Her eyes traveled to the small cluster of men with Jovan. Felix stood rigid, holding his forearm in a white-knuckled grip and somehow managing to look determined and sick at the same time. He moved to flank Jovan, tension in his steps. She could well recognize the gait of a man trying desperately not to flee. It was written all over him. Had he made a mistake? Was he afraid he’d find himself the battered victim of the Gaul’s friends? Irritation flared that she’d even sought him out.
Blandus Albus gestured for Jovan to speak. The ludus owner’s name matched his appearance perfectly. Tonight he’d wrapped himself in awhite cloak and tunic, and now attempted to turn his bulging lips into the shape of mournful solemnity.
“We gather to honor a gladiator, a hero, a brother,” Jovan said, raising his voice and the jar. “The Gaul was the best of men, of fighters. Brave and bold. We will feel the emptiness of his seat at the table, the space where he should stand in our arena.” His hand swung toward the training ring.
A few nodded, murmuring assent.
“And though he died, yet he will live in our hearts and in the strength we use to fight at the Ludus Magnus in two weeks!”
A rumble went through the crowd of fighters. A stamping of feet and thumping of chests.
“We will show the other ludi that they may try to steal the lives of our best, but they will never take our spirits.”
Louder shouts. More stomping. Tilla and Dreda jostled Adel between their shoulders as they raised fists in a cheer.
Strength and valor.
Death and honor.
Jovan continued to speak of lofty things. Of the immortality of honor and acts of valor. But all Adel could see was the jar in his hand. The death inside.
The only certain thing.
“Where have you been?” Adel asked over the rim of her mug, as Dreda joined the table of gladiatrices eating the solemnmunerameal of barley cakes and beer. The triclinium buzzed with heat and voices, more crowded than usual now that everyone had been crammed inside after the ceremony, instead of divided into the alternating groups of bathers and eaters.
Dreda had disappeared in the muddle of bodies after the gathering and now, as she dropped into her place, Adel’s gaze caught on a newly darkening bruise on her cheekbone.
“What happened?”
Dreda snagged Tilla’s mug, scowling to find it empty. “Nothing,” she growled.
“Your face tells a different story.” Anger kindled in Adel’s chest. She glanced about the room, trying and failing to discover who else had been missing besides Dreda. Impossible to tell.
Dreda gritted her teeth. “I said it wasnothing.”
The table went quiet at the venom in her tone. Tilla flagged a slave with an amphora who refilled her mug. She pushed it in front of Dreda, who downed it in silence.
“Have you heard anything about Ilona?” Berit sidled close, her voice small against the din.
Adel reached for a barley cake from a platter in the center of the table and took a bite. “Nothing since I brought her to the medicus.” He had not released her back into the courtyard all afternoon, and even now, she was absent.
“Will he be good to her?” Berit’s concern for her cellmate was admirable, but Adel resisted the urge to tell her not to get attached to a friend. How many gladiatrices had they lost in the time she’d been here? Three? Four?
“He is not the cruel sort,” she replied instead. “Ilona is in good hands.” Kind, capable hands... hands that had been strangely tense and fidgety during the ceremony. Adel glanced around the room, noting that Felix was absent from the ludus staff clustered around the room. Her gaze flicked again to Dreda’s bruise. He was not to blame for that.
“I hope it’s nothing that will keep her away long,” Berit murmured.
“I disagree.”
Adel felt her jaw going tight as she turned toward the voice.
“I hope that girl doesn’t recover her full strength.” Wulfula stood at the head of their table, mug in hand, a cold, satisfied grin firmly in place. “She’s a curvy one. Even if she has lice.”
“You are a pig, Wulfula.” Adel spat the words like a raw olive.
Wulfula drained the rest of his mug. “There’s no need to be jealous, Adelgard. There’s enough of me to go around, isn’t there?” He sent a pointed look toward Dreda, who looked away as if she hadn’t heard the suggestion or threat. He chuckled and downed his drink, slamming the empty mug onto a nearby table.
“Nothing matters anyway,” he muttered. “The games are set for death matches.”
