Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) (21 page)

Again, Conall was struck with how the Titan appeared for all the world like some deity brought down from the heavens.

Just a man. That’s all. Just another man who thinks he’s better because he’s bigger
.

The Titan had an army of corpses behind him to back up that claim, though.

Conall’s two swords were the same that had brought him victory in fights past. The armorers for the ludus had sharpened them to perfection over the last several weeks. His armor felt as a second home on his body, thick with the stench of blood and battle.

“You!” The Titan held out his long sword like it was an extension of his body. The massive blade seemed weightless in his hands. “You’re no one to share the arena with me.”

That made Conall mad.

In the stands, the editor gave the signal to begin, and Conall rushed the Titan.

He attacked heavily with both swords, giving little thought to defense. Again and again the Titan blocked him, moving with amazing agility for someone so large. He was like a tiger in human form, every move graceful and easy. Conall rolled forward to try and flank him on one side and had to scramble backward when the Titan’s sword was already there in front of him.

Retreating now, the Titan struck down on the sand repeatedly, trapping Conall between a series of faster and faster strikes. Eventually the blows let up and Conall slipped back up to his feet.

The Titan was playing to the crowd, hands up. “Do you see how the goat runs from his slaughter?”

Conall’s eye twitched. The Titan thought this was a game.

And that made Conall mad.

Roaring, he leapt fast at the bigger man, paying no heed to the enormous sword waiting for him. One foot landed on the Titan’s leg, another swinging out wildly. The Titan’s sword was up, blocking any blow with the sword—but Conall rocketed his knee upward into his mouth instead. The weight of all his armor carried into the blow, and he felt a heavy give in the Titan’s jaw.

Screaming with rage, the Titan drove his head forward, headbutting Conall in the temple. With the smaller man dazed, the Titan took him by the foot and swung him across the sand.

Blood ran down Conall’s forehead. The headbutt had split the skin on his skull and would give him a hell of a headache if he lived until tomorrow.

But as he rose, he smiled. The Titan worked his jaw around, spitting out a mass of blood and teeth. The crowd roared with approval—this little man had more fight in him than they thought.

Rounding his shoulders, Conall rushed at the Titan again.

I thought I had to beat him.

The trick now seemed simple survival—but the only way to survive
was
to beat him. So why was his head banging against that thought so hard?

* * * * *

S
he watched from the gates. It was not normally a place for a woman, but she was guarded by four very scary individuals with heavy knives. No one was going to move her from this spot.

Some of the Starred Hunters had been gladiators themselves, once upon a time, and rotated in shifts as they watched the match: three on duty, one to watch.

Conall had held his own so far, but he was bloodier by the minute. The wound on his forehead only seemed to grow. Again and again the Titan knocked him aside, tossing him into sand. All the sand only made the blood that much more noticeable, shining bits of it sticking to the hot red that poured down Conall’s torso. It was an amount almost obscene, and Leda had to resist the urge to rush out into the arena herself.

“He’s doing well,” said the guard next to her.

“Is he?”

The guard shrugged. “Comparatively speaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hit the Titan like that before. The crowd knows it too. You can hear them start to cheer for him.”

He was right. The longer Conall lasted and kept fighting so hard—and gods, she knew he would keep fighting at his limits until he died—the more the crowd cheered for him.

“I don’t think they’ve seen someone last so long against the Titan in a while. He’s putting on a good show.”

“I just want him to win the good show.”

“Yes, Princess. Of course.”

Conall and the Titan grappled close now. The Titan’s mouth dripped blood from the blow from Conall, and parts of his shoulders and thighs were nicked as well where just portions of Conall’s sword had pushed through.

Her Conall had similar cuts, but they were not paltry nicks. His were gashes, and from a distance looked terrible. She did not know how he stood still.

The Titan roared, shoving a heavy knee into Conall’s chest. Stunned, Conall stumbled backwards and the Titan followed up with a tremendous slash.

