Jovan shifted, as if his chair had suddenly become too small. “A woman has never held that position before.”
“But you have never had a woman with as much skill as I have.” Realization bolstered her courage. “And you make this request of me because Ignacio and the other magistri have not given the results you seek.”
Another shift. “They have not.”
She lifted her chin. “I will accept. And if I do this, you will award me the position?”
Jovan studied her, then dropped his gaze to the stack of papers on the desk, uncertainty giving way to resignation. “Of course.”
Hair dripping and leaving dark patches on her plain gray tunic, Adel stepped into the triclinium. She scanned the room as she made her way to the table reserved for the gladiatrices, taking care to avoid direct eye contact with the men. Even so, a chorus of ear-burning comments followed her to her table. She tried to ignore them. Lashing out only brought on laughter and waves of base suggestions about what she could do with her energy. Best to let them think she was immune. Her quick scan ofthe room revealed several spots that remained conspicuously empty. In a school of only sixty-odd gladiators, no one went missing in obscurity. Perhaps they were late. Still in the baths. Confined to the rumored punishment cells beneath the school. Likelier yet, sold.
“What did Jovan want with you?” Dreda leaned across the table.
“He had a job for me.”
“I’m sure he did,” one of the Hildas clucked.
Adel pressed her lips together at the insinuation. “He gave me a list of complaints against you all.”
That shut their mouths more effectively than the bread.
“What... sort of complaints?” This, in a trembling voice from Berit.
Adel pointed. “Lack of boldness.”
Berit’s dimpled chin touched her chest.
“Head up,” Adel snapped, and waited for the wide blue eyes to meet hers. “You are strong, Berit. Quick. You need only to believe this and fight as if you know it to be true.”
Berit’s lips rolled inward, biting back the words Adel knew she was thinking.I just want to go home.
“This is your home now. Your life.” Adel reached across the table and gripped the girl’s hand. “Fail, and you will be used to warm the beds of the men.” She squeezed her hand in warning. “You do not want that.”
Berit gave the tiniest nod and Adel withdrew, taking a drink of the ash-water before turning to the other women, who waited in dread expectation.
To Dreda: “Sluggish feet.”
Tilla: “Sword work lacks finesse.”
The Hildas: “You fight like a pair of hens, fluttering and scratching.”
Adel turned to the newest acquisition, a Visigoth woman with shorn hair who offered the greatest challenge, and not just because she’d arrived infested with lice. Her bruises bore witness to her abject lack of skill. “You lack everything.”
The woman’s eyebrows flickered with resignation. “Nothing I did not already know.”
“But you have heart. All of you.” Adel studied each woman. “We may have been divided in the camp, but we can have a new start here. In Rome, we can earn names and fortunes of our own. We have only to work for it. To fight for it. If you do not fight for yourself, no one else will.”
The women didn’t have a chance to respond.
A loud clanging from the doorway silenced the dining hall as Jovan entered, holding up his hands and a square of parchment creased with folds and a broken wax seal. The room stilled.
“An invitation has come from Emperor Honorius for the best of my fighters to participate in the Victory Games he will sponsor in our city at the first of the year.”
A low rumble spread through the room as the words found their mark. There had not been Victory Games in years.
Victory.The word sent acid to Adel’s throat. She’d much rather greet the boy emperor with a fist than curry his favor in the games. And yet, the chance to fight in the Flavian Amphitheatre was a high honor and one that could bring wealth and fame. The games would be days long, magnificent. Hundreds, maybe thousands of fights. Costumes, sets, choreography... wealth and freedom granted to the favorites.
That thought alone was enough to send an uneasiness thrumming through her veins. What would she do with freedom? She couldn’t go home. Perhaps she would stay on as some of the magistri did. If Jovan made her a magister.WhenJovan made her a magister.
