“In the name of Jesus Christ, stop this!” Telemachus shouted, his voice breaking with the pain of failure. It was the voice of one pleading for mercy, not for himself but for those he loved—and how could he love them? They had done nothing for him. Any one of the men and women he pleaded for might turn at any moment and plunge a blade through him—they were already trying to—and yet, he spoke as if the very thought of one of them dying might rend the heart from his chest. As if they were the most precious of souls.
Was that how God saw her? Telemachus had tried repeatedly to assure her of this, and she had always scoffed. Surely God did not want one such as her. And yet... seeing the monk now, radiating some sort of otherworldly love, she wanted more than anything to believe him. To cling to the truth as tightly as he did.
All this flickered through her mind in the moment it took to raise her eyes and look at him. The friend who had seen something worthy in her when no one else had.
Wulfula appeared beside him, gladius raised to strike down all that was good in this arena. She launched herself toward him, throwing up her sword to meet his with a jarring crash. His blade bounced, grazing her arm as it spun into the dust. His dark curse rang in her ears as he slammed his shield against her chest, throwing her backward. Pain ricocheted through her body as each part hit the wooden arena floor, cushioned by the barest layer of sand. She rolled, spinning to her feet, only to be thrown down again, the breath knocked from her lungs. She gaped for air like a fish on the shore. The clash of weapons went muffled and distant.
Wulfula turned his back, bending and gripping the shaft of a spear. Dust fell from it as he tossed it up, caught it, and drew it back.
Adel lurched upright, a shout strangled in her airless lungs.
Telemachus’s head snapped back at the same moment she saw the spear lodge in his chest.
Wulfula punched a fist into the air, his victory shout drowned by her own scream.
Adel shot to her feet, scrambling forward to wrap her arms around the giant as he stumbled once and buckled. The sheer size and weight of him brought her to her knees. His face twitched in an expression of pain and determination.
“In the name...,” he whispered, blood beginning to trickle down his bearded chin. “In the name of Christ, stop.”
His face went blurry, kind hazel eyes lifting to the oval of blue sky above them and going still.
Adel sucked in a ragged breath that echoed in her ears. Her chin rose.
The arena had fallen silent.
XLIII
THE ROAR OF THE ARENAtrickled into silence, like the whisper of sand between fingers.
Was he dead?
Felix shifted and the pain in his stomach nearly sent him senseless. It was over, then, the battle. The Visigoths defeated and the Romans victorious once again. He waited for the sound of death gates opening, for the screech of body carts and the thumping of scampering feet rushing to clear the arena.
Nothing.
Not even the shouts of victors. Had the pain affected his hearing? He opened his eyes and turned his head. Fighters stood still, swords and spears, nets and tridents, all dangling in their hands in the breathless slump of defeat. What were they looking at?
Panic threaded through his chest. Adel. Where was she?
Scanning through the still legs, he finally located her bent over on the ground, Telemachus’s head and shoulders cradled in her arms. A spear stood defiant in the man’s chest.
The ultimate failure.
A sinking betrayal wound through him.Isn’t this what You called us to do, Lord? We listened. Obeyed. How could You call us to failure—in this, of all things?
He rolled his face skyward and shut his eyes against the brightness. It was the wrong shade for a day of death. Too...blue.
His stomach burned, throbbed. Heat trickled down his side. His fingers probed the knife wound, the bleeding a mere trickle now, but it would surely increase once the blade was removed. He might attempt it himself if he had something more than his loincloth to stanch the wound. No chance of getting out of that without jolting the blade and causing further damage. And calling for aid would likely end with another blade cast his direction. Waiting, then, seemed his only option.
A whispering reached his ears, a faint rustle. Wind rushing through the stands, the arches, tugging and flapping at the awnings drawn out across the expanse of sky overhead. When his eyes opened again, the stands were stirring, emptying. Silent spectators rising from their seats, moving down into the arched stairwells toward the outer gates of the arena. Heads bowed in shame. Not a word passing between them.
The gladiators left standing glanced at one another in question. As if to ask,What now?
What now, indeed?
He shut his eyes, listening to the rustle of the leaving crowd, the clanks and shifting of the gladiators left standing in the ring, and then it struck.
The fight had ended.
