There was a time for words.
And there was a time when words were not enough.
He couldn’t tell the moment his feet began to move, to cross the box toward the balcony that overlooked the arena, only that by the time he noticed, he was running. Pushing past a slave carrying a tray of warmedwine, the way was finally clear. He could not sit by another moment. Not another moment. He could not witness more death.
Lord help me. I cannot.
There was no plan. No strategy this time. Only a flood of peace and that deep-seated knowing that had drawn him to Rome at the first. He need not fear the man he’d been. He was not the Battering Ram of the East anymore, no longer controlled by the violence of his bitterness. It was love, not rage that compelled him now.
Telemachus reached the low wall of the emperor’s box, and before anyone could stop him, he hurdled over the side and dropped into the ring below.
Sand stung his palms, his face, his eyes. Pain shot up his wrists and into his knees, but he pushed himself to his feet and rocked forward. Fire ignited in his chest. He’d known all along he would fight one last battle in Rome, and now... now he knew what that meant.
This ended now.
XLII
FELIX BURST ONTO THE ARENA,the sounds of battle crashing in his ears, his heart thundering in his chest. How had they miscalculated so terribly? To miss such a horrific possibility? Where was Adel? It was impossible to tell in the melee. In the shouts, the screams, the whirling red and green and blue.
A gladiator in blue went down in front of him, a pugio thrust in his gut. The red-clad Thracian facing him tore the dagger free and turned away, leaving the man on his knees in the sand.
Felix rushed to him, catching him as he fell back. “Ruso.”
The provocator from the Gallic School looked up at him in confusion. “Medicus? What are you—” His face contorted.
“Don’t move. Stay still...” Felix laid him back and scanned the sand around him. A bit of fabric torn from a red costume lay abandoned a few feet away. He scrambled to retrieve it and pressed it against the wound in Ruso’s abdomen.
“Don’t bother,” Ruso groaned. “I’m a dead man.”
“Not dead yet. Where there is breath, there is hope.”
“Hope for what?”
“That things can still change.”
Ruso shook his head. “It’s too late for change.”
“I don’t believe that.” Felix reached for Ruso’s hand and pressed it over the rag. “Hold this here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To help where I can.”
“Take my sword, then. And my shield.”
Felix hesitated but one glance up told him he’d never make it to Adel without some sort of defense. He gathered the gladius and scutum and pushed to his feet.
“Be careful, medicus. And, thank you.”
Felix scanned the arena, the blur of bodies and colors obscuring identification—but there. A flash of pale green and loose hair caught his eye. And he ran. Dodging a murmillo engaged with a scissor and two crupellari doing their best not to fall over in their plate armor while fighting. It might have been amusing if it weren’t deadly.
He rounded a plaster boulder and leaped a “fallen log,” angling for the place he’d seen her last. A shield thudded against his back, throwing him forward into the sand. Pain shot through his abdomen as grit stung his eyes, screeched between his teeth. He sucked in a grounding breath and blinked, catching a glimpse of Adel through the dance of bodies and swirling sand. Standing with her back to him, sword raised in defense. Before she could swing, her body jerked, the glint of a bloodied blade protruding from her back.
His vision seemed to blur, the roar of the crowd fading to a hum as the red bloom spread over her tunic. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.
He shoved to his feet, barreling forward with the anger of a penned bull.
He ducked past the net of a retiarius, Adel’s scream echoing in his ears, tearing at his heart. After all he’d promised her, this was not howit was supposed to end. Adel stumbled and sank to her knees and Felix was nearly to her when another body slammed into his, throwing him to the dust once more. The gladius flew from his grip. He kicked and rolled, throwing both his assailant and his shield off him. He crawled to Adel, swallowing back the burn rising in his throat as he lifted her into his arms and moved to brush back the hair tangled around her face. He froze at the coldness of a blade pressed to his neck.
