The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Jennifer D. Bokal
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503944589
ISBN-10: 1503944581
Cover design by Regina Wamba
To the memory of two fabulous and fierce women—my grandmother Thelma Marcus, for teaching me to always love a good romance, and my mother, Elizabeth O’Finan, whose counsel and company I miss now more than ever.
For John. While traveling life’s peaks and valleys, I’m glad that you’re by my side.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
Rome
Year of the consulship of Marius and Fimbria 650 years after the founding of Rome (104 BC)
Valens
Torches surrounded the soft sand of the makeshift arena. Long shadows reached into the garden and stretched high on the walls of the surrounding villa. Light glinted off the blade as it arced toward Valens. The other gladiator, eager to fight, knew little of defense and left his chest open and unguarded. Raising his sword to block the blow, Valens ignored the easy target.
Lunging right, Valens aimed to the left of the man’s shoulder, the cold steel blade passing so near that his knuckles grazed skin. Dropping low, he spun around and slammed the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s back.
As one, the crowd gasped and began chanting his name. “Valens. Valens. Valens.”
Emboldened by the cheers and cries, he whirled to the right, leaving his challenger unsure of where to move next. His opponent came in again. Valens blocked the blow. The two men circled and locked swords, their shields pressed together. Applause and cheers came from all parts of the garden.
Valens fought several times a year at private fights like this one. More than the coin earned, Valens enjoyed displaying his flawless agility and understanding of the crowd’s craving for entertainment.
Nearly one hundred people filled the garden in which he fought. Some stood and watched from open doors while others lined the gravel path that wove in and out of trees, flower beds, and trimmed bushes. The oval filled with sand worked for fighting better than most places he found at private parties—often just a drained pool or a cramped atrium.
All large villas, like this one, shared a similar layout. They rose up only a single level, and a large garden was cut into the middle of the larger rectangular villa. Almost every room opened to the family’s personal paradise. A high, thick wall, meant to keep out unwanted plebs, surrounded the entire property.
Sprawling out across the Palatine Hill, these villas meant for single families could have luxuriously housed dozens of less ostentatious plebs or freemen. The waste of space in such a crowded city irritated Valens. He struck three successive blows on his opponent’s shield, bringing the other man to his knees.
It was not just the homes that shared a slavish devotion to similarity. The people did as well. Thin women, their faces bright with cosmetics, wore even brighter wigs of spiraling curls. Jewels gleamed at every throat, wrist, and ear. Gowns of silk shimmered in the torchlight. White togas denoted the men’s place in the Senate. A few others wore expensive tunics in a variety of colors, the edges embroidered with golden thread.
These wealthy men and women, the privileged elite of Rome, used any excuse to come together for feasting and drinking. And fights like this one served to satisfy the Roman lust for blood. Tonight, however, they gathered not for a typical party, but rather a wedding banquet.
Senator Phaedrus Scaeva Didius had requested Valens by name. Valens had accepted, since it paid well. But gladiator fights at a wedding banquet? Even he, a mere gladiator, felt that blood and combat boded ill for a married couple. Valens also figured the entrails read by the augurs that morning had been green and smelled of death. The bride, Senator Scaeva’s daughter, turned her body away from her husband, as if hoping for a chance to flee. The groom, an elderly senator, seemed to take no note.
Marriage was not for gladiators. So he did not question the groom’s disinterest. All the same, Valens could not help but think that if the bride were his wife, he would speak to her and try to put her at ease.
His opponent lunged again. This time the blade came closer than Valens anticipated, and he returned his focus to the fight. The sound of steel on steel echoed in the garden as he attacked. Slice, slice, thrust. Push, push, slice.
They maneuvered to the base of a terrace from which the bride and her new-old groom looked down. Beside them stood Senator Scaeva, Consul Fimbria, and another man whom Valens did not know. Tall porticoes rose up at their backs, the uppermost scrollwork lost to the dusk. The other gladiator came in at a run, his head lowered, ready to butt Valens in the middle. Wait. Wait. Valens swiveled to the side an instant before impact. He stuck out his foot as his opponent passed, and Valens slammed the hilt of his sword between the man’s shoulder blades.
The gladiator took two more steps and collapsed in the sand. He remained on the ground for a moment and then rose unsteadily to his feet.
The crowd cheered. Valens extended his arms and turned in a circle. He glanced at the bride. A deep-red, sheer bridal veil draped over her shoulders and down her back, covering her dark hair. The gown of ivory silk skimmed her lithe body, its neckline draping low over her high breasts perfectly. The short sleeves of her gown were gathered at the shoulders, held in place by silver and ruby pins, her only jewels. Compared to the other women with their gaudy clothes and hair, Valens thought that her natural beauty made her the most exquisite woman at the party.
