Chapter III #2
Jovan had called it a luxury, a symbol of her status, and so it was.
The stone shelf of her bed took up one whole wall and was topped with a lumpy mattress and a blanket the color of forest moss.
And it was all her own. Three paces across from the door, a rickety table rested beneath the slit of a window, a cracked cup in the middle cutting a shadow through a silver moonbeam.
Adel moved to it, lifting the cup to her nose and inhaling the scent of dirt and life.
The tiniest sprout broke through the earth.
“Grow, little one,” she whispered, hearing not her own voice in those words but her aipei’s. Mother’s gentle tone had always seemed to coax herbs and flowers to vibrant, wild life. Did Adel have that power too? Or did her skill only lie in destruction? All evidence suggested the latter.
She replaced the cup in its sliver of moonlight and unfastened the end of her breastband, unwinding it and carefully freeing the seed pods she’d tucked into the folds.
Retrieving a small jar from the shadows under the table, she wrestled the cork lid off the top with one hand and dropped the seeds inside.
They rustled against others in the bottom of the jar, whispers of a home long gone.
She pressed the cork back over the mouth, refusing to listen.
The Ludus Gallicus was everything she’d wanted.
A place where work was rewarded, and effort earned wealth and status.
She was well on her way to becoming one of the magistri.
Jovan had nearly promised. And when the promotion came, she would plant the seeds, set down roots in a future of her own making.
Replacing the jar in the shadows, she finished removing the breastband, letting the fabric drop to the floor along with the skirted loincloth.
Her arm burned as she plucked a plain, ludus-issued tunic from a peg on the wall and wrestled it over her head.
It fell to her knees in shapeless folds, and she ran her hands over it, feeling the thinness of the cloth.
It would never do at a meeting of the magistri.
If she wanted to be a part of the trainers’ circle, she’d best look the part.
But it would not be this month at least.
Adel crawled onto her bed, pulling the blanket to her chin, arm and heart throbbing.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she let her good hand drift over her forehead, rest on her cheek.
Trying in vain to convince herself it was her aipei’s comforting touch.
That she could open her eyes and be staring into her mother’s.
Heat prickled up the middle of her chest like a thousand fire ants.
Her throat burned and she pressed the edge of the blanket against her eyes.
The Ludus Gallicus was a place of strength, courage, dominance.
It was not a place to cry. To miss your mother in a way that stole the very breath from your lungs.
Following the men to war is a wise choice, daughter. Care for them as they fight for us, and perhaps when you return, tongues in the village will have forgotten their tales.
Fight for us indeed.
When Rome answered the Visigoth call to fight, it was the war-daughters who’d been forgotten.
Left behind as scarlet and leather and polished helms crashed across the river toward the camp.
To their credit, the Visigoth men had put up a valiant fight before abandoning everything and running for the forest. But in the end, even the monk, Telemachus, had disappeared when Adel, Berit, and several other women had caught up their own swords, prepared to defend each other to the last breath.
They’d only meant to stand their ground.
Instead, they’d been caught up in the crimson tide, carried away to the gleaming marble of Rome where they’d been sold and separated at a slave auction.
She might have escaped had she run. Or she might have been cut down like so many others.
But something inside told Adel it was the fighting that had saved her, even so.
She and several others had been sold to a gladiator school, not a brothel.
And that was something. Not that her family or village would care.
They would no doubt add this failure to her shame as well.
The best life she could hope for, then, was what she made of this one.
But next week’s fight was slipping from her fingers like her gladius.
She didn’t want to fight at the Dacian School.
She needed to fight. Needed to be there, at the very least. Because if she wasn’t .
. . Life in gladiator ludi was fickle and fragile.
She could be famous one day, and the crowds could call for her blood the next.
If she was not the best, she was nothing.
Telemachus would refute that notion if he were here.
Assure her of her worth, of God’s steadfast love—a love that endured when others’ love did not.
And yet God had seemed especially distant here.
Had He drawn away when she’d come to the ludus?
A good Christian would never set foot in a gladiator school. Perhaps God would not either.
Adel rubbed the rough blanket across her eyes, swallowing her loneliness with the rest of the tears. Life among her enemies wasn’t as terrible as she’d once imagined it would be. At least here she was respected, cared for, guarded and protected, beloved by those who watched her fight.
At least here, she was worth something.
The lock on her door clinked. Adel jerked upright, hastily smearing the last traces of tears from her eyes.
“?” Ignacio’s low voice was muffled by the wood. “Are you awake?”
Her breaths came quick and unsteady. If he came in to check, she couldn’t feign sleep. She pushed to her feet, the room swaying in the darkness. “Yes.”
The door creaked as it opened, and Ignacio stepped to the threshold and paused, holding a lantern and cup.
“I brought you this, to help you sleep.” He held out the cup.
It was not unusual for him to do so, after a hard-won fight, or slight injury.
A familiar rush she could only assume was gratitude washed over her as she took the cup.
“It is only my arm, Ignacio. A flesh wound—it will heal quickly. They always do.” Even as she voiced the excuses, she knew she would not refuse this kindness.
He stayed in the doorway and glanced into the hall. “That is what I told Jovan. He will offer prayers for you to recover quickly.” He shifted. “But we can’t have our in pain. You are too valuable.”
His words were a balm, soothing the hot ache in her chest.
“Thank you.” She took a sip of the warmed wine, swirling with spices and something bitter.
“Down the hatch.” He motioned for her to finish.
She obeyed and handed the cup back to him. He gave a final smile and backed out of the doorway.
The key turned in the lock, and Ignacio’s footsteps faded down the passage, leaving Adel’s room somehow emptier than it had been before he’d come.
But she would not think on that. You are too valuable.
Adel crawled back onto her bed, allowing the sentiment and wine to warm and weight her limbs and eyelids. She would think no more of home.