Something changed in his demeanor, sent shadows across his face. “Adel.”
She scowled and threw the rest of the stick onto the fire. Was it selfish to want more than a hungry life chained to crocks of mother dough and looks of derision? To want bread on the table instead of dust? A man in the field instead of one in the ground? To for once, be worthy of the stories told around the evening fires, instead of those muttered between close heads as she passed by?
“You remain in the camp not for lack of skill, but because you are worth fighting for. I wish you would trust me and your atta.”
His words made her want to both laugh and cry. If only those words could be true too.
The fire crackled and snapped, thundered and—
Her head jerked up, gaze darting first toward Telemachus and then toward the line of trees separating the river from the camp. That was no fire. No storm, either.
Broad-shouldered bodies broke through the underbrush. Not their own scouts clad in blue and green tunics, or even the small troop of spies sent out several days before. The men rushing from the river and across the grassy meadow were dressed in scarlet, brass, and leather, brandishing gleaming short swords.
General Stilicho, and the emperor’s army.
Telemachus gripped her arm as the alarm horn roused the camp. “Get behind me. You must get away.”
She shrugged his hand off. Lightning raced through her veins, sending quivering energy to her limbs. “You have no weapon.”
“They will not hurt a man of God.”
There was certainty in his voice, though Adel felt none of it. These were Romans. Liars. Manipulators. Not men of honor.
Visigoth warriors burst through tent flaps, half dressed and fully armed. Camp women rallied in an instant, the shrill ring of unsheathed blades rising to meet the enemy. She glimpsed her cousin Berit among them, only sixteen. She should not be fighting, should not be stretching an arrow on a bowstring.
Adel’s dampened fingers slid over the hilt of her sword, tightening around it with a grip that steadied her limbs. She drew it and lowered into a ready stance that seemed to calm her racing heart as the first wave of Roman legionaries swept over the Visigoth camp.
If this be her story, then let it be one for the fires.
I
NINETEEN MONTHS LATER
CITY OF ROME
18 NOVEMBER, AD 403
Adel gritted her teeth and flung her shield up in time to block the barrage of swings. The clash of sword onscutumechoed above the gasps and cheers of the dinner-party crowd clustered around the makeshift ring created in the courtyard of the lavishdomus. Lamp smoke, roasted meat, and the tang of wine spiced what little air she could breathe through her helmet.
Adel took a step back, her bare toes spreading to grip the cool marble as she prepared to launch the counterattack that would force her scarlet-clad opponent back across the ring and—if all went to plan—to her knees.
From all around, discordant chants of, “Amazon! Am-a-zon!” mingled with the boos and hisses for her opponent, Vesuvia.
Her people had never told stories of mock battles and dulled swords, nor revered warriors who fought but never died. But then, her people were not Romans.
Adel’s hot breaths steamed over her face, trapped inside the brass-plated helmet strapped to her head. Sweat dribbled down her temple ina boiling stream, and she struggled to quell the panic of slow suffocation. The only ventilation came through the small eyeholes covered in gilded mesh. They were effective barriers—letting in neither sword nor fresh air. She tilted her head, angling Vesuvia into view in time to emerge from behind her shield and block the next swing with hergladius.
Vesuvia’s expression was hidden by her own silver helmet, fashioned in the likeness of a moth. Scarlet plumes rose above each ear and metal screens bulged over her eyes. She was clad in a fiery red loincloth and matching breastband partially hidden by the small breastplate that only covered the top of her chest, her costume mimicking the destructive mountain of fire. Though why Adel, outfitted as a legendary Amazon warrior woman, would be fighting a fire mountain instead of a Greek, she didn’t know. She knew from experience, however, that no true warrior woman would go to battle with a bare stomach and a single leg greave. No, that stupidity was for the leering crowd of men gathered around them now, erupting in unveiled suggestions and coarse laughter.
Adel steeled herself against it. Refused to let the sharpened barbs needle through the armor of her heart. Their words were nothing to her. Actions were everything. She took one more step back. Her costume, polished leather and lichen-green fabric, brushed the back of her thigh as she sank to a ready stance, preparing to launch the series of strikes that would force Vesuvia back across the ring. She’d trained for this. Practiced long hours of sword drills and footwork. Her handler had prepared her well. While Vesuvia struck fast, Adel was both quick and strong. Her opponent would tire after this next series of moves, and then Adel would shine. It was how she’d earned her name, her place, the long list of wealthy patrons who paid to have her fight at their dinner parties. Earned coin by precious coin to save or spend on whatever her heart desired. It was freedom. Security. Gained by her own two hands.
This party would pay well. And not a moment too soon. She’d need a new tunic to meet with—
A hand gripped her upper thigh from behind, sliding upward, fingers digging into her skin. Laughter erupted. Her focus slipped as fury rolled through her.How dare—
She swung her shield backward, slamming it against whoever had grabbed her. A torrent of curses against Mars and Jupiter streamed behind her as Vesuvia pounced with a battering of quick blows that sent her reeling.
Marble tile slammed into Adel’s knees. Her shield arm went numb. Through the eyeholes in her helmet she saw Vesuvia step backward, her sword swinging above her head in... victory? The edge of the gladius gleamed as red as the feathers in her helmet.
