Chapter XXX #2
Felix had gotten into her head. She was fighting like a coward. What if there was nothing wrong with the sword at all and he’d only planted doubt in her mind? That thought was even less comforting than the idea of Jovan and Blandus Albus’s betrayal. Who to trust? Who had yet to let her down?
The blue gladiatrix lunged. Adel threw up her shield to catch the blade and shoved her backward once more.
She swung, her own blade deflected by the opposing shield.
They pulled back and circled, Adel’s breath coming in sharp bursts.
She adjusted her grip on her gladius and .
. . did it rattle? She gave it a shake, menacing and taunting in any other circumstance, but the answering wobble turned the taunt backward.
Hot fury rose in her chest. Had she not done everything Jovan had asked of her? She’d fought in the school matches, trained without complaint, been sold for dinner entertainment, improved the other women—and this was how he repaid her? With empty promises, a faulty sword, and a bet for her to lose?
If he’d asked her to, she’d have thrown the match to please him—she knew that about herself.
Hated it about herself. He would have promised her an advancement, money, position, and she would have complied, thinking it was her own skill getting her what she wanted when in reality, she’d broken her own vow and relied upon one more crooked man for her security.
Well, no more.
She flung the sword away from her, the faulty blade singing and rattling against the grit of the arena floor. If Jovan wanted a defeat, a defeat was what he would get. If he wanted a story for the fire, then she would light it herself.
With a roar to rival any lioness, Adel charged.
She’d won the match. Felix had discovered the story in bits from each patient.
One had said Adel’s sword had broken; another said she’d thrown it down.
All had repeated that the had charged the Strix with no weapon, thrown her to the sand, and bested her with her own sword.
The crowd had gone mad over it, cheering and throwing tokens into the ring.
She’d made herself a favorite for the upcoming games and had been held back after the match so spectators could meet her.
Felix’s rag snagged on the wood of the operating table as he gave it one last wipe down, the smell of wine vinegar stinging his nostrils.
Nearly time to go home. Everyone in the infirmary was stitched up and settled for the evening, nothing too serious.
Cuts, bruises. Gaiseric with yet another puncture wound from a trident.
The man needed to work on his evasion skills.
Perhaps he was not cut out to be a secutor.
He tried to take comfort in the fact that Adel had not been brought to him.
She wasn’t injured at least. Still, he lingered, hoping to see the evidence of it with his own eyes. Settle his mind.
“Get your filthy hands off me. I said I was fine!”
At the sound, a tumble of emotions rushed over him. The voice snapping outside his office door could belong to no one other than Adel.
Relief—she was alive.
Dread—she was injured.
“You can’t go in the baths like that.”
The door flung open and Adel stalked inside, if one could “stalk” with a limp and drying blood running down a leg.
She flung off the grip of the accompanying slave and shot a glare over her shoulder. “Fine. I am here. No need to hover like a mother hen.”
She crossed her arms as the slave raised both of his.
“Only ensuring you do not run out.”
“And go where?” She bit the words between her teeth, and even Felix could taste their bitterness.
The slave shot a glance toward Felix as if to say She’s your problem now, and turned away, shutting the door behind him.
Felix moved toward her, assessing the source of the blood. “Where are you hurt?”
She leveled a glare at him. “I am not hurt. I am—”
He gestured to the table. “What injury do you have that doesn’t hurt?”
Adel pressed her lips together and flung herself onto the table with a huff. She peeled back the hem of her tunic just high enough to bare the cut on her thigh. The edges were red and inflamed. “I was going to take care of it.”
Felix winced at the sight and gathered a bottle and rag before moving to stand in front of her. “It might be a little much for the baths to cure.” He dumped a splash of the liquid onto the rag and swiped it over the cut.
Adel sucked air between her teeth at the sting. “It hurts now,” she grumbled. “No wonder your patients die.”
“How did the match turn out?”
She didn’t answer, her fists balling in her lap in a way that left him wary and deflated.
Felix had overheard part of the conversation between Jovan and Blandus Albus when he’d shown up to give the report on spending.
