Chapter XX
XX
Steam clouded the air around Adel as she stripped off her training strophium and subligaculum and left them in a tangled heap of strips and strings on the warm travertine tiles of the bathhouse floor.
Female voices wafted in the steam, perfumed with eye-watering mint and soothing lavender that was supposed to cover the sharp odor left from training.
In two steps she eased her sore muscles into the small caldarium pool until her chin rested just above the water.
She closed her eyes, after all this time still not quite convinced that hot water was a “luxury.” It soothed the aches from her overworked muscles, that was true, but something inside still longed for the rushing tug of a river’s current.
For the refreshing shock of clean, cold water that was not swimming with a layer of oil and grime from dozens of other bodies.
The cut on her arm had healed into a thick pink line.
Felix’s gentle attentions and ministrations had worked.
She’d not seen much of him lately. Not in a way that allowed for conversation, at least. Just glimpses across the training grounds, his face in the clinic window.
Not that she missed him. It would be ridiculous to miss a medicus.
No one ever wanted to see a medicus, no matter the terms or how handsome he might be.
Handsome. She scoffed. More like meddling and nosy. No one liked a meddler.
She had never let another man take up residence in her mind—not after Eadric.
And yet . . . Felix had wedged himself inside, just a step.
Just enough to make her tell him the slightest truth and admit her arm had hurt.
It was the smallest thing she could offer.
And from his expression, she might as well have launched herself into his arms and kissed him.
Perhaps she should have, because in her experience, physical affection was the surest way to make a man leave you alone forever.
Ignoring the film on the water, Adel let her head slide beneath the steaming surface.
At least the water burned her cheeks so she didn’t feel her blood doing the same.
Her people had only been allowed refuge within Rome’s borders so long as every male served in Rome’s legions.
The men were allowed rare leave to return home, but Adel could only recall years of her atta’s absence, of hunger and cold.
But at least they had a man to provide a military pittance for bread.
Other women starved. Lacking both husband and bread.
By the time Adel was grown and then creeping past the age of eligibility, the only men in the village were elderly men and young boys.
Eadric had turned the heads of many girls in the village when the Visigoth legion came home on a brief leave.
He was handsome and strong, capable. And she’d been flattered by his flirtations.
Welcomed them with the foolish imaginings of a husband and home of her own on their heels.
Some called her foolish and naive, but there were so many other women, younger, prettier.
And God forgive her schemes, but she’d known exactly what Eadric had wanted when he invited her to walk with him.
His honeyed words had melted into impassioned kisses and things not meant for a man and woman with no covenant between them.
She had not resisted. Atta would make them marry.
If this was her only chance to acquire a husband and avoid a life of starvation and want, she’d do whatever it took.
Adel’s lungs burned for air. She’d never told her family what she and Eadric had done.
Never needed to. Eadric had alerted the whole village on his own easily enough.
Laughing circles of men had begun eyeing her as she passed.
Calling out crude, intimate details they should not know about her.
When her atta confronted Eadric, he had announced his betrothal to the chieftain’s eldest daughter.
He refused to break it over a sheepherder’s loose one.
His words had cut deeper than any blade could.
When Eadric had returned to Rome’s legions, Adel bottled up her parents’ disappointment, adding it to the village gossip and her own shame, and held it close.
She’d been stupid, naive, to believe in words and promises with little action to back them up.
There was nothing keeping her in the village when the call came for soldiers and war-daughters to join Alaric’s rebel army.
She’d leaped at the chance as quickly as her atta had.
If she could not earn back her honor and worth, then perhaps she could earn wealth and security of her own.
Unable to suppress the burning in her lungs, Adel pressed upward, gasping in a breath and sluicing water from her eyes.
A male voice echoed from somewhere above. “, you’ve been chosen tonight.”
The voices of the other gladiatrices hushed instantly, each no doubt holding her breath in hope that her name might be called next.
