. The sandpit gleamed white in the darkness. In the distance Phaedra heard the low gurgle of the fountain. Tomorrow she would leave her father’s villa for Marcus’s huge estate that sprawled across the very top of the Palatine Hill. Hot tears stung her eyes, surprising her. She had not expected to be sad about leaving her father’s home.

“Go back to my rooms,” she said to Terenita, with a squeeze to her hand. “I will be there in a moment.”

“Whatever pleases you, my lady.”

Phaedra wandered to the back of the garden, near the grove of orange trees. The tang of citrus hung in the air. She removed her bridal veil and wrapped it around her wrist. Tighter and tighter she wound it, trying to choke Acestes’s hint that Marcus might not give her a child. The sound of water splashing called to her, and she moved toward the fountain at the far wall. She decided to stay a moment or two. Long enough to shed her tears and regain her composure before returning to her rooms and waiting for her husband.

Chapter 3

Valens

How did a bastard born on a wooden floor in a stinking apartment in the Suburra ever find himself as a senator’s wedding guest? Valens knew not how to talk to men of quality, although he had bedded quite a few of their wives. They never wanted to talk to him, either—content just to pay him for the use of his body and the pleasure he gave them.

After such a fight he was in no state to remain in Senator Scaeva’s dining room. The senator had been good enough to send guards back to the ludus where Valens lived and trained as a gladiator. They had returned with his finest tunic. Scaeva had even offered the use of a bath. Valens had washed, dressed, and then spent a few awkward moments standing in the dining room. Neither a slave on display nor an invited guest, his discomfort drove him into the garden to wait for his escort back to the gladiator school.

He stretched out on a marble bench, its stone still warm from the day’s heat. The water from a nearby fountain shone silver with moonlight. He watched it, transfixed.

As always when Valens had no other thoughts to occupy his mind, the faces of gladiators he had defeated came to him. Like an infected tooth, the guilt for having slain so many was always with him. At times, the ache was not so great and could be easily ignored. Other times the discomfort threatened to split his skull in two. It was during quiet moments, like this one, when the pain was at its worst. He imagined the Gaul with yellow-white hair who died after Valens severed his jugular, along with the large African, a happy fellow with a wide smile, who died after a leg wound festered and days later the poison spread through his blood.

More faces came to him unbidden.

He shoved them from his mind and looked again at the water spraying from the fountain. He concentrated on the mystery of the unending water. How could that be? Water rose from a single pipe hidden in the fountain’s base and was somehow diverted into two separate sprays. Each of those landed in two large marble bowls that spilled over into a pool and became part of the arc again.

The feat amazed Valens. He wondered what his life might have been if he had become an engineer, trained by a Greek, instead of a gladiator taught at a ludus. But to be an engineer was not his lot, and life as a gladiator provided him with far more than Fortune might have bestowed otherwise.

Beneath the gurgling water he heard her—faint but unmistakable came the sound of a woman’s sobs. He sat up and looked into the darkened garden, finding her at once. She no longer wore the crimson veil, but he recognized the bride, Phaedra Rullus Servilia, at once. Valens thought of sneaking away through the shrubbery surrounding the fountain. He shifted on the bench. She stopped crying and looked toward him. She gasped, a small “Oh” of surprise on her lips.

“Apologies, my lady,” he said. “I came to the garden for some air.”

She swiped a hand under each eye and stood taller. “I accept your apologies.”

Valens scooted to the edge of the bench. He should not be talking to this woman in a darkened garden, alone. True, they were behind the walls of her father’s home and her father had invited him to stay. But patrician men did not want gladiators around their wives or daughters, and Valens knew he would be the one to bear the punishment if anyone saw them together.

He tensed his thighs, ready to stand. The bride could not contain herself and sobbed again, her shoulders convulsing. Then, wide-eyed, she clamped a hand over her mouth and stared at Valens. It was as he had feared—she had not wanted this marriage. Without thought he stood and moved to her side. He placed his palm on her shoulder. Her skin, soft and warm, with a hint of lean muscle underneath, enticed him to touch her more. Her silken gown draped over her collarbone and dipped low, allowing Valens a view of the valley between her breasts. Maybe she had requested him at her wedding. Like so many aristocratic women, the bride might want him as her bedmate.

Did she purposely tempt him by appearing upset and then allowing him to offer comfort? He had been seduced in worse ways by worse women. His cock stirred and he breathed Phaedra’s scent, light and clean. She smelled of lavender and something else. Aloe, he decided.

She looked at his hand, the point where their flesh joined, and then to his face. Her eyes were light blue, and he read sadness in them, not desire. The need to ease her suffering hit him like a fist. He stepped away. His hand fell to his side, damp and chilled in the balmy night.

