She took a step. Then another and another until she was running straight at him. Teeth bared. Sword drawn.
Lord, have mercy.
Felix had seen her angry—violent, even—but never armed and heading straight for him. The effect was terrifying. No wonder she had the record she did. He tried to shout—call her name, warn her—something. The gag muffled everything but a groan that echoed in the helmet. It took every ounce of strength he had to stay where he was. To not take a step back. The crowd would call for his blood if he showed the slightest hint of cowardice. And yet, what was the alternative? Kill or be killed.That was the game. And there was only one option open to him. If Adel was going to leave this arena alive, she would have to be the victor.
His pulse hammered in his ears. This was the moment.
Felix raised his gladius, saluted the crowd, and turned to face his gladiatrix.
XXXIX
STAY ALIVE.
The gladiator appeared between a plaster boulder and a fake tree, walking in a way that betrayed his panic and confusion. Was he angry at the prospect of fighting a woman?
She sized him up out of the corner of her eye as she reached for a pink rose and held it to her nose. He was tall. Broad shouldered and well-built. Armored with the manica, greaves strapped to both legs, and small round buckler that hailed him a hoplomachus—though his helmet was a simple, smooth dome with small eyeholes. The wrong helmet for a hoplomachus, which meant he was strong, probably a good fighter, and they had handicapped his vision to give her an advantage. She, on the other hand, had no helmet, giving her full range of vision—and no protection.
She would have to draw on every ounce of endurance she had. His impaired sight would be her one advantage over him. Her pulse ticked faster.
Beneath the layer of stained sand, the wooden floor of the stage rumbled from the machinery below, preparing for something bigger than this fight. She was only meant to keep the crowds entertained whilethe stage was set for the main event. The humiliation and defeat of her people.
What was her life worth? A few moments’ distraction between sets? She swallowed down the burn of betrayal and tried to fan it into anger. It lay at the bottom of her belly, an ember of sadness that did nothing to fuel her limbs. Her gaze shifted to the crowd, the roar of excitement lowering to a grumble at the slow start of this match. After all this time, after all the world had been through, was this really the height of civilization? To eat sweets and drink wine while slaves fought each other to death? Was this the mark of a Christian empire? Of Christian citizens, who either partook in the spectacle or turned too-pious eyes away from it?
The low cacophony of the crowd slowly gathered into a unified pulse, a throbbing beat, begun by a single person and spreading until the whole arena was chanting her name in unison.
“Am-a-zon! Am-a-zon!”
If one person could affect a crowd like this, was it so far-fetched to believe one person could change bigger things? She sucked in a steadying breath, possibility beginning a slow swell.
Yes.
She took one step toward her opponent, and then another.
Wind roared in her ears as she ran at the gladiator, the lines of well-defined muscle coming into view with a familiar clarity that struck her just in time. Injustice burned in her throat with the realization that she’d been wrong about the game masters. They had not meant for her to die in this match. They’d meant for her to kill Felix.
She raised her gladius, and brought it crashing down on her opponent’s sword.
The clang of metal on metal brought the stands to instant silence. Arm reverberating from the blow, Adel took a step back and looked at her blade. They’d given her another false gladius. But why? If they’dwanted her to kill him? The blade was still intact, but wobbling. It would remain whole for a few more blows, but not many.
Felix was slow to react to the attack, grunting and groaning, sounds muffled by the crowd and the helmet. His chest rose and fell with a quickness that was going to leave him fainting in the sand if he didn’t calm down.
Sand shifted beneath her feet and Adel leaped aside as a trapdoor dropped into the hypogeum. She blocked two half-hearted strikes and spun, forcing Felix to move as a plaster boulder rolled onto the arena floor, followed by several bushes. More trapdoors lowered, more boulders emerged. Posts shot up from the ground, climbed by slaves and topped with crowns of palm branches to form trees. In moments, she was surrounded by a faux forest.
The stands rumbled with excitement.
Felix was panicking. She swung and he miscalculated, her blade coming down on the padded manica covering his forearm. He grunted and jerked back.
“Don’t—” Adel reached toward him—as if to what? Help him? She yanked her hand away. “They will hate you if you shrink back.”
He renewed his grip, and came at her again. She sidestepped the swing and twisted behind him, kicking the back of his leg. He stumbled forward and spun, flinging his gladius toward her. Her own sword met it with a clatter. The blade rattled, loose against the grip.
Something was changing in the crowd, murmurs that sounded of boredom. She felt the shift as surely as one felt the chill of the sun dropping behind a cloud.
Another trapdoor dropped somewhere behind her, but this time, instead of scenery, a rumbling snarl emerged, lifting the hair on her neck. Adel spun in time to see a tawny body hurl itself from the darkness of the hypogeum and land with a spray of sand. A scream lodged in herthroat, strangled into a sharp cry as Felix grabbed her arm and threw her behind him. Sand bit into her knee and hip, burned against her elbow.
A chain clicked.
She gripped her sword and pushed to her feet as the lion jerked to a halt, held at bay by an iron chain. It paced only a few feet away, swiping at Felix. The crowd was roaring now. On its feet.
