Jason shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve made your decision.”
Achilles the Fire-Haired. Velia smiled. It was perfect.
But the perfect name was worthless if he got himself killed or maimed in his first fight, so she still needed a trainer. She glanced around the ludus, evaluating the other gladiators. She needed someone experienced…
Her gaze lit on Ferox, conducting stretches in a corner of the training area.Twenty wins out of thirty-two fights. He might not have Jason’s affability, but he was unquestionably the most experienced and successful gladiator she’d ever met, which meant he was just the man for the job.
After less than a day of training, every muscle in Ferox’s body ached. He’d become more out of shape than he realized. It didn’t help that he’d slept poorly. Hector’s ghost was at his most vengeful when Ferox was asleep, tormenting him with a never-ending replay of the moments before Hector’s death. In the dream, Ferox ran into the arena, sword in hand, knowing that if he could just get there in time, he could save Hector. But the sand sucked at Ferox’s feet, immobilizing him, and he could never make it, instead forced to watch as his friend was slaughtered. The tide of powerless anguish was just as strong as it had been that day.
At least now, in the hot, bright sunshine, he had some distance from last night’s nightmares. The ache in his muscles was an excellent distraction, reminding him how hard he’d need to train to get back to where he’d been. His first match was set for the opening day of the games, three weeks from now. The discomfort of sore muscles was vastly preferable to the agony of a wound.
But amid his back’s protests as he dropped into a deep forward bend, he wondered if he was too old for all this. Velia’s comment earlier had cut deeper than she probably realized or intended.You’re huffing and puffing after one practice match as if you’ve climbed Mount Olympus.
He was already thirty, and few gladiators were still fighting at his age, either having retired or died. Maybe he’d been a fool to think he could come back as if no time had passed. Maybe he’d been blinded by Lucullus’s money—but it wasn’t simple greed that induced him to accept the offer. He didn’t want money for its own sake, but for the life it could build him. A hundred thousandsestertii could see him settled in Hispania with a steady income swelling his coffers, far from the ghosts of the arena.
A pair of sandals intruded into his vision, and a throat cleared. Ferox pulled up sharply from the bend, wincing. Velia stood before him once again, her gaze running over him with that unsettling forthrightness.
“What?” he grunted.
She surveyed him for another moment. The fabric sash of her green linen dress was drooping, and she pulled it tighter with a quick jerk of her hand. The adjustment caused the fabric to cling to the curves of her slender figure, and Ferox instinctively turned away to pick up a waterskin lying on the ground nearby.
Though she was very beautiful, he did not waste time desiring women he couldn’t have, and his manager’s niece definitely fell into that category.
Even so, he was itching to know how she’d ended up here, working for her uncle.
She took a step closer, brushing a curl of fair hair over her shoulder. Locks escaped from her messy braid at every opportunity. “I want to hire you to train my novice.”
“Yournovice?”
Velia nodded as if there were nothing so unusual in that sentence. “My first. First of many, hopefully.” She seemed to have no idea that managing a troupe of gladiators was not something aspired to by normal women.
“The man who punched you earlier?” Ferox had witnessed that strange interaction. He’d been recovering on a bench after a set of sprints, but the sight of the red-haired man’s fist driving into Velia’s unprotected stomach had jolted him to his feet.
“I asked him to fight me. I wanted to see how he moved. And did you notice he’s left-handed?”
“Yes.” Ferox took a deep drink from the waterskin. A left-handed gladiator was an interesting prospect. Ferox had once tried to teach himself to fight with his left hand, but it was nearly impossible to achieve the same quick, intuitive movements.
“I know you’ve only been contracted for three fights,” Velia said. “Surely you’ll need something else to occupy your time. You’ll be bored otherwise!”
In Ferox’s experience, boredom was a blessing. He said nothing to that; he had a feeling she was the kind of person who didn’t require a response in order to keep talking.
He was right. “As for the money,” she continued, “I’ll offer a portion of the fees from each of his appearances.”
“How much?” he couldn’t help asking. He didn’t want to get entangled with this strange woman and her untrained gladiator, but if money was involved, he’d be a fool not to at least consider it.
“A quarter.”
That was far too little. “Half,” he replied instantly, then clarified: “Not that I’m agreeing to this.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m the one taking on all the expenses of his upkeep. I can’t split the fees half and half with you.”
“You can if you want him to survive more than one match,” he shot back.
She considered him for a long moment. Her eyes were a peculiar shade, he noticed, one that shifted between blue and gray, like the sky when it wasn’t sure if it wanted to rain or not. “Deal,” she finally said.
“Wait—I didn’t agree to anything—”
A smile curved her lips, and she cocked her head. “I think you did. Half the fees in exchange for training. You can start tomorrow.”