Conall spun, cut wide open across his torso. Leda gasped, clutching at the gate. She could not help but yell out his name, but her yell was drowned among the cheers of the crowd.

* * * * *

I
thought I had to beat him
.

Conall, somehow, stayed on his feet after the blow to his chest. His feet drifted slightly, all adrenaline pumping right out the wound as fast as his body could make it.

It was bad. It would be real bad if he was not looked at soon. But in the meantime, there was the Titan, looking as strong as ever. He waited for another rush from Conall, taunting him.

I thought I had to beat him
.

Other fighters must have believed the same thing as Conall. And every one of them had fallen into the Titan’s trap—they fought the Titan, instead of making the Titan fight
them
.

On the defensive he was a monster. His size and reach made the thought of putting him on the offensive a nightmare in motion. And yet...who had done it?

In all the tales—all the stories he had heard of the Titan’s prowess—they always started and ended the same way.

A fighter expended himself totally on the Titan, trying to overpower him with speed, or strength, or skill. And always the Titan took advantage of the tiniest mistake and ripped the man in half.

And so a plan began to form.

It did not sound good even in his head, but it was the only one he had.

Even if it was just a little bit—even if it only took the Titan off-guard for a moment, that would be enough.

“Come on then!” he shouted at the Titan. “Come and finish it!”

He did not bring his swords up. He let his arms hang limp. It was a good feeling. His arms were tired at this point. His held fell limply to one side and he jutted his chin out.

The Titan looked a little surprised at this. He swung his sword around in one hand, handling the giant blade like it was a kitchen knife. “As you wish.”

He charged at Conall, every stride enormous and heavy. At the last possible second, Conall swung to one side and stabbed hard into the Titan’s heavy thigh flesh.

The Titan had too much momentum to stop. The blade continued all the way through, carried forward by the Titan’s enormity. When it hit bone and wrenched from Conall’s hand, the Titan sank to a knee, crying out in pain.

No time to waste. Conall rushed at the Titan returned the favor of the heavy slash down his torso—twice as deep as the one he'd had.

The enormous man roared with rage. All that tissue did not die easy. Blood spilled out into the sand and Conall, operating purely on instinct, whipped his sword around again and cut his throat.

There was a long, heavy silence in the air. The Titan landed in the sand, dead, with a heavy thump. Conall dropped to his knees after him, sword clattering down among the Titan’s heavy legs.

For almost a minute, the crowd said nothing. They had witnessed apotheosis.

And then the chants began.

“Per-ti-nax! Per-ti-nax! Per-ti-nax!”

Conall’s body begged for relief from the pain, to fall into unconsciousness. But he would not allow it. His eyes scanned the crowd, memorizing every detail.

This was his moment and he would carry it forever.

––––––––

L
eda watched, beneath an arch in the underbelly, as Conall walked off the arena sands on his own strength. He stayed on his feet all the way through the gate, a great crowd of gladiators awaiting him and cheering his name—his
real
name, not the stage one they gave him.

And then her heart contorted sharply as he collapsed. Three gladiators caught him, quickly rushing him to the medicae's table. Leda powered through heavy men, all their armor and muscles, to get at her man. The bodyguards helped clear the way.

He was conscious on the table. Breathing. Smiling.

Beast of a man
.
Insane man
.

The smile grew as he saw Leda.

Nyx, ever ready during the games, circled the wound on his chest for a moment, feeling with her hands. She snapped her fingers to Chloe, calling for instruments and bandages.

Doing her very best not to look at the gaping slash across his torso, Leda leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“You've done it,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”

Conall laughed softly. “That makes two of us.”

“One,” she said, grasping his hand tightly. “We are one.”

Nyx cleared her throat. “Attentions are needed, Princess.”

Backing away, Leda felt her heart ache as she watched Nyx prepare for her work.

“It will be all right,” said Conall. “It will be fine.”

Her hands stayed on his face, massaging and soothing. As Nyx began the grisly job of stitching him together, Conall—the insane man—began to tell her jokes. He was the one hurting, and he comforted her. Insanity.

