“Mortal combat at the games is not Jovan’s decision,” he offered. A paltry comfort when it would not change anything. Jovan had still ordered the death of her friend.
“What do you need me for?”
He could see the questions and confusion churning in her face.
“I... can get her out of here,” he whispered. His words seemed to register in her expression with the same clarity as Greek. “But she will not go unless you allow her to.”
“Go?” She stopped. “What will you do with her?”
“Bring her to friends who will watch over her until she is well enough to go home.”
“You will bring her home?” The last word broke on her tongue.
Felix lowered his chin in a nod.
“Why?”
“Because it is the right thing to do.”
Uncertainty and desperation warred in her expression. The desire to trust him overpowered by her guarded heart.
“I have friends, friends who are liberators.” He spoke the last word on the back of a breath, mouthed more than spoken. “And we can save her from this place.”
“Liberators?” she repeated in a murmur, as if questioning that such a thing could exist.
He gave a nod and remained silent, letting her take it in before adding more pieces. About the Gaul.
She blinked at his revelation. “He wasn’t dead?”
“No.”
Adel searched his eyes as if for a fissure. Something that would betray his unbelievable confession. Make him a liar. She shook her head and turned away, raking her fingers into her hair.
“Why would you do this? Why risk everything for... for us?” she murmured. “It makes no sense to me.”
“Not everyone wants to take advantage—”
She spun back. “How do I know that? Can you prove to me that you are what you say? I have been lied to more times than I care to count. So you must understand why I will not blindly trust you now.”
He let out a slow breath and lowered his voice. “I have not lied to you. Not once. And if I was trying to steal Ilona for my own purposes, I certainly would not have risked telling you. But murder is not an option for me, so you can ease her mind about abandoning you and the others and let her go home in peace, or she will go home wracked with guilt.Either way she’s leaving.” He should have told her more, explained about Telemachus, and Alaric’s threat to the city, but it was enough that she brushed past him and went to Ilona. He waited near the door while they spoke in low tones. When he looked up, Adel was marching toward him like a warrior to battle, her face set and determined. He was glad he would never have to face her in an arena.
“Fine,” she hissed, eyes blazing as she stopped toe to toe with him. Her voice dropped to a crackling whisper. “But if you’re lying to me—”
“You’ll hurt me in violent ways, I know,” he cut her off with a slight smile. “I would expect nothing less from you.”
Adel stared at him, bottom lip rolling between her teeth in a look of uncharacteristic uncertainty that sent a rush of longing through him to be the one she could rely on and trust.
She allowed a slight nod. “As long as you’re aware of that.”
The wind roared through the darkened courtyard below, snapping at the blanket Adel had tied to the bars over her window to break the draft. She paced, as much in agitation as to keep warm. Were the walls closing in? Could she still take the same number of steps to get from one side to the other? Any moment there would be an uproar. An alarm sounding outside. She tugged at the blanket and peered down into the courtyard. Nothing. Silence.
If she’d had any doubts about Felix’s claims regarding Ignacio’s draughts, the way the other gladiatrices started coming down with Berit’s symptoms throughout the day had put them to rest. Dreda and the Hildas had demanded the potion, and when Felix refused, they’d gone to Ignacio instead. They’d trained that afternoon better than they ever had—or perhaps it was she who’d grown worse as a headache bloomed behind her eyes. It chafed that Felix was right. That Jovan, her trainers, the ludus... They only cared for her needs because of what shegave in return. The knowledge raced inside her now like a wild thing, trapped. Circling, clawing at the walls of her mind. But what could be done about it?
She tugged the cover back over the window, her tiny lamp guttering in the frosty breeze. She pushed it closer to the cracked cup where the little seedling hung its limp head. It was too cold. Too dry. The thing was fragile and could not survive in a place like this. She’d carefully tended and watered it, willed it to live, and yet it seemed to only wilt further.
Don’t give up.
“It is not so bad here,” she whispered to the seedling like she might encourage the other women. As if, with enough inspiration, the plant might find the will to live along with her. Even so, her voice rasped in a tone more desperate to believe than assure. The stem drooped under the tender brush of her finger.
