Chapter Sixteen
“Why is the crowd so angry?” I asked Zain as we stood outside the stadium, waiting to be let in to disrobe and for the competition to begin.
“That’s actually your fault,” he said.
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
“You’ve created quite the sensation. When the women of Sagaris found out you were competing, they demanded that they be given entry, too. The decision was made late last night that for the rest of the tournament, women are invited to watch.”
“Yes, and as a result, the rest of the tournament will be clothed,” someone next to us remarked bitterly.
If that was true, I would welcome it.
But it seemed that the other competitors and the audience were both angry about that choice.
“How are you still standing?” It took me a moment to realize that a Sagari man was speaking to me. “Just watching you do all that running—it gave me a stitch in my side.”
Another man said, “Watching her run gave me an iron club.”
The men around us laughed at his vulgar joke. A Daemonian slammed into the second man’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over. The man turned to yell at whoever had been clumsy enough to hit him but immediately stopped when he saw who was responsible.
He scurried away while the Daemonians remained. The man who appeared to be their leader said to me, “It was an honor to watch you race and see how well you performed.”
“Thank you.” I knew the Daemonians meant what they said or else they wouldn’t have said it. They were not known for being verbose. And their compliment was solely about my running. They probably hadn’t even noticed that I’d been naked.
The leader nodded and said, “We are looking forward to watching you compete today.”
The Daemonians left and the Sagari who had made the comment about me giving him a stitch in his side said to his friend, “I used to admire Daemonians for their bravery until I had dinner with them and thought I would die from the lack of flavor. Now I’m not impressed by their courage because even the biggest coward would rather die than live that kind of life. ”
His friends laughed and they went toward the stadium.
Once they were gone, Zain asked me, “Should I be jealous of your new Daemonian suitor?”
“If the Daemonian had wanted to court me, he would have challenged me. A race, a duel, something. Like Thracian men, they don’t flirt and are very up-front about what they want.”
“I’ve been up—”
Before Zain could finish his sentence, the doors to the lower levels opened and we were ushered inside. I went to the private room that had been set aside for me. The same young attendant who had helped during the race waited for me by the door.
“Is it true?” I asked. “We’re keeping our clothes on?”
He nodded, seeming nervous. “Yes, and there are some that worry we will invoke the wrath of the gods by breaking tradition.”
“Some traditions should be broken,” I told him.
He nodded and hurried away while I went into the room and closed the door, preparing myself for the upcoming event.
Which would be pankration.
The name meant “all strength” or “all power.” It was supposed to be the ultimate test of fighting skill. Warriors from all the neighboring nations were trained in this martial art so that if they were ever in the position of having lost their weapons, they would still be able to defeat their enemy.
Pankration was weapon-free and a combination of wrestling and boxing, although the hands weren’t covered with leather as they were during a boxing match.
There was no biting or eye gouging allowed, no striking the groin or butting heads, and—thanks to one particularly gruesome encounter—no ripping out anyone’s internal organs.
But other than that, everything was permitted.
The fighter’s only goal was to incapacitate their opponent by any means necessary, which made this sport especially brutal and violent.
And the brutality was why I had been raised on it. I had spent my entire childhood doing pankration with members of my family and the other warriors my age. It became more fun after my battle-favored ability manifested and I stopped losing the matches.
There were only two ways for the fight to end—either with someone being rendered unconscious or one of the competitors indicating their submission by raising a finger or tapping out.
No one wanted the fights to end in death—given that there were so many competitors here from so many different places, it would have been foolish to possibly invoke war by killing an opponent through recklessness or maliciousness.
If I’d had to bet, I would have wagered that pankration was the reason Daemonians were no longer allowed to compete.
They never submitted and they wouldn’t stop until their opponent had been completely destroyed.
Which meant at least one of the people in the match would die.
I left the room and headed to the arena.
All the other competitors wore loincloths and I had on a fighting tunic.
