Chapter XIV
XIV
ADEL SLOUCHED ON THE GROUND in the cell reserved for the Gallic School, her back pressed against the coolness of the peeling wall.
Her shield arm throbbed. She’d have lost if the Strix hadn’t stumbled and allowed her the upper hand.
A lucky win, and unfortunate, because it meant she would have to fight again.
She swept a hand over the stones, gathering grit into a pile and wishing it smelled of sun and living things, and not sweat and blood.
“Drink this for your strength.” Ignacio crouched in front of her and offered a cup.
Over his shoulder, Berit caught Adel’s eye, her expression held tight in the anxious stillness before all broke loose. Adel took the cup and threw it back, the bitter wine making her shudder as she swallowed. She shoved to her feet, pushing the cup back at Ignacio. “Can I go to the fountain?”
Ignacio glanced at the fountain and frowned at the fighters milling about it. Some stretched or shook out their limbs in preparation. Others splashed water over their sweaty faces and necks.
“Better wait until it’s cleared a bit.”
Adel rolled her eyes. “I promise I will not start any fights this time.”
He grunted in a way that said he didn’t quite believe her. “I’ll bring you water.”
As soon as his back was turned, Adel strode for the girl, who twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirted loincloth.
“Are you well?” Adel squinted. Due to their similar features and coloring, Jovan had called Berit Hippolyta, after a mythical queen, but her lack of ferocity in the arena had set them apart instead of making them an Amazonian team.
Berit flipped her braid over a shoulder marred with a greening bruise, and shrugged. Her gaze flicked to the blood-smeared floor.
Adel gripped her shoulders and gave a little shake. “Do not look at it. Do not think about it. If you want to survive here—”
“I don’t know if I want to survive.” The words came on a quivering breath.
“No. Look at me.” A blade of fear slipped between her ribs.
Adel gave another shake until Berit’s big blue eyes connected with hers.
“You will not speak like that. You will not think like that.” She ducked her head, forcing the girl to meet her firm glare.
“You will not give up. Not now. Not ever. Say it.”
“I will not . . .” Berit took a breath. “I will not . . .”
“Give up.” Adel ground the words between her teeth like grit. “I will not give up.”
“I—” Berit swallowed, averting her eyes. “I’m not going to make it to the games.” Panic tightened a noose around her words, jerking them out with too little air.
Adel’s jaw went tight. “Yes. You. Will. You will not abandon us. And I will not abandon you.”
“It is no great loss when we die. Rome used our men for battle fodder; why should it be different for us in their arenas?” Berit’s chin lowered as she tightened the knot of her loincloth, her voice reaching Adel’s ear in the barest of whispers. “If I die—”
“Stop speaking of death,” Adel snapped. “Life is not so bad here. We are fed, cared for.”
“We are slaves, Adel. We fight and we die. What more is there?”
“Hope?” The word slipped from her tongue before she could stop it.
Berit didn’t answer. Perhaps she hadn’t heard it over the rumble of the crowd beyond the courtyard.
The rumble that reminded her Berit could be right.
What hope was there in a place like this?
They were slaves. Fighting and dying. To hope was a fool’s dream.
And yet the thing about hope was that it was never quite . . . rational.
“You can earn your freedom. Others have.” Freedom was a flimsier thing than hope, hanging on a spider’s silk of skill and much good fortune.
Berit shook her head. “We both know I’m not good enough for that. But you are. The people love you. If you fight in the emperor’s games, they’ll free you and you can get away from here.”
Her cousin wasn’t wrong. Out of all of the gladiatrices, Adel had the greatest chance at freedom, and yet the thought of it sent a thin shard of fear slicing through her.
What would she do with freedom? There was nowhere to go.
At least as a magister she would have a place.
Purpose. A prickle of guilt chased the fear.
What would Berit think of her choosing the ludus over freedom? Something bumped her arm.
“Water.” Ignacio held out a dripping cup. “What’s wrong with that one?”
Adel shot a hard look at Berit. “Nothing.”
“Nerves getting to her?”
“It is nothing she cannot overcome.”
Ignacio tipped his head in a motion for Adel to follow. “Don’t let her nerves rattle you. I’ll take care of her. You focus on Tigris.” He scooped up her helmet from where it sat against the wall and handed it to her. “Clear your head. You are the .”
