“Of course she’lltryto pay you—”
Felix’s tension eased. Slightly.
“—possibly in pine nuts or cheese.” Mater took his arm, suddenly beaming. “Which is a miracle in itself since all we have for the evening meal is bread. See? The Lord provides. The least you can do is thank Him with a plaster of mallow root and wine.”
V
THE SPAN OF TEN YEARScould have been a lifetime.
Telemachus paused at the edge of the world, where the smooth, dark stones of the Roman road stretched behind him toward home. The breath he drew in was tinged with the coolness borne of early winter and the stench of humanity rising from the pale city undulating with the hills. Rome had fallen into steep disrepair since the emperor moved his palace to the safer and more easily defended city of Ravenna. He hardly recognized it. And why should he? He’d spent half his life in this city, imprisoned in a windowless monstrosity. Last he’d set foot inside the city walls, he’d been a man newly freed. Accosted on every side by strangers who knew him. Who wanted to touch him, as if he were some mythical creature, some god who could grant wishes, make them popular by a single word, a grip of the hand—and maybe he could. Granting, with a single touch, a story they would boast about at dinners for years.
So he had done it, gripping hands over and again while turning down invitations from innkeepers and cafe owners, and offers from more than one woman. There had been a monster to defeat outside of Rome,and the sweet scent of revenge had drawn him to it like a siren’s call. Rome would hold him captive for the rest of his days if he hesitated. If he took his eye from the city gate and let it linger. He didn’t know what made him certain of this. He’d only known he’d had to leave.
It was the same feeling now, the same knowing that brought him back, set his stomach in knots. A bead of sweat sliced along the knobs of his spine as he stepped into the shadow of the gate. A world that once knew him. Not as a man of God, but as theBattering Ram of the East. A man of fire and temper. Of blood and blades.
“Are you all right?” Gaius looked up at him, black eyes bent in the shape of compassion. As if his friend could sense the war inside that made Telemachus want to both rush into Rome like an invading army... and flee like a man pursued.
Telemachus lifted a hand to gesture at the vastness of the city, then gripped the top of his bald head. “Where do we even begin?”
“We follow the plan,” Gaius said in a tone more soothing than commanding. He rested a palm over the bag at his side that held the earthly wealth of dozens of desperate people. “Slave markets, then the brothels. Seediest first.”
The fire that lit in Telemachus’s chest at those words made him wonder if he had indeed left the battering ram part of him in the east after all. He was here for a fight. He knew this by the way his heart began to thrum, pulse rushing in anticipation.
A woman with a basket under one arm and a little boy in tow took one look at him and Gaius standing in the shadows of the city gate and moved to the other side of the street. She lowered her chin, picked up her pace. The little one stared, wide-eyed, head tilting back to take in Telemachus’s height. He smiled and the boy looked away, suddenly shy. Or terrified. Telemachus drew the hood of his cloak over his sunburned head. Over the scars. Over the nightmares of another mother, another boy, another giant. He was not that man.
“I’m ready.” Telemachus allowed his foot to slide forward, from the Roman road to the streets of Rome. He let out a breath. They could do this. Theywoulddo this. Because if not them, then who?
Like a vein, the road led them straight to the heart of Rome, to an oblong monstrosity of stacked stone arches painted with the violent graffiti of half-clad fighters, urging passersby to come and see.
Telemachus turned away, strides lengthening, devouring the streets, lest Rome devour him. The mission was simple.
Find the captives. Set them free.
VI
19 NOVEMBER, AD 403
Adel angled toward thetriclinium, back straight, head high, arm slightly throbbing—though she would never admit it. Brutus had unlocked her cell at dawn as usual, no threats to reveal the guard’s secrets needed—which had been a bit disappointing considering she knew of his incident in the bathhouse involving a wad of hair. That would keep for another day. She imagined her aipei’s disapproving look and could almost hear the stern reprimand.Romans are scheming liars. We are Visigoth, and we are better than that.
Had she been in Rome so long that she was starting to act like a Roman? Had she forgotten so quickly who she was? God forbid it. Aipei could speak and make her feel as though the Visigoth way of life was far superior to anyone else’s—and yet, the way her people had abandoned her on the battlefield left that illusion shattered. How could Romans be evil liars when they treated her with such kindness? When they bound her wounds, fed and housed her? Told her she was worth it all? And how could she long for freedom and love captivity at the same time?
The atmosphere of the ludus dining hall washed over her in a moment as she stepped inside: the vibrating hum of voices and the cloying smell of stale mash and days-old bread. Low tables spanned the room, bolted to the floor and surrounded by gladiators with their forearms braced on the edge. Each fighter clutched a wooden mug in one hand and a loaf of seedy bread in the other. They all seemed to hunch over the steaming bowl of mash between their arms as if someone else might snatch it.
Adel moved to the table for gladiatrices, repulsed by the feeling of coming home that rushed over her.
Because it wasn’t home.
“Adelgard, you’re here! We were so worried for you. Especially since Ignacio wouldn’t let us see you—naturally I feared the worst.” The tall gladiatrix rushing toward her with streaming black hair and startling blue eyes was a sight to behold in the ring. Outside the ludus walls, Dreda was known asQueen Boudicca,fur clad and fierce. Inside the walls, she’d earned a reputation for blindsiding her victims with conversation. Mostly one-sided.
Adel’s stomach sank. Had everyone heard of her humiliating defeat already?
Dreda’s icy eyes dropped to the bandage sagging around Adel’s arm. “How bad is it? Does it hurt? No one was more shocked than me to hear that Vesuvia bested you. Have you heard? The client wants a rematch. His wife was promised no blood. Imagine that!” She sucked in a breath. “If that man hadn’t grabbed your—”
“I know what happened, Dreda, and—” Adel reined her runaway words to a halt. “And I’m hungry.”
She dropped into her usual place at the table where the other gladiatrices were already seated, sopping up bowls of boiled grain mash with bread. A serving boy had Adel’s own bowl and mug beneath her face before she’d fully lowered herself to the floor.
She lifted the mug first, gulping water mixed with strained ash. The medici were adamant that it would keep their bones strong, though Adel would have much preferred plain water to the bitter, smoky drink. Gray water dribbled over her hand when the serving boy refilled her mug as she set it down.
