Desire of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 3) Page 16

  Rome, in many parts, was thoroughly impressive. Great white towers spiraled upward and temples to ancient gods appeared on every corner. Never in her life had she seen so much splendor attending the public buildings of the populace.

  And yet, in other parts, it was as awful as anything she’d ever seen. Apartments leaned on each other like poorly stacked cards, built with so much wood and straw that the slightest spark would set them ablaze. The limbless, the sick, the deranged, and the poor wandered the streets, aimless and waiting for food.

  Her tutors had regularly mocked Rome when she was young. Its ancient history was the stuff mostly of legend, but what remained was hardly complimentary. Founded by brigands, vagabonds, and exiles, the city was mostly men. Its first wars began because it invaded the territories of other city-states to forcibly take their women as wives.

  The way other countries now invaded Rome to take its wealth and property, Rome had taken women as its first executive action.

  From this inauspicious beginning, an empire had formed. It was a foundation which Rome held today, and what Rome practiced, other countries mirrored.

  “Princess,” the agent said, brimming youthful confidence. “I can do these things for you. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Splendid. Now,” she said, drawing out another denarius. The agent’s eyes were wide as flower petals. “The last thing I want is a tailor. Can you handle that?”

  Soon, Conall would be in front of her again. And she would greet him as a princess.

  Chapter 51

  The arena was filled with the thick stench of death, and the crowd ate it up. Slaves tried to cover the smell over by layering over the viscera and blood with fresh sand, but that only helped for so long.

  Conall did not mind the smell. By this time in his life, he had already experienced it for more minutes, more hours, possibly more days than he could count.

  The beast fights and the executions were done, and the rich spectators back from their midday lunches. So, Conall and the other gladiators stood in the sands, displayed before the crowd. All the members in the stands had their favorites chosen. As each was announced, they let out riotous cacophony.

  There were thousands of people in the Colosseum—more than he had ever seen before in any one place. They were of every size and color, a frothing throng of faces eager to see the violent entertainment for the day. Two younger men in white togas clasped at each other’s shoulders, shaking with excitement. A long row of older men shook and sang in time, trying to lead the crowd in a cheer. He felt a pang of nostalgia for Puteoli’s amphitheater. It was not much smaller, but it was familiar.

  Each gladiator was arranged in one of two lines, paired off against their match. Each gladiator that was, however, except for Conall.

  The Titan came out last. The editor of the games—some favored noble of the Emperor—had been introducing every gladiator along the line, making his way toward Conall. There were the usual matches—retiarii versus murmillos, secutores versus hoplamachus, and a doubles match to start the afternoon.

  “People of Rome!” the editor raised his hands in dramatic fashion. “We have a special delight for you today. A marvel for you to witness. For today, in our primus, there will be a contest between champions of two great cities of our nation! From Puteoli, he is a wild, savage barbarian from the depths of Germania. As reckless as a whirlwind. As fierce as a dragon unleashed. He is Pertinax!”

  The crowd booed hard. There was no surprise for them as to who he would face—and his opponent had been the favorite of Rome for more than ten years. Conall had expected they would boo him. He wondered if he would turn their minds around or not.

  “And his opponent. He is the seed of terror. He is the essence of destruction. The beast of slaughter, the giant of Rome. People of Rome, the Emperor gives to you the Titan himself!”

  The crowd roared with approval as the Titan entered onto the sands.

  It was the first time Conall had laid eyes upon the man. And indeed, as often it was said, it was difficult to tell whether he was truly a man or not.

  Roman mythology was a cornucopia of stories from every flavor of the peoples that had been absorbed into it. Many of these myths involved the gods taking the shape of men and animals to impregnate women with their divine seed. And Conall, upon looking at the Titan, could only think that was what had happened to create the Titan.

  He was tall. Larger than any man Conall had seen, beyond seven feet in height. Many tall men were lanky, their limbs not able to support any sort of muscle volume with all the work their hearts would have to do to supply blood to so much tissue.

  But the Titan was not lanky. He was built sturdy, as thick as a brick wall, and every muscle sharply defined. Scars criss-crossed his body along his shoulders and legs, but not enough of them to give Conall any hope of landing an easy blow. A tough man and tough to hit.

  His skin was dark from the sun, hair descending in a long red-black whip down to his waist. His eyes were black and empty, and Conall knew fear when he stared into them.

  The Titan made straight for him, his stride impossibly long. He pointed at Conall, looking with disdain at the crowd and the editor.

  “This one?” said the Titan. His voice was thick and dense with vowels. “This little weakling? I’ll kill him right now!”

  It was not some idle boast, and the other gladiators of Rome knew it. They had seen the man fight too many times. They stood in front of the Titan, keeping him at bay. Roaring at them, he snapped one to the side, breaking his arm like a branch in the snow. Another jumped on the Titan’s back, and he threw him deep across the sands, hurtling the grown gladiator more than ten feet through the air.

