Carla Capshaw - The Protector

Whether he was being punished or tested like some other believers suggested, he knew he didn’t need or want to be tempted by a vixen with an ability to sneak past his defenses and shred his self-control. No woman had ever done that, not even his wife.

He slammed the door on thoughts of Faustina. She was dead and memories of her filled him with guilt and eternal regret.

A solid blow jarred his wounded shoulder. “There’s the mob’s newest darling.”

Quintus cracked open one eye. Alexius, the manager of the gladiator school, stood over him, a grin parting the Greek’s swarthy face.

Rubbing the spot where he’d torn the arrow from his shoulder, Quintus pressed on the piece of cloth he’d used to cover the ragged flesh. “Was that necessary?” he asked, his tone as dry as dust.

“Of course. You don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re famous now, do you?”

“One lost battle isn’t enough to make anyone remember my name.”

“On the contrary.” The tall Greek moved deeper into the small alcove. Pleased by the afternoon’s events, he pulled up a stool and sat down. “Romans appreciate bravery above all else. The way you leaped on that elephant and protected your troupe… The whole city will know who you are by sundown.”

Quintus grunted, unimpressed. “A lot of good it will do me if I bleed to death.”

Alexius glanced at the arrow and growing ring of blood around the wound. “From that scratch? I doubt it.”

A man’s scream echoed down the corridor. A moment later, two of the hospital’s attendants ran past.

“Where’s the physician?” Quintus asked, weary of waiting when the deeply embedded arrow in his leg was making him light-headed from loss of blood.

“He’ll be here soon. By the sound of it, the day’s amputations are almost finished.”

Quintus grimaced. He was thankful to God his injuries were relatively minor, but a part of him wished God had taken him and spared the other wounded in his troupe.

“You’d better get used to injury,” Alexius warned. “You’re not a coddled merchant anymore. You’re a gladiator.”

Quintus curled his lip at the veiled insult. He may have been a merchant, but he’d never been an idle man. “I’ll try to remember that.” To punctuate his disinterest in the lecture, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.

A stab of pain sliced through his thigh. His eyes flew open. Alexius had taken hold of the arrow and was slowly twisting the shaft. “Listen to me, Quintus. I know you’re angry at the world and probably your God, though you deny it. But if you plan to live long enough in the arena to earn your freedom, understand these paltry wounds are only the first of many.”

He threw off Alexius’s hand. Let the Greek think what he liked. He wasn’t concerned about his injuries. In truth, he didn’t care if he lived or died. It was his reaction to the widow that had soured his mood. “You do want your freedom, don’t you?”

“You know I do.” His freedom was the prize he longed for above all else. The goal he’d set for himself to return home and make certain the precious son he’d lost had received a proper burial.

“Then fear not. Today’s games will bring you a wagonload of good. A messenger brought word Caros and his lady return from Umbria next week. Once Caros hears what happened, he’ll see you’re rewarded. Your price for each fight is bound to rise. Caros is a generous master. Mark my words, he’ll see you benefit from your improved status for certain.”

Alexius would know. As the premier champion and current manager of the Ludus Maximus, he possessed wealth, the freedom to do as he liked and the respect of his master, Rome’s most feted lanista, Caros Viriathos.

“It won’t be long before you have enough silver to buy your life back.”

“We’ll see.” Weakness began to creep through him and his vision blurred. His eyes drifted closed.

“Stay with me, friend.” Alexius gave him a light shake. “Widow Leonia attended the games this afternoon. She came to see you fight.”

He opened his eyes, his focus hazy.

“I thought the mention of her might revive you.” Smirking, Alexius leaned forward on the stool and braced his wrists on his knees. “You know you might consider Adiona as a source of additional coin.”

“I’ve nothing to offer as collateral.”

“You could offer yourself. Everyone knows it’s you she came to watch at training practice these last several months. Judging by her constant attempts to gain your notice, she’d pay a fortune to have you.”

He doubted it. Rumor among his troupe said her true prey was Caros. That she flirted with Quintus to make the lanista jealous. Quintus had begun to suspect the gossip held merit when she stopped visiting the school the same day Caros and Pelonia left for Umbria. His brow arched with irritation. “You mean sell myself?”

“It’s widely done. Wealthy matrons are known to offer a huge price for the attentions of a well-known gladiator. And there’s no woman in Rome wealthier than the widow.”

The thought of Adiona paying men for their favors hit him with the unexpected force of a blow to the chest. Rage and pain washed through him. He struggled to stand.

“Easy, Quintus.” Alexius pressed him back onto the bench. “I meant to enliven you, not make you foolish. If you don’t like women—”

“I like women fine,” he said through gritted teeth, fighting the weakness that threatened to engulf him.

“All right, you like women. I believe you.” Alexius shrugged. “I take it, then, it’s only Adiona who leaves you cold? Why? She’s exquisite to look upon. Most men would sacrifice their sword arm for a single smile from her luscious lips.”

His eyelids heavy as bricks, he struggled to focus on Alexius. He couldn’t deny Adiona Leonia affected him like no other woman he’d ever met, but she also reminded him of his wife. Not in looks, but in manner and her priorities in life. A decade of marriage to a faithless, self-centered woman who chased social recognition and vain pleasure had taught him much. Outward beauty meant little when the inner being was ugly. If God answered his prayers for deliverance from his current situation, he hoped one day to find a wife who possessed faith, kindness and honor.

“Widow Leonia is not for me.” Too exhausted to frame his words with care, he answered honestly. “I don’t want a woman whose sharp tongue resembles a knife blade and whose morals mimic a she-cat in heat.”

A sharp gasp drew his attention to the edge of the alcove behind Alexius. Adiona stood in the arched doorway. Torchlight glimmered off her elaborately braided hair and the gold threads woven through the cloak she’d draped around her slender shoulders. To his blurred vision and pain-steeped brain she seemed like a bright morning star—just as beguiling and, for him, even more out of reach.

Words failed. He simply stared, grappling for an apology. He had no right to insult her. Never had he spoken of a woman with such disrespect. No matter if he believed he told the truth, he’d never intentionally hurt her.

Gutted by her stricken amber gaze and ashen complexion, he wished the arrow had missed his shoulder and skewered his heart.

And judging by the storm gathering on her flawless face, she agreed he deserved no less.

He despises me.

Savaged by Quintus’s brutal assessment, Adiona swallowed the hard lump of rejection in her throat. Determined he would never know how deep his derision cut, she refused to march off in a display of wounded pride.

“My lady—” Quintus said, his voice reed thin.

“Why are you here?” Alexius jumped to his feet, his expression sheepish.