“Apologies,” he said, feeling more like an oaf than a god of the arena. “Allow me to take my leave.”

“Stay, Gladiator. I need to return to the party.”

As a slave, he was bound to do the bidding of all patricians, the bride included. He nodded and waited for her to walk away.

She did not.

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, and his mouth went dry. Valens imagined pulling the bride to him, kissing her lip free, and exploring her mouth with his tongue. His cock jumped again.

“Gladiator?” she said, ending his momentary fantasy.

“My lady?”

“Might I ask a question of you?” She did not wait for him to give his permission. “What thought you of fighting at a wedding banquet? Do you fight at them often?”

“This was my first,” he said.

She chewed on her lip again. “I thought that it might be so.”

“Did it please you?” he asked hesitantly. “The fight?”

“I enjoyed it more than I anticipated.”

Warmth started in his middle and spread outward. It took a moment for Valens to recognize the feeling as joy. “I was honored to fight for you.” Valens pushed his fist hard into his leg. This woman was not his to protect or make happy.

“Thank you, Gladiator,” she said. “I will let you return to your air, and I shall return to my duties.”

She turned to walk away, as she should, out of his life forever. “Valens,” he said, just to see if she would remain for one moment more. “My name is not Gladiator. It is Valens Secundus.”

She stopped and turned back to face him. He should never have called out to her. The wife of a senator, the daughter of one as well, would not want to be corrected by a mere gladiator.

“Apologies, Valens Secundus.”

She looked into the darkness and he followed her gaze. The lights from the house were visible through the surrounding foliage, yet the fountain drowned out the sounds of music and laughter. She looked back at him. Somehow she had aged years in a few seconds.

“I think I shall remain here for a moment,” she said as she took a seat on the bench and smoothed her gown over her lap.

That was it. She had dismissed Valens. He should not be surprised or injured, and yet he was. “Of course,” he said. “I should return to the party.”

“Stay, Valens Secundus,” she said as he turned to leave. “I would have a word with you.”

Chapter 4

Phaedra

Why had she just asked the gladiator to stay? Perhaps it had nothing to do with his hazel eyes or the strength in his shoulders, or that his green tunic turned his skin a deeper shade of bronze. Perhaps she only wanted the company of a single person on a day when a room full of people overwhelmed her.

Yet why him? Why not Fortunada? Phaedra knew that answer. Fortunada’s perfect marriage clearly illustrated the imperfections in Phaedra’s own. Her father, another person to whom she could speak, saw only the advantages of her union, leaving no room to understand her disappointment.

Besides, Valens Secundus had come to the garden for solace. It was what she had sought, and during this moment they shared a need.

Whatever the reason, Phaedra knew that remaining with the gladiator in the garden would be considered improper, if not wrong. She should not put him in such a position, nor open herself to a possible scandal. But no one knew they were alone together. Phaedra’s husband assumed she waited in her room. Had anyone even noticed where the gladiator had gone?

Valens stood before her with his hands clasped behind his back. His tunic fell just below his knees. Her gaze traveled from his well-muscled chest down to the woven belt resting on his flat stomach. The fabric draped over the juncture between his legs, and she wondered about his phallus. Phaedra had never seen a real one, of course, just those on statues. But all her married friends had told her what to expect on her wedding night. And the phallus was of the greatest importance.

At the juncture of his thighs, the fabric of the tunic stretched a bit, as if the phallus had moved. Moved! Phaedra looked up. He stared at her with eyes wide, as she knew hers must be. Had his phallus never moved before? Phaedra understood that with the correct attention it became firm and rigid. But she had never been told that it might twitch.

“Did you know—” she began. Yet the courage to finish her question evaded her. With any luck, Valens did not know exactly what she had begun to ask. A minute too late, she realized that she was pointing. She lowered her arm and averted her gaze.

He shifted, rotating his hips so the fabric once again draped smoothly over his thighs. “My lady, you wanted a word.”

Phaedra’s face flamed red and hot with embarrassment. She unwound the bridal veil from her wrist, slowly, hoping that she might think of something to say. She smoothed the fabric over her lap. “Tell me of your life. You have much fame. Even I, a person who never follows the games, knows of Valens Secundus.”

“I am a gladiator, my lady.”

“Have you no purpose beyond being a gladiator?”

“For me, there is no other.”

Phaedra suddenly realized that she had endowed the gladiator with attributes desirous to her, but ones he could not possess. For a brief instant she had imagined that he enjoyed a variety of interests and was a man with great intellectual and emotional depth who also just happened to possess the physique of a god. Phaedra’s chest tightened as she realized she had only fooled herself.

