and Arius leaped with him, smashing his sword hilt into the Greek’s nose. The Greek toppled, and they rolled in a flaying tangle across the courtyard. Arius got his hands around a sweating throat, gritty with sand—
Kill him. Kill him.
“That’s enough, dear boy.”
He blinked.
“Save yourself,” Gallus said languidly from the shade of the doorway. “I want you fresh for the Romani games in September.”
Finger by finger Arius unlocked his hands. Sat back. Rolled to his feet. He was bathed in sweat.
“You bastard,” the Greek growled, “you broke my nose!”
Kill him , the demon whispered inside Arius’s head. You want to. Kill him.
He turned his back and walked away. All along the courtyard he could feel the sour eyes of the other fighters. On the street side, on the other side of the bars, were the curious stares of passersby. He wondered how long it had been since he had lived without strangers watching.
There was no wind, but the sweat on Arius’s skin had already evaporated. A violent pang of homesickness stabbed him, a longing for cool rains and green hills, for sweet mists that kissed the skin and soft winds rustling in the oak groves. He was tired of barren skies and hot, lifeless air. The heat would wither him into a dry soulless husk long before he ever grew old.
He turned away, aiming a vicious swipe at the air. A crowd had already gathered at the side of the courtyard, peering through the bars and laying bets.
Kill them.
He was about to turn back into the barracks when he caught sight of Thea through the bars. She was standing at the corner of the courtyard, a little apart from the crowd, a basket balanced on her narrow hip and a rope of dark hair hanging over one shoulder. On her way to the forum, probably. But pausing—pausing and watching him with her grave, quiet gaze. He gazed back. She had one of those damn bandages around her wrist again.
He didn’t know why—but he brought up his sword and saluted her.
Hail , he heard the gladiators roar out in his head. We salute you from death’s shadow.
He swung the blade in a graceful arc, halting the point a quivering inch from the sand, then followed through with a thrust at an imaginary enemy, a dodge back, a turn and then a feint. A slow and elegant dance with the sword, the sun heating his back, the sand gritting under his feet, every muscle in his body flowing as smoothly as warm honey. Thea’s eyes never turned away.
Show-off , sneered the little black demon.
He whirled, bringing the sword high over his head and slamming it deep into the sand. It vibrated back and forth, the hilt humming under his hands, and he turned his eyes to Thea’s.
The crowd was applauding, but the sound was far away. He had made her smile.
A NOTHER letter from my mistress.” Thea lifted her brows. “Do you care if I read it? You know what she sounds like by now.”
He shrugged, struggling to thread a needle he’d borrowed from a slave. The sleeve of his tunic had a jagged tear.
“I won’t bother, then.” Thea folded her arms around her own waist. “Any reply? She keeps asking me peevishly why you don’t say anything.”
“She’s got eyes like a ferret. Tell her I said that.”
Thea’s face opened up into laughter. “She’d slap me senseless, but it would be worth it.”
A little silence. Arius got the needle threaded, tugging his torn sleeve across his arm where he could get at it. “Surely the slaves do that for you,” Thea observed.
Arius shrugged again. “I hate asking Gallus for anything.”
“Then you’ll need to learn to mend properly. You’re going about it all wrong, you know.”
Arius found himself laughing. Rustily. “Never learned to sew.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“All right.” For the first time he took her into his little cell, watching her touch the stone wall, the back of a chair, the rough blanket on the bed. “What?”
“It’s not what I expected. Austere.” She turned, letting out another
Kill him. Kill him.
“That’s enough, dear boy.”
He blinked.
“Save yourself,” Gallus said languidly from the shade of the doorway. “I want you fresh for the Romani games in September.”
Finger by finger Arius unlocked his hands. Sat back. Rolled to his feet. He was bathed in sweat.
“You bastard,” the Greek growled, “you broke my nose!”
Kill him , the demon whispered inside Arius’s head. You want to. Kill him.
He turned his back and walked away. All along the courtyard he could feel the sour eyes of the other fighters. On the street side, on the other side of the bars, were the curious stares of passersby. He wondered how long it had been since he had lived without strangers watching.
There was no wind, but the sweat on Arius’s skin had already evaporated. A violent pang of homesickness stabbed him, a longing for cool rains and green hills, for sweet mists that kissed the skin and soft winds rustling in the oak groves. He was tired of barren skies and hot, lifeless air. The heat would wither him into a dry soulless husk long before he ever grew old.
He turned away, aiming a vicious swipe at the air. A crowd had already gathered at the side of the courtyard, peering through the bars and laying bets.
Kill them.
He was about to turn back into the barracks when he caught sight of Thea through the bars. She was standing at the corner of the courtyard, a little apart from the crowd, a basket balanced on her narrow hip and a rope of dark hair hanging over one shoulder. On her way to the forum, probably. But pausing—pausing and watching him with her grave, quiet gaze. He gazed back. She had one of those damn bandages around her wrist again.
He didn’t know why—but he brought up his sword and saluted her.
Hail , he heard the gladiators roar out in his head. We salute you from death’s shadow.
He swung the blade in a graceful arc, halting the point a quivering inch from the sand, then followed through with a thrust at an imaginary enemy, a dodge back, a turn and then a feint. A slow and elegant dance with the sword, the sun heating his back, the sand gritting under his feet, every muscle in his body flowing as smoothly as warm honey. Thea’s eyes never turned away.
Show-off , sneered the little black demon.
He whirled, bringing the sword high over his head and slamming it deep into the sand. It vibrated back and forth, the hilt humming under his hands, and he turned his eyes to Thea’s.
The crowd was applauding, but the sound was far away. He had made her smile.
A NOTHER letter from my mistress.” Thea lifted her brows. “Do you care if I read it? You know what she sounds like by now.”
He shrugged, struggling to thread a needle he’d borrowed from a slave. The sleeve of his tunic had a jagged tear.
“I won’t bother, then.” Thea folded her arms around her own waist. “Any reply? She keeps asking me peevishly why you don’t say anything.”
“She’s got eyes like a ferret. Tell her I said that.”
Thea’s face opened up into laughter. “She’d slap me senseless, but it would be worth it.”
A little silence. Arius got the needle threaded, tugging his torn sleeve across his arm where he could get at it. “Surely the slaves do that for you,” Thea observed.
Arius shrugged again. “I hate asking Gallus for anything.”
“Then you’ll need to learn to mend properly. You’re going about it all wrong, you know.”
Arius found himself laughing. Rustily. “Never learned to sew.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“All right.” For the first time he took her into his little cell, watching her touch the stone wall, the back of a chair, the rough blanket on the bed. “What?”
“It’s not what I expected. Austere.” She turned, letting out another
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