Chapter XXXVIII #2
“A gladiatrix does not fight a gladiator. It isn’t done.” Clammy chills prickled her skin. For centuries gladiators had been carefully paired and armored to balance strengths and weaknesses. It made for thrilling matches, unreliable outcomes. But men and women never fought each other. Unless . . .
“Well, it is done today.” Ignacio strode away, jostling between a slave and a secutor before he turned back and met her gaze. “You will have to be strong, give it all you have. He’s a thief and a murderer. And you must be on your highest guard.”
Her mouth went dry. She should have known they’d change the rules.
Sending her and Felix out as ill-fated lovers to battle lions would only win the love of the crowd, perhaps their earlier performance had already done that.
Her mind ran. So, she would not be sent out with Felix.
Perhaps he had already escaped and this was the mess-up Ignacio spoke of, or perhaps his punishment had run its course and Jovan had mercifully pulled Felix before he could be injured. Her pulse thundered.
“Ignacio,” Adel elbowed her way after him, hating the pleading whimper in her voice. She grabbed his arm before he twisted out the door. “Ignacio, give me armor.”
“These are the Victory Games, . Great risk. Great reward. You beat the Strix without a sword; you can beat this man without armor. Rome loves you.” He gripped her shoulder, bending to look her in the eyes. “Keep that in your mind and fight for your life, for your freedom.”
Adel gave a single nod. There was no point in arguing. Whatever Blandus Albus and the game master decreed would be done. She was never meant to leave the ampitheatre alive. She would face her opponent, and win.
Or die in the attempt.
There was no other option.
Felix paced another length of the cell and paused once more at the gate, peering out at the slaves cleaning the sand.
The morning beast hunts were done, as well as the mediocre fighters spent during the noon hour when most of the spectators left to seek refreshment at the food stands glutting the plaza around the amphitheatre.
He could only hope the plans were in place, that his father and Telemachus had succeeded in putting liberators in place of guards and medici.
There was an uneasy thrum in the pulse of the amphitheatre, as if the heart were not quite as strong as it ought to be.
And that hitch in the rhythm gave him hope.
The sun was high in the clear winter sky, signaling the end of the noon break and the beginning of the afternoon gladiator matches. Unease tightened his muscles. He’d half expected to be thrown into the ring with the beasts earlier. The wait might kill him before the fight did.
“Medicus, you’re next.” The costumer beckoned him to the mound of stained linen and furs. From the stands they would appear bright and new, but up close they were nothing but secondhand rags stripped from the bodies of men long dead.
Felix turned from the gate and moved toward the costumer, easing his shoulders into the posture of a confidence he didn’t feel.
He wasn’t a coward. But there was a measure of uncertainty in stepping into an arena to fight to the death when one has never fought before.
When one hoped beyond reason that beneath his feet, gladiators were escaping the arena. Returning home.
Around him, the other gladiators were being fitted into costumes to depict Roman soldiers or Visigoth rebels.
The costumer glanced at him and checked his codex of notes, humming in thought. “Blue for you.”
“Why blue?”
The costumer set down the codex and plucked a blue loincloth from the pile. “Traitors to Rome wear blue in this battle.”
Felix donned the costume and straightened. “Battle? I thought I was reenacting Pyramus and Thisbe with the .”
The costumer glanced at his notes. “There’s been a change in the plans.”
Hope jolted through him. Had Adel already found a way out? Was she even now with his pater in the tunnels? He tried to imagine them meeting. What would Pater think of her?
The costumer pointed to the men near the gate. “To the armorers next and . . .” He held out a strip of cloth. “Give them this.”
Felix took the strip and wished his legs felt steadier.
His heart had taken up an irregular rhythm, fast and shuddering in time to the restless hum of the crowd beyond the gate.
If he could just make it through with a wound, he could join the other liberators in the medical room, ushering fighters into the tunnels.
The armorers slid a dingy cloth manica over his sword arm and buckled it in place with a row of leather straps.
He lifted the cloth strip. “I was supposed to give this to you.”
The armorers shot grim glances at each other before one took it, stretched it between his hands and jerked his chin toward the middle. “Bite down.”
“Why?”
“Do it or I’ll force it in.”
Felix obeyed. What else was he going to do?
In a quick and practiced motion, the armorer had the strap wrapped around his head and tied in a knot, gagging him.
The other shoved a helmet over his head, buckling it under his chin.
Smooth and domed, the helmet offered no padding and two eyeholes barely big enough to allow his thumb to poke through.
A strange sort of panic swelled. Was this the life Adel had endured and escaped?
“Ready?”
His response was muffled by the gag.
Something heavy was pressed into his hand at the same moment the gate groaned open.
“May the gods show mercy.”
A hand to his back—or maybe a foot—and he was stumbling forward into the sand, craning his neck to see through the eyeholes. Had the helmet shifted? He paused, twisting left, then right, trying to see.
His heart hammered in his throat. The arena was being transformed into a forest filled with plaster boulders, fallen logs, and trees formed from poles that had shot up through the floor, crowned with a fan of palm leaves.
Bushes and shrubs appeared, rolling up ramps from the hypogeum.
An echoing snarl of a lion sent his hair prickling.
Where was his opponent? A surge of panic raced over him and he reached up, fingers bumping against the helmet, unable to reach beneath and remove the gag. To draw in a full breath.
So many plan changes surely meant the liberators were at work. So if his part now was to be a distraction, give Adel time to escape, he would do it with everything he had.
The hope that she’d found a way out early rushed at him with a relief that was as short-lived as the love of the crowd. A flash of pale green caught his eye just as the crowd erupted in unmistakable shouts. Cheers. Chants.
Hope dropped to his feet and lay there bleeding as the air drained from his lungs.
“! Am-a-zon! Am-a-zon!”
He turned and Adelgard came into view, waving to the crowd as if she loved every moment of being in the arena.
She wore no helmet, no armor at all. Flowers rained from the stands, landing in the sand at her feet.
She swept up a rose and held it to her nose, looking for all the world like a girl out for a frolic in a field. Sweet, feminine.
The costumer was wrong. They had not changed the plan after all. He started across the expanse of sand toward her. The sooner they were together, the safer—
Adel turned to face him, the breeze rippling the shortened skirt of her tunic and blowing long waves of hair across her shoulders.
She took a step. Then another and another until she was running straight at him. Teeth bared. Sword drawn.
Lord, have mercy.
Felix had seen her angry—violent, even—but never armed and heading straight for him.
The effect was terrifying. No wonder she had the record she did.
He tried to shout—call her name, warn her—something.
The gag muffled everything but a groan that echoed in the helmet.
It took every ounce of strength he had to stay where he was.
To not take a step back. The crowd would call for his blood if he showed the slightest hint of cowardice.
And yet, what was the alternative? Kill or be killed.
That was the game. And there was only one option open to him.
If Adel was going to leave this arena alive, she would have to be the victor.
His pulse hammered in his ears. This was the moment.
Felix raised his gladius, saluted the crowd, and turned to face his gladiatrix.