15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
T hrax
Every day, I feel more on edge about the party. I can’t quite put my finger on why the idea unsettles me. Perhaps it’s the memories of being left out of the raucous celebrations in the gladiator barracks, watching from the shadows as my comrades drank and joked. Or maybe it’s recalling the disappointment in the eyes of the women brought to entertain us on feast days, their gazes sliding past me to settle on the more handsome, less scarred men.
Despite my worries, I find myself caught up in Skye’s growing excitement. Her eyes sparkle when she describes the black toga she’s been sewing late into the night. I don’t have the heart to tell her that women wore stolas, not togas, or that black was the color of the lower classes. Her joy is too pure, too precious to tarnish with such unimportant corrections.
As I wait in my room, tying the knot on my loincloth, she knocks softly. Skye’s never looked so pretty as she stands in her handmade black stola.
My breath catches in my throat. She glows in a way that goes beyond the faults of her costume. Her gaze meets mine, and I wonder if she likes the way I look, although I’m only wearing the loincloth I made from a torn sheet, just as I wore in Rome two thousand years ago.
“You look…” I struggle to find the right words.
“Wait!” She holds up a finger for me to pause, then fiddles with what she’s told me is called her phone. Switching it on, she says, “I installed a version of my translation software on the phone. More convenient.”
When I say nothing, she gets an embarrassed smile as she says, “Go on. You were saying I look…?”
This woman wants to hear my praises? If I weren’t so dense, I would shower her with the prettiest words. The best I can do is say, “ Pulchra .” Beautiful. I manage to spear her with my most sincere gaze, hoping it makes up for my pathetic answer.
Skye blushes, her eyes taking in my appearance. “You look amazing too,” she says softly. “So authentic. Like you’ve stepped right out of history.”
If only she knew how true that was. “This isn’t a costume for me. The loincloth is the only clothing I’ve known for most of my life. The idea of wearing a toga is as foreign to me as seeing a horse in human clothes.”
She nods in understanding with a last sweeping look that goes from my chest to my feet. When her gaze comes back to my face, she’s blushing. I’ve never liked being assessed, not by women or men. It usually meant someone was about to buy me, either for the night or to be part of their stable of gladiators. When Skye gives me that look, though, it makes me want to kiss her.
We walk together toward the cafeteria, chatting easily. Skye tells me about the decorations she’s heard about, her excitement so high it affects me, too. I allow myself to be swept up in her joy, to believe that this night might be fun.
But as we approach the cafeteria doors, a knot of unease tightens in my stomach. The sound of laughter and syrinx music drifts out, along with the scent of food that smells promisingly familiar .
Skye squeezes my arm reassuringly. “Ready?” she asks, her smile bright and encouraging.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and we step through the doors together.
The transformation of the cafeteria is impressive, I must admit. Draped fabrics, oil lamps, colorful pillows, and arrangements of grapes and figs on long banquet tables create a passable illusion of a Roman feast. But it’s the people who make my breath catch and my palms sweat.
Everyone is dressed in togas and stolas, rich fabrics draped elegantly over their bodies. They look exactly like the patricians I remember from my time in Rome—the wealthy, the powerful, the ones who saw me as nothing more than property to be used for their entertainment.
Suddenly, the room feels too small, too crowded. The chatter of voices blends into a roar in my ears. I can feel eyes on me, curious glances at my scarred body, my simple loincloth standing out starkly among the fancy costumes.
Dr. Diaz sees us from across the room and graces us with a smile. Then, out of nowhere, she raises her thumb toward me—the signal of death in the arena. She’s smiling as she gives me pollice verso! This woman smiles as she orders my death!
My vision blurs at the edges, the present fading as memories surface. I’m no longer in the cafeteria of a Swiss hospital. I’m back in Rome, not in the Amphitheater of Capua awaiting my fate from the master of the games, but I’m standing in the corner of a lavish villa, my body on display for the amusement of the patricians lounging on their couches.
A woman in a purple-edged stola approaches, her gaze raking over my body with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. She reaches out, her fingers tracing one of the scars on my chest…