She lined up the corners of her veil and folded it into a square. His dissatisfying answer echoed in her mind. Perhaps it would be better if he returned to the party and left her a moment to collect her thoughts. She had a wedding night to endure, after all, and her maidenhead to offer her husband.

“I have kept you too long,” she said. “You may go.”

Valens continued to stand, his hands at his sides, his palms facing forward, with fingers slightly curled. “My job is to entertain with feats of combat. I show the Roman disdain for death and the virtue of courage in the face of adversity. Above all, I bring honor to my ludus, the gladiator school that trains me, and the place I have called home for the last eight years. I know nothing else, my lady. I see in your eyes that my answer disappoints.”

Phaedra did not deny his words. Yet he spoke with conviction and passion. What if his attention was set to other tasks? What might he accomplish then? “You sound as though you see yourself as little more than a trained beast, and that is your mistake. You are a man, capable of great achievements, greater even than your accomplishments in the arena.”

Valens dropped his gaze from hers. “I am not.”

“How can you not see who you are? What you have? You possess fame. Anything you ask for would be given to you, freely, gladly. You will never be forced to marry for money.” Phaedra pressed her lips together. She had not meant to engage in such a conversation.

“As a patrician you have a power all your own,” he said. “This city is bound to do your bidding.”

“As a woman I have no power of my own. Much like you, a slave with a master, I am the property of my family. It is almost as if I am invisible, unless my father needs something.”

“How can anyone not see you? For me,” said Valens, “you are like the brightest star in the sky.”

“You flatter me,” she said with a quick laugh, “and jest.”

Valens came to stand next to her; his body radiated heat. “See that,” he said. She lined up her gaze with his outstretched finger. He pointed to the single brightest star. “It is known as Polaris and is a fixed point in the sky. It shall be yours. Anytime you look at it from anywhere, you will know that you are seen.”

This man was a stranger to Phaedra, yet he had given her the most valuable gift she had ever received. In this moment, she existed. Yet she could think of nothing to say that would express her deep gratitude. “How is it that you know of stars?” she asked. Phaedra mentally groaned. Oh, the gods preserve her, that was the least charming thing said in the history of language.

“A sea captain told me of Polaris when I traveled aboard his vessel bound for Alexandria.”

“I have read of Alexandria and its white-pillared library, filled with more scrolls than one mind can comprehend. Did you see that during your travels?”

“There are many buildings such as you described. One of them may very well be the library. Yet I would not know.”

Of course. She doubted that Valens even knew how to read. He had gone to Egypt for fighting, not learning. Regardless of the reason, he had been! “It must have been thrilling—to travel, I mean.”

“I enjoy leaving Rome,” he said. “Has your father never taken you?”

“No,” said Phaedra, “I have yet to know the pleasure of leaving the city.”

“Perhaps one day you will sail to Egypt, and then you can tell me which one of the grand buildings is the library.”

“If my husband allows it,” she said. The delight of travels not yet taken disappeared like the dream they were. For Marcus, Phaedra might be nothing. She certainly was not the brightest star in the sky. The realization came crashing down upon her with all the force of the heavens. “I have enjoyed this moment with you, Valens Secundus. Thank you for the gift of Polaris. I think I will remember you long after this night has ended.”

“And I, you,” he said.

“I really should return,” she said. Like a tether around her middle, her duty to family and honor pulled her back to the villa. “Once you have gotten enough air, I hope you return to the party and enjoy the food and company.”

“This is a grand party,” said Valens. “I have attended many. Your father must love you very much. He spent a great deal of coin in simply hiring me.”

“My father loves a party; my marriage is secondary,” Phaedra said. “To him and to me.” Heat rose in her cheeks. She must stop sharing such details with the gladiator.

“You could ask to choose your own husband next time,” Valens said.

Phaedra knew he meant if she outlived Marcus. If she became a young widow, her father might try to marry her to an even more ancient man for even more money. But what if she asked for assurances for a marriage of her choice? Could she? Should she? The idea of asserting some control over her life by choosing her husband left her breathless. At the same time it made so much sense that Phaedra could hardly believe she had not thought to bargain with her father already.

In Rome, marriage defined a woman’s life. A married woman held the keys to the villa. She managed all the servants and slaves. Married women handled the household accounts. Even the clothes married women wore differed from those worn by unmarried women, divorced women, widows, or prostitutes. The matron’s stolla was the one piece of clothing every girl child aspired to wear. The long cloth was draped over her shoulder with the tail wrapped over her arm. Phaedra had already selected a shimmering silver stolla for tomorrow. But more than being a wife for all to see, Phaedra wanted a partner who loved and respected her. How different would this night be if her groom adored her? How might she view the rest of her life if she truly cared for her husband?

