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

“Maybe I was. It doesn’t matter now.”

“And I think more than that, I think you wanted to show off how tough you were.”

She slapped his torso. Conall grunted in pain.

“Tough man,” said Nyx, shaking her head. “I think you were mad about what Diocles said, weren’t you? That a man your size could never win a woman? That she would know you weren’t tough enough?”

The thought had crossed his mind once or twice that it would be nice to shove those words right in that stupid Greek bastard’s face, yes. But he wasn’t about to tell Nyx that.

“What woman have you got watching you who you're trying to impress so badly?”

Almost, Conall's tongue loosed.
The princess
, he wanted to say.
All I want is a princess.

All I want is to love her with every part of myself. We'll ride one another for days at a time and start brush fires with our unceasing friction. I'll leave her in as much want as she's left me for more than a year...and then I'll give her more
.

But of course, he said nothing of the sort.

“You’re not going to listen to me,” said Nyx, “just as you haven’t listened to me in times past. But you ought to consider quitting while you’re ahead, Conn. This ludus could use a skilled doctore, and you’ve definitely got the skill for it.”

Conall shook his head lightly, but his consciousness faded. He'd been heavily injured, and his blood had better things to do than to keep him awake.

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“H
ow did you like the match?”

It was late in the evening now, well after the games of the day had ended. The air was chilly and Leda, appropriately, felt chilled.

Inside the city, the citizenry swelled with libations and cheers, recounting their favorite bloodiness from the day. But outside the city, Leda was trailed now by Conall, attempting to walk after her in the road.

She raised an eyebrow at him. Clearly, he should be resting on the wagon. Probably he would not return to training for a month or more. Ribs and noses took time to heal.

She resisted the urge—strong and almost tangible, like a rope binding her—to force him down on the wagon. Maybe hold her chilled bones against the warmth of his body.

That would be a great way to find out if he really
did
smell like a smith's forge all the time. And to see what his skin tasted like—particularly that spot on his collarbone.

Not
that she cared, of course.

Her brother, Taniel, had been in a great many fights when Leda was young. He was always rallying against the brutality of the local guard on the populace of Vagharshapat, where the royal family lived.

Taniel, for all his passion, did not have much skill in the ways of fighting, and usually returned home from these protests with a battered body. Seeing Conall now, bandaged and bruised, reminded her of him.

It had been at least a week since she had written her last letter to the emissary in Roman Galatia. Taniel had been a prisoner for over three years in Antioch, staying as hostage in the custody of a local noble there.

The entire business was infuriating to Leda. She had been just on the cusp of his release when she had been sold into slavery because her father had insisted on being such a damned fool. Since her indentured servitude had started, she’d had to start from the very bottom.

A lower bottom, indeed, than where she had started to begin with. Roman law had certain privileges for the requests of royal dignitaries from client states. There was not quite as much sway for the arguments from a particularly eloquent slave.

Still, she tried. Her hands were stained with ink on the tips and sides of her palms. Perhaps there would be less work for her if she only petitioned for Taniel, but of course, Leda was not actually a fan of being a slave herself. She wrote other petitions—though less frequent—to her family and other Roman officials, asking for her own freedom. Sooner or later, someone would start to listen. Leda placed great stock in the value of a good argument.

Such work tired out her fingers. In the nights after writing her letters, she rested them in warm water full of salts. Nyx prescribed the method, and it worked well to relax her tensed hand muscles.

“I won.” Conall smiled. “I don’t know if you saw. Like I told you I would. You can take credit for it if you like, as we discussed.” He shrugged, and then grimaced. “I might take the brunt of the winning purse, though. I’ll likely need to buy Nyx a new office if she keeps fixing me up.”

Despite herself, Leda smiled. As soon as she did, she covered her mouth, coughing slightly. But it was too late—Conall had seen.

“Was that a smile?” he asked. “Are you...” he smiled broadly, “Can you understand me? Do you understand me?” His mouth hung open. “Have you been understanding me for a while?”

