Felix frowned. That wasn’t right. The magistrates were too high on power to release it so easily. That was not how Roman justice worked. A thrum of panic ran through his limbs.
His punishment. In the hands of his uncle Jovan and Blandus Albus? The slow realization washed over him. There hadn’t been a formal complaint to the magistrates, Blandus Albus was simply taking matters into his own hands. His eyes went to the gate, guarded now by four men. Who would ever know? If Pater came looking for him, Jovan would simply say Felix had gone home last night, as usual. Pater would search the alleys and find no body. Felix would simply disappear. Circumstances beyond his control. Like pater like son.
The dread building in his chest confirmed the answer to the question burning on his tongue anyway. “And that punishment will be...?”
The guard prodded them into the bright sunlight of the training courtyard, thick with a morning chill.
“Welcome to the Ludus Gallicus. You’ll be training for the Victory Games under Dante and Nova.” The guard lifted a hand and pointed toward the hoplomachus quadrant, though he needn’t. Felix knew the trainers. And he also knew hoplomachi were not novice fighters. No one who faced the double-curved-sword-wielding dimachaerus did so without months of training. This was a death sentence. And there was no way out.
Adel smeared sweat from her cheek and moved toward the fountain to get a drink. Her muscles quivered, though she hadn’t been training long.
“After your drink, head to the palus and practice striking and raising the scutum over your head.”
Though it would help build her stamina for the games, the thought of whacking her gladius against the wooden pole for hours on end seemed yet one more punishment—especially with the game master present in the stands today, scratching notes on a tablet as he watched them train.Every so often he would point out a fighter and lean to whisper something to an adviser seated beside him. If they were choosing pairs for the games, she would not impress them, fighting a wooden pole like this. But perhaps that had been Jovan’s plan.
Dreda and Tilla met her at the fountain, Dreda’s eyes locked on the hoplomachi quadrant even as she leaned toward Adel. “Why is the medicus out here? Not that I mind—just look at him...” She sighed.
Adel shrugged and tipped the communal cup into the fountain, bringing it to her lips. She’d tried not to look in Felix’s direction, afraid of what her expression might reveal. Jovan must have told the trainers to put him through the hardest of training as an extra punishment. He’d be sore tonight. Unable to move tomorrow.
“Perhaps he volunteered,” Tilla suggested.
“Why?” Dreda’s lip curled slightly, as if Felix had suddenly grown less handsome for his lack of sense. “He seems a decent man. I’d hate to see him die.”
Adel dipped her hands and arms in the fountain, rinsing off a layer of grime and sweat. Buying time. “He did not volunteer.”
Dreda’s chin lowered, her eyes sparking with excitement. “You know what he did, then? Why didn’t you say so?”
She swallowed and dropped her voice. “He rescued the Gaul and Ilona.” Remorse swept over her that Berit had not been rescued. She sought Berit out, lifting weights as a trainer barked at her to move faster.
“They’re dead.”
“That is what he made us think so he could rescue them.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because as you said, he is a decent man.”
“Decent men do not risk their lives for slaves,” Tilla scoffed.
“He did.” Adel glanced toward Ignacio, who jerked a thumb toward the palus in aget goingmotion. She gave a nod and spoke as quicklyas Dreda. “He confirmed what Wulfula said. The games will be mortal combat. If you want to walk away from the arena, you must not lose.”
Tilla stared at her, eyes sparking with the anger the game masters knew would heighten the tension, make for a more enjoyable show. “That is the plan?”
“Can you think of another way to survive?”
Ignacio barked at her to hurry and Adel pushed away from the fountain. “Winning is the only thing we can do.”
Sweat stung his eyes. Felix swiped his clammy forearm over his brow, earning a snarl from the magister standing over him.
“Do that in the ring, and you’re dead. Do you think your opponent is going to wait for you to wipe your pretty face?”
The end of a wooden gladius jabbed his gut before Felix could swing his own to block the blow. He bit back a grunt at the dull throb of pain and renewed his attack against the dented wooden pole standing in the quadrant of weights. Despite growing up in a family of lanistae, it was clear within a few minutes of being in the hoplomachus ring that Felix needed to begin with the basics. How to hold a gladius, how to swing.
The hits against an immovable post jarred his joints, though the magister assured him he would appreciate it when the time came to swing at a man.What hurts now will be strength later.
Good advice on many levels. So long as one allowed hurt to strengthen and not fester.
Conviction struck more swiftly than any sword. Cleaving at his heart. He hadn’t exactly done that when his father disappeared—nor when he returned. His hurt, disillusionment, and anger had festered into a bitter unforgiveness. Weak and unbecoming. Perhaps that was the reason he’d striven to free the gladiators. Why he could not bear tosee Adel trapped by her own bitterness and hurt. Because he had been trapped too, and there had been no one to rescue him.
