He shuffled his feet, sliding further ahead in the line snaking through the plaza around the amphitheatre. He tugged the hood of his cloak down farther over his face. He could easily feign chill; the winter breath of the first day of Ianuarius carried no hint of comfort. It would be a cold day in the stands. The plaza swarmed with merchants selling hot spiced wine and steaming bags of roasted nuts. The scents were familiar and made his stomach churn with memories. None of them good. He couldnearly hear the stands echoing with his name, see the blood edging the tip of his gladius. But the crumpled body he saw in his mind was not that of a fallen gladiator, but of his father.
Lord, forgive me. Have mercy on me.
He’d had his glory days in the sun. He’d had his hands in the making of this day.
And God be his help, he would have his hands in the undoing.
“One, please,” he murmured to the ticket hawker at the gate.
The man eyed him but said nothing as he slid a worn wooden tile across the table. “Down this hall,” he said with a jerk of one thumb over his shoulder. “Through gate nineteen and up to row thirty-seven.”
His throat closed over a reply, and he could not utter a thank-you. He only nodded, palmed the tile, and rushed inside before he could change his mind and leave. The entrance arched far over his head as he entered and pressed through the crowds, not toward his seat but toward the emperor’s balcony, draped with purple bunting and green laurel garlands. Honorius might not agree to see him, but he had to try. One last time.
The halls of the amphitheatre towered high and echoing. Covered in frescoes and carvings of men and beasts locked in perpetual animosity. Could this place be different? Changed? Filled with hallowed silence for the souls lost here? Must it forever be known as a place of blades and blood? Or might that only be perspective? This day it would all change. One way or another.
Let it be so.
XXXVII
HE WOULD DIE THIS DAY.
As the costumer finished—all too soon—that was the only thought left running through Felix’s mind. He was going to die. By the sword or embarrassment, he wasn’t certain. When he’d gone to Telemachus and vowed to do whatever it took to save the Visigoth captives, he hadn’t anticipated that it would involve wearing nothing but a loincloth in public. And a shiny gold one, at that.
His one consolation was that his family wouldn’t have to see him like this. Oppia would waste no time in telling everyone. The thought brought a smile, however short-lived, drowned quickly by regret. He’d never get to walk into church with Oppia, or see Cassia come out of her shell, or discover if Ilias would actually marry his “bald and eyebrowless” sister with the big heart. He’d sent a goodbye message with the monk-guard but hadn’t received a reply. Would Mater be disappointed in him, when his decision to return to the ludus had resulted in this? And Pater—he should have forgiven him. All the way. Face-to-face. Why had he been so stubborn?
God, forgive me. Can you use me still? Even though my stubbornness and need for control brought me to this moment? Can you redeem my poor decisions? Use this moment to end this evil?
Felix lifted his chin. There was no room for regret now, only clearheaded courage.Lord let my life—and death—count for something. Give us wisdom. Grant us success.
He’d not seen Adel since the two of them had been hauled out of the punishment cells early that morning and marched in chained rows with the other gladiators through the tunnels and into the bowels of the Flavian Amphitheatre. He’d been on the hunt from that moment, for guards and amphitheatre workers with freshly shaved heads and tanned crowns. He’d spotted several, and they’d buoyed his hope.
Then began the anxious milling about as costumers outfitted them all one by one. Word of the plan spread among the Visigoth fighters in murmurs and whispers. Expectation thrummed in the air through sharp looks and tiny nods. As far as they knew, all was in place. The games would start as they always did, with morning beast hunts followed by a few of the lower-ranking pairs of fighters to buffer the cleaning of the sand before the better matches. The noon execution matches between the lowest-ranking gladiators pitted against unarmed criminals signaled a break for the spectators who filed from the stands to flood the food vendors in the piazza. Once stomachs were satiated, the better gladiator matches were held, followed by the pinnacle event: the battle reenactment.
“You’re done.” The costumer prodded Felix away from the table of linens.
Felix hesitated. “Are you certain there isn’t supposed to be a”—he ran a hand down his chest—“a cloak or a tunic, or...”
“Acloak?” The costumer frowned. “That’ll get you killed out there.”
Wasn’t that the point of all of this? Felix turned away to rejoin the other gladiators similarly “costumed” and stretching in preparation for their matches.
The costumer rechecked his list. “Ohhhh,you’re supposed to be—Wait. I do have something else for you.” He turned and dug through the pile of linens.
Felix felt the tightness in his chest release just a little. Then the costumer straightened and turned, holding up a fluttering swath of sheer saffron-colored cloth covered in red blotches. Not opaque enough for clothing, nor big enough for a cloak. So much for something with a little more coverage.
“Here you are.”
“What is this for?”
“It’s Thisbe’s veil. You’re going to hold it and wave it at the crowd so they know you’re supposed to be Pyramus.”
So the game master had been convinced to go through with the story after all. His muscles clenched again.
“Yes, yes. Keep that pained expression. Perfect.” The costumer pressed the “bloodied” veil into his hand. “Hold the end like this and it will flow so beautifully behind the chariot. Excellent. You’re done.”
Felix turned away, fighting to ignore the sickening flip in his stomach, the acid snaking up his throat. Did no one care that lives would end today? That hundreds of men and women made in the image of God would be forced to send each other to meet Him—ready, or likely, not?
He rubbed the sleepless grit from his eyes and joined the throng of fighters in elaborate costumes clustered at the far end of the room. There’d been no rest for him nor Adel to find last night. He’d listened to her sighs and the rustle of her rolling over all night. Doubtless she heard his own. It had been easier to have hope when it was the two of them talking. And now in the daylight, the smell of sweat and fear clogging his nostrils, doubts crept in. Was all in place? There was no way to know for certain. All they had now was to trust and forge ahead. To hold back now would only end in certain disaster.
