“It was an honest mistake,” the man continued, sounding for all the world as if he were apologizing for stepping on Ferox’s toe in a crowded tavern. “You can’t blame me. It’s not like she put up much of a fight.”
Rage engulfed Ferox like a spark catching dry tinder. He struggled to tamp it down. Rage had no place in the arena. Winning fights was about skill, training, and strategy. It was not about giving into the violent emotions that currently pulsed through him.
As Ferox was striving to convince himself not to leap for the man’s throat then and there, his opponent jabbed out with the trident in a lightning-fast strike. Ferox leaped back, but not quickly enough. The triple points of the trident sank into the muscle of his thigh, just below the edge of his shield.
Pain seared. The crowd gasped.
Ferox made a split-second decision based on two factors. First, he immediately knew this wound was bad. Even if it didn’t kill him, it would weaken him sooner rather than later, so he needed to end this fight before his strength failed. Second, his opponent would expect him to fall back after such a wound, to take a breath and assess the injury.
So Ferox did the opposite. He tossed aside both his sword and heavy shield, then leaped at the man, heedless of how his feet tangled in the net. A retiarius always expected his opponent to avoid the net at all costs, but the net no longer mattered if they were both tangled in it. Which was exactly what happened as Ferox slammed into the man, taking them both down to the sand.
At this close range, the trident was useless, and Ferox easily wrenched it from the man’s grip. They scuffled, sand flying. Ferox’s main goal was to keep his opponent’s hands occupied so he couldn’t go for the dagger at his waist.
The man managed to flip Ferox onto his back, hands seeking his throat, but Ferox kneed him in the stomach and reversed their positions. A blow hit his jaw, and he tasted blood. The scorching pain in his thigh spread over his entire leg, and he could feel the limb becoming slippery as it bled. Weakness would set in soon, and then his chance at victory would disappear.
And he wouldnotlose to this man.
He summoned one last burst of strength. Finally, he got his hands around the other man’s throat. He squeezed ruthlessly.
The man clawed at his grip for a moment, then fluttered a hand into the air. “Yield,” he croaked. “I yield.”
Ferox had forgotten that yielding was an option. He wanted to keep squeezing, to feel the man’s neck crack and collapse beneath his fingers, to watch the life fade from his frantic eyes.
But Ferox forced himself to relinquish his grip. The man rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.
Ferox struggled to his feet, disentangling himself from the net. His wounded leg nearly gave out, but he managed to stand. He grabbed his nearby sword and pointed it at the throat of his opponent, who had now dragged himself to a kneeling position.
Ferox’s eyes fixed on the emperor, who would decide the fate of this man. Ferox had never actually wanted to kill one of his opponents before, but this time, he found himself praying for the thumb-out gesture that would signal death.
Let me kill him,Ferox silently urged the emperor. Rage still coursed through him in white-hot waves, and he wanted nothing more than to sink his sword into the man’s neck.
The shouts from the crowd were mixed, but they seemed to trend toward mercy. The emperor leaned against the balustrade of his viewing area, considering. Then he held out a hand.
A closed fist. Mercy.
Ferox shut his eyes.
No. Mercy was no longer an option.
He opened his eyes and drew the sword across the man’s throat in a slow, deliberate motion. Blood spurted from the thin slice. The man clapped a hand to the wound, gaze flicking up to Ferox in shock.
The crowd went silent. So silent Ferox could hear his own blood pounding in his ears.
The man slumped to the sand, and Ferox watched the life leave his eyes with primal satisfaction.
Amid the crowd’s still-shocked silence, he trudged from the arena, one thought resounding in his mind:better late than never.
23
LucullusaccostedFeroxassoon as he stepped off the arena’s sand. “Whatthe fuckhave you done?” he demanded.
Behind Lucullus, Velia stood, white-faced and frozen, a hand pressed to her mouth.
Ferox pushed past Lucullus. “I killed him.” He could deal with Lucullus later. Right now, his chief concern was finding somewhere to sit before his leg gave out on him.
“I know that,” Lucullus growled. “Twenty thousand people know that! What I want to know iswhy. Did you go blind? Why, by all the shades of the underworld, would you disregard the decision of thefucking emperor?”
“He deserved it.” Ferox limped through the passage into the wider space where the other gladiators waited for their own fights. News must have already filtered through, for everyone was staring at him. Lea, off to the side, caught his eye and gave him a slow, approving nod.
