“What do you mean?” His stomach dropped. “It’s mortal combat; the victor lives.”
The cart stopped just inside the gate, which clanged shut. “Didn’t you notice the battle scene they set up?” The slaves slouched against the wall, catching their breath and watching the arena.
The short one smeared a hand beneath his nose. “They’re reenacting Pollentia.”
Of course he knew that. But why it mattered for Adel, he couldn’t fathom.
“It’s a battle to the death, to execute all the Visigoth captives. The only victor today is Rome.”
His pulse began to pound, thundering in his ears, his limbs. No. That could not be true. Could not be happening. They had not planned for this. Execution of all Visigoth captives had not even been a consideration.
The blast of trumpets silenced the crowd and drew the cheers to a vibrating hum of anticipation.
Felix started to sit up but stopped when the blade in his ribs burned. He flopped back, probing the spot with his fingers. He’d not bothered telling Adel that the blade had not collapsed all the way. She’d not havereacted well. Or, at least he hoped she wouldn’t. He pulled the blade free and tossed it aside, pressing his palm over the spot.
The screech and clang of gates opening around the arena echoed into the death gate tunnel. Unarmored gladiators spilled into the arena, dressed in furs and earthy shades of blue and green. A small force of fighters who moved toward the center, movements sharp and tight with anger or fear. On the opposite side of the arena, other gates swung open, a tripled force of gladiators—captives and slaves from other regions—spilled onto the sand to face the Visigoths, heavily armed and dressed in the brass and scarlet of Rome. There would be a battle, but there was no way for the Visigoths to survive it.
“Let me back in.” Felix shoved to his feet.
The slaves jerked away from the wall. “You can’t go back.”
“I have to go back.” Ignoring the pain in his side, he pushed toward the gate. Where was Adel? He’d lost track of her in the flood of other fighters. Panic lit through him. There was no chance he was leaving her out there.
He rattled the gate. It didn’t budge.
“Let me back in.” Why did they bother securing a gate that only bodies were dragged through?
“You can’t go back. No one ever goes back.”
“Of course they don’t,” he snapped and spun. “Because they’re dead. Look at me! Do I look dead to you?” He dropped his voice and took a slow step toward them. “Open. That. Gate.”
Two sets of eyes widened and one of the men lifted a finger to point. “It’s not locked. Just lift the latch.”
XL
THE CHEERS OF THE CROWDsoon drowned in the groan and clank of gates and the high, tinny blasts of trumpets signaling the next act. The lions had been retracted back into the hypogeum, their task completed, and Adel needed to get off the sand. She scanned the edge of the arena for the green pennant of the Ludus Gallicus hanging beside her gate and saw nothing. Perhaps the fighters were not distinguished by their schools today. A thunder of footsteps pounded into the arena behind her. Adel spun toward the sound, gladius lowering to a ready position, her pulse kicking into a quick rhythm mirroring the oncoming feet. She needed to leave before she was caught up in—
Metal glinted within the leather and fur and the flash of dull blue and green fabric.
Her breath caught at the sight of her people. Running toward her in an oddly jumbled military formation. As if they were leaderless and disjointed—but more likely because they’d been ordered onto the arena with little instruction on what to do when they got there. The battle reenactment was beginning, yet, as the Visigoth “army” approached thecenter of the arena, and she recognized the faces beneath the fur-trimmed helmets, she realized with a gathering dread that the rescue plan had saved a few, but not many. And that this was no mere reenactment.
“Adelgard!” A familiar shout came from within the horde, just as more gates clanged and screeched to her right, releasing a throng of gladiators in brass, and silver, and crimson.
Adel’s heart hammered in her throat, memories of that Easter morning flashing in her mind. The smoke and blood. The screams. On the cusp of battle once more, caught between two armies, she would not make it to her gate. She had not been meant to.
“Adel!” The shout broke through again and this time Tilla emerged with it, weaving between two Visigoth gladiators Adel did not recognize, and running toward her.
Dread sank her gut. “What are you doing here?” Adel called, running to meet her. “I thought you were with Brunhilda.”
Tilla grasped her arms and shook her head, terror in her eyes and a bruise blooming on her jaw. “Other guards found us. Adel, this battle—it is execution.”
She should not have felt the shock of it, the way her breath left her chest anxious for another. Of course it was execution. This day, these games, this battle—they were Rome’s celebration of victory, public humiliation of the defeated. What else were Victory Games for but to allow the emperor to defeat his enemies once and for all?
But there was no time to dwell on it. As quickly as Felix had fallen, the battle for life began. The clash of sword on scutum. Gladius against gladius. Shouts and grunts.
Any compassion the crowd might have felt for her and Felix dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. The moment a new fight began, the star-crossed lovers in the sand were all but forgotten with the prospect of battle and blood. Hope snuffed out with a breath. A burn started at the base of Adel’s ribcage, swelling toward her throat. Was a life trulyworth so little? What would it take to awaken their consciences? Their true compassion and remorse?
A gladiator in a scarlet loincloth leaped over a plaster boulder and landed in the sand two spear lengths away, his gaze locked on her. Dressed in the colors of Rome and the armor of a murmillo, he represented his empire. And she was dead.
