Chapter 11
When Velia woke, she stared up at the plaster ceiling, confused. It seemed familiar, yet…the pattern of cracks spiderwebbing the ceiling wasn’t the one she’d memorized.
She sat up slowly. Her gaze caught on the lurid graffiti decorating the wall next to the bed.
The events of last night came back to her in a rush of wanton images and sensations. She was in Ferox’s room. A grin spread across her face as she recalled the pleasure they’d shared.
And today…today was the opening day of the games. Today, both Ferox and Achilles would fight.
Her smile evaporated. Nerves fluttered in her stomach.
She was alone; Ferox must have risen earlier to get ready. She wished he’d woken her before he left.
Velia swung her legs out of bed and rose to her feet—only to stiffen with a cry as a collection of aches and pains made themselves known.
Everything below the waist hurt in one way or another. The muscles along the insides of her thighs ached. Her hips felt strained, overly stretched. And between her legs…those muscles had been exerted in a way she’d clearly become unaccustomed to after her period of abstinence.
She took a tottering step, wincing. She’d noticed no pain or discomfort last night. Indeed, her tumble with Ferox had been the best she’d ever had by a wide margin. But today, her body felt as if it had been run over by a chariot.
She clothed herself, then hobbled to her own room, where she changed into a fresh dress. As she did, her eye caught shadows of bruises along her hips. She sensed they’d perfectly match the span of Ferox’s hands.
Velia ran a finger over the marks. She rather liked them. She wasn’t the sort to tolerate being bruised by a man, but these marks had been doled out in passion, not violence, and she hadn’t even noticed at the time.
Once clothed, she combed her hair, braided it, then emerged into the outdoor area of the ludus, still walking gingerly.
It was nearly empty. A few men lingered in the shade on the other side of the training ground. Closer to Velia, Penthesilea sat in the sun, mending a rip in one of her tunics.
Lea glanced up when Velia approached.
“Has Ferox gone to the arena already? And Achilles?” Velia added hurriedly. Her novice, about to face his first fight, should be her primary concern today. Not Ferox.
Lea nodded. Her sharp brown eyes scanned Velia from head to toe, and a half-smile curved the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t think he had it in him,” she muttered, as if to herself.
“Excuse me?”
Lea arched an eyebrow. “You spent the night with Ferox last night.”
“I—I—” Heat rose to Velia’s face. “How did you know?”
Lea rolled her eyes. “If I hadn’t seen you two leaving the banquet together, the way you’re walking this morning would have told me everything I needed to know.”
Velia endeavored to stand up straighter. “What do you mean, the way I’m walking?”
“You’re waddling like a goose.” Lea snickered. “A goose that’s been thoroughly fucked.”
Velia glared at her, willing a witty retort to spring to mind. Her brain, however, deserted her. “I have to get to the arena.”
“Yes, you should get going,” Lea said. “At the rate you can walk, you’ll be lucky to get there by sunset.”
“Mind your own fucking business,” Velia rejoined, but the words had no heat to them. She and Ferox had, after all, left the banquet together in plain view of everyone. She shouldn’t have been surprised it caught Lea’s attention.
Velia set her jaw and shuffled out of the ludus. Thankfully, the arena was only a block from here, so she didn’t have far to walk. Worries about what the day might hold soon distracted her from her aches.
Was Achilles ready? Ferox had made a great deal of progress with him, but still, it had only been a few weeks. What if Achilles sustained an injury that put him out of action for months, costing her money for food, lodging, and medical treatment in the meantime?
She exhaled and sent up a fervent prayer to Fortuna, goddess of luck, to watch over Achilles.
And Ferox too, though she sensed he was skilled enough not to need luck.
After arriving at the arena, she found the back entrance and nodded to the guard, who recognized her and granted admittance to the area where the day’s fighters prepared.
Velia wove between people as she searched out her uncle’s men. Achilles’s flame-red hair caught her attention first, and she went over to him. She scanned the others nearby, but didn’t see Ferox yet.
Achilles looked like a true gladiator. He was bare-chested, his lower legs covered with leather greaves. An arm guard made of overlapping metal plates equipped his left arm from shoulder to wrist. His visored helmet rested on the ground next to him, along with a rectangular wooden shield.
He acknowledged her with a nod when she approached, then continued fiddling with a buckle on his arm guard.
