4
VeliawaitedpatientlyforFerox to decide what he thought of her. His curiosity about her origins had surprised her. She’d debated concealing the truth or giving him a condensed version of events, but decided she had nothing to hide, not if they were to work together. She wasn’t some patrician maiden with a fragile reputation to protect, after all. Now that her parents had given up on her, no one really cared what she did.
Ferox had been oddly shocked at her revelation—not at what she’d done, but at how her parents had retaliated. A strange darkness had swept through his gaze when she spoke of it. She wagered most people would have sided with her parents in this situation. His outrage, though stifled beneath his gruff façade, intrigued her.
Velia didn’t like thinking about where she’d come from. Most of the time, she tried as hard as possible to forget everything about the farm, her parents, their disgust with her. But she could still see the revulsion on her father’s face, and hear the words her mother spat.“Stupid whore.”
That was all her parents thought she could be. They’d sent her to Rome to scare some sense into her, thinking it would humble her, turn her into the meek, dutiful daughter they’dalways wanted. Instead, she’d discovered a place that filled her with life. Her uncle wasn’t the monster they’d portrayed him as; he could be fearsome when crossed, but otherwise he was shrewd, fair, and a master of his trade. The thrill of helping orchestrate the city’s most beloved entertainment had quickly ensnared her. There was nothing like the rush of watching one of her uncle’s fighters win, hearing the crowd roar their names, and knowing she’d been part of creating such excitement.
Ironically, as she’d told Ferox, she really had been chaste as a Vestal since arriving in Rome. Her life at the ludus provided the excitement she’d been seeking, and she no longer felt that tugging urge toward recklessness that had driven her to tumble a village boy or three in her family’s stable. Or hayloft. Or storeroom. Or against a tree in the orchard…
Well,nearlyas chaste. She was fairly certain Vestals didn’t ogle half-naked muscular gladiators as they trained. But ogling was as far as it went.
Ferox was the first one who tempted her to do more than ogle. Perhaps it was just that he was new. Or perhaps it was the wall of gruffness she detected around him. She wanted to dismantle it, brick by brick, to figure out who the real man was. And the best way to tear down all the walls a man tried to build was a good tumbling.
She wasn’t supposed to want that anymore. Shehadn’twanted that since she’d been here. But now, for some reason, all she could think of was how fun it might be to throw her legs over those huge shoulders as he…
“I was thinking,” Ferox finally said, pulling her mind back to the question she’d asked him—what he thought of her—“half your gladiator’s fees is a fair deal. I agree.”
“Excellent.” She grinned. “Calvus—I mean, Achilles—has gone to fetch his things. You can start with him first thing tomorrow. I’ll get to work on booking his fights.”
Excitement leaped within her. In the space of a few hours, she had not only acquired her first gladiator, but had secured the services of one of Rome’s most revered fighters to train him. Achilleshadto be a success under the tutelage of someone like Ferox.
Not bad for a day’s work.
The next morning, over breakfast in the vaulted dining hall, Velia brought Achilles over to where Ferox was eating and introduced them.
The men surveyed each other. “Ferox, is it?” Achilles said. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Most people have.”
Velia suppressed a grin. A touch of arrogance suited Ferox. He’d earned it, with a career like his.
Achilles turned to her. “I have a complaint,” he announced. “There’s graffiti in my room. I want it removed.”
Velia raised her eyebrows. “There’s graffiti in everyone’s rooms. Even mine. And Ferox’s room has someveryexpressive drawings.” She smirked at the memory of what Jason and Lea had inscribed on his wall to welcome him back.
Achilles lifted his chin and gazed down at her with the haughtiness of a patrician. “I want it gone.”
Velia crossed her arms. His attitude was annoying, but it wouldn’t be too much trouble to paint over it. Maybe doing him this favor would get their working relationship off to a good start. “I suppose I could have someone take care of it.”
Ferox rose from the table. “I’lltake care of it.” His voice was low, menace humming behind the words. He picked up a blunt wooden practice sword leaning against the wall and strode toward the exit that led to the barracks.
“You will?” Velia jogged after him, Achilles following.
In the barracks, Ferox reached Achilles’s room and kicked the door open. He crossed to the wall featuring the graffiti. It was merely a diminutive penis etched into the plaster, nothing so offensive.
Wielding the sword like an axe, Ferox drove it into the wall. Velia stumbled back a step, and Achilles froze in the doorway to his room. Ferox pummeled the wall again and again, until the graffitied plaster crumbled, revealing the brickwork beneath.
When he finished brutalizing the wall as if it were his mortal enemy, he lowered the sword, breathing hard. “There,” he grunted. “It’s gone.”
Chunks of plaster littered the floor. Velia found herself unable to tear her gaze away from him. A smile slowly spread across her face. He was magnificent. Destructive, yes, but magnificent nonetheless.
That was certainly one way to deal with unwanted graffiti. With the added benefit of terrorizing his new student, for Achilles had turned the color of old milk.
Ferox tossed the sword onto the ground at Achilles’s feet, and the novice jumped as if Ferox had lunged for his throat.
“Pick that up,” Ferox said, and strode from the room.
