Chapter XXXVII
XXXVII
HE WOULD DIE THIS DAY.
As the costumer finished—all too soon—that was the only thought left running through Felix’s mind.
He was going to die. By the sword or embarrassment, he wasn’t certain.
When he’d gone to Telemachus and vowed to do whatever it took to save the Visigoth captives, he hadn’t anticipated that it would involve wearing nothing but a loincloth in public. And a shiny gold one, at that.
His one consolation was that his family wouldn’t have to see him like this.
Oppia would waste no time in telling everyone.
The thought brought a smile, however short-lived, drowned quickly by regret.
He’d never get to walk into church with Oppia, or see Cassia come out of her shell, or discover if Ilias would actually marry his “bald and eyebrowless” sister with the big heart.
He’d sent a goodbye message with the monk-guard but hadn’t received a reply.
Would Mater be disappointed in him, when his decision to return to the ludus had resulted in this?
And Pater—he should have forgiven him. All the way.
Face-to-face. Why had he been so stubborn?
God, forgive me. Can you use me still? Even though my stubbornness and need for control brought me to this moment? Can you redeem my poor decisions? Use this moment to end this evil?
Felix lifted his chin. There was no room for regret now, only clearheaded courage. Lord let my life—and death—count for something. Give us wisdom. Grant us success.
He’d not seen Adel since the two of them had been hauled out of the punishment cells early that morning and marched in chained rows with the other gladiators through the tunnels and into the bowels of the Flavian Amphitheatre.
He’d been on the hunt from that moment, for guards and amphitheatre workers with freshly shaved heads and tanned crowns.
He’d spotted several, and they’d buoyed his hope.
Then began the anxious milling about as costumers outfitted them all one by one.
Word of the plan spread among the Visigoth fighters in murmurs and whispers.
Expectation thrummed in the air through sharp looks and tiny nods.
As far as they knew, all was in place. The games would start as they always did, with morning beast hunts followed by a few of the lower-ranking pairs of fighters to buffer the cleaning of the sand before the better matches.
The noon execution matches between the lowest-ranking gladiators pitted against unarmed criminals signaled a break for the spectators who filed from the stands to flood the food vendors in the piazza.
Once stomachs were satiated, the better gladiator matches were held, followed by the pinnacle event: the battle reenactment.
“You’re done.” The costumer prodded Felix away from the table of linens.
Felix hesitated. “Are you certain there isn’t supposed to be a”—he ran a hand down his chest—“a cloak or a tunic, or . . .”
“A cloak?” The costumer frowned. “That’ll get you killed out there.”
Wasn’t that the point of all of this? Felix turned away to rejoin the other gladiators similarly “costumed” and stretching in preparation for their matches.
The costumer rechecked his list. “Ohhhh, you’re supposed to be—Wait. I do have something else for you.” He turned and dug through the pile of linens.
Felix felt the tightness in his chest release just a little.
Then the costumer straightened and turned, holding up a fluttering swath of sheer saffron-colored cloth covered in red blotches.
Not opaque enough for clothing, nor big enough for a cloak.
So much for something with a little more coverage.
“Here you are.”
“What is this for?”
“It’s Thisbe’s veil. You’re going to hold it and wave it at the crowd so they know you’re supposed to be Pyramus.”
So the game master had been convinced to go through with the story after all. His muscles clenched again.
“Yes, yes. Keep that pained expression. Perfect.” The costumer pressed the “bloodied” veil into his hand. “Hold the end like this and it will flow so beautifully behind the chariot. Excellent. You’re done.”
Felix turned away, fighting to ignore the sickening flip in his stomach, the acid snaking up his throat. Did no one care that lives would end today? That hundreds of men and women made in the image of God would be forced to send each other to meet Him—ready, or likely, not?
He rubbed the sleepless grit from his eyes and joined the throng of fighters in elaborate costumes clustered at the far end of the room.
There’d been no rest for him nor Adel to find last night.
He’d listened to her sighs and the rustle of her rolling over all night.
Doubtless she heard his own. It had been easier to have hope when it was the two of them talking.
And now in the daylight, the smell of sweat and fear clogging his nostrils, doubts crept in.
Was all in place? There was no way to know for certain.
All they had now was to trust and forge ahead.
To hold back now would only end in certain disaster.
Several trainers milled among the fighters, handing out shoulder smacks and encouraging words.
“You should stretch out, medicus,” one of the hoplomachi magistri greeted. “Who do you face?”
Felix tried not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt when he joined the group, eyeing their movements and copying them.
“I don’t know.”
“After the way you trained, you’d best hope it’s an Andabata.”
Felix pulled his left arm across his chest to stretch his shoulder. “What is that? A snake?”
The magister huffed and the others chuckled. “The Andabata are sent out in helmets with no eyeholes. Blind as moles and slinging swords in every direction.”
“That isn’t very sporting.”
A carefree shrug. “They’re usually murderers set for execution. And yet, the crowds have a strange affinity for them.”
“Excellent,” Felix muttered.
“Your best option is to attack from behind.” Wulfula edged up beside him, twisting and jabbing a fist toward the back of a nearby secutor as if he held a gladius.
