Achilles knew it too, for Ferox could see the other man’s eyes flicking toward Ferox’s leg, as if assessing his remaining strength. Achilles let out a snarl and darted forward with renewed vigor.
The impact of Achilles’s sword on Ferox’s shield was too much for his leg to bear, and it collapsed beneath him.
If Ferox wanted any chance of surviving, he had to take Achilles down with him. Quick as he could, he tossed away his shield and clenched his now-free hand around Achilles’s leather-covered forearm.
They tumbled to the sand together, swords clashing. Achilles’s blade jabbed toward Ferox’s throat. Ferox narrowly got his right arm up to block it. The blade came down on his forearm, glancing off the plate armor that covered it.
He discarded his own sword and used both hands to divest Achilles of his weapon. His left hand gripped the blade, which cut deep into his palm, and the other grasped Achilles’s wrist in a crushing grip. The sword slipped from Achilles’s fingers, and Ferox flung the weapon wide. Blood coated Ferox’s left hand, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.
Sand flew as they wrestled. Ferox knew he had the advantage here; though they were matched in height, Ferox was much heavier than the novice. Also, on the ground like this, Ferox’s weakened leg was less of a disadvantage.
Ferox could taste victory. Achilles was slowing, though he hadn’t yet let himself be pinned.
Then, Achilles’s knee slammed into the wound on Ferox’s thigh. Agony erupted, and everything went white.
Dimly, through the searing pain, Ferox glimpsed Achilles’s arm reaching for his nearby sword. If Achilles got his hands on that weapon, it was over.
Ferox used his uninjured leg to propel himself forward in a half-crawl, half-lunge. He scraped his hand through the sand, sending a spray into Achilles’s eyes. The novice swore, his voice ragged and guttural. He fumbled for the sword, but blinded by the sand, couldn’t find it.
Ferox grabbed the sword instead, his fingers closing around the grip. A moment later, Achilles was on his back, the point of the sword at his throat.
Ferox paused, breathing hard, on his knees crouching over Achilles. The roar of the crowd reverberated around his skull.
Slowly, the noise coalesced into something intelligible.Mercy, they shouted.
Ferox’s eyes flicked toward the emperor, standing at the front of his box. The man surveyed the crowd. He held out a fist, thumb turned out.
The gesture for death.
The cries for mercy blurred into shouts of surprise. Ferox hesitated. His arm shook where it extended the sword. He just had to do this one thing. One strike, and it would all be over.
Achilles glared up at him, his face covered with sweat, sand, and blood. His gaze betrayed no fear. After the fight they’d just had, Ferox wasn’t surprised that the prospect of death seemed like a relief.
“Just fucking do it,” Achilles growled.
Ferox tightened his grip on the sword, muscles tensing as he prepared to drive it down. He could make it quick. Painless.Achilles would be on the banks of the Styx before he could even blink.
But the noise of the crowd caught his attention once more. The clamor of surprise had turned into something else. Loud, insistentboosemanated from the stands, along with hisses and other more colorful jeers.
Ferox blinked. Never before had he heard the people express their displeasure with a decision.
His gaze returned to the emperor. Ferox couldn’t see his face, but the man’s fists were clenched where they rested on the balustrade. He turned his head, seeming to speak to the woman next to him.
“Do it,” Achilles snarled again.
“Shut up,” Ferox snapped. His eyes remained on the emperor as the man absorbed the noise of twenty thousand people booing him.
The emperor opened his arms, a magnanimous gesture. The intensity of noise from the crowd dissipated, replaced by a sense of anticipation, of held breaths as everyone waited to see what he would do next. Would he uphold his decision? Would he change his mind?
The emperor extended his arm. This time, the fist was closed, the thumb tucked inside. Mercy.
The crowd exploded with noise once more, though this time, it was cheers, celebration.
A jolt of relief nearly toppled Ferox. The sword fell from his grasp, and he only narrowly moved his arm so it didn’t strike Achilles in the chest.
That would have been the height of irony—for Achilles to be spared by the emperor, only to be accidentally skewered by Ferox dropping his sword.
Ferox sat back on his heels. The sand beneath him seemed to tremble with the force of the noise that erupted from the crowd. Then Ferox realized he was the one shaking. With exhaustion, with weakness, with pain, with shock.