He’d hoped beyond hope it wasn’t true. But then Ilias had been commissioned and Felix had been thrilled for what it might mean for saving lives.
He’d never thought they would use the swords like this.
“Adel . . .” He whispered her name in a voice at once full of apology and tender question.
“You were right.” She forced the words into a flat tone, but he could see the quiver of fury in the tight lines of her mouth when she looked up.
Felix set the bottle and rag aside as her blue eyes locked with his, shattered with anger and betrayal.
“He wanted me to lose,” she whispered, and the words seemed to draw the strength from her shoulders.
“If he’d asked, I would have done it on purpose.
Instead he gave me a faulty sword and no warning—he risked my life, Felix.
” She jerked her chin toward the door, trying to hide the sheen of tears, but not moving quick enough. “I am an idiot.”
“You are not.”
“After all this time, you would think I would learn that when men ask me for something, they will not make good on their return promise.” Adel rolled her lips between her teeth, biting back the trembling. “And yet I find myself here again and again. My atta would be ashamed of my stupidity.”
“Your atta is desperate to find you.”
She lifted a shoulder as if to ask why.
Felix reached up, risked cupping her cheek in one hand and smearing wet strands of hair from her face with the other. For a woman so hard and cold, her skin was surprisingly soft. The greening bruise beneath his thumb made his chest ache. She should not be subjected to this life. No one should.
“Because he loves you.”
Her breath hitched.
“And because you are worth fighting for.”
“You truly are the biggest fool in all of Rome.” She was not quite convincing when her voice wavered like it did.
Adel tried to swallow back the emotion rising in her throat, the memories that proved Felix’s words unbelievable.
She was worth only what she made of herself, and if she did not fight for herself, no one would. No one ever had.
Felix shook his head, lips pulling into a sad smile as his eyes searched her face. “You keep everyone at a distance, gladiatrix. So strong, so independent, so . . . alone.”
His words were a lance, prodding closer and closer toward an old injury. She could nearly feel her heart flinching as his aim narrowed. Too close. She fidgeted. Pulled away from his touch.
“You’re afraid to let anyone close to you.”
She struck back. “It is a liability. A weakness to depend on anyone else. They will only disappoint. Leave you for dead.” Her fingers curled into fists.
“It is strength to rely on others when we have none of our own. It is a gift.”
“Not when they fail you.” Her voice splintered and went hoarse. “Not when they abandon you, leave you.”
His expression twisted, as if some internal war waged between his thoughts and the low words that came out of his mouth anyway.
“I will not abandon you, Adel. I would see you free of this place.” There was pain in the lines of his face, the slope of his eyes, the way his shoulders took on the shape of surrender, or defeat. For some reason the sight made it hard to breathe.
“You are risking everything by helping me, by helping Ilona and the Gaul. What do you gain from it?”
“I did not become a physician to sit idly by and watch others suffer.”
“Anyone who knows you can see that.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Is that a compliment?”
She looked away but could not keep the hint of lightness from her tone. “I told you before that you were always meddling in everyone else’s affairs.”
He made a noise in his throat. A single note of laughter.
And the air shifted between them. Felix turned back to the wall of supplies and gathered a needle and thread.
When he returned, the seriousness in his features had too.
He moved a lamp closer, angling the brass reflector to shine on the cut.
He bent over it, examining the edges, and lowered his voice.
“Telemachus fears Alaric will sack Rome if we cannot return the Visigoth captives.”
Would Alaric truly go so far? She had to admit, sacking Rome was a nice thought, though Felix’s actions were a misguided effort to prevent such a thing. “And you think Alaric will care if I return home?”
“Your atta cares.” He rested a warm palm on her leg, gently pushing the edges of the cut together as he made the first stitch.
His use of her own language warmed her, but the facts remained. “I am no one, Felix. If you want to change Alaric’s mind, you will have to do something bigger than send me home. You will have to save us all.”
He stilled and looked up, focus flicking back and forth between her eyes as if he could read something in them she didn’t even know was there. Finally, he nodded. “All right.”
“All right?”
“You trusted me with your friend. Do you trust me still?”