Chapter 22
The noise of the crowd roared in Ferox’s ears as he made his way to the center of the arena. The announcer gesticulated, coaxing the crowd’s fervor to new heights even though only the privileged few could hear him.
This was Ferox’s second of three fights, which meant he was halfway through his allotted time at the games.
Halfway through his time with Velia.
The past two weeks had been a blur of days spent sweating in the sun barking at Achilles, and nights entangled with Velia.
She’d been aggressive in booking Achilles for three more matches.
It was unusual for a gladiator to fight that often, but these games were quite possibly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a novice to make a reputation for himself, and Velia was determined to take advantage of it.
Ferox admired her doggedness, the unyielding way she pursued what she wanted.
Her strategy was working, for Achilles had won each of those three fights.
Each time he fought, the crowd cheered louder.
Velia had even suggested that he forego his helmet, allowing his red hair to become his signature symbol in the arena.
Fighting without a helmet represented a foolish degree of bravado in Ferox’s opinion, but Achilles soaked up the attention.
The novice was quickly becoming a rising star, and he grew more cocky with each win.
While Achilles’s triple victories swelled his ego, they also bolstered his discipline and effort at training.
Like any gladiator, he was becoming intoxicated by the thrill of winning, not to mention the monetary prizes he gained.
Many mornings, when Ferox finally pulled himself out of bed with Velia, he found Achilles already on the training ground, running laps to warm up or bludgeoning a boxing bag with his fists.
Achilles had even—just once—beaten Ferox in a practice match.
It was really Velia’s fault. She’d been leaning against a column to watch them fight, and a breeze had whipped up, briefly lifting the hem of her dress.
The flash of creamy thigh had been enough to distract Ferox, and Achilles seized the advantage.
Velia had cackled and teased him for a solid day after that.
Thankfully, today she was out of his line of sight, watching from the shadows with her uncle.
Ferox’s gaze snapped to his opponent, who entered on the other side of the arena. The man fought in the style of a retiarius: he carried no sword or shield, but bore a weighted net in one hand, a trident in the other. A dagger hung at his hip for close combat. Lightly armored, he wore no helmet.
Ferox assessed him as they drew closer to each other. They were matched in height, and the man moved with a long, easy stride. His wrist flicked the net out in front of him in a practiced movement.
As they took up positions opposite each other at the official’s direction, Ferox finally looked at the man’s face.
A jolt went through him. For a brief, dizzying moment, it felt as if the sand were falling away beneath his feet.
It was the very man he’d pulled off Velia two weeks ago.
“You,” he snarled as the official gave the signal for the match to begin.
They circled each other, Ferox staying out of reach of the net as it whispered over the sand.
The greatest danger in fighting a retiarius was how the net kept an opponent at just the right distance for the long trident to strike.
The man’s eyebrows shot up, perhaps recognizing Ferox despite his helmet. “Ah, I thought that might have been you.” His tone was relaxed, almost jovial. “Listen, I owe you an apology. I never would have laid a hand on the whore if I’d known she was yours.”
“She’s not a whore,” Ferox growled. But she is mine.
“It was an honest mistake,” the man continued, sounding for all the world as if he were apologizing for stepping on Ferox’s toe in a crowded tavern. “You can’t blame me. It’s not like she put up much of a fight.”
Rage engulfed Ferox like a spark catching dry tinder. He struggled to tamp it down. Rage had no place in the arena. Winning fights was about skill, training, and strategy. It was not about giving into the violent emotions that currently pulsed through him.
As Ferox was striving to convince himself not to leap for the man’s throat then and there, his opponent jabbed out with the trident in a lightning-fast strike.
Ferox leaped back, but not quickly enough.
The triple points of the trident sank into the muscle of his thigh, just below the edge of his shield.
Pain seared. The crowd gasped.
Ferox made a split-second decision based on two factors.
First, he immediately knew this wound was bad.
Even if it didn’t kill him, it would weaken him sooner rather than later, so he needed to end this fight before his strength failed.
Second, his opponent would expect him to fall back after such a wound, to take a breath and assess the injury.
So Ferox did the opposite. He tossed aside both his sword and heavy shield, then leaped at the man, heedless of how his feet tangled in the net.
A retiarius always expected his opponent to avoid the net at all costs, but the net no longer mattered if they were both tangled in it.
Which was exactly what happened as Ferox slammed into the man, taking them both down to the sand.
At this close range, the trident was useless, and Ferox easily wrenched it from the man’s grip. They scuffled, sand flying. Ferox’s main goal was to keep his opponent’s hands occupied so he couldn’t go for the dagger at his waist.
The man managed to flip Ferox onto his back, hands seeking his throat, but Ferox kneed him in the stomach and reversed their positions.
A blow hit his jaw, and he tasted blood.
The scorching pain in his thigh spread over his entire leg, and he could feel the limb becoming slippery as it bled.
Weakness would set in soon, and then his chance at victory would disappear.
And he would not lose to this man.
He summoned one last burst of strength. Finally, he got his hands around the other man’s throat. He squeezed ruthlessly.
The man clawed at his grip for a moment, then fluttered a hand into the air. “Yield,” he croaked. “I yield.”
Ferox had forgotten that yielding was an option. He wanted to keep squeezing, to feel the man’s neck crack and collapse beneath his fingers, to watch the life fade from his frantic eyes.
But Ferox forced himself to relinquish his grip. The man rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.
Ferox struggled to his feet, disentangling himself from the net. His wounded leg nearly gave out, but he managed to stand. He grabbed his nearby sword and pointed it at the throat of his opponent, who had now dragged himself to a kneeling position.
Ferox’s eyes fixed on the emperor, who would decide the fate of this man. Ferox had never actually wanted to kill one of his opponents before, but this time, he found himself praying for the thumb-out gesture that would signal death.
Let me kill him, Ferox silently urged the emperor. Rage still coursed through him in white-hot waves, and he wanted nothing more than to sink his sword into the man’s neck.
The shouts from the crowd were mixed, but they seemed to trend toward mercy. The emperor leaned against the balustrade of his viewing area, considering. Then he held out a hand.
A closed fist. Mercy.
Ferox shut his eyes.
No. Mercy was no longer an option.
He opened his eyes and drew the sword across the man’s throat in a slow, deliberate motion. Blood spurted from the thin slice. The man clapped a hand to the wound, gaze flicking up to Ferox in shock.
The crowd went silent. So silent Ferox could hear his own blood pounding in his ears.
The man slumped to the sand, and Ferox watched the life leave his eyes with primal satisfaction.
Amid the crowd’s still-shocked silence, he trudged from the arena, one thought resounding in his mind: better late than never.