Heart of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 1) Read Free Page B

with you.”
    “Septus.” Caius stepped forward. “I wouldn’t go around calling people trash. Someone might get ideas and toss your old ass out with it.”
    They laughed and clasped each other as brothers. Aeliana struggled not to roll her eyes. Gladiators only knew how to express affection with insults.
    “I expected you tomorrow?” said Septus. “Is everything all right?”
    “Yes. All is well. I just wanted to get started. No point in delaying.”
    Septus shrugged. “I’ll go let Murus know. He’s been excited to see you back in action.”
    Aeliana drifted away, letting the two men talk.
    For a brief time—far too brief—she’d been very taken with Caius. But now that she knew he was a gladiator, the entire complexion of their meeting had soured. He would ignore her now, as all the gladiators ignored her.
    When first she worked at the ludus, it had bothered her. Whenever they were allowed to leave the grounds of the ludus, the gladiators were treated as celebrities—better even than the highest families that Puteoli could offer.
    Gaggles of women followed them wherever they went, all so taken with the apex of masculinity that these warriors offered. Built like gods, muscles hard as rock, in peak physical condition for every kind of activity, the gladiators had a definite appeal to the women of the Empire.
    And Aeliana was the reason they stayed alive to meet that crowd, to enjoy those gaggles of women. She did not want to be treated as some third-rate floozy and be on the receiving end of their (if rumors were to be believed) fevered, rough loving for her efforts.
    But she did want some measure of appreciation. A kind word here and there.
    She disliked this weakness in her—this seeking out of approval for the people she treated. She was a slave to that more than she was to the ludus.
    But, over time, she had grown to rather enjoy the way they ignored her. For the most part, from what she could tell, gladiators were even worse than soldiers when it came to drinking and fighting. They were a savage, brutal lot by and large, and the less time they focused on her, the better.
    “Aeliana,” called Caius.
    Surprised, she turned to face him. Several silent waves of critique rushed down at her heart for beating so fast at the simple sound of his voice wrapping around the syllables of her name. She was halfway across the yard now, on her way to her office inside the main complex of the domus. “Yes?”
    “Perhaps I shall call on you later and you can tell me more of how I am a fool?”
    There was a way to say such a thing and be biting about it—to be cruel and petty. And yet there was also a way to say it in a jovial, happy manner, and this is how Caius clearly meant it. She just smiled and nodded and returned on her way.
    Perhaps he wasn't completely a brute. Hope throbbed in her—hope to see him more, to feel his touch upon her, hope for a dozen brilliant, aching, thrilling acts that blazed in her mind with a startling urgency.
    She would see him again, and that was certain. If only to browbeat him for making her take leave of her senses in the way that he had.
    But Aeliana couldn't focus on that for long. The day wasn’t even half over, and there was much to do. Her duties never ceased.

Chapter 3
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    T hree years ago, on the day of the last fight of the Great Bear of Puteoli, Aeliana stitched the arm of an injured soldier.
    Her thrusts were even and measured. Sewing skin back together was an old art, one that required practice and diligence. She had gotten rather good at it in the last two years of her service at the barracks.
    “Mind your needling, woman,” said the soldier. “I plan to use this arm again.”
    He had started to sit up. Aeliana shifted her weight and slammed him back down to the table. If his head knocked a little on the surface, well—he shouldn’t have moved, should he?
    “I mind it entirely, legionary.” She did not know his name on purpose. She did not