risk. Guards were intrinsically wary about letting gladiators near them.
It was the middle of the day, and so the gladiators trained already. Their toned, heavily-muscled bodies were nearly naked but for sandals, loin cloths, and heavy belts around their waists. This is what they wore at all times—eating, training, resting, and traveling. A great many, Aeliana had found out, slept naked as a result—the only time they could wear something that was not the norm.
She did her honest best not to think too hard about such a great number of perfectly chiseled men completely naked for a third of their lives.
And with that thought, she was suddenly imagining Caius naked—a thought not unwelcome to her mind. He was well-formed in every respect, and even with the teeter-tottering of her anger/apology cycle, her fingers twitched with the desire to slide over his biceps. They were large and lovely, and looked good for biting.
More than any other fighter she had seen in this ludus, she wanted to know what it was like to slide underneath such a man. To feel her hips thrust upward and join him in that most perfect of ways...
But that was folly. Nearly every gladiator she knew was a lout and savage. Her emotions did not need to traffic with such men.
The only time the outfits of the gladiators truly changed was in the arena, when the lanista rolled out their personalized armor and wanted them to look as spectacular as possible. The gladiators trained from dawn to dusk, most days. Their days off were on special holidays like Saturnalia at the end of the year, or traveling on the way to a fight.
If a fighter won a good match, he would be granted a reprieve for, at most, two days. That is, assuming he wasn’t injured—and most gladiators were injured at the end of a fight come win, lose, or draw.
Their ways kept Aeliana busy, that was for certain. As she and Caius entered, several dozen faced off in duels with heavy wooden shields and swords. The weight was to train their muscles so that the sword felt light in their hands. Some dozen more attacked stationary wooden targets, building strength and form. Every man was in remarkable shape, like statues in motion, muscles glistening in the sun.
If she didn't act soon, Caius would be lost in the crowd of fighters, and Aeliana would feel guilty forever. She had learned well over the years that it was best to face these situations head-on.
“I'm sorry if what I said offended you,” Aeliana said to Caius. Her tone was terse.
Caius raised an eyebrow. “You don't sound sorry.”
“Well.” Her feet shifted. “I am. I don't like to offend others.”
“But you do like to voice your opinion.”
Her hands shifted down to her hips. “Yes.”
“It seems those two desires would often run over each other.”
This Caius was a bit more eloquent and incisive than most gladiators she had run across. Perhaps the years in freedom had done him well.
“Even with that being the case,” said Aeliana, “and even if you want to do something stupid with your body and your life like throwing it into a meat grinder for the entertainment of fools, that doesn't mean I should go out of my way to hurt your feelings.”
“If there were medicae for apologies, Aeliana,” he seemed to relish the name on his tongue, “I think yours might be declared dead.”
She was about to snap back with something pithy when a tall, lithe gladiator approached the two with a gentle smile on his face
This was Septus. His beard had made him unique among gladiators for a time, who often were close-shaved. Now the beard was peppered with gray, as was all of his hair. He was old for a gladiator—more than thirty-five years of age. The artifacts of his career were written in his skin in long criss-crosses of scars across his chest and shoulders.
“Ho, Faun.” Somehow the nickname had transferred from the garrison where she had been trained to the ludus. She blamed the guards. “I see you brought back some trash