Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) Read online

  He waited, examining each of the gathered gladiators in turn. Their total number was less than forty, but all were ready for the fray.

  “All your fights have been decided. The sheet will circulate later today. But there is one fight in particular that we know of that you all should know of. The Governor of Puteoli has asked me to pick a fighter from our fight for the primus.”

  A great roar of appreciation went up from the gladiators. Blood and honor—this was the only celebration they knew.

  “Yes,” Publius held up a hand, silencing them. “And the honor is to be even greater. One of you will fight the Titan himself.”

  Now, instead of a cheer, there was a hushed cloud of amazement. Conall knew all this was in the works already, keeping his mouth shut so as not to somehow curry Fortune’s wrath. But even so, he felt a small creep of wonder at hearing the words.

  “Isn’t he retired, Dominus?” someone asked.

  “Not for this fight. Governor Trio is pulling out every stop. Sparing no expense. It will be a battle for the ages, and so I have chosen a champion for the ages. There may be some of you who disagree with my choice. But I must take the long view when it comes to restoring this house to its proper place.”

  More than a few gladiators turned to look in Conall’s direction.

  “Diocles will represent us in the Colosseum against the Titan,” said Publius. “He will be our champion—and he will restore this house to greatness!”

  The gladiators cheered again—led by Diocles and his supporters. The cheer was noticeably less loud than the original pronouncement of going to the Colosseum. Conall noticed this with some empty, dry amusement. His chest felt like a hole, or maybe a ditch, something dug out for years only to find more of itself inside.

  All that time he had spent waiting to hear—waiting to know for certain. And now it was only worse.

  Publius said more, but Conall did not hear it. When they broke, he walked back to the sands for training. Septus trotted alongside him.

  “I know you are disappointed by this, Conall. But this is the way it must be. We must take the long view, as the Dominus said.”

  “It’s all right,” said Conall. “It’s fine.”

  “I know it…” Septus’s mouth twitched. “I fear it must have hurt you. Bothered you.”

  “No. Nothing like it. I hope Diocles wins. I hope he beats the Titan into the underworld. I’ll help him get there.”

  Septus clapped him on the back, halting him.

  “I did not give you the credit you deserved. You won in the sands against two magnificent fighters. You proved yourself a better man than they. Than any of us.” He gestured to the gladiators pairing up at posts. “I was wrong, and I can admit that. I apologize for doubting you.”

  “Thank you, Septus. I…I thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Another clap on the shoulder, and Septus returned to his sands, ordering his secutores to form up. Conall, heart empty, did his best to train out every feeling he had.

  Chapter 41

  That night, Leda snuck down to Conall’s cell. She had gathered some money in her time at the ludus, and without many vices, she had been able to save much of it. Leda didn’t drink often, and did not spend her extra income on unneeded things like extra rations or clothes.

  So, there was plenty to slip a guard so that she could make her way down to the cell blocks.

  She very much doubted she would have been able to bribe a guard at the main gates to the outside world. The tolerance for failure for an escaped slave was low, resulting usually in maiming or death. But a misplaced slave, one who simply woke up in a place that they shouldn’t have and reported to duty later than usual—that was almost expected.

  Expected in House Varinius, at any rate. Publius, being as stingy as he was, loathed to waste an investment like a slave with heavy, regular harsh punishments. Many slave-owning nobles killed several a week, just to keep the rest in line.

  When she lived in Armenia, Leda had heard many such stories, and had even known many such nobles herself. Her own family did not own slaves, but the measly contracts for labor they were given—and the lack of work in other parts of the country for unskilled laborers—meant that they were not much better off than actual slaves would have been.

  When she was younger, she simply thought it was the way things were. It was Taniel who opened her eyes, who helped her understand that the world was a response to the people within it. If enough people wanted change—if they could be convinced to want change—then anything was possible.

  There was much on her mind. Assassins foremost on the list. Her parents had sent men to silence her.

  She felt stupid for feeling surprised. In her country, protest was a distinctly ugly and protracted form of suicide, but suicide all the same.

  She wondered if her father had truly made so many blunders on purpose in front of the Roman ambassador in the way that it had been reported to her—if the emissary had been so unforgiving as to demand her body in servitude to Rome. Perhaps it had just been a way, all along, to get rid of her?

  Was that same assassin—the one from the market, who nearly ended her—was he still out there?

  Almost certainly.

  The day after the games, she had petitioned the eunuch Iunius for a knife. Such items were not beyond the means of the man. He regularly arranged for bets by the gladiators, and also ensured that a steady supply of wine and goods arrived to the fighters under Publius’s nose. Leda doubted Publius actually was unaware of Iunius’s deeds; rather, he had simply recognized him as a necessary evil.

  And as far as necessary evils went, Iunius was rather jovial.

  “A knife?” he had laughed. “You must be joking. Arming a slave is punishable by death.”

  “I won’t be caught.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” he smiled, “and then they are abruptly caught and asked to spill names. No, thank you.”