Bouncing on the balls of her feet, the bride clapped her hands. Compared to the rest of Rome’s elite, where every movement was studied and done deliberately to impress
, the bride’s response seemed candid. Valens remembered not the last time he had known anyone willing to be sincere.
He blocked a blow that came in low and stole another glance at the bride. Her hand worked at the wedding knot at her waist, the same one her husband would untie later once they retired to their marital bed. What was she thinking about now? The beautiful bride did not appear overly affectionate toward her old goat of a husband. She could not be looking forward to their first night as man and wife.
For a moment Valens felt a certain level of kinship with this young woman. He was no good at feigning emotions he did not feel, either.
The other gladiator rushed in again. Valens paid little heed to the newest assault until the flat of a cold blade slapped his torso. He stopped thinking of the woman and brought his attention back to the fight. It would not do to lose, even at a private party where they fought only to first blood.
Valens knew little of his opponent except that he had been newly admitted into his gladiator troupe and wanted to prove himself. That much was evident in the way he locked swords with Valens at every chance, not giving either of them room to move and entertain the crowd with combat.
Without momentum, the other man stumbled, too intent on finding a way to make steel meet flesh. Valens lifted his sword to strike him on the shoulder while also giving the new gladiator time to block the blow.
He again glimpsed the bride standing on the terrace. Drawn into his movements, she watched him. In all his years as a gladiator, Valens had become adept at reading his opponents. Facial expressions, shoulder placement, shuffling feet, and twitching fingers—all of it told something.
Outside of the arena it allowed him to quickly take the measure of a person. In his estimation, the bride was honest. Maybe too honest for a senator’s wife. Had she been more attuned with social conventions, her eyes would have been lined with thick kohl until her blue irises blazed like sapphires in the light. She would have also been more careful of her stance next to her husband. Even now the space between the two told Valens, and the rest of the world, that she would rather be with anyone else than with him.
Yet she seemed to enjoy the fight. Maybe through feats of combat he could distract her, at least for a moment. It seemed the least he could do for the last honest woman in Rome.
Chapter 2
Phaedra
The gladiators came together, their swords locked. A thin sheen of sweat covered the tight ridges of their backs and the strong muscles of their arms. Phaedra watched with an eagerness she never would have predicted. She found the intensity of the struggle infectious. She gripped the woolen belt encircling her waist as if it held the power to control the outcome of the contest. Her trembling fingers traced the Herculean Knot, the one to be untied later by her new groom, Marcus Rullus Servilia.
The notion that she was now a married woman left her light-headed. The wedding had been far from ideal, at least for her. Whoever heard of the wedding feast taking place at the bride’s home and not the groom’s? Making matters worse, and more embarrassing, were the gladiators hired by her father. She had begged him not to make fights part of the evening’s entertainment. Gladiator contests were for funerals, not weddings.
Despite her arguments and pleas, her father had insisted. Consul Fimbria, the head of the Senate, planned to attend the wedding, and he held an extreme fondness for the games. In order to impress the consul, and make a new senatorial ally, her father would go to any length. Besides, her father said this would make her wedding banquet all the more memorable. In that regard, he had been right. For most of the guests, the excitement of seeing Valens Secundus, Rome’s champion, fight in such a small and intimate setting overrode the importance of her union. And for Phaedra, that was fine. The less attention paid to her marriage, the better.
Although she had seen her husband, Marcus, many times before becoming his betrothed, she had spoken to him only once. After her mother’s death, he had offered her his sympathies. To the then eight-year-old Phaedra, it was a shocking thing to be spoken to by an adult, as an adult, and his words had offered her no comfort. Instead, he had terrified her.
What was she, a young girl, to say to an adult man? Instead of accepting his condolences, she had burst into tears and run from the room. Knowing that her mother had seen her shameful behavior from Elysium, Phaedra sobbed for days. From her deathbed, her mother had left Phaedra with a single piece of advice: “Mind your tears and do as your father tells you. As your father, he is your lord and master.” The next day, Phaedra had broken her mother’s first rule, and in front of an important friend of her father, no less.
And now she was married to the man.
Glancing over, she caught a glimpse of her husband. Like all senators, Marcus wore a brilliantly white toga. He kept his silver-tinted hair cut short, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He was her father’s mentor in the Senate. A man with enough coin to afford a million sesterces for his own Senate seat and plenty left over to loan her father a million more to keep his. Marcus had never asked for a dowry, and Phaedra understood the kindness of his gesture.