The announcer was speaking loudly, explaining the rules and that the competitors would be drawn by lots for each round, then the winners would battle each other until there was only one competitor left.
Which would be me.
The Epirian pushed past me and I called out, “Levern! Good luck!”
His shoulders noticeably tightened but he didn’t respond. It must have driven him to madness that everyone else would think I was being kind and only he knew that I was insulting him.
He had most likely stayed quiet because of his encounter two days ago with Zain. Perhaps I needed to rough him up a little so that he would know to be scared of me as well.
The announcer said that there would be a third way to lose—if a competitor was held to the ground for ten seconds without being able to get up, then they had lost.
I’d never heard of that as a finish to a pankration fight. They must have been very concerned about someone getting accidentally killed.
Then the announcer called out that there would be judges for this event as well. The judges would vote on the winner if two opponents became too exhausted to continue.
And then, to my utter shock, he said that the judges had the power to stop a fight at any time and declare one competitor the winner.
My hackles rose. Was that because of me? Would I be unable to win because the judges would vote for my opponent regardless of how well I did?
I would have to take out my competition as quickly as I could so that the judges wouldn’t have the opportunity to keep me from my prize.
Lots were drawn, the matches announced. I wasn’t in the first round, but they called out the fake name Zain had been using, the one on those documents he had stolen in order to enter the tournament—Theogenes.
I started making my way over to where he was fighting, wanting to watch him in action. A match nearby made me stop for a moment.
A shorter, stocky man fell to the ground.
Usually that was an issue, as it would be easy for his opponent to get him into a match-ending stranglehold.
But this was a feint, something his competitor didn’t seem to realize.
The stocky man pretended like he was in distress to get the much bigger man down on the ground, where he easily used his arms and legs to hold the bigger man in place for ten seconds, making him the winner.
I was about to continue walking when another match grabbed my attention. Both of the men were on the ground wrestling, but the man on top was repeatedly trying to punch the other. His punches had no strength behind them.
Fool, I thought. He needed his body mass to power his punch and couldn’t access it while lying down.
If he were standing, his gambit might have worked.
If nothing else, he should have used his knuckles to throat punch his opponent.
It wouldn’t require much power and would have impaired the other man.
Pathetic. He does not deserve to be competing!
The voice was my grandmother’s. She and my mother used to criticize my technique and the mistakes I had made while fighting.
A memory surfaced that I had forgotten.
It was me as a little girl, fighting back tears, and being yelled at by my grandmother for being soft and weak. I hated the way she and my mother spoke to me. Hated how mean they were “for my own good.”
Would I have done the same thing to Minha?
It would have broken her sweet little spirit.
My stomach sank. The thought made me extremely uncomfortable.
I pushed it out of my mind and continued making my way over to where Zain was fighting. And it was surprisingly enjoyable to watch him fight. He was fast and clever. He had the strength to easily defeat his opponent, but he didn’t end the match.
Because he was playing with the other man. The way a cat would with a mouse, before finally making the kill.
Putting on a show for the very enthusiastic crowd.
Zain had an admirable style. He was adaptable, resourceful, and determined.
I heard my name called—it was time for my first match. I made my way back over to the announcer and became aware of women cheering for me. I waved to them and the cheers got louder.
While I didn’t need the encouragement, it was certainly nice to have.
Our referee instructed us to get into position.
He carried a rod, which he would use against us if we broke the rules.
I put my arms up into a fighting position, where they would protect my head and neck from kicks.
My opponent was a bit shorter than me, and had scars along his chest and arms. As if he’d been repeatedly wounded in battle.
He was a good enough warrior to have survived, but he was soon going to learn that it wouldn’t matter.
The referee slammed his rod against the ground and said, “Begin!”
With an actual enemy, I would have let the fight go on until I was ready to finish it. Learned his strengths and weaknesses, and then used both against him.
But I didn’t have the luxury of time.
So I finished the match quickly. It only took a few seconds for me to get him into a chokehold that had him blacking out. He should have submitted, but he refused.
