“Give up.” Adel ground the words between her teeth like grit. “I will not give up.”
“I—” Berit swallowed, averting her eyes. “I’m not going to make it to the games.” Panic tightened a noose around her words, jerking them out with too little air.
Adel’s jaw went tight. “Yes. You. Will. You will not abandon us. And I will not abandon you.”
“It is no great loss when we die. Rome used our men for battle fodder; why should it be different for us in their arenas?” Berit’s chin lowered asshe tightened the knot of her loincloth, her voice reaching Adel’s ear in the barest of whispers. “If I die—”
“Stop speaking of death,” Adel snapped. “Life is not so bad here. We are fed, cared for.”
“We are slaves, Adel. We fight and we die. What more is there?”
“Hope?” The word slipped from her tongue before she could stop it.
Berit didn’t answer. Perhaps she hadn’t heard it over the rumble of the crowd beyond the courtyard. The rumble that reminded her Berit could be right. What hope was there in a place like this? They were slaves. Fighting and dying. To hope was a fool’s dream. And yet the thing about hope was that it was never quite... rational.
“You can earn your freedom. Others have.” Freedom was a flimsier thing than hope, hanging on a spider’s silk of skill and much good fortune.
Berit shook her head. “We both know I’m not good enough for that. But you are. The people love you. If you fight in the emperor’s games, they’ll free you and you can get away from here.”
Her cousin wasn’t wrong. Out of all of the gladiatrices, Adel had the greatest chance at freedom, and yet the thought of it sent a thin shard of fear slicing through her. What would she do with freedom? There was nowhere to go. At least as a magister she would have a place. Purpose. A prickle of guilt chased the fear. What would Berit think of her choosing the ludus over freedom? Something bumped her arm.
“Water.” Ignacio held out a dripping cup. “What’s wrong with that one?”
Adel shot a hard look at Berit. “Nothing.”
“Nerves getting to her?”
“It is nothing she cannot overcome.”
Ignacio tipped his head in a motion for Adel to follow. “Don’t let her nerves rattle you. I’ll take care of her. You focus on Tigris.” He scooped up her helmet from where it sat against the wall and handed it to her. “Clear your head. You are the Amazon.”
Adel blew out a breath and settled the helmet over her head. She was Adelgard. Protector. Leader. Soon to be magister.
Ignacio gripped the sides of the helmet and pressed his face against it, drilling a black-eyed stare through the mesh eyeholes. “You are the Amazon. Fierce. Strong. Favorite of Rome.” He gave the helmet a little jerk with each phrase, as if ensuring the words lodged in her mind. He pressed the gladius into her hand and smacked the side of her helmet. “Now go out there and prove it.”
Features shifting in the polished brass mirror, Adel poked a strand of damp hair into her braid and tucked a fold of her dull-gray ludus-issued tunic into the wide belt wrapping her waist. It wasn’t the new blue one she’d dreamed of wearing in this moment, but she couldn’t wait for the next trip to the markets. Two fresh wins on her record—while wounded. This leverage was as good as any.
Sucking in a steadying breath, she left the steamy warmth of the bathhouse and stepped outside into the evening chill. On the opposite side of the courtyard, the triclinium was lit with lamps and humming with voices, the door hanging open in welcome. She’d already taken her shift in the dining hall but knew the doctores and magistri always gathered there to speak with Jovan while the gladiators ate. Tonight, she would join them. She’d earned the right, after all.
Her efforts had improved the gladiatrices performances. Dreda had won her match, her footwork much improved. The Hildas had given performances much more steady and grounded than ever—Brunhilda even winning hers. Though Ilona’s match had ended with a blow to her head, Berit had fought with tucks and rolls that had won the crowd.
Yes, Adel had earned her place among the magistri.
Adel stepped into the dining hall, the room buzzing with statistics and rehashed matches. She spotted the huddle of trainers and overseersclustered in the corner, clutching glasses of wine, and angled toward them. She swiped a glass of her own from a startled slave and stepped to the edge of the circle.
“Excellent improvement on Ruso. Didn’t think he had it in him to take down Ursus. Especially after that black eye.” One of the doctores nudged a magister. “Speaking of, you owe me three sestertii.”
“And Ignacio owes me five,” another broke in. “I bet against his little gladiatrix and he never let on that she moves like a monkey and no one can catch her.”
Chuckles spread like the Tiber fever, a quick flare and then nothing. Adel felt a wan smile tighten her lips. Berit had bested her opponent the only way she knew how. Evasion. And then a winning hit that looked nearly accidental. The wine burned her stomach as she took a sip.
At the head of the group, Jovan flipped through his book and turned to the doctore of secutor fighters. “If Gaiseric has another match like today, he’s going to be out for months. I told you to get on his footwork.”
“I agree. And Wulfula is swinging too wide.”
At her critique, a dozen male faces swung toward Adel, expressions wavering between surprise and amusement.
Adel took another sip and lifted her chin. She hadn’t anticipated this would be easy. “He’s opening himself up too much—anyone can see it. If he doesn’t improve by the next matches, his opponent will take him out.”