“You give me much to think on, Valens Secundus,” she said. “What of you? What would you do to change your fate?”

“Fortune smiles upon me already, my lady.”

Phaedra waved her veil at him. “That is far too safe an answer for a man who just now spoke of my new husband’s death. There must be something you want.”

“If I could, I would learn to read and write.”

“Why do you not? Then the next time you travel to Alexandria you could see the library for yourself.”

“There is no one at the ludus to teach me,” Valens said.

“The school’s owner, or his steward, must know how to read.”

He shrugged. “I might consider asking one of them for instructions.”

Valens had given her a rare and valuable gift. He deserved one in return. Yet she had nothing to give beyond her encouragement. Rising to her feet, Phaedra reached out her hand. “We shall bind ourselves to one another in a pledge to challenge the Fates.” She clasped Valens around the wrist and he gripped her in return. Her flesh tingled where his fingers wrapped around her arm. Phaedra’s pulse raced, fluttering at the base of her throat, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. “I shall ask for a choice in husbands should there come a time when I might marry again, and you shall ask for a tutor to teach you to read and write.”

Valens threw back his head and laughed. “When I fought earlier today, I worried for you, a lamb among wolves. You have a keen mind, my lady, and a larger set of balls than Jupiter himself. Pardon my language.”

“You worried for me when you fought?”

“I did. I saw you upon the terrace, a fresh and unformed flower among the withered sticks. Now I see my mistake.”

Phaedra tightened her grip on Valens’s arm and pulled. He hesitated a moment and then let her draw him closer. “It was you who suggested that I bargain for my next husband. I would never think of such a thing on my own.”

He closed the gap between them until they almost touched. “You would have, no doubt.”

So, this is desire.
Two halves pulled to one another, damn the consequences. Heat collected in the space between their bodies until Phaedra’s skin felt too tight. She moved in, closer still. She looked up at Valens. His breath washed over her and she caught the scent of costmary, like balsa wood, mixed with leather, and salt from his skin. With it, an underlying smell Phaedra could not catalog and decided it was the aroma of a fit and virile man.

Valens lifted his hand. He held it a hairsbreadth from her face. He seemed to want to touch her but would not allow himself to do so. Even she, a sheltered patrician daughter, knew that gladiators should not touch aristocratic women, especially married virgins. She also knew that she should not crave his touch. Yet she did. More than a want, it was a need, like a need to draw breath. Leaning toward him just a bit, she placed her cheek in his palm.

He leaned toward her, his mouth close to hers. She ached to take this man inside her. It welled up from a primal place that existed before Phaedra, or Valens, or this garden, or even Rome herself. She longed to hold him, to caress him, to taste him, and to learn of all the ways men and women were different and yet complemented each other.

Phaedra hesitated. Outside of this place, and this moment, she belonged to Marcus. True, her husband had done nothing to deserve her affection or loyalty beyond providing her father with financial security. At the same time, he had done nothing to warrant an unfaithful wife, either. Could she dishonor their union as soon as it had begun?

In the darkened garden with the music of the fountain, who would know if she let the gladiator steal a kiss?

She would remember. She would know.

Phaedra stepped back, releasing Valens’s wrist. She ignored the veil as it slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. “We are bound now to change our fate.”

He blinked at her several times, as if adjusting his eyes to a bright light. “Yes, my lady.”

“Since we are so bound”—she kept her voice bright and light, belying the sense of absolute loss within—“you must call me Phaedra.”

“Phaedra,” he said, his voice hoarse and smooth, deep as thunder.

She shuddered at the loneliness she heard there. Or perhaps it was the echo of her isolation.

“There you are.” A man’s voice came from behind them.

Phaedra and Valens took several steps apart as Acestes walked into the clearing by the fountain. “I have looked everywhere for you since you left the banquet. I fear I offended you by what I said.” He looked at Valens. “What are you doing here alone with her?”

Valens clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes. The stance transformed him from a man with the desire to read and write and understand the inner workings of a fountain to a slave. Which, of course, he was. She felt the hot rush of anger at Acestes for bringing them back to reality.

“We met by accident while I walked through the garden,” she said, answering for them both. “Did you know that he has never fought at a wedding before? Do you think that will make my wedding better or worse? Better if it becomes the fashion, worse if it does not.”

Phaedra could not stop herself from rambling. Better that Acestes think her a fool than untrue. Thank the gods she had not given in to the temptation to kiss Valens. If she had, then Acestes would have discovered them in an embrace. Even her thoughts were so tangled together she could hardly parse one from the next.