Chapter VII
VII
THE CLATTER OF WOODEN TRAINING RUDES cracked in Felix’s ears, punctuated by the barked directions of the magistri and doctores in the courtyard outside the clinic.
Felix wiped the salve from his hands and set the rag aside before winding the bandage back around the newly cleaned cut on his patient’s head.
“You’re looking good, Ruso. Once you can see out of those black eyes of yours, we’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”
The man grunted in response.
Felix gave him a light pat on his shoulder, careful not to jar the one that had been wrenched out of joint, and crossed the infirmary to the adjoining clinic door.
It was Sergius’s day off—of course it always fell on the endurance training day when Felix would be rushing to treat heatstroke and wild injuries born of rudes flying into eye sockets.
He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the clinic and over to his worktable beneath the window.
Few of the gladiators Felix had known as a boy remained in the school. Many had died, a few had earned their freedom and left, and still others, like Ignacio, had become magistri and doctores, training and coaching the next generation.
His eyes strayed to the third ring where the faced off against Ignacio, whose eyebrow he’d stitched back together several days before.
He’d been only slightly more pleasant than the —no death threats, at least. But there was something less honest about his calm.
As if he could call you a friend and then run you through the moment you turned your back.
The wouldn’t bother with the pretense of friendship. Nor had she bothered to follow his firm instructions to rest her arm. Not that he’d expected her to, but he’d thought at least Ignacio or the gladiatrix doctore would make her comply.
The and Ignacio fought without scutum, which was better for her arm in one sense and more dangerous in another.
They dropped into their ready, bent-knee stance, muscles flinching in anticipation.
Ignacio lunged first with heavy, hammer-like strokes.
The met the attack with a quick defense, her sword meeting every blow dealt.
She could hold her own; that much was clear.
The doctore circled them, dodging and barking commands Felix couldn’t discern.
They changed positions with the switching to the offensive, her feet scuffing the sand, the muscled lines of her body gleaming with sweat and grit.
How in the world was she even able to stand, much less fight with such—
The ’s sword slipped, allowing a direct hit to her bandaged arm.
Felix pushed away from the table and was out the door in a moment, leaping over the courtyard rail.
Dodging a heavily armored gladiator, he angled straight for the ring where the hunched forward, hand pressed against the bandage.
Ignacio tossed his rudis in the dust in a motion that seemed more irritated than concerned.
He folded his arms across his chest, saying something Felix couldn’t hear over the pulse pounding in his ears.
“I told you she wasn’t ready, Ignacio.” Felix reached the and peeled back her grip on the bandage to inspect the wound.
“My hands are tied, Felix.” Ignacio raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “She must train. The dates of the Dacian matches won’t be changed.”
The shrugged away from his touch. “I am fine.” The words were forced between her teeth. From pain or anger at Felix’s interference, he couldn’t be sure. Probably both.
Blood seeped through the bandage. Felix pointed. “You’re bleeding and I’m fairly certain you’ve ruined my stitches.”
She rolled her neck from side to side, blowing long breaths between her lips, as if to quell the pain. She thrust a hand toward Ignacio, wiggling her fingers. “Give me my sword.”
Ignacio hesitated.
Felix pressed harder. “You know what can happen, Ignacio. Small cuts can leave one bedridden with infection. How will you explain the loss of your best gladiatrix to Jovan?”
That was enough.
The magister shut his eyes and sighed, waving them toward the edge of the ring. “Let him look you over, . Just to be safe. Then you can return.”
The gladiatrix huffed and stormed ahead of Felix toward the clinic.
He jogged after her, cutting in front and pushing the door open.
Arms crossed, she stalked inside and stopped near the stained operating table, as he pulled the door shut.
“Sit, please.” He held up a palm. “It won’t take long.
She whirled and slapped his hand away, stepping so close her body brushed against his.
He inhaled and took a half step back as she bit her words between her teeth.
“Do you think you can order me about like a dog? Your interference makes me look weak.” Her arm sliced through the air in a jerking motion, sharp with barely restrained fury.
“And if Jovan thinks that, he will cut me from—”
“I don’t think you’re weak.” His quick response stopped her tirade in mid-sentence. “I’ve never thought that. Not for a moment. And anyone who does is a fool.”