I supposed he didn’t want to be beaten by a woman.
Even though he was.
The rest of the day seemed to fly by in a sea of ankle bending and arm twisting and punches and holds and locks and grappling and striking.
Some men took their defeats gracefully; most did not.
I was threatened more than once and repeatedly challenged to fight them at a later date, which seemed silly to me—if they couldn’t beat me in pankration, how could they ever hope to beat me in an actual fight?
With my current match ending, I was again declared the winner, to the crowd’s delight.
The man I’d just bested muttered as he limped away.
Two more fights to go and then I would face the other finalist. My next match was announced.
I would be fighting Zain.
We stood across from each other, arms raised. I did my best not to stare at his nearly naked body.
“You can submit now instead of trying to fight me,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t want you to hurt me, either,” he said with a teasing grin. “It’s too bad we’re wearing clothes for this one.”
Only I was wearing clothes. He was wearing . . . a linen wrapped around his pelvis. “Yes, it is too bad because then it would be so much easier to distract you.”
“That is true,” he agreed. “But I have to win at least two events in order to have a chance of beating you.”
“I would say good luck with that, but I wouldn’t want to insult you.”
“You aren’t going to let me win?” he asked in mock outrage.
“No. If our situations were reversed, would you let me win?”
“Of course.”
“Liar,” I said. When he laughed, I added, “I’m glad you’re amusing yourself.”
“I live to amuse myself, illora. No one else is offering to do it.”
The referee’s rod hit the ground. “Begin!”
I had expected Zain to wait. I thought he would watch me before he attacked, look for openings, see if I had holes in my defense.
But I was wrong.
He leapt at me, and I was able to move quickly to one side and use his momentum to push him to the ground.
I winced when he hit it hard, making an “oof” sound, but I wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.
Not only because I worried about what the judges might do, but because I really didn’t want to hurt him, and the longer this went on, the more that became a possibility.
So I followed after him, turning him over and pinning him in place. I sat on his bare chest, my thighs clenched around him, and held down his arms.
And he didn’t resist.
Instead he got that smoldering, sexy look in his eyes that made me want to forget everything and everyone around us and throw myself at him.
“You’re not going to try and get out of my hold?” I asked.
“Why would I try to get away? I’m very happy right where I am. I have imagined this many times since we met.” The referee had started to count and Zain said, “I submit.”
I won.
But I didn’t move. He’d imagined this?
His muscles felt tight and hard and warm against the inside of my legs. I released his arms and sat up, fighting the urge to trace his pectorals with my fingers.
“I submitted,” he reminded me softly.
Our fight was over. That meant I could get up. Move.
But I didn’t want to.
His warm hands made contact with the tops of my thighs and I held in a gasp at the electrical sensation that raced along my skin.
“Unless you want me to take you here on the field in front of the entire nation of Sagaris, you should get up,” he said in a silky tone that made my bones melt.
The only reason I was able to stand was because of my goddess-given gift. Had it not been for that, I wasn’t sure I would have had the strength.
It was time to be completely honest.
I wanted him. Desperately.
More than I had ever wanted anyone else.
Before I had time to ponder this realization, I was called to my next fight.
Still feeling a bit bewildered, I went over to my match. It took me a moment to realize who I was about to fight.
It was one of the Lemnians who had tried to attack me at the inn.
He was a slight man and I intended to make quick work of him. When the referee started the match, I swiftly moved so that I got the Lemnian into a stranglehold with my left arm around his neck, leaving my right free to punch him repeatedly.
I was working out not only the anger I had felt when he’d tried to attack me, but also the frustration I felt over Zain. How could I want someone whose entire life was so antithetical to mine?
Someone I wouldn’t ever see again after the end of the tournament? I was being a fool. I was old enough to know better.
And in the midst of working out my emotions on the Lemnian’s face, I became aware of a sharp, searing pain on my left side.
I looked down in disbelief.
The Lemnian had stabbed me.