Until now she had had no marriage proposals. Her meager dowry had kept away any serious suitors of her own age. Many called Marcus the First Man of the Senate, an unofficial title that spoke of his importance in the Roman republic. Besides, at twenty annums, Phaedra knew it was important that she be wedded and bedded, so in some ways this union suited her.
She returned her attention to the gladiators, a wholly different kind of man. They separated, circling one another, their breath coming short and ragged. The famous one, Valens Secundus, stepped back and then came at his opponent again. The thick muscles in his back and shoulders tensed. Sweat dampened his hair. It curled and the ends swept out to the side. His dark, well-formed brows drew together in concentration. He pressed his lips together, the bottom fuller than the top. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled. Perhaps he always wore the same scowl of focus and ferocity.
The gladiators wore loincloths. Tied at the waist, drawn through the legs, a wide leather belt held them in place. The muscles of their powerful thighs quivered with exertion; their calves stood out bold and stark in the torchlight that danced around the garden. As the two men crashed into each other, their swords ringing out, Phaedra held her breath and prayed for Valens to come away victorious. She wondered for a moment why she prayed for this stranger, and not—with a guilty afterthought—her new husband?
Valens attacked, driving the other gladiator back to the edge of the sandpit. Three days before, two olive trees with waxy leaves, a rosebush with blooms of red and white, and a marble bench had filled this space. But her father had ordered it all removed so her wedding banquet might become a grand spectacle. He had made his point, she thought. Grand and virile, the gladiators were a spectacle in themselves.
The power and strength of the gladiators—especially that of Valens—registered in Phaedra’s middle, causing it to tighten in the most intimate way. The fight shifted, and Valens came to face Phaedra. The combatants paused, their bodies taut with anticipation. The air around them vibrated with unrepentant masculinity.
Phaedra’s skin tingled, hot and flushed at once. The scent of male sweat, leather, and steel mixed together and became more intoxicating than a cup of strong wine.
The fight continued, yet Phaedra stopped watching the back-and-forth of combat and focused only on Valens. His concentration, his drive, and his passion lured Phaedra’s gaze, capturing it completely. What would it be like to have a man such as Valens Secundus focus upon her with the same intensity as he did the fight?
For a moment their eyes met. Then the corners of Valens’s mouth twitched up, and he winked so quickly that Phaedra wondered if it had not been her imagination. He rushed his opponent again. This time, when the other man tried to deflect the blow, Valens’s sword connected with his wrist. A thin line of red appeared where the blade met flesh.
“First blood,” her father cheered.
Voi
ces filled the garden as the guests chanted, “First blood. First blood. First blood.”
Her father lumbered down the wide stairs, dragging his left foot, swollen from gout. He gripped tight to the marble railing. The edges of the garden were lined with couches where guests reclined. Small tables laden with food and drink were tucked out of sight near bushes and in the shadows closest to the villa. Slaves stood nearby and waited to serve.
Still clapping, her father stopped in the middle of the newly constructed sandpit. He clasped Valens by the wrist. Holding their arms high, he said, “The victor and most famous gladiator in all of Rome. Your presence brings good omens to my daughter’s marriage. You must remain and join us in the feast.”
The guests cheered as her father, still holding on to the gladiator, turned in a slow circle. They stopped, facing the terrace upon which Phaedra stood.
“I offer congratulations on your wedding,” the gladiator said. He spoke to Marcus, of course, but Phaedra felt Valens’s eyes upon her, his gaze like a caress.
“Your congratulations are gladly received, Valens Secundus. You honor us with your well-earned fame on this, a most important day,” said her husband.
Marcus slipped his hand around Phaedra’s waist. The thin muscles in his arm felt unmistakably solid. At least her husband had not gone to fat like her father. Still, she wondered how the gladiator’s touch might feel. Warm, with hands both strong and soft, a powerful grip mixed with sweet embraces. She shivered at the thought, and Marcus placed a kiss upon her temple. She smiled at him and tried to imagine her life filled with some sense of joy or hope. Perhaps she would have children. Yes, even a single child would bring her happiness and purpose.
Marcus held out his hand. With one last look at Valens, Phaedra allowed herself to be led into the villa. A table covered in a white cloth sat atop a dais in the triclinium, the largest dining room. A platter full of meats, four bowls filled with green olives, and a plate of steamed pears were laid out, along with several jugs of wine. Five empty chairs stood behind place settings. Marcus took the seat in the middle with Phaedra at his left. Phaedra’s father sat next to Marcus, with Consul Fimbria next to him. Acestes, the son of Marcus’s sister, occupied the seat to her left. With the two men on either side of her, Phaedra saw a striking family resemblance. Both had the same square jaw and full lips. Thin, dark brows arched over eyes the color of slate.