  Conall did not back up. He showed no weakness, no fear. But nor did he attack. If they started now, the whole affair would be called off.

  Roman legionaries entered the arena, holding heavy spears and shields. They surrounded the gladiators—and after the Titan saw there was no getting around them, he relented.

  Before exiting through the gates, the Titan turned to Conall and spat in his direction. “Pathetic.”

  But Conall just smiled. The Titan had not fought the guards. That would have been the sign of a man invincible. And he was not that. The Titan was just a man, and he would bleed from being stuck with a blade like any other.

  Chapter 52

  The crowd in the underbelly of the arena split easily for someone with a princess’s escort.

  She had hired six of the Starred Hunters to accompany her. They were all able, dangerous-looking men and women, carrying heavy swords and scowls on their faces. Two of the men were left with her wagon, and now she was flanked by two men on either side, with two women at her rear.

  There were not as many women as men bodyguards, even in a cosmopolitan city liked Rome. It would have pleased her to have been guarded purely by women, but even as a princess, Leda had to roll with circumstance.

  The tailor she found had done an admirable job in the short time she had given him. The stola she wore was made of cotton, a deep yellow color, with a red belt of silk cinched tight around her waist. A hood was drawn over her head—anything to obscure the view of any would-be assassins.

  She found Conall grappling with Septus in a small chalk circle beneath an arch. His muscles throbbed and pulsed as he moved, and Leda felt a strong, sure pang of want for his body.

  Outside, the arena shook with pleasure as the gladiators did something impressive. She had little doubt she would have found it distasteful.

  Conall switched to one side of Septus, turning with the man’s arm locked, and finally saw Leda waiting for him. He let loose of Septus and approached, a look of wonder on his face.

  “Princess.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’ve only just started with it again.”

  “You look the part, is all.”

  “Thank you.” She flapped her arms slightly, unable to help her eagerness. “Come here, you insane man.”

  He took her
by the hips, being careful. “I don’t want to ruin your clothes, Prin—”

  She grabbed him by the neck hungrily and pulled him against her. His body was sweat and dirt and hot, heavy muscle, and she cared nothing about the cost of her new stola. She wanted him. His lips against hers, his tongue sliding in her mouth, his hands pushing up her back and kneading in that perfect way at the space between her shoulder blades.

  Here was the perfection she sought. Here was her love.

  Septus coughed, clearly uncomfortable. With no little hesitation, she and Conall broke the embrace. His face was full of questions.

  “You’ve returned, already?” He shook his head. “How is that possible?”

  “The men who took me were hired knives. They belonged to an assassin named Vahram. He was going to kill me, and so I killed him.”

  Conall nodded, clearly impressed. “Good.”

  “I paid for the rest of this with the money he had. I suspect he was a thief of some sort as well as an assassin. His coins have been from several different lands, several different regions. I think that it is good he is dead.”

  “It is.” He gripped her tight by the arms. “I promise you that it is.”

  “And I return to you to find that you’ve gotten what you want. You’re fighting the Titan after all.”

  “That is one of many things I want right now.”

  “Well.” She smiled. “You’ll have to win first, won’t you?”

  Conall nodded. He took her hands, staring deep into her eyes. She had never loved him more than in that moment.

  “I thought I wanted to beat this man to find out who I was. I thought I had to beat him. But it’s not true. That’s not it at all. I wanted to beat him because I thought if I did, I could be worthy of you.”

  His face felt good in her hands. She tugged at his beard gently, the back of her fingers sliding against his hairy cheek. “You are worthy, Conall. You always have been. I love you and I need you to live for me. Or I will be very displeased.”

  He kissed her again, briefer this time, and yet somehow with more passion. Her teeth raked softly against his bottom lip, and she clung to the back of his head, pulling him in as close to her as she could.

  “I love you, Leda.”

  “I love you too.”

  They stared into one another’s eyes as if trying to freeze time. The arena shook again with the crowd’s reaction. Another fight had ended. An attendant near the gate called for Pertinax.

  “I think that’s your cue.”

  He embraced her again, and Leda did her very best to kiss him good luck and not goodbye.

  Chapter 53

  They faced off in the sands, entering at the announcement of their names. As before, the crowd booed horribly when Conall entered and cheered with urgent fervor as the Titan stepped out.

  The Titan had fought in many different styles over the years. Men did not survive against him when he fought as murmillo, so he began fighting as a thraex. Men did not survive him as a thraex, and so he began as a secutor, and so on.

  Now he fought with one heavy long sword unlike any Conall had ever seen. Swords in Rome were short, often, emphasizing the closeness in combat that the legions used. This was nearly six feet long, taller than Conall himself, and as thick as his hand. The Titan’s shoulders were armored heavily with steel, legs wrapped in leather and iron.

  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?

  *

  She 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.