47. Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Seven
T hrax
The sun beats down mercilessly, just as it did two thousand years ago. The sand beneath my feet is different—softer, cleaner—but the feeling is the same. My heart hammers, my palms sweat, and every sense is heightened as I face Roth and his men.
“Last chance,” Roth sneers. “Come quietly, and we won’t harm your pretty little girlfriend.” He looks pointedly at my pitiful weapon and scoffs.
Rage boils in my veins at his threat. I grip the wooden sword tighter, my knuckles turning white. “You won’t touch her,” I growl.
One of Roth’s men lunges forward. I react on instinct, my body remembering every move from countless past battles. The wooden sword may not be sharp, but it’s solid. It connects with the man’s arm with a satisfying smack. He howls in pain, stumbling back.
“Thrax!” Skye’s voice rings out in warning.
I spin just in time to dodge the second man’s attack. He’s as big as me, perhaps as strong, but I’m faster. Years of training and fighting for my life give me an edge he can’t match. I duck under his swing, ramming my shoulder into his gut, then punching his collarbone so hard it cracks with a satisfying snap. He goes down hard, whining in pain and clutching the broken bone.
But I’ve forgotten Roth. A sharp pain explodes in my solar plexus as he lands a solid punch. I stagger, so winded I can’t breathe.
“Not so tough now, are you, gladiator?” Roth taunts.
Before I can recover, Skye, my sweet, brilliant Skye, charges at Roth with a ferocity that startles us both. She may have only had a few lessons with the sword, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in determination.
Her sword pokes Roth, point first, in the same place he just punched me, knocking the air out of him and sending him reeling. Pride and fear war within me. She’s magnificent, but now she’s drawn their attention.
“Skye, be careful!” I shout, trying to reach her.
But the first man is back on his feet, blocking my path. I parry his clumsy attack, my wooden sword meeting his arm with a dull thud. He curses, reaching for something in his jacket—the gun.
“No guns!” Roth yells, his voice strained as he grapples with Skye. “Too many witnesses!”
He’s right. I realize for the first time that we have an audience. Tourists crowd the upper levels of the Colosseum, phones out, now recording everything. They must realize this isn’t an exhibition but a real battle.
The distraction costs me. The big man tackles me from behind, driving me to the ground. Sand fills my mouth as I hit the arena floor. For a moment, I’m back in time, fighting for my life as a slave. But then I hear Skye’s voice, grunting with effort as she fights Roth, and reality clicks back into focus.
With a roar, I throw the man off me. He’s heavy, but my body is honed and trained for this. I scramble to my feet, spitting sand, just in time to see Roth grab Skye by the hair .
Something in me snaps. The world narrows to a single point—Skye is in danger. I move without thinking, faster than I ever have before. The wooden sword becomes an extension of my arm as I bring it down on Roth’s wrist. There’s a sickening crack, and he releases Skye with a howl of pain.
But I’m not done. Years of pent-up rage, fear, and helplessness fuel my attack. I become a whirlwind of motion, striking out at Roth and his men with a ferocity that surprises even me. The wooden sword may not cut, but it bruises, it breaks bones, it incapacitates.
Time slows. I’m aware of everything—the heat of the sun, the coarseness of the sand, the ragged sound of my own breathing. Fear blazes in Roth’s eyes as he realizes he’s outmatched. Gasps and cheers explode from the crowd above us. And always, always, I feel Skye’s presence, driving me to fight harder, to be better—in order to protect her.
Finally, it’s over. Roth and his men lie groaning on the sand, battered and beaten. My arms ache, my lungs burn, but I’ve never felt more alive.
I turn to Skye, my heart in my throat. “Are you okay?” I reach for her.
She nods, breathless and wide-eyed. There’s a bruise forming on her cheek, and her knuckles are scraped raw, but she’s alive. She’s safe.
I pull her close, breathing in her scent, reassuring myself that she’s really here, really unharmed. It’s only then that I become fully aware of our surroundings.
The Colosseum is alive with noise. People are shouting, cheering, their voices echoing off the ancient stones. And everywhere I look, I see phones pointed our way, recording every moment.
Skye looks up at me, a wry smile on her face despite the gravity of the situation. “I have a feeling the existence of a 2,000-year-old gladiator isn’t a secret anymore,” she says, her brow pleated with worry .
The weight of her words hits me like a physical blow. Our quiet life, our secrecy, the safety of the twelve men in chambers back in Switzerland—it’s all over now. But as I look down at the woman in my arms, as I think of the life we can build together, I realize something important.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” I say softly.
Skye’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”
I nod, feeling more certain with each passing moment. “No more hiding. No more looking over our shoulders. And… maybe now my brothers can wake up to a world that’s ready for them.”
Skye’s smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. She rises on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Whatever happens next,” she whispers, “we’ll face it together.”
As the sound of approaching sirens fills the air, and the crowd continues to cheer and record, I hold Skye close. We’ve faced Roth, we’ve faced my past, and we’ve come out stronger. Whatever the future holds—interviews, explanations, a world that knows about gladiators who’ve arrived from a different time—I know we can handle it.
As the police run onto the sand, and reporters shout questions, I stand tall. I am Thrax from Thrace, a gladiator out of time. And for the first time in my long, strange life, I’m ready to tell my story to the world.