As Achilles made it to where they stood, he yanked off his helmet. He, for one, did not look grateful to be alive. Instead, he was scowling, a thunderous expression on his sweaty, red face.
“You did well—” Velia held out a hand to him, but he brushed past her.
Velia took a step to follow him, but Ferox laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Let him go,” Ferox said. “He’ll want to be alone for a time.”
Velia stared after Achilles, now swallowed up by the passage of the arena’s back area. “I’m going to arrange another match as soon as possible,” she decided aloud. “Within the week, if I can.” She’d seen new gladiators defeated in an early match lose all confidence. Sometimes, they never recovered. If she allowed Achilles to wallow for too long, the same could happen to him, and he’d be useless to her.
Ferox nodded. “Good.”
His approval pleased her. Now that she no longer had to worry about Achilles—for the moment, at least—a new tendril of unease unfurled within her. “You’re up soon, right?”
“After thenext two matches.”
That could be in as little as half an hour. With an abruptness that surprised even herself, she threw her arms around him, clasping them around his burly middle as tight as she could. “Please don’t die,” she mumbled.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest next to her ear. His arms came up, hesitant, his fingertips brushing her back before they dropped. “I won’t.”
She drew back, releasing him. She looked up into his eyes and found his gaze steady. “Is that a promise?”
Velia wasn’t sure why she felt so unsettled at the thought of Ferox’s imminent appearance in the arena. She’d befriended gladiators before, after all—Jason, Lea, and others. She’d seen them fight, lose, be wounded. Never before had she felt this choking dread, this bone-deep fear they might not come back.
“It’s a promise, Velia.”
She let out a long sigh, trying to absorb some of his composure. “Good.”
12
Halfanhourlater,Velia ran her fingers over and over the end of her braid as Ferox stepped into the arena. Lucullus stood next to her. The noise of the crowd rose to a deafening pitch—the loudest today by far, maybe even the loudest Velia had ever heard. The announcer gestured excitedly, but there was no hope of hearing him over the roar of the crowd.
The emperor was on his feet as soon as Ferox appeared. He’d risen a few times before at particularly exciting moments of previous matches, but never had he stood before the fight had even begun. Velia recalled that the emperor had asked for Ferox specifically, having seen him fight in his youth. Ferox truly was the best.
Pride swelled in her chest, warring with the twisting nerves. She was proud of him, and he hadn’t even lifted his sword yet.
Ferox’s opponent entered the arena to an enthusiastic but less ardent welcome. Velia recognized him from past matches; he was younger than Ferox, closer to Velia’s age, but a skilled fighter who’d quickly gained renown in the past year. A worthy opponent for Ferox. Velia bet the younger man would be eager to prove himself against the recently returned legend, to maintain his reputation as one of the top fighters in the city.
The gladiators circled each other for a moment, taking each other’s measure. Then, the younger gladiator leaped forward with the first strike. Velia’s fingers twisted into the segments of her braid.
Ferox blocked the strike with a powerful shove of his shield that sent his opponent pitching backward before he righted himself. Velia expected Ferox to take advantage of the other man’s stumble to strike again, but instead Ferox retreated, resetting his grip on his shield.
They circled each other for another few breaths. Velia dropped her braid, hands clenched into fists. The tie to her braid had fallen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away for long enough to look for it.
She expected Ferox to make the first move this time, but again, he allowed the younger gladiator to strike.
“What’s he doing?” Velia hissed as the fight progressed. She kept seeing opportunities for Ferox to overtake the other fighter, moments where the opponent’s shield wavered and Ferox could easily have gotten a sword to his throat.
Lucullus slid her a glance with a raised eyebrow. “He’s giving the crowd what they want.”
Her uncle’s words made Velia realize—Ferox wasn’t hesitating or missing opportunities. He’d been in control since the beginning. He was carefully crafting a performance that would capture the audience, holding them in an inescapable grasp.
When she first saw him fight at the ludus, she’d thought he didn’t have a theatrical bone in his body. Now, she realized she’d been wrong, though Ferox’s version of theater was moresubtle than the flamboyant moves and showiness some gladiators employed.
In any case, his version was working. Every time the gladiators came together and then separated, the yells and cheers from the audience rose impossibly higher. The emperor himself was shouting, clapping, gesturing as wildly as any other attendee. Velia might have expected him to behave with more dignity, but there was something refreshing in seeing him as wrapped up in the fight as everyone else.
Something in the fight shifted. Ferox’s movements lost their circumspect, almost restrained quality. He became vicious, relentless in his attacks, never dropping back, never giving his opponent a moment to catch his breath. Finally, she saw the truth in his name, which meant wild, ferocious, savage. The crowd roared with delight.
Velia blinked, and it was over. The other gladiator had dropped his shield, and Ferox’s blade was leveled straight at his throat.