Adel tipped her head back to see Jovan’s assistant standing over her at the edge of the pool. She sank to her chin, crossing her arms over her chest as her stomach dipped further in dread. Not another one.
The assistant gave an impatient jerk of his chin.
“He was supposed to get you for free after you bled on his floors last time, but he paid fine coin to have you last minute, so hurry up. You do not have much time to prepare. He requested you wear blue. I’ll inform the costumer.
You.” He snapped his fingers at the bath slave, massaging scented oil into Dreda’s hair.
“Stop that, and see that the is taken care of first.” He turned back to Adel.
“You are the after-dinner entertainment, but he wants you there early to eat with the guests.” With that, the man turned away and disappeared into the steam.
Adel made the mistake of looking at Dreda.
Her lips tightened and eyes narrowed as the bath slave left her and scrambled to obey.
She’d worked hard to be chosen, and week after week had been overlooked.
It was not uncommon for spectators to pay to watch their training sessions, nor was it uncommon for one or more to be picked out, hired to provide an evening’s entertainment at a party.
Gladiatrices were a novelty, especially after free women had been banned from volunteering for such a spectacle.
Now it was a role reserved only for prisoners.
That, apparently, only added to their allure.
Oil trickled over her scalp and the slave massaged it in before combing it through her hair and then rinsing it.
She should enjoy the luxury more than she did.
It was the duty and desire of all gladiators to clamor for attention.
Attention brought food, riches, fame. A future of her own making.
But there would be no future at all if she were stabbed in the back. A risk easily diffused.
“What should I request, if I win?” Adel opened one eye.
Berit sidled closer, water lapping at her dimpled chin. “I haven’t had rabbit stew in years.”
One of the Hildas splashed her. “You requested that last month! What we need are globi.”
Tilla moaned in assent at the mention of the fried and honey-dipped bread balls.
“Yes, bring back globi,” Berit agreed. “And good luck to you.”
Adel finished the circuit of baths, moving from the hot pool to the warm one, and finishing with a plunge in the frigidarium. She climbed out and wrapped herself in a linen towel, shivering as she stepped through an adjoining door into the costume chamber.
After the steamy humidity of the baths, the costume chamber set her skin in the sharp prickle of gooseflesh.
Water droplets from her hair splattered the pale tiles at her feet as she paused just inside the room.
Piles of colorful linens, silks, and belts mounded atop tables and spilled from cabinets.
A chest of cheap jewelry was tipped and spread across another table, the pieces clinking and clattering as the costumer sorted through them.
He looked up as she entered and gave a disinterested wave toward a pile of linens stacked on yet another table.
“It’s all there. I’ll help with the draping when you’re ready.” He held a silver armband to the light, spit on it, and rubbed it against his stomach.
Adel moved to the stack and pulled the subligaculum out first. She stepped into what was normally an undergarment similar to a loincloth—unless one was exercising or a gladiatrix—and pulled it up to her hips, tightening the ties on either side.
Next came the strophium. She turned away from the distracted costumer and dropped the towel so she could wind the band of cloth tightly around her chest, flattening her breasts into a figure that more resembled her father’s than her mother’s.
Unlike her own people, the Romans found large breasts clownish and unflattering.
She’d forgo the discomfort and leave them be out of spite if they didn’t invite so much disgusted interest. Every laugh, every greedy grab was Eadric and his friends all over again.
After all this time, he should not have the power to continually inflict pain.
Forcing back the memories, she tied and tucked the ends securely, then turned at the approach of footsteps.
The costumer held out an armload of gauzy blue linen, squinting from it to her and then shaking his head. “Wrong shade for you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
He shook his head again and turned away to dig through another cabinet. “This is my job, and I won’t send you out looking anything less than perfection. I hate it when they request colors. It is so much better when I can pick what suits you. Green is your best color.”
Adel said nothing. It was no use to argue. She was paid to appear, to perform, nothing more.