Adel was no fool either. No man offered compliments without motive. She’d seen it too many times. The medicus wanted something from her. She crossed her arms, wincing at the ache the movement induced. A glance about the room revealed little but walls of jars and tools, and the high table.
“It is only my arm. It does not hurt.”
“That’s impossible.” Twin lines appeared between his dark brows. “The painkiller should have worn off by now. Let me have a look.”
She held his gaze and edged away. “I was in more pain the day after Dreda’s lizard bit me than now.”
If the admission amused him, he didn’t show it. Truly, it was just an ache.
He stepped closer. “Are you going to threaten to kill me again if I check your arm?”
He didn’t need to ask. She was a slave. He could do as he pleased, as evidenced by the way he’d ordered her here and she’d obeyed. Still, he seemed to wait on her consent.
“Only if you deserve it.”
“I’m glad to see you’re back to your normal high spirits.” He stepped closer, matching her height with an inch to spare. The scent of sandalwood clung to him and made her all too aware of how she must smell after training all morning.
Adel hesitated a moment more, then angled the bandaged arm toward him. As much as it pained her to let him help, the cut was bleeding through the bandage. If he could just do enough to allow her to go back to the ring . . .
She held her breath as he gently peeled back the bandage, eyes fixed on her face rather than what he was doing.
His gaze was assessing and unnerving. For a man who’d received death threats, he didn’t appear the least bit nervous.
His hands were clean, nails neat and short.
Her fingers tucked into fists, hiding her own chipped and dirty crescents.
He stopped at the movement. “Does it pain you?”
She shook her head, irritation flickering. Was he that attuned to her every movement? And why did he care if his ministrations pained her? That was not the way of the ludi.
He squinted. “You don’t have to pretend with me. This isn’t a contest of strength.”
“I said no.” Did he expect her to open her mouth and pour out her deepest secrets too? Not a chance.
He moved his thumb, pressing the edge of the wound. “What about this?”
Pressure. A slight sting.
She shook her head.
He pressed harder, dark brows inching together, eyes locked on hers, searching for any hint of discomfort. “This?”
Her jaw clenched. “You cannot hurt me.”
The pressure from his thumb released in an instant. “I’m not—”
Adel pulled away. “If you are trying to find a weakness to exploit, you will not find one here.” She angled her head, peering past him to the training grounds out the window.
Magnus had moved the gladiatrices into new pairs alternating between strikes, blocks, and ducking squats.
She should be out there too. She was not weak.
But remaining here would make it appear so.
He sighed, his breath tickling her neck. “I can’t help you if you won’t trust me.”
“I do not trust Romans.”
“Why not?”
She stared at him, incredulous. How could he not know? “You really are an idiot.”
His mouth twitched.
Was he laughing at her now? Anger flared again. “Do you find it amusing to be a fool?”
His lips dropped somewhere neutral. “It’s only that when you insult me, it’s usually a joke.”
Adel’s jaw went tight. “Romans are lying pigs.”
He poured olive oil onto a cloth and wiped the wound clean. “Such a lack of trust must make it difficult for you to hold a conversation.”
“Not at all.” She lifted a shoulder. “I simply believe the opposite of what you all say.” Even as she spoke the words, their untruth niggled at her.
When had Rome ever lied? Not once had they ever offered citizenship to the Visigoth refugees and then refused to honor it.
They’d refused to allow it from the very beginning, and had held to their word.
The words had only rolled off her tongue because her people had repeated such things over and again—her people, who had pledged allegiance to bettering the Visigoth status and then left her and dozens of others to fall slave to the legions of Rome.
And how had Rome treated her in return? Lavished her with food, clothing, a room of her own, with reverence and awe. The realization left her angrier still.
The medicus’s eyes flicked up to study her a moment before he turned to the long counter and shelves where he selected several jars and set them near a mortar and pestle.
Adel lifted her arm toward the light streaming in through the windows above the door and worktable. Begrudgingly, she had to admit he was right about the cut. Several stitches had torn, and blood trailed down the toned curves of her arm.