Leda wanted to do more for him.

––––––––

“W
e leave Rome today.” Publius spoke with the captain of his guard. “Cancel all celebrations. Make the arrangements.”

She had found him in a small boarding house near the arena. It was specifically reserved for lanistas from out of town. Not many knew about it. Leda had been forced to use a number of bribes to search out the location herself. It helped that she knew it existed from her time working in the ludus.

Conall was being attended by the finest medici and medicae in Rome. She had been assured of this several times by Nyx—but even so she paid for two others to look at him. There was no expense spared. The prognosis was good. The slash across his chest was the worst part, but other, lesser gladiators had survived the same sort of blow in the past.

Inside, Publius stood at a table, a great many papers littered around him. There were coins—several stacks of coins—all around, but none of them seemed to hold his attention. In the corner was a half-broken amphora of wine. Publius was so preoccupied with packing up his items that he did not even notice Leda enter.

“I’m surprised, lanista,” she said coolly. “I would have thought you would have wanted to wait to hear all of Rome sing your praises.”

Publius turned, eyeing Leda up and down. “An improvement,” he said, glancing particularly at the silk-wrapped ribbon cinched tight at her waist. “Perhaps even appropriate. You’ve found yourself a nice tailor.”

“Princess.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The proper term is Princess. That is how you shall refer to me, lanista. Princesses are above lanistas in the social ladder, you see, even if from another country. And social ladders are very important, lanista. They are how we know where we stand.”

She did not bother to hide the glee it gave her to speak to him in this manner. Her smile was positively glowing.

“I see.” He winced visibly. “Princess, then.” He dropped another stack of papers and bags into a small crate. “To answer your question, while much of Rome is very happy at the victory of Pertinax over the mighty Titan, a great many more will no doubt be
very
upset at the loss of their money. I’ve no desire to find out how upset.”

“And you are not upset?”

“How do you mean, Princess?”

“You never thought he would win. Didn’t you bet against him?”

Publius bristled. “He is my fighter. It’s unseemly to bet against your own man, Princess. And immoral. Although,” he admitted, “the bet was rather small, unfortunately. His fee from now on will make up for it, I’d wager.”

With no hurry at all, Leda sat down on a small chair across the harried table. She examined her fingers, taking her time as she spoke. Publius’s growing exasperation pleased her a great deal.

“That’s actually what I came to speak to you about. I’ve a fondness for your slave, as you recall.”

“I do, Princess.”

“I want him for my own.”

Publius raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s possible. I would not normally do this, but given our history and yours, I can arrange a night with him for you at any time of your choosing, Princess.”

“You misunderstand me, lanista.” Leda’s nose wrinkled slightly. “How about the rest of his nights?”

“You wish to buy him? You want to buy the grandest gladiator in all of Rome?” He scoffed. “You would need a fortune, Princess. I could not do that to you.”

“Lanista, you will do whatever I say so long as I have the price you ask. Now, how much for the grandest gladiator in Rome? I’ll save your ludus and make you a fortune as you stand in front of me.”

A smile crept over Publius’s face. He sat down on the table with his legs pushing off slightly. Leda leaned forward.

They began to negotiate.

––––––––

T
hey crossed the border into Illyria in the late afternoon. They had hired a guide who knew the area well and a company of bodyguards from the Starred Hunters (at a reasonable rate, thanks to Lucius and Gwenn’s friends and family discount).

Leda rode next to Conall in the front of the wagon. She had herself wrapped in a small cloak and was bent over, cradling his lap. He was warm and strong, and there whenever he needed her. The air was cool, and fall was fast approaching. Later in the day, one of the guards said there would be a storm. If there was, they would stop and pitch up their tent, and they had a Gallic guard who would make them excellent camp dinners.

Travel was not an easy life, but it was more pleasurable than she had expected. They had been at it for weeks and weeks now, but being at Conall’s side and him at hers made every day a pleasure.