Chapter 17
The next day, Velia carried two pouches of coin over to where Ferox and Achilles were taking a break in the shade of the colonnaded portico. She tossed one to each of them. “Your winnings,” she said to Achilles. “And your share of the fee,” she said to Ferox.
Achilles eagerly dumped a handful of the shining silver coins into his palm. “How much?”
“Five hundred.”
He made a noise of appreciation. “Not bad.”
Velia glanced at Ferox. “Better not tell him how much you got after your win.”
Achilles slid the coins back into the pouch. “How much?”
“Five thousand,” Ferox said.
Achilles swore.
“That’s what you have to look forward to,” Velia informed him. “Keep winning.”
He cast Ferox a dark, jealous look, then tightened the tie on the bag and stalked off, likely to deposit the winnings safely in his room.
“What are you going to spend yours on?” Velia asked, nodding to the money in Ferox’s hand. “You could do with some nice pillows. Maybe a wall hanging? Or some new lamps? We could go shopping!” She grinned.
“Waste of money,” he said curtly. “I won’t be here long enough to enjoy such trifles.”
Velia flinched, both at his tone and at the reminder he’d be gone as soon as the games finished. “You can take things with you, you know.”
“No.” His voice was gruff, the word final. “Too much hassle.”
Velia folded her arms across her chest. “Where are you even going, anyway?” This was the first time they’d discussed the future—or at least, his future.
“Hispania.” He tossed the pouch of coin lightly in his hand, looking at it, not her.
“Oh.” A pang went through her. She hadn’t realized he meant to go so far. She thought maybe he’d find a place in Rome, or somewhere close. Maybe they could still see each other, still…
Ferox took a step past her. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “I need to put this away.”
She watched him go, trying to pull her mind from such wistful thoughts as what might happen if he stayed in Rome. For a moment, she’d allowed herself to forget he’d be gone in a month, to fantasize about foolish things like redecorating his room.
She couldn’t make that mistake again.
Ferox watched Velia from across the training ground as he permitted Achilles a brief break. They’d spent the afternoon drilling in hand-to-hand combat. Often, a fight would end with grappling in the sand until one man yielded, so it was important that Achilles develop his skills.
Velia was speaking with another man, someone Ferox didn’t recognize. Guilt pinched him as he looked at her. He’d been rude earlier, he knew that, but he hadn’t been able to stomach talking about the future with her.
He should find a way to apologize to her. Maybe he’d take her advice and buy a new pillow or two. It wouldn’t cost much, and if it pleased her, it would be worth it.
His gaze moved from Velia to the man she was speaking with.
There was something about the stranger he didn’t like, though they were only talking.
Velia was her usual smiling, chatty self.
She gestured to the building behind her, which housed the kitchens and the dining space, as if giving directions.
The man was standing much too close to her, in Ferox’s opinion, and Ferox could see the covetous look in his eye even from here. The stranger had the build of a gladiator, with a burly middle and muscular arms and shoulders.
Ferox beckoned Achilles over. “Do you know that man?” Since Ferox had been absent from the ludus for so long, there were still unfamiliar faces here, and Achilles had more contact with the younger gladiators.
The novice, wiping sweat from his face, trudged over. He squinted where Ferox pointed. “Don’t think so. Visiting someone?”
Technically, the guard at the gate was supposed to keep out anyone who didn’t belong here, but the rule was loosely observed, and Ferox sensed the guard would look the other way with proper inducement.
Ferox grunted. “Maybe.”
Achilles raised his ginger eyebrows. “Are you going to go disembowel him for speaking to your girl?”
“She’s not my girl,” Ferox growled.
“Then what do you care?” Achilles shot back.
“I don’t.”
Achilles rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t know it from your face.”
Ferox glowered at him. “Three laps. Now.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Achilles ambled off, breaking into a shuffling jog when he reached the perimeter of the training ground.
“Faster!” Ferox barked, and the novice increased his pace to an unhurried but acceptable run.
Once he was sure Achilles would maintain the speed, Ferox glanced back at Velia.
Both she and the stranger had vanished.
Anxiety rippled through him. His head whipped around, scanning, but he didn’t catch sight of either. Instinct shouted that something was wrong. Perhaps Velia had gone to her room, or to Lucullus’s office—but where did that leave the man she’d been talking to?
Something was amiss for them both to disappear at the same time.
His instincts had kept him alive in the arena, and he’d long ago learned to trust them.
Leaving Achilles to his laps, Ferox crossed the expanse of the training ground to where Velia had been standing, near the wall of the kitchen building. Still no sign of her.
A flicker of movement caught his attention, a flutter of fabric from around the other side of the building, where it formed a narrow alley next to the outer wall of the ludus.
Ferox went that way, then stumbled to a halt as he rounded the corner. Shock seized him.
The stranger had Velia pressed up against the wall, his hands fumbling to raise her skirt. Velia was frozen, her eyes shut tight.
Cold rage pulsed through Ferox. He took a step forward.
The next thing he knew, the man was on the ground before him, clutching at a bloodied nose. Ferox kicked him in the stomach. The impact shoved the man a few feet across the dirt.
With the stranger no longer an immediate threat, Ferox turned to Velia. She’d opened her eyes, and her gaze passed uncomprehendingly from her vanquished attacker to Ferox.
“Velia?” He moved toward her. Dimly, he sensed fury coursing through him, but everything felt distant, unreal, as it sometimes did during a fight in the arena.
“Are you all right?” He extended a hand, meaning to touch her shoulder, but snatched it back as he realized his hand was covered in the other man’s blood.
“I—” She broke off as footsteps sounded behind Ferox.
He whirled around, but it was just Achilles.
The novice’s gaze swept over the scene, from Velia to the man on the ground. The stranger was just beginning to struggle to his feet, but Achilles marched over and dealt him a vicious kick to the head that made the man collapse to the dirt, unmoving. “Piece of pig shit,” Achilles snarled.
Ferox turned back to Velia, but she slipped past him, hastening away. “Velia?” he called.
She didn’t look back.
He needed to go after her, but he would deal with this first. “Get him out of here,” he said to Achilles, nodding at the limp body before them. Ferox would have done it himself, but he didn’t trust himself not to snap the man’s neck if he laid hands on him.
Achilles nodded and bent down, taking hold of the man under his armpits. He dragged the body toward the outer gate of the ludus.
“And have a word with the guard,” Ferox called after him. “See that he understands he’s not to let anyone else in who doesn’t belong here, or he’ll have me to answer to.”
Achilles gave another nod, then disappeared around the corner.
Ferox set off after Velia—she must have gone to her room—but paused when he remembered the state of his hands, now grown sticky with the man’s blood. He took a brief detour to the fountain in the corner of the ludus, piped with water from the aqueducts, and scrubbed his hands.
The activity gave him a moment to come back to himself, to feel the rage and horror that had been hovering at the edges of his awareness since he went looking for Velia.
It had all happened so fast. One moment he’d been contemplating his guilt over how rudely he’d spoken to her, crafting a plan to apologize.
Next he’d been bludgeoning the man who attacked her.
His hands shook beneath the trickle of water. Despite his years of fighting, he’d rarely done violence out of rage. Being a gladiator was not about fury or hatred, but about training and skill, not to mention a hefty dose of luck.
But the wrath that flooded him at the sight of that man’s hands on Velia, her frozen expression—it threatened to overpower him.
He drew in a deep breath as he rubbed the last of the blood from his fingers. If he was going to speak to Velia, he needed to be in a more temperate state of mind.
He wiped his damp hands on his tunic, then headed toward the barracks.