Adel blew out a breath and settled the helmet over her head. She was Adelgard. Protector. Leader. Soon to be magister.
Ignacio gripped the sides of the helmet and pressed his face against it, drilling a black-eyed stare through the mesh eyeholes.
“You are the . Fierce. Strong. Favorite of Rome.” He gave the helmet a little jerk with each phrase, as if ensuring the words lodged in her mind.
He pressed the gladius into her hand and smacked the side of her helmet. “Now go out there and prove it.”
Features shifting in the polished brass mirror, Adel poked a strand of damp hair into her braid and tucked a fold of her dull-gray ludus-issued tunic into the wide belt wrapping her waist. It wasn’t the new blue one she’d dreamed of wearing in this moment, but she couldn’t wait for the next trip to the markets.
Two fresh wins on her record—while wounded. This leverage was as good as any.
Sucking in a steadying breath, she left the steamy warmth of the bathhouse and stepped outside into the evening chill.
On the opposite side of the courtyard, the triclinium was lit with lamps and humming with voices, the door hanging open in welcome.
She’d already taken her shift in the dining hall but knew the doctores and magistri always gathered there to speak with Jovan while the gladiators ate.
Tonight, she would join them. She’d earned the right, after all.
Her efforts had improved the gladiatrices performances.
Dreda had won her match, her footwork much improved.
The Hildas had given performances much more steady and grounded than ever—Brunhilda even winning hers.
Though Ilona’s match had ended with a blow to her head, Berit had fought with tucks and rolls that had won the crowd.
Yes, Adel had earned her place among the magistri.
Adel stepped into the dining hall, the room buzzing with statistics and rehashed matches.
She spotted the huddle of trainers and overseers clustered in the corner, clutching glasses of wine, and angled toward them.
She swiped a glass of her own from a startled slave and stepped to the edge of the circle.
“Excellent improvement on Ruso. Didn’t think he had it in him to take down Ursus. Especially after that black eye.” One of the doctores nudged a magister. “Speaking of, you owe me three sestertii.”
“And Ignacio owes me five,” another broke in. “I bet against his little gladiatrix and he never let on that she moves like a monkey and no one can catch her.”
Chuckles spread like the Tiber fever, a quick flare and then nothing. Adel felt a wan smile tighten her lips. Berit had bested her opponent the only way she knew how. Evasion. And then a winning hit that looked nearly accidental. The wine burned her stomach as she took a sip.
At the head of the group, Jovan flipped through his book and turned to the doctore of secutor fighters. “If Gaiseric has another match like today, he’s going to be out for months. I told you to get on his footwork.”
“I agree. And Wulfula is swinging too wide.”
At her critique, a dozen male faces swung toward Adel, expressions wavering between surprise and amusement.
Adel took another sip and lifted her chin. She hadn’t anticipated this would be easy. “He’s opening himself up too much—anyone can see it. If he doesn’t improve by the next matches, his opponent will take him out.”
A collective huff of disbelief.
“What are you doing here, ?” Jovan slowly closed his book, peppery eyebrows pressing together.
Heat prickled across her chest, but she forced her spine to remain straight, her feet to remain where they were. “You said I could join the magistri, if I improved the gladiatrices, and I have.” Her voice emerged with surprising evenness.
“Bah!” Ignacio bit back a harsh laugh and turned to Jovan, as if waiting for him to deny it.
“We will speak of this another time.”
“But you said—”
“We will speak of this another time.” Jovan’s eyes speared her own, sharp and steely.
“Why don’t you run along and check on your injured gladiatrix.
” It was not a suggestion, but an order to what, play nursemaid?
Was he pointing out her one failure? Was that the reason she was not welcome here?
The others had made mistakes in their fighters, as evidenced by the conversation, and yet, Jovan had not sent them off to the infirmary.
She hated that heat pulsed in her cheeks. To argue, grow angry, would only make her appear childish, unsteady. The glass banged against her teeth as she downed the rest of the wine.
“Of course. We will speak another time.” She bit the words between her teeth, tasting their bitterness as she strode from the room.
Adel stepped into her room and the guard closed the door behind her.
