The guard withdrew his arm, though he hovered close. Adel elbowed him back. “I can do it.”
With a nod, the guard stepped in front of her and barked, “Make way.” He shoved a path through the gaping crowd as Ignacio shouted behind them about interference, and the lady of the domus shrieked that she’d been promised there would be no blood on her floors.
Evening air washed over Adel as they rushed through the front garden toward the gate, the coolness heavy with the scents of cedar and stone pine. Adel’s heart had taken up residence in her arm, throbbing with each beat, every footstep. Her gut heaved again and this time she pitched toward the edge of the path, dropping to her knees to empty her stomach beside a bed of scarlet geraniums. The flowers drew her eye,balls of bright flame against the dark foliage. Her breath hitched. Were they truly so bright? Or did they only seem so against the darkness?
“Come on.” The guard’s hands tucked into her armpits again.
As he hauled her to her feet, Adel shoved her fingers into the flowers, tightening around several spear-shaped seed pods. They snapped free in her grip, and she kept her fist balled around them as the guard drew her back to the path and to the gate while Sergius marched ahead—on rather unsteady feet. “Is the litter still outside?” he slurred.
“Should be,” the guard answered.
A wide-eyed servant stationed at the gate swung it open to reveal at least a dozen sedan chairs waiting in the street, surrounded by crowds of litter-bearers and attendants.
Adel’s knees wobbled as her guardians urged her toward the nondescript litter hung with plain brown curtains. She’d never ridden in it before. A ride back to the Ludus Gallicus in the chair meant injury. Failure.
She shook her head. “I can walk. I do not need the litter.” Something hot pulsed down her arm. Dripped from her fingers. Adel dared her first look.
Even in the dimness of evening she could see the bandage was soaked with blood. Running down her arm. Streaking her bare leg and dotting the short skirt of her green costume.
“I am... fine.”
“Now isn’t the time to be stubborn.” Sergius elbowed back the curtain, and the guard twisted her inside, pushing her down on the wooden seat. He backed out to allow a view of the medicus, crouching on the ground where he dug through his bag.
“Drink this. You wasted the first dose in the garden.” He pushed a bottle to her lips with a bruising force.
Adel swallowed the bitter liquid, gagging as Sergius tucked the bottle back in his bag and drew out a bandage.
“I lost.” She stared over his bent head at the domus gate where Vesuvia and her handler had yet to emerge. They wouldn’t be coming out any time soon. Vesuvia would be paraded around the party, receiving coins and gifts from adoring fans. She would feast at the table with the hosts, eating far better fare than they served at the ludus. Adel knew this because in the past, it had always been her.
“A stupid mistake.” Sergius wrapped another band of cloth tightly around her bicep. “You best pray the gods show mercy or you may never fight again.”
His words struck fear to her core. Not fight again? It was incomprehensible. The only way to stop fighting forever was to prove herself worthy and earn a place among the magistri—or die trying. To be unable to even try... That offered a fate worse than death. She tried to respond, to argue that she had to fight, that there was no other option for her, but her mouth felt odd and heavy, words slurring.
He tied a knot in the bandage, tightening it with a tug that sent a lightning bolt of pain through her arm. She swung without thinking, her fist meeting his jaw in a blow that sent him sprawling in the street.
In an instant, one of the guards ducked inside the curtain, gripping her ankles and locking them into the shackles mounted to the litter. As if that would keep her fists contained.
“He’s trying to help you,” he growled.
Sergius spat and cursed, holding his jaw. “Hades take you, barbarian,” he muttered, glowering at her as the other guard pulled him to his feet. “You will pay for this.”
II
SHIFTING A CLANKING BUNDLEunder his arm, Felix slipped into the line snaking inside the corner eatery’s open-front shop and leaned to peer around the shoulder of the man in front of him. The line was surprisingly long for a late-week special of “goat” stew that perfumed the air with something pungent and spicy but didn’t quite cover the hint of rancidity. But he wasn’t here for the food.
Thankfully.
Nothing out of place on the cross street. No men resembling Atlas or a bear, at any rate. He let out a breath. All clear.
Felix wasn’t a coward. Everyone had things they wanted to avoid now and then. But for him, thenow and thenhad begun happening at an everyday rate. And he didn’t have the time or money for it. He eased out of line and into the street once more. He was growing as paranoid as the creditors were frustrated.
He tucked the bundle tighter under his arm and set off at a jog, grateful the trek from the blade sharpener on Caelian Hill to the entertainment district was nearly all downhill. The street narrowed, crowdedon his right by the Ludus Matutinus where thebestiariiandvenatoregladiators trained to fight wild beasts—or beasts taught to appear wild. At this time of evening, the animals were quiet, but carts lined the streets, some hauling in straw and crates of chickens, and others waiting to be filled with animal waste. No use holding his breath—the odors of the Ludus Matutinus polluted the air for blocks.
On his left, in odd juxtaposition—or perhaps compensation—the Temple of the Divine Claudius towered atop a marble-encased platform fifteen meters high, deeply shadowing the street and buildings opposite. In the spring, the top of the platform burst with trees and flowering bushes that miraculously overpowered even the stench of the Ludus Matutinus. Not so on the cusp of winter. A pool ran up the street along the entire base of the platform wall, interspersed with carved fountains. In the summer they offered a welcome respite from the heat and in the fall were clogged with rotting leaves.
Nearly there.
Ahead, in the gaping mouth of the street, the stacked arches of the Flavian Amphitheatre shone golden in the setting sun. Gilded statues, shining travertine, and marble disguised a theatre of death as a gleaming spectacle of beauty. But that was the hallmark of Rome. Never calling things what they truly were. Theatre of Marcellus, Circus Maximus, Flavian Amphitheatre—all long, flowery names for places that offered the ability to witness murder, and cheer it on. The Baths of Decius, a respectable name for a place that offered foot fungus as well as a shave. And then there was the Minotaur’s Table, an ancient establishment providing both meat and hair in the same pie. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Well, perhaps the last one was aptly named.
