Love of the Gladiator (Affairs of the Arena Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Lydia Pax
ludus.
She had been sold away for rebellious attitudes, for starting fights with the other slaves when they would not treat her fairly. As a slave, nothing was her property. And now, in this ludus, even her sex was not her own to operate as she wished.
Lucius, besides being a procurer of slaves for his mistress, seemed to also be a doctore for the retiarii style. She was well-versed in the nature of the arena. Her father had fought and died on the sands. She made it her business, lobbing question after question at anyone who attended the games, to find out as much as she could.
She herself had never been allowed to see the games in person. Not even on the day her father was killed.
A beautiful blond woman dressed in an ornate stola—Gwenn guessed it was the mistress of the house—Porcia, spoke to Lucius. It was clear even from a distance that the two had history. But Lucius now was staring at the gathered slave women at the entrance of the ludus.
No, that was wrong.
He stared directly at Gwenn.
Her heart began to race rapidly, once again. Hatred for her body's quick response populated rapidly. She did not want her heart to race because of this smarmy lout. Nor did she want to imagine his body freed from all clothes, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscled thighs.
Gwenn found herself staring back at the man. His nose was tall on his face, unbroken. It was clear, though, that he had fought many times in the arena. He had the same easy confidence as the other fighters she saw on the training sands.
Something had happened to him, though—to his arm. An injury that kept him from training. He was not quite as fit as some of the other fighters—more wiry, with less bulk. Somehow it made every muscle more defined.
But she could very much notice from this distance how handsome he was, yes. In the arena, with no helmet to speak of, she was sure he stole many hearts.
It was too bad he was a terrible idiot who had bought her at the beck and call of his mistress.
And staring at her. Why was he staring at her?
She could not linger on it. The tall, wide, tanned fellow who had examined each of the gathered slaves in turn began to speak. His disappearing hair was streaked with gray, his skin like old leather.
“Welcome to House Varinius. My name is Murus. But you will know me as ‘Doctore.’ I am your teacher while you are here. I am your father. I am your brother. I am the only man you need concern yourself with. I am the High Priest of your life, and the Domina is your Goddess.” He pointed to back to the beautiful blond woman watching them. “Some of you will earn a place here. Some of you may die here. Some more of you will die in the arena as failures in your old life, shamed and purposeless.”
Gwenn could hardly believe her ears. Could such news be real? Could she honestly be hearing what she was?
Was she truly to compete in the arena as her father had—to ride the line between living and dying within a single breath?
The other slaves—trained well enough not to make any comments—looked at one another with wide alarm as opposed to Gwenn's clear eagerness.
“But if you listen,” Murus continued, “and you work, you can shed the bounds of that old life. You will earn the favor of the crowd, and your name on the Wall of Turmedites, where you shall live in immortality!”
He walked from one end to the other of their line, shaking his head. He did not look impressed. Most of the girls looked back at him with abject fear. They had expected simple house work. Not the most pleasant of lives, but at least it normally had some longevity to it.
“It may have occurred to you that this is some joke, women fighting in the arena. Certainly some of my own men will think it so. But I assure you, this is deadly serious. If you have any illusions about me taking it easy because of what is or is not between your legs, think again. It is my purpose in life to deliver glory to this ludus. And so I will shape you from
She had been sold away for rebellious attitudes, for starting fights with the other slaves when they would not treat her fairly. As a slave, nothing was her property. And now, in this ludus, even her sex was not her own to operate as she wished.
Lucius, besides being a procurer of slaves for his mistress, seemed to also be a doctore for the retiarii style. She was well-versed in the nature of the arena. Her father had fought and died on the sands. She made it her business, lobbing question after question at anyone who attended the games, to find out as much as she could.
She herself had never been allowed to see the games in person. Not even on the day her father was killed.
A beautiful blond woman dressed in an ornate stola—Gwenn guessed it was the mistress of the house—Porcia, spoke to Lucius. It was clear even from a distance that the two had history. But Lucius now was staring at the gathered slave women at the entrance of the ludus.
No, that was wrong.
He stared directly at Gwenn.
Her heart began to race rapidly, once again. Hatred for her body's quick response populated rapidly. She did not want her heart to race because of this smarmy lout. Nor did she want to imagine his body freed from all clothes, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscled thighs.
Gwenn found herself staring back at the man. His nose was tall on his face, unbroken. It was clear, though, that he had fought many times in the arena. He had the same easy confidence as the other fighters she saw on the training sands.
Something had happened to him, though—to his arm. An injury that kept him from training. He was not quite as fit as some of the other fighters—more wiry, with less bulk. Somehow it made every muscle more defined.
But she could very much notice from this distance how handsome he was, yes. In the arena, with no helmet to speak of, she was sure he stole many hearts.
It was too bad he was a terrible idiot who had bought her at the beck and call of his mistress.
And staring at her. Why was he staring at her?
She could not linger on it. The tall, wide, tanned fellow who had examined each of the gathered slaves in turn began to speak. His disappearing hair was streaked with gray, his skin like old leather.
“Welcome to House Varinius. My name is Murus. But you will know me as ‘Doctore.’ I am your teacher while you are here. I am your father. I am your brother. I am the only man you need concern yourself with. I am the High Priest of your life, and the Domina is your Goddess.” He pointed to back to the beautiful blond woman watching them. “Some of you will earn a place here. Some of you may die here. Some more of you will die in the arena as failures in your old life, shamed and purposeless.”
Gwenn could hardly believe her ears. Could such news be real? Could she honestly be hearing what she was?
Was she truly to compete in the arena as her father had—to ride the line between living and dying within a single breath?
The other slaves—trained well enough not to make any comments—looked at one another with wide alarm as opposed to Gwenn's clear eagerness.
“But if you listen,” Murus continued, “and you work, you can shed the bounds of that old life. You will earn the favor of the crowd, and your name on the Wall of Turmedites, where you shall live in immortality!”
He walked from one end to the other of their line, shaking his head. He did not look impressed. Most of the girls looked back at him with abject fear. They had expected simple house work. Not the most pleasant of lives, but at least it normally had some longevity to it.
“It may have occurred to you that this is some joke, women fighting in the arena. Certainly some of my own men will think it so. But I assure you, this is deadly serious. If you have any illusions about me taking it easy because of what is or is not between your legs, think again. It is my purpose in life to deliver glory to this ludus. And so I will shape you from
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