  “Please, Iunius?” She took his arm. “There are men after me. Assassins.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Assassins?”

  “I’ll do whatever you like. Your receipts for a year. Write you letters to emissaries. Surely, there must be something.”

  That “something” was to write to a man in Rome about the location of a brother of his, separated a long time ago. She wrote ten in one night and told him to send them one week apart until he received word. If that did not work, she said, she would write him ten more.

  The next day, she woke up with a knife underneath her sandals. Iunius was a slippery one.

  Now, she had the knife strapped to her outer thigh. She could grab it with a little pulling of her stola. An immodest maneuver, perhaps, but there was nothing particularly modest about being killed by an assassin.

  She had little expectation of using it within the walls of the ludus. In here, she felt safe—at least thinking that no assassin, no matter how skilled, would be able to sneak through an entire array of guards and then into a cell block full of gladiators without raising at least some kind of an alarm.

  Thoughts of telling Publius of the situation had crossed her mind, but she didn’t trust him. Perhaps it would be the “proper” thing to do to hand her over to whatever assassins were after her. Perhaps he would see a way to raise the fortunes of his family by giving her up. In any case, she felt that the less people who knew, the better.

  But Conall knew. And with Conall, she felt safer than she did with anyone else, anywhere else.

  He sat on his cot in the cell, head hanging low. It wounded her to see him hurting so deeply. Of course she knew the reason why—there would be no primus for him in the Colosseum.

  They had taken everything from him just at the moment when he’d thought he’d finally won. She pushed back the hood from her head, letting him see it was her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Is that any way to greet your lover?” She entered the cell and sat down next to him. “I heard they picked Diocles for the primu
s.”

  “Yes. I’ll have a match. Finally fighting in the Colosseum.”

  From his tone, she could tell that he was trying to be hopeful.

  “But not in the primus.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Not in that.”

  “You deserve it. They’re fools. You should be the one fighting there.”

  “You want that?”

  Her mouth twisted slightly. “Not particularly. But you want it. And I want you to have what you want.”

  He was very handsome in the torchlight. He was handsome all the time. She wanted him now, wanted him with a deep, serious longing that she did not know she possessed. She realized now why she had come to him. Her eyes tracked the motions of his face, waiting to catch his own eyes in her gaze. Once he looked into her eyes, he would understand. Her hand climbed on this thigh, squeezing. As it did, she removed the knife from her own thigh and slipped it to the ground—it would be in the way very shortly.

  “Septus came and apologize to me. He was very nice. I told him it didn’t matter. That it didn’t bother me.”

  “I see.”

  “But that was a lie. It does bother me. I’ve given up everything for that man. For Publius. I’ve given him my all, and still he undercuts me. You get tired of it over time.”

  Her heart sang for him. She could heal him, somehow. She knew she could.

  Instinct took over. The loincloth was nothing, a barrier of sight more than access. Her fingers slipped by easily, gripping on his shaft with a surety she did not know she had.

  “Leda…”

  “Hush.” She placed a finger to his lips. “This is what I am doing for you, now.”

  For him, yes, but for herself as well. Every new action she took let her forget more and more of her troubles—and that was what she needed now more than anything. To help this man, and in doing so, help herself.

  Perhaps there was a killer after her sent by her family. But if that was the case, then there was not any chance that they would arrange her marriage.

  Why bother being pure at all?

  Why not give in to the lust she had been denying for months?

  She undid the ties of his loincloth and pushed it down to his feet. A bush of hair, as impressive as the thick hair around his head, surrounded the shaft. It was a wild, magnificent sight. Her hand did all the work, pushing up and down with urgency. His slickness poured out, making the thick shaft only quicken in her hands as she worked.

  His hands tightened on her back, pulling her closer up against him.

  “Leda…G…Gods!”

  Lips landed on her neck, her chest, her chin. He could not stop himself from kissing her much the same as she could not stop herself from stroking him this way.

  Conall’s arms were thick and long. He swept one on top of hers, allowing it enough room to keep working, and placed her on his lap. Hunching forward, he slipped his fingers up her thighs.

  “Not fair,” Leda moaned. “This is my gift…for you.”

  “Then let me have my gift. Let me do this.”

  Her legs spread out, urging him forward. Thick fingers pressed against her entrance and slowly slipped inside. She could feel her moistness slide between his digits, the warmth of her center gently trapping him. Still she stroked him, harder than he was before. It seemed a marvel that he could have shown more need for her, and yet that was exactly what he did.

  Something quickened in her belly as he worked his fingers upward inside of her. A sweet, hot release of passion began to tremble in her legs.

  “Oh gods,” she moaned, biting his shoulder. “Gods, Conall…I’m going to…there’s something…”

  He nodded, urging her on. “Me too. You should…you should move.”

  But she wouldn’t move for anything. She did not care if the sky split open that very second, there was no possible way she would miss the feeling of his pleasure erupting through his body. She needed to feel him tremble, the way he made her tremble.