A rush of relief flowed through her limbs.
Ilona had been asleep, the infirmary dim and quiet.
No medici in sight. Adel had looked in at the woman, ensured her breathing, and whispered a prayer for her recovery that had seemed to hit the ceiling and bounce back to her.
What else could be done but let Ilona rest and recover?
She’d headed for her own room before Sergius could catch her.
Her sword arm ached and her injury burned. But they mattered little compared to the hot ember lodged in her chest.
Jovan had brushed her off.
Perhaps she had been too bold in approaching the group, but they would all have to find out sooner or later that she would be one of them. Perhaps Jovan was breaking the news to them now.
The naivete of the thought sent a rush of anger through her.
She ripped the belt from her waist and hurled it across the room.
She knew better than to rely on a man to give her what he’d promised.
If she wanted the position, she would have to fight and claw for it.
It wasn’t fair that a man could get angry over the slight Jovan had shown, but she could not.
She paced the room, pulse pounding, and snatched up the cracked cup of dirt sitting in the shadows on the table.
Her fingers closed around it, and she drew back, ready to hurl it against the wall, but something stayed her hand, drew it to her face instead.
A hairlike sprout stood firm and tall, a pair of leaves as delicate as a fly’s wings spreading defiantly, like the pennant of a rebel army.
Unbidden tears rushed her eyes as she lifted the cup.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice broke. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and squeezed the end of her braid over the seedling.
A few drips. Too little. Let it not be too late.
A lump rose in her throat, and she struggled to swallow it back.
This was not the place to break. To let her emotions get the better of her.
This was only a plant. And she was a fighter, strong, beloved, and yet .
. . And yet. The world tilted on those two little words and she felt herself teetering on the edge.
“Do not give up.” Her breath shook the tiny stem. Made the leaves shiver.
She set the cup in the sliver of moonlight. The best she could offer, and not enough.
She would speak with Jovan in the morning. Privately. Make her case again, if need be. This was not the end.
Keys jingled in the lock outside and she turned as Ignacio entered, a cup in his outstretched hand.
“You look tired.”
She stiffened and looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Come now,” he cajoled. “No need to be upset. You did well today. Jovan knows it.” He held out the cup. Adel shook her head.
“Jovan and I have been invited to a planning dinner at the game master’s, thanks to the performance of our gladiatrices.” His chest swelled with the news. Was he trying to goad her? Or was he truly naive to her efforts?
Adel crossed her arms. “Congratulations.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you. Perhaps they’ll invite you to attend the pregame feast.”
To be pinched and grabbed and spoken of like an animal or piece of inanimate art? Her lips turned up in the smile she knew he wanted. “What an honor.”
He beamed, ignoring or unable to detect the layer of sarcasm coating her words. “You’re magnificent out there. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jovan receives multiple offers for you.”
Her mouth went dry, pulse ticking back up. “Offers?”
“From other ludi, private owners—it’s a high honor. You should be proud.”
She nodded, feeling anything but. Ignacio left, locking the door behind him and leaving a suffocating emptiness in his wake.
Adel fought to draw in a breath, all the air seeming to follow Ignacio out of the room.
Would Jovan truly sell her? Had she fought and clawed her way to nothing?
She gulped a shaking breath, pressing a palm to her chest in a vain attempt to calm her pounding heart.
Was that why Jovan had not announced her new position?
Had he received an offer to buy her? Accepted?
Suddenly weary to her marrow, Adel rolled her shoulders, unsticking her damp tunic from her back as she turned toward her bed.
What she wouldn’t give for the warm comfort of her wolfhound curled beside her.
The weight of her furry head resting on her shoulder.
She could almost hear Aipei’s scolding. You must stop sleeping with that dog.
No man wants a wife who smells like a wolfhound.
Perhaps that was true among the Visigoths.
But here, her worth lay in her strength, not her beauty.
In her ability to destroy, not create. In her bondage, not her freedom.
Adel flopped onto the lumpy mattress, pressing her face into the worn fabric and inhaling a ragged breath past the hot lump forming in the center of her chest. She would not cry.
And if she did, it certainly was not because she missed the earthy, smoky scent of camp, the warmth of her wolfhound curled next to her—home, instead of the damp mustiness of her cell.