A collective huff of disbelief.
“What are you doing here, Amazon?” Jovan slowly closed his book, peppery eyebrows pressing together.
Heat prickled across her chest, but she forced her spine to remain straight, her feet to remain where they were. “You said I could join the magistri, if I improved the gladiatrices, and I have.” Her voice emerged with surprising evenness.
“Bah!” Ignacio bit back a harsh laugh and turned to Jovan, as if waiting for him to deny it.
“We will speak of this another time.”
“But you said—”
“We will speak of this another time.”Jovan’s eyes speared her own, sharp and steely. “Why don’t you run along and check on your injured gladiatrix.” It was not a suggestion, but an order to what, play nursemaid? Was he pointing out her one failure? Was that the reason she was not welcome here? The others had made mistakes in their fighters, as evidenced by the conversation, and yet, Jovan had not sent them off to the infirmary.
She hated that heat pulsed in her cheeks. To argue, grow angry, would only make her appear childish, unsteady. The glass banged against her teeth as she downed the rest of the wine.
“Of course. We will speak another time.” She bit the words between her teeth, tasting their bitterness as she strode from the room.
Adel stepped into her room and the guard closed the door behind her. A rush of relief flowed through her limbs. Ilona had been asleep, the infirmary dim and quiet. No medici in sight. Adel had looked in at the woman, ensured her breathing, and whispered a prayer for her recovery that had seemed to hit the ceiling and bounce back to her. What else could be done but let Ilona rest and recover? She’d headed for her own room before Sergius could catch her.
Her sword arm ached and her injury burned. But they mattered little compared to the hot ember lodged in her chest.
Jovan had brushed her off.
Perhaps she had been too bold in approaching the group, but they would all have to find out sooner or later that she would be one of them. Perhaps Jovan was breaking the news to them now.
The naivete of the thought sent a rush of anger through her. She ripped the belt from her waist and hurled it across the room. She knew better than to rely on a man to give her what he’d promised. If shewanted the position, she would have to fight and claw for it. It wasn’t fair that a man could get angry over the slight Jovan had shown, but she could not.
She paced the room, pulse pounding, and snatched up the cracked cup of dirt sitting in the shadows on the table. Her fingers closed around it, and she drew back, ready to hurl it against the wall, but something stayed her hand, drew it to her face instead. A hairlike sprout stood firm and tall, a pair of leaves as delicate as a fly’s wings spreading defiantly, like the pennant of a rebel army.
Unbidden tears rushed her eyes as she lifted the cup. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and squeezed the end of her braid over the seedling. A few drips. Too little. Let it not be too late. A lump rose in her throat, and she struggled to swallow it back. This was not the place to break. To let her emotions get the better of her. This was only a plant. And she was a fighter, strong, beloved, and yet... And yet. The world tilted on those two little words and she felt herself teetering on the edge.
“Do not give up.” Her breath shook the tiny stem. Made the leaves shiver.
She set the cup in the sliver of moonlight. The best she could offer, and not enough.
She would speak with Jovan in the morning. Privately. Make her case again, if need be. This was not the end.
Keys jingled in the lock outside and she turned as Ignacio entered, a cup in his outstretched hand.
“You look tired.”
She stiffened and looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Come now,” he cajoled. “No need to be upset. You did well today. Jovan knows it.” He held out the cup. Adel shook her head.
“Jovan and I have been invited to a planning dinner at the game master’s, thanks to the performance of our gladiatrices.” His chest swelledwith the news. Was he trying to goad her? Or was he truly naive to her efforts?
Adel crossed her arms. “Congratulations.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you. Perhaps they’ll invite you to attend the pregame feast.”
To be pinched and grabbed and spoken of like an animal or piece of inanimate art? Her lips turned up in the smile she knew he wanted. “What an honor.”
He beamed, ignoring or unable to detect the layer of sarcasm coating her words. “You’re magnificent out there. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jovan receives multiple offers for you.”
Her mouth went dry, pulse ticking back up. “Offers?”
“From other ludi, private owners—it’s a high honor. You should be proud.”