  He spilled out over her hand and over their legs and torsos. The second she felt all that spreading warm seed, her own orgasm shook through her. She bit his hard shoulder, moaning deep into it.

  Everything was pleasure. Everything was right.

  Her mind drifted and several minutes afterward, he placed her down on the cot. It groaned with his dense weight—all that muscle. He spread her legs out, the ridged lines of his abs cutting down in a v-shaped arrow toward his still-hard manhood.

  She raised an eyebrow as he pushed forward with his cock, urging for more. “I thought all that talk of the virility of gladiators was just talk.”

  “Perhaps it is.” The head slid against her thighs, hard as iron. “But you’ve done something to me, princess. And now that I have you here, I need to keep going.”

  He took her by the thighs, roughly bringing her directly under him. He was strong—by the gods, he was so strong. Every part of her felt so deliciously weak. Powerless. Totally under his control. It was exactly what she needed.

  “I need you, Leda. I love you.”

  “I love you, Conall.” She nodded, taking him and guiding him in. “Do it. I want it. Please.”

  The sudden entrance was rough, but entirely welcome. Already her thighs and folds had slicked from the earlier excitement, and he found no resistance as he pushed inside to his hilt. Gasp after gasp exited her mouth as she pulled him forward, needing more—always more.

  His hips thrust into her with all the practiced motion of a lover who had spent years honing his fitness and endurance. There was no restraint. No holding back. Conall could go at full speed for hours and never get tired.

  He was tireless on top of her, driving forward for what felt like days. Her brain melted from lust, every new stroke inside her body initiating another round of bliss. She bit his shoulders still, fingernails raking across his broad back.

  Leda lost track of time but it did not matter. Time was inconsequential compared to the pleasure of his cock throbbing so perfectly inside of her.

  Somehow, her thoughts formulated enough to have concern for him. “You must…must need to…?”

  To come, she meant, though it felt almost too filthy to say. But Conall took her at her meaning.

  “I have waited long for this, princess. I intend to make you remember me for a long time yet.”

  That sentiment rushed her excitement. The contact of their skin, so warm and close, enervated her body beneath him. She began arching her back into his hands as they slid over her heavy breasts. Her own hands ran across the solid stone mass of his pectorals and neck, every part of him so very solid.

  The rush of pleasure gave way to that sudden warm emptiness that signaled the arrival of another orgasm. Her mouth throttled the air, and she moaned again, warning him that it was on its way.

  He merely grinned. Now he unleashed in full force, and she realized that what she had felt before was merely foreplay to him. The thrusts were furious and fast, needy. Her body felt completely under his control.

  She could sense that his own orgasm was arriving quickly. Leda, struggling not to cry out as she came, bit hard onto his shoulder. He did not seem to mind, and stayed inside her long enough to feel her shake with pleasure before pulling out. The warmth of his seed spread out on her belly once again, warmth on top of the pure heat from the rapturous orgasm he’d given her.

  Minutes passed, and then hours. He held her all through the night.

  Chapter 42

  His life felt right. There was much in the world that was wrong. Much that needed his attention. But right then, as the morning approached, everything was right.

  Leda was in his arms at long last. His beautiful woman. His princess. And so long as she was there, there could be nothing wrong. He knew this to a certainty.

  Morning light slid in from the high slot in the wall. It was time to get up, he knew, to start training. But today, just once, he would sleep in and let that take care of itself. Today, he would hold his love.

  And then, it all went
wrong.

  The two were stirred from bed by the butt-end of a spear driving into Conall’s ribs.

  “Time to wake up, gladiator. Your love nest has been rustled.”

  He sat up, seeing three armed guards at the door to his cell. They did not seem especially concerned at the sight of the slaves sleeping together.

  “Congratulations, Princess,” said a guard. “You’re going home.”

  “I’m going…where?”

  “Your family has sent for you. The soldiers are just outside.”

  The two said nothing in the meantime. Leda seemed to be shaking her head, thinking it was all some mistake. Once they both were fully dressed, Leda walked outside. Conall followed like a sick puppy.

  The soldiers were dressed unlike any that Conall had seen in the legion. They wore leather armor with bright gold disks placed upon them. Each had a tall, pointed helmet with a thick ridge down the front side. Their shields were large and gold, matching the tips of their spears.

  “My family sent you?” she asked the man in front.

  “That’s correct, Princess.”

  “They have forgiven me?”

  “Yes, Princess. There are assassins after you. Until your family contacts them, we must assume they are still working their contracts. We are to escort you to safety.”

  Conall felt assured, at least, that these soldiers knew also about the assassins. He wondered if he could take them in a fight. If he could, they did not deserve to protect his Leda.

  “They must have gotten my letters?” she asked. “The emissary in Antioch forwarded them?”

  The soldier nodded after a moment. “Yes, Princess. You must come with us.”

  “But I’m a slave.”

  “Make no worries about that,” said Publius. He strode down the stairs. “They paid handsomely for you. Your release is secured already. I drew up the papers late last night when they arrived.”