His excitement was clear. Suddenly, though, his steps started to falter. They walked behind a wagon full of supplies, and he put a hand on it, trying to stay up on his feet. It was evident that wasn’t enough. His legs lost strength and he started to fall toward the road.

Leda gripped him under his armpits and steadied his fall, but Conall was heavy with hard muscle and she could not hold him up alone. Nyx was there, though—had been walking behind them with suspicious eyes ever since Conall got up out of the wagon. She snapped at Chloe, and together, the three of them carried the semi-conscious Conall back to the wagon.

“Insane man,” said Leda. “Beast of a man.”

Eyes drooping with fatigue, he just smiled up at her. He held her hand, and she did not find it in her power to pull away.

––––––––

T
he next day, Conall was in his cell, put on indefinite bed rest until his midsection had mended.

His old friends Caius and Aeliana came to see him.

Caius was a former gladiator who had become steadfast with Conall during the time in the ludus they shared together. What Caius had with Aeliana, his wife, was something beautiful. Their relationship had given Conall hope for the world in a time when he had not possessed much otherwise.

Often, he fantasized about Leda being his in the same way that Aeliana and Caius were each other's. That Leda was a princess hardly mattered to him—Conall had little real understanding of what it even was to
be
a princess. All he knew was that she was a woman, a damnably beautiful one at that, and that his every spare thought focused entirely upon her.

When Caius won his freedom, he and Aeliana married. Though they visited from time to time, they were not a regular part of Conall's life.

“How do you feel?” Aeliana asked.

Ever the medicae, she inspected his bandages as he sat on the cot. She operated a clinic in the town of Puteoli. Caius ran the inventory and management side of affairs while Aeliana did the brunt work of treating patients.

“I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You have three broken ribs,” she said, frowning, “and that gash on your forehead is going to leave a scar.”

“I don’t mind it,” he said.

It was the truth. Oh sure, he didn’t like the pain. But for so much of his life, Conall felt as though he did everything he could think of just to keep pace in the ludus. Other gladiators were bigger, stronger, faster, or blessed with some god-given talent that Conall had never had. All he could do was work—and when he wasn’t working himself to capacity, he knew that he was falling behind.

And if he faltered, at all, if he stopped for a moment, then there a deep blackness waiting for him somewhere in his soul. He did not understand the blackness. It was some great bleakness of his soul, making futile everyday things like washing or eating—but he knew that staying busy kept it at bay.

And he knew that dedicating himself to an ideal was the best way to stay busy.

Fight through it
.

That was the advice from another old, good friend, Lucius. A gladiator himself. And the advice had been sound.

Fighting was what Conall did, and a fighter was what he was.

But at times, even that dedication tired him. And being injured was a perfect time to rest. He held no expectations for himself while he was hurt. There was no impetus to train—because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to train in the future. All he had to do—his one duty—was to recover.

This was as close to relaxed as Conall became—grievously hurt after a fight and waiting for his body to put itself together again.

“How was the fight?” asked Caius.

“You weren’t there?”

“I don’t go to the arena. You know that.”

Caius had lost his taste for the gladiatorial games when he retired. Or even before he retired, to hear him tell it. Conall knew, he just liked to tease the man.

“It was a decent fight,” said Conall. “Not my best. But it got the crowd excited. They’ll want to see me again.”

“I’m sure they will,” murmured Aeliana. “They love to watch a man kill himself for them.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Conall. “I’ve no interest in killing myself.”

“And you’ve no interest in staying alive either, it seems.” She tapped his knee and stood up. “It’s not my place, Conall. I’m not your medicae and I’m not your mother. But you may want to think about what else you could be doing with your life here.”

Conall frowned. What was it with medicae and telling him to quit? This was two times now in as many days.

“It isn’t as though Publius is romping down here in the cell blocks and handing out options, Aeliana. I’m a gladiator. Gladiators fight.”

