When she glanced up, Berit’s eyes met hers from across the table, the tension in her muscles crumbling into relief. “I am glad you are well,” she murmured, staring as if she couldn’t quite believe it.
Adel gave a stiff nod and scooped a bite of mash into her mouth, gesturing for Berit to do the same. Her younger cousin was no natural fighter. Every move she’d made, in the village, the camp, the arena, was born of fear. A fear that made her fast instead of frozen and blinded her to all else but the desperate need to survive the next moment. She’d done well in her matches so far, but fear would only save her for so long. Adel had tried to protect her the best she could but dared not let their captors know they were blood kin. There was safety in secrets—no matter how flimsy.
“Best eat, Berit.”
The meal was over in minutes, and the gladiators were shuffled out to the training courtyard. Training was a repeated three-day cycle, sparring and technical training one day, endurance the next, and then a day of rest before the pattern repeated. Yesterday had been for sparring. That meant endurance training today.
She moved to the quadrant of the courtyard reserved for gladiatrices and those who fought in theprovocatorstyle with a gladius and curved rectangular shield called a scutum.
Magnus, thedoctoreoverseeing the provocators, shouted orders for the magistri to pair up the fighters and begin training.
“Dreda!” Ignacio’s shout rang above the hum of voices. “You—in the ring with Hippolyta.” He waved Berit forward, using her arena name.
The two obeyed immediately, collecting woodenrudesfrom the rack and facing off with the doctore watching and coaching from the side.
“Amazon.” Ignacio jerked his chin up, gesturing Adel closer. “I’m surprised Felix allowed you out to train.”
Felix.So that was the name of the young medicus.
“I am fine.”
Ignacio tilted his head, one eye pinching. “He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”
Her lips tightened. “What he does not know is my strength. He is treating me like a soft Roman woman.” She spat the words like the worst of insults. “That, I will never be.”
The vow falling from her lips cut the breath from her lungs. Because wasn’t that the reason she was here in the first place? For generations her people had fought and died in Rome’s legions, were paid a pittance for their sacrifice, and left their families to starve and struggle. Denied citizenship time and again. No, she would never be a Roman woman.
How fickle they were. To love and care for her in Rome, but not in her village.
“Let’s see your fire at work in the ring with Tilla.” Ignacio turned away, yanking a wooden gladius from a rack and tossing it backward over his head in an arc toward her. Adel caught the sword by the handle, the weight a familiar friend in her uninjured hand.
“No shield for you today. Not yet.”
The order released a breath of relief that she’d not have to strap the heavy scutum to her injured arm, and a tense unease that she’d be without protection. She turned to face her opponent.
Dark haired, short, and stocky with muscle, Tilla’s best strength lay in her endurance. She’d wear her opponents down and then dominate when they weakened. Her dark eyes dropped over Adel before she unstrapped the curved rectangle of her scutum shield and hefted it out of the ring. That was another thing to admire about Tilla. She wouldface no one if she felt an advantage in the fight. She would win by her own strength and skill, or not at all.
Adel dropped into a half crouch, ready and waiting only a split second before Tilla whirled on her, swinging her gladius in a downward arc. Adel met it halfway, the smooth wooden handle reverberating in her hand. As they moved through the warm-up sequence, the anxious tension in her muscles slowly gave way to the routine. Block, thrust, swing. She could do this. Perhaps by next week, she’d be ready for the fights against the Dacian School, and she would not be left behind. Tilla’s pace gradually quickened as Adel blocked each strike, watching for the opportunity to flip to the offensive. She swung more aggressively, meeting blow for blow until she forced Tilla back a step. Then another. Triumph surged. They sparred until sweat ran down their backs and stomachs.
Magnus, the doctore overseeing the gladiatrices, circled the pairs of fighters, eyeing their techniques and murmuring things of note for the magistri to work on with them later. When he shouted for new pairs, Tilla moved on to train with one of the Hildas. There would be no break. Not today. Today was about finding limits and pushing past them. Tomorrow they would rest.
Wiping sweat from her brow with her forearm, Adel looked up as Ignacio stepped into the ring across from her.
“Magnus wants you quicker on the offensive.” He swung his gladius in deliberate circles. “You wait too long in defense.”
Adel shook out her sword arm, refusing to voice an excuse. Dozens of others trained with injuries every day. Hers was nothing special. She rolled to her toes, anticipating his first move.
Magnus sidestepped toward them, eyeing her positioning before beating his sword against his shield as the signal to begin.
VII
THE CLATTER OF WOODEN TRAINING RUDEScracked in Felix’s ears, punctuated by the barked directions of the magistri and doctores in the courtyard outside the clinic.
Felix wiped the salve from his hands and set the rag aside before winding the bandage back around the newly cleaned cut on his patient’s head.
“You’re looking good, Ruso. Once you can see out of those black eyes of yours, we’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”
The man grunted in response.
