“What do you mean?” This, from one of the trainers.
Jovan’s lips turned up in a calculating grin. “Emperor Honorius has ordered a spectacle for the Victory Games. Beast hunts, mortal combat matches between the best gladiators—there has even been talk of a reenactment of the battle at Pollentia. A Roman force against the Visigoths.”
A typical choice. That battle was the reason for the games in the first place. It would be odd not to have a tribute of some sort, no matter how humiliating for the Visigoth gladiators present.
Jovan shrugged. “The game master has yet to decide on all the details, but what we do know for certain is that with a spectacle of this size, deaths are inevitable.” He leveled a pointed look at Felix. “Now you see why the enhancing potions are so important. The spectators will be hungry for blood—of course they’re going to opt for the killing of the loser. And if our fighters are not the best, we risk losing them all. I will not stand for our ludus to have the highest body count this year.”
Felix should ask—there were other questions he should ask—and yet all he could think about was Adelgard. She would be there. Fighting for her life. Forced to murder or be murdered before a cheering crowd. The realization made him sick.
“Your potions are invaluable now, Felix. A matter of life and death.”
“Do the gladiators know? Will you tell them?” The doctore who coached thehoplomachispoke from Felix’s left.
“Of course not,” Jovan scoffed. “Train them harder than you ever have. Promise them money, or women, or freedom, I don’t care, just make them the best. And say nothing of the reenactment. The last thing we need are those Visigoths rioting because their feelings are hurt. I’ve already put out requests to hire more guards. Expensive, but worth our lives, I daresay. If possible, we’ll wait to tell them about the reenactment until they go out on the day of the games. The anger will be real. That’ll make for an emotional performance, and everyone loves those.”
The flippancy with which he spoke sent a fresh rush of anger through Felix. No wonder Pater had cut ties with Jovan so long ago. Perhaps he should do the same. How could he go back to the infirmary, stitch wounds, make simple conversations when he knew what they would soon face?
Felix needed air. Needed to clear his mind before he said something to reveal his true feelings. He heaved himself out of the pool and yanked a towel from a rack and ran it over his body before reaching for his tunic. Should he tell Telemachus? He’d likely only press Felix even moreto join their impossible cause, but how could he know these things and remain silent?
“Medicus,” Ignacio called. “Did the Amazon go to you?”
“No.” He pulled the tunic over his head. “I only treated the one gladiatrix.”
Ignacio cursed, brow wrinkling. “Will you check her arm? The Strix wasn’t easy on her, Tigris either, and I fear it affected her head.”
A chorus of laughter erupted over the last part. “Whatwasshe thinking?” another magister chuckled.
Any other time he might have welcomed the request. Now it chafed. An obstacle between him and... whatever a meeting with Telemachus would bring. Still, he gave a nod.
“I’ll go now.”
Jovan followed him out. “How is the Gaul?”
Felix shrugged. “Stable for now. I fear he will have a long recovery, but as long as infection stays at bay—”
“How long?”
“Several months.”
Jovan cursed and shook his head. “That’s too long, Felix.”
“He’s strong—”
“He’s Visigoth.” The flat tone with which Jovan spoke explained more than his words. Felix could fill in the rest. The Gaul wouldn’t be fully recovered in time to participate in the Victory Games. And even if he was, he’d likely be killed anyway. “Best take care of him now.”
“I...” Felix frowned. “I am.”
“No.” Jovan pressed his lips together and flicked his finger along his throat in a gesture Felix knew too well. “Take care of him. We don’t need to waste funds keeping him alive only to have him lose his match at the games. I would sooner kill our weaklings myself than have them shame me by dying in public.” With a nod ensuring Felix understoodhis orders, Jovan strode toward his office, robe flapping around his heels.
“But that’s murder.” The words were out before Felix could stop them.
Jovan stopped and turned. “He’s a slave, Felix. An investment. And when investments fail, we cut them loose.”
The gladiatrix was a mess. Everything was a mess.
Felix stepped into the cell and eased his bag to the floor, well out of reach of the woman collapsed face down across the sleeping couch, covered in a tangle of loose hair. He’d left the trainers in the baths, discussing, in derogatory terms, nameless women who didn’t know their place. He couldn’t leave fast enough. First the games, then the Gaul, now—he felt sick. How could he stay here, continue in this work? He could no longer justify it as saving lives. He needed to speak with Telemachus. And yet, what could he possibly suggest? There was no way out of the ludus. For any of them.
Felix cleared his throat and let his feet scuff the floor as he approached the form sprawled across the bed. “Adelgard?”
