The Gladiator. Carla Capshaw
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nor my sympathy and we shall see how well your God defends you.”
Chapter Four
Caros snatched up a gladius and pointed the sword’s sharp tip toward his best gladiator. “Alexius, join me on the field. I need to spill blood.”
Alexius, a Mirmillo specifically trained to fight with a straight, Greek-styled sword, chose his favorite weapon and followed Caros across the sunbaked sand.
At the center of the elliptical field, Caros rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles.
Alexius settled into a defensive posture, a hint of his usual humor dancing in his dark eyes. “To what do I owe this honor, Bone Grinder?”
Caros tensed, his encounter with Pelonia fresh in his mind. All senses fully alert, he could feel her presence in the garden, tugging at him. He almost returned to her until his temper flared. He was a fool. She’d repaid his kindness with constant rejection. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.
Alexius raised his shield. “Hail, Master. Greetings from one about to die,” he said, mocking the adage gladiators chanted to the emperor before battle.
Caros swung his sword and lunged forward, slicing the other man’s upper arm. “Don’t test me today, Alexius. I’m in no mood for your humor.”
Gaping at the stream of blood on his arm, the Greek grew serious, a state he reserved for the ring. He kicked sand in Caros’s face, then thrust his blade with the speed of a whip. “And I’m in no mood to perish.”
Blinking the sand from his eyes, Caros sidestepped the blow and plowed forward, whirling his weapon with the swiftness and force of a storm. Alexius fell back.
The atmosphere erupted with excitement. The other gladiators stopped training and cast lots on the victor. Voices cheered from the sidelines. A few slaves poked their heads from the upstairs windows, eager to witness the entertainment.
Caros’s gladius struck the other man’s shield. “A gladiator is always prepared for death.”
Alexius plowed forward. His face contorted, his muscles straining against the force of Caros’s attack. “I have an appointment with one of my admirers tonight. If I must die in my prime, I’d rather it be tomorrow.”
As his sword sparked against the Greek’s blade, Caros shook his head, almost amused. Unlike him, Alexius had rejected freedom when offered it. The Greek preferred the life of a gladiator, unaffected by its lowly status when women of every social standing practically worshiped him as a god.
The thought of women revived thoughts of Pelonia. Her huge brown eyes and her mouth made his pulse race, even as her defiance enflamed his displeasure. Worse, he disliked how his heart leaped at each new sight of her.
How could so contrary a female wreak such havoc on his senses? Mystified, Caros thought he’d conquered his emotions years ago. A quick temper usually meant a speedy death in the arena. Only cold efficiency kept a fighting man alive.
Why, then, couldn’t he control his reaction to one impudent, albeit beautiful, slave?
With renewed irritation, he focused his energies on the fight at hand. Up and down the training field, the two warriors matched each other blow for blow.
The sun beat down on Caros’s shoulders. Bloodlust pumped through his veins, releasing the aggression Pelonia stoked in him.
His sword flashed in the sunlight and caught Alexius on the leg. He smiled at the other man’s look of disgust and shrugged. “A wound for your lady to tend tonight.”
“I best not mark you, then. One more scar and your horde of beauties will run for Campania. You’re ugly enough as it is.”
“Ha! One of these days, I’m going to tire of your witless tongue and cut it from your insolent mouth.”
Grinning, Alexius swung his shield at Caros’s head. “Then again, the new slave Lucia mentioned this morning has no choice except to serve you. Perhaps you can force her to meet your needs.”
Caros ducked from the shield just before it struck him and rammed his shoulder into the other man’s middle. Frowning, he fumed at Alexius’s suggestive tone. Had Lucia told him of Pelonia’s rebellion?
Caros landed a fist to Alexius’s stomach, then another. The other man groaned as he broke away.
The Greek recovered quickly and jabbed with his sword, catching Caros in the ribs. The cut stunned the breath from his lungs.
A smug expression crossed Alexius’s face. “You’re growing slow, Master. Perhaps you’re getting old for this sort of play?”
“Think again,” he said, his side stinging, “and leave delusions to your women.”
Caros’s free hand shot out. He caught Alexius’s sword hilt and yanked. Alexius stumbled forward and fell to his knees, astonishment etched on his features.
Had they been in the ring, Caros could have delivered a deathblow with ease and been done with the match. But he wasn’t fighting to the death—at least not with Alexius. His instincts warned Pelonia was another matter and he was in danger of losing both his will and his heart.
Caros eyed his fallen champion, dissatisfied with the fight. His sparring with Pelonia had offered far more interesting sport. Her fearlessness impressed him. “I’m not slow or old. I’m bored. I’d hoped you’d provide more of a challenge.”
“I doubt even Mars could have bested you today.” Alexius massaged his jaw and laughed, his good humor returning with ease. “Tell me, Bone Grinder, has your temper been appeased or do you still feel a need for blood?”
Caros glanced over his shoulder toward the garden behind the cookhouse where he’d last seen Pelonia. “I fear what I need most can’t be solved with weapons.”
Alexius’s face twisted with confusion. “What is there if not battle?”
Peace. The thought beckoned him, tempting him with the idea of a different way of life. A way of life he’d known in his youth, but abandoned hope of ever finding again.
His desire to see Pelonia too strong to ignore, he left the field without answering Alexius. Before another hour passed he planned to make amends for how he’d treated her. Why drive a wedge between them when he wanted to know her better?
Pushing through the circle of men offering praise for his victory, he handed his gladius to one of the guards. He swiped a fresh tunic off a bench and pulled it over his head as he walked toward the cookhouse.
Without examining his need for haste, Caros returned to the garden. A breeze rustled the fruit trees and water splashed in the fountain, but there was an unnatural stillness that made him ill at ease.
“Pelonia?” His steps echoed along the walkway. He noticed Pelonia had done a fine job completing her task. Not only were the weeds gone, but the herbs were trimmed and the paths swept clean.
“Pelonia,” he called again, eager to see her face once more.
The gate swung open. A wave of relief died the moment he turned and saw Lucia.
“She’s not here, Master.” The healer shifted a basket from one hip to the other. “I was on my way to find you. I’ve looked everywhere, but she’s gone.”
Tiberia left her plate of uneaten fruit and paced the family quarters of her new husband’s Palatine home. Her fingertips brushed the marble top of a writing desk as she walked from one end of the large room to the other. Even the fragrant scent of incense did little to soothe her.
Marcus entered the chamber from where he’d been relaxing in the courtyard. A breeze followed him, rustling the gossamer drapes at each side of the tall doorway.
Taking a seat on the silk covered couch, he picked up a dish of honeyed almonds from a nearby table and stuffed several into his mouth.
Tiberia