The sudden image of a blade in his own hand, piercing the flesh of another man with intent to harm rather than heal, sent a wave of nausea through Felix. His head went light.
“Are you going to be sick?” The magister pointed to a large pot near the wall, set there for that very purpose. “Do it over there.”
Felix drew in a long breath through his nose, calming the school of fish in his stomach, the way he did before a procedure.
“All ready?” a lanista shouted from the gate.
“Ready!” the costumers responded.
Gates creaked and groaned as they swung open. Magistri prodded the gladiators toward the door where the armorers handed out wooden gladii painted the vivid green of the Ludus Gallicus.
“Line up!” one of the trainers shouted. “Hoplomachi first, then murmillones, secutors, provocators and gladiatrices. And then the rest no one cares about—crupellarius, scissors, cesti . . .”
Felix stumbled into line with the hoplomachi and followed them down a rounded tunnel. The scent of animals met his nose before he stepped into a larger hall filled with stamping horses and gilded chariots, and the louder hum of the crowd filtering in through the gate on the far end.
“You’re in chariot seven.” A red-bearded man with a stylus tucked behind his ear consulted a waxed tablet and then pointed down the row to a golden chariot harnessed to a pair of glossy blacks tossing their green-plumed heads.
Felix forced his feet to move in the direction of the chariot, feeling as though he were slogging through honey.
Was this truly the best plan they could come up with?
In the moment it had seemed like the best option, the only option, and now?
About to enter the arena himself, it seemed the most foolhardy and fragile of plans.
But it was too late to turn back now. A chill spread over him.
He was a convicted thief of imperial slaves.
Good for nothing but a spectacle of death.
“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Adel’s voice drew his gaze to the chariot.
“If I was, it would hardly . . .”
She stood on the platform behind the driver, looking unlike anything he’d seen from her before.
Pale green fabric fluttered from her bare shoulders to her ankles, sweeping over her curves and snugged at the waist with a simple gold belt.
But it was her hair that made his breath catch.
Flowing down her back in soft curls and crowned by a wreath of flowers.
Today she was not a warrior woman prepared for battle, but something sweet and innocent.
A wide-eyed girl going to meet her lover.
She was Thisbe. And he was Pyramus. He stepped up beside her, noting then the myrtle branches forming an arbor over their heads and the plastered papyrus divider secured to the chariot, rising waist high between them like the wall in their ill-fated love story.
“You look . . .”
“Stupid,” she supplied.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
Adel squinted at him then dipped her chin, sliding a hand over the fabric in a motion that was uncharacteristically unsure. If ever he wanted to gather her close, shield her against his chest, it was now.
“There is no doubt. You will own the crowd, as you always have.”
She gave a nod and swallowed, then eyed him. “You look . . . uncomfortable.”
He attempted a grin that probably made him look even more like he needed a latrine. “Yes, well, I’m about to be paraded before tens of thousands in nothing but gold undergarments.”
She bit back a sympathetic smile. “Hold your head high. It is not as embarrassing a sight as you imagine.”
And that made it worse, somehow.
His hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’m sorry it has come to this.”
She lifted her shoulders, a curl sliding forward. “It was always going to come to this.”
The flurry of fighters and magistri increased, nearly drowning out the blast of trumpets announcing the opening ceremony.
The chariot jerked into motion and Felix grabbed for the wall to keep his footing.
He drew in a breath. “You should know, if it doesn’t happen as we hoped—”
“Do not say it, Felix.”
“I must tell you that I—” Their chariot emerged into the brightness of the arena, amid a roar of shouts. Felix squinted against the dizzying glare and the shock of cold wind.
Adel’s chin tipped up, the sudden uncertainty in her eyes sending a fire through him. “Is—is everything in place? How will we know?”
His oath to do no harm disintegrated like dust beneath the chariot wheels. He’d fight everyone in the stands to keep her safe. And yet, he knew he would not have to. There was more than his strength protecting them. The knowledge tightened his grip on the wall, steadied the thrum of his pulse.
“We don’t. But we trust that right will prevail in the end. It is rarely easy, always costly, but never hopeless.”
She gave the tiniest nod. They were nearly to the center of the arena. Nearly time to enact step one: Win the crowd.
“Ready?” he whispered.
Adel turned to face him, her throat working to swallow. “It is a game, Felix.” Her voice wobbled as her head twitched in the tiniest nod. “Only a part we must play.”
She moved toward him and he reached for her, cupping her face in his hands and drawing her as close as the wall between them would allow. Adel’s pulse pounded beneath his fingertips as he leaned closer and closed the space between them.
“Not to me.”
The erupting cheers of the crowd nearly drowned Adel’s sharp intake of breath as his mouth met hers.
If he’d anticipated resistance, stiffness, he did not find it in her response.
She reached for him too, a hand on his shoulder, the other tucking around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
Her lips softened first, meeting his with a welcome, an urgency he had not expected.
Heady enough to almost drown out the roar of the crowd. Almost.
Hope surged through him, wild with possibility. They could do this. Defy the emperor, end the games. Free the captives.
Adel pressed her forehead to his, breaking the kiss. Her breath was ragged as her eyes rose to his in a look of mingled gratefulness and regret that left him shattered.
It was a look that said goodbye.