She opened her mouth, as if to speak again, but Caius put a hand on her shoulder. He nodded with his head, gesturing for her to step outside. Aeliana did not seem to like this, but she nodded.

“I apologize if I offended you, Conall.” She patted his leg. “I just wish to see you well. You’re a good friend.”

“I appreciate that.”

When she was gone, Caius sat down on the stool next to his bed.

“She does care about you, you know.”

“I know that.”

“We both do. You’re easy to care about, Conall. You’ve got a big heart.”

Conall nodded, hoping his face was receptive to that bit of affection. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond. All these people caring for him—caring about him—made him feel as if they thought he was weak.

If there was one thing in the world that Conall hated being cast as, it was weak.

He felt in him the strongest stuff in the world if only once, just once in this damned life, he could be tested how he deserved.

A part of him wished dearly he could have talked to Leda right then. That he could have shown her how truly tough he was—that even a beating like what he had received in the arena wasn't enough to shake out his affection for her.

It was stupid, gladiator logic, but by the gods, he was a gladiator, wasn't he?

“Aeliana and I have been talking a lot,” said Caius. “We hear from Lucius. He goes to the fights once in a while. He saw you last night. He’d be here now, except he’s busy with his school.”

Lucius and his wife, Gwenn, ran a school that trained bodyguards for wealthy Roman citizens. It dawned on Conall for the first time that Caius had sent Aeliana out for some particular reason. Probably because Caius was closer to Conall than anyone else, and also because he knew Conall hated being ganged up on, even in conversation.

“What’s this about, Caius?”

“Aeliana and I, we’ve been doing well with the clinic. Real nice. Lots of profit.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Lucius and Gwenn too. He and I, we talked last night. We thought probably if we all pooled our money together, we could put down enough to take a small loan out and buy your freedom.”

The thought was anathema to Conall. He stiffened, hurt body spasming slightly.

“No.”

“It would be a small loan. Not much. Just enough to cover the difference. If things held up business-wise, we could pay it off in—”

“No. No, no. No. I won’t do it.” Conall tried to sit up and groaned. His ribs spiked with pain. “I won’t let you.”

“I don’t see how you could stop us, Conall.”

“The second you buy my freedom
for
me, I’ll take out a contract with the nearest ludus. Maybe this one.” He slapped the wall. “Why not. I’ve gotten used to the place.”

“Let us help you, Conall. This life will suck the spirit right from you. I know you haven’t done it as long as I did, but—”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Rage boiled over in Conall. “You don’t think I’m good enough to keep winning, do you?”

“What? That’s not what I said, Conall. I just want—”

“I know what you want. I’m not leaving. Don’t waste your money. Spend it on something for your daughter.”

He sat back then and closed his eyes. This was as close as he could come in his injured state as leaving the room. Caius got the message—the conversation was over.

––––––––

O
utside, the cicadas began their evening songs and a deep cool set over the earth. Summer though it may have been, the nights still sometimes carried the bite of cold. Leda wore a palla over her shoulders to keep herself warm. She was in a small room in the main estate of House Varinius, sitting over a desk and writing her latest letter to the emissary in Rome petitioning for her freedom.

Her tenure in slavery began over dinner. A series of dinners, in fact, regularly denied with an imperial ambassador to the King's court in Armenia.

Armenia was constantly in contest between the dueling empires of Rome and Parthia. For only a brief time in its existence had it been allowed to decide who its rulers would be. Most of the time, whichever empire was stronger would choose the kings
for
Armenia.

As such, Leda's father owed his position to the Roman Empire—and had repeatedly denied this was the case to save face in front of the Armenian people. Armenians were proud, and wanted to live under the yoke of no foreign influences.

To curry favor with the mob, her father had carried out a long campaign of embarrassments to the Roman ambassador. Part of this was repeatedly asking the man to dinner and then canceling at the last minute, or sending him to empty houses or estates with no meal or party to be had.