9
ThedayafterFeroxnearly strangled the man he was supposed to be teaching, he parried the clumsy thrusts of Achilles’s wooden sword with rote, mindless movements. The novice wasn’t yet skilled enough to occupy more than a portion of Ferox’s attention when sparring. Which was unfortunate, given that Ferox could use some distraction. The specter of last night’s dream was far too fresh.
In the dream, he’d been standing on the banks of the Styx, icy water lapping at his feet. The sky above was both starless and moonless, a layer of impenetrable black. It didn’t feel like being outside on a dark night, but instead had a stifling quality, like heavy fabric.
On the other side of the river, Hector stood, garbed in a black tunic that grew wispy and insubstantial as the hem swirled around his knees. Besides the tunic, he looked as he had when Ferox last saw him. Covered in blood. Skull bashed in. One eye a mangled, gaping hole.
Ferox had always assumed that once a dead man crossed to the underworld, all his wounds would be healed. Seeing Hector like this, wounds as fresh as if they’d just been inflicted, rattled him. Was it possible that Hector would suffer these wounds for eternity?
Two words resounded in Ferox’s skull as he gazed at his friend.Your. Fault.
Hector wasn’t speaking, but the words bore his voice, the lilt of his Germanic accent.
Now, hours later while sparring with Achilles, Ferox could still hear those words. They echoed in his mind like the tolling of a bell. He dealt an extra-hard strike to Achilles’s shield, hoping the noise would drown them out. The novice toppled backward and landed on his rear with a curse.
Ferox stepped back, giving Achilles time to pick himself up. Across the training ground, Jason sparred with Lea, chatting amiably. Jason liked to talk as he practiced, and Lea flashed a rare grin in response to something he said.
For a moment, Ferox debated asking them what they thought about Hector and if he might still be suffering in the afterlife. He hadn’t let himself mention Hector since his return. Both Lea and Jason seemed to have mourned their friend and moved on, in a way Ferox couldn’t. Because it wasn’t their fault Hector had died.
With Lea, there was another reason Ferox hesitated to mention their lost friend. Ferox had long suspected that something more than friendship had grown between Hector and Lea, but he’d never dared confirm it. He might be brave enough to face death in the arena, but he was decidedlynotbrave enough to ask Lea about her intimate affairs. Especially after Hector’s death.
As for Jason, his grief had taken the most practical shape. Jason had pulled strings to face Hector’s killer in the arena and dispatched the man with the swift efficiency their friend had been denied. Ferox wished he’d been the one to exact justice. Maybe that would have soothed his guilt. But at the time, Ferox had stillbeen recovering from the minor injury that led Hector to fight in his place, so Jason was the one to avenge the killing.
Achilles was on his feet again, so Ferox positioned himself for another bout, pausing to correct the novice’s starting stance. As they sparred once more, Ferox discarded the notion of mentioning Hector to his friends. This was his burden to carry. Speaking to Lea or Jason about it would only reopen the wound, and this time, he could at least spare his friends that.
In the following weeks, Ferox threw himself into the project of training Achilles. The novice wasn’t hopeless. His height and his left-handedness gave him a distinct advantage, and though he loved to complain about the tiniest things that bothered him, like a splinter from the wooden sword or chafing from his greaves, he seemed to take the training seriously.
Ferox intentionally went easy on him; since Achilles would fight another novice who matched his negligible skill level, it was more important to build mental and physical stamina to endure a longer fight than for Ferox to vanquish him in three thrusts of the sword.
They drilled endlessly. Ferox mixed bouts of sparring with exercises that would build strength, like running laps and lifting weights. Teaching refreshed his mind of all the things he’d forgotten in his eighteen months of absence, and the hard training prepared his body as well. He still worried he’d lost too much skill, but he’d soon find out. Both he and Achilles were scheduled to fight on the opening day of the games.
Velia often observed their sessions, likely eager to see how her novice’s training was progressing. He could always feel a prickle on his skin when she was watching. It distracted him, but there would be ten times the distractions in the arena itself. He could handle one small woman who made his skin tingle with awareness.
At the end of one long day, two days before the games opened, Velia hung back after Ferox dismissed Achilles. The training area had quieted, most of the gladiators having disappeared to clean up before the evening meal.
Velia glanced in the direction Achilles had gone. “Do you think he’s ready?”
Ferox swiped a scratchy cloth over his face and neck, mopping up the sweat that had gathered. “Ready enough not to completely humiliate himself.”
She handed him a waterskin. “You should give yourself more credit. You’ve worked wonders with him. I know he’s not the easiest to deal with.”
Her praise made a strange, warm feeling rise within him. He took a long swig from the waterskin. “He could be worse. He’s like one of those little dogs that yaps and yaps but never bites.”
Velia chuckled. “Those little white beasts that patrician ladies carry around? Gods, I’d pay a fortune to pit one of them against Nyx in the arena.”
Ferox snorted. “It would be a bloodbath.”
She reached out to take the waterskin from him. Their fingers brushed, and suddenly Ferox was back in that dingy alley, his arms full of her slight form, his senses overwhelmed by her closeness.
He jerked his hand back, but she hadn’t grasped the waterskin yet, so it fell to the dirt. They both bent at the same time to retrieve it, and their heads smacked together.
“Ouch!” Velia yelped and stumbled back, pressing a hand to her face.
Without thinking, he reached for her. Dis, what if he’d injured her? He’d broken men’s noses with his forehead before. His hands closed around her slim shoulders as he anxiously inspected her face for any signs of injury. “Are you all right?”
She blinked up at him, lowering her hand from her face. “Fine.” She’d tensed for a moment when he touched her, but now he felt her relax beneath his hands, her muscles growing supple.
He should let her go. He would, right this instant.
