“My head,” Ilona whispered, squeezing Adel’s hand tighter.
“Anything else?”
The compassion in his tone and eyes should not have made Adel want to yank Ilona off the table and out of his gentle touch. God forgive her. Where had that come from?
Ignacio nudged Felix’s shoulder. “This is all she needs.” He held out a cup.
Felix twisted to look. “What is that?”
“A bit of sleeping draught.”
“Where did you get that?” Felix held out a hand, waggling his fingers toward the cup.
Ignacio hesitated, then moved it toward Felix’s nose. “I made it.”
Felix inhaled. “Wine and—”
“Opium,” Ignacio supplied. “Just a pinch.”
“Not necessary.” Felix turned back to Ilona. “She needs rest, Ignacio, not—”
“But it does help,” Adel broke in. “With pain and sleep. Let her have it.”
Felix’s gaze jerked to hers, shock and then understanding slackening his expression. “You take it?”
She nodded.
He pushed to his feet and twisted toward Ignacio, questioning him rather than her. “How much? For how long?” His voice wavered in anger and his fingers curled.
“The magistri have given it for centuries.” Ignacio shrugged. “There are times when it is needed to keep our fighters in the ring. And sometimes it is best for... Well, the Amazon is not the most...” He circled a hand as if searching for a word. “Calm.”
She squinted as if to argue, but kept her mouth shut rather than prove him right.
Felix gritted his teeth. “Perhaps we ought to keep each other informed of this. We wouldn’t want to overdo it and send another fighter to the underworld.”
Another? She ran the disappearances through her mind. Was that where the others had disappeared to? Victims of Ignacio’s potions, rather than Blandus Albus’s money troubles?
Ignacio raised his hands in mock surrender and gave a nod that carried as much understanding as condescension. “Only trying to help.” He looked at Adel and jerked his head toward the door. “Back to the ring.”
The evening light was fading quickly. He didn’t have much time. Felix drew in a steadying breath. It wasn’t every day a man attempted to steal an imperial slave out of one of the most fortified buildings in Rome. One that was inhabited and guarded by men who knew dozens of ways to kill a man. Slowly. And with much flair. He was thankful the gladiatrix had been asleep and hadn’t witnessed what he’d done to her fellow patient.
A bead of sweat trickled down Felix’s temple despite the chill in the air. Noting the blood still ringing his thumbnail, he pressed a wide cork disc over the mouth of the jar he held and took a deep breath. Now or never. He strode from the clinic, turning to close the door behindhim. His eye caught on the blood-stained sheet covering the still body beneath.
“Rest well, friend,” he whispered, and shut the door. Straightening his shoulders, he quickened his pace, angling for the office across the courtyard. No one was about this time of day, the gladiators divided between the triclinium for their evening gruel or the baths, fighting for the hot water.
Steam flowed out of the bathhouse door as a slave exited, arms laden with soiled training clothes. Felix skirted him and turned the corner where a row of closed doors faced the training courtyard and the colonnade overhead framed the lanista’s office door at the far end.
Nervous energy laced his limbs though he’d made the trek countless times. His fingers tightened around the red-glazed jar. The pottery was warm, from his hands or what it contained, he wasn’t sure.
God, give me wisdom.He didn’t dare utter the prayer aloud, but nor did he dare enter Jovan’s office without it.
An impatient “Enter!” answered his knock.
Felix entered quickly, shutting the door behind him, barring their conversation within walls covered in painted reliefs of famous gladiatorial matches. He let out a breath as he turned back to his uncle.
Jovan’s gaze lowered to the jar in his hands, his chin slowly tilting to one side in question. “Is it done?”
Felix swallowed and stepped toward the desk with a facade of confidence he didn’t quite feel. “It is.”