“Feeling good?” she asked. Nerves tumbled in her own stomach. She couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling.
He gave a short nod.
“Is Ferox here?”
Achilles waved a hand vaguely. “Somewhere.”
In his curt answers, Velia recognized he was nervous. Part of her wished Ferox was here to help steady him, but Ferox had his own fight to prepare for. She didn’t begrudge him some time to himself. Besides, he’d already done his part in training Achilles.
Velia tentatively laid a hand on Achilles’s bare right shoulder.
“You’ll do well,” she said, imbuing her voice with all the confidence she didn’t feel.
At this moment, all she could remember were the many times she’d witnessed Achilles stumble or drop his shield or miscalculate a strike and fall over.
He shrugged out from beneath her hand and leaned down to pick up his shield, testing his grip on the metal handle.
Please don’t die, Velia prayed inwardly.
The waiting was the worst part. Over the next hour, the noise from the stands steadily increased as more and more people filled them. They’d be packed today, on the first day of the games. Loud cheers resounded at one point, signaling the arrival of the emperor and his entourage.
There were several matches before Achilles was up, but each match lasted no more than a quarter of an hour.
Soon, it was time. Velia helped him settle the visored helmet on his head and gave him one last awkward pat on the shoulder as they walked to the arena’s entrance, a narrow opening between the towering stands.
Here, the noise of the crowd was a constant roar, reverberating like thunder.
Lucullus was there, watching the matches from the shadows. He greeted them with a nod.
There was a momentary, partial hush as the announcer of the games intoned an introduction to the next match. Only those closest on the lowermost levels would be able to hear. The words were a blur in Velia’s ears, both due to the distance and the anxiety coiling through her.
She struggled to think of something else to say, something suitably encouraging to send Achilles off—but he’d already stepped out into the sandy arena.
His first steps were hesitant. His helmeted head craned up at the people crowding the stands.
Then, as the crowd cheered in anticipation, his shoulders straightened, his stride lengthened, and he headed for the center of the arena.
The other gladiator entered from the arena’s opposite side. An official met them in the center, carefully marking out their starting positions. This man would make sure the match was fought fairly and had the power to declare a draw or call a temporary pause if needed.
As the gladiators moved into position, Velia’s gaze swept around the stands.
To her right, on the lowest level directly between the two entrances, flashes of red and silver caught her eye: the scarlet-crested helmets of the Praetorian Guard, the emperor’s personal bodyguard.
She squinted. In the front row, she spotted a man in a rich purple toga.
He appeared to be only a few years older than herself, perhaps in his mid-twenties.
“Is that him?” Velia asked her uncle, pointing. “The new emperor?”
Lucullus followed her gaze and nodded. “What a sight,” he murmured. “It’s been over twenty years since an emperor has presided over the games.”
Velia knew the previous emperor, Tiberius, despised the spectacle of gladiatorial combat and had never attended the games, even before he’d become a recluse at his Capri villa in the decade before his death.
Good riddance, in her opinion. The games were as Roman as the toga. How could someone claim to rule Rome and not like the games?
Luckily, this new emperor, Gaius Caesar, didn’t share his great-uncle’s disapproval.
Velia never imagined that she would even lay eyes on an emperor, let alone have him watch her very own gladiator compete.
A heady mixture of excitement and pride lit in her stomach.
If only her parents could see her now. Well…
they probably still wouldn’t approve of her, but they’d have to admit it was an impressive sight.
She sent up another desperate prayer that Achilles would not embarrass himself before the most powerful man in the world.
Beside where the emperor sat, six white-garbed women occupied a second private area.
Those were the Vestal Virgins, the priestesses who held powers that rivaled the emperor’s.
They were sworn to thirty years of service, and if they forsook their vows of chastity, the walls of the city would crumble and Rome would fall.
The offending Vestal would be buried alive.
Velia didn’t envy them. Thirty years of chastity on pain of death was much too high a price even for their unparalleled prestige.
“You’ve done well with him,” Lucullus said, gesturing toward Achilles.
Her uncle’s praise warmed her, but she couldn’t accept it. “Ferox is due most of the credit.”
“But you chose Ferox to train him.”
She refrained from mentioning that Ferox had been her third choice, after Jason and Penthesilea. “Ferox has done very well with him.”