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represent, in small scale, the makeup of the two sides as they stood in the civil conflict, the Sertorian Blood Hawks and their allied houses versus the Viridian Golden Wolves and theirs. The team that won in the arena won the whole ball of waxâvictory in the war, ownership of the contested ice world, continued membership in the Council of Great Housesâeverything. The losing house would be outcast, decimated and banished to the galactic frontier, stripped of influence and resources so as to never again disturb the Pax Romana, the emperorâs peace. There was, and never had been, a greater prize to be won in the arena. For me it meant not only a chance to kill the Sertorians responsible for the deaths of my loved ones, but the added bonus of bringing down their entire house, cutting it out of Roman life root and branch.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
T HE CHANGE ROOMS STANK of blood and sweat. Nervously excited hopefuls prepared for matches, while the defeated, including those wounded by my cousin Darius and the Sertorian hammer fighter Lurco, were being treated by physicians.
When I first heard the emperorâs announcement that the games would decide the fate of the empire I was elated. It seemed like divine providence. Iâd already built up enough points in the arena to qualify for the Golden Wolves and turned all my efforts to getting on the team. A one-off opportunity for me to right the wrongs visited against me by right of arms.
I unslung my weapon case and removed my armilla and stola. My costume went over the top of my base-layer fighting outfit, that of a provocator, a legionary soldierâs armor with the minimum of weightâgolden breastplate, dark green leather gloves and boots, a manica that ran from the wrist to the shoulder of my discus-wielding arm, and a helmet capped with two feathers, one on either side, to symbolize swiftness. As I was a woman and therefore forbidden to fight as a soldier, Iâd decided to dress as one in the arena. Less armor and more mobility allowed me to focus on a strong offense, and in green and gold, there was no one watching who could doubt that I was a fighting Viridian. Then came the band of five short tassels tucked into my bracers.
More than fifty victories to my name, but I fell short of being awarded the sixth tassel, indicating the highest grade of gladiatorâprimus paulusâbecause none of my fellow gladiators had died at my hands in the arena. When there were enough bloody victories to my name, the committee would be forced to grant me a sixth. I tied my hair back tight. No hair in my face, nothing that might give Marcus the edge.
My instructors at the Academy had taught me that if I knew the enemy and knew myself, then Iâd never be defeated. What did I really know about Marcus? He was a plebeian member of House Calpurnian, an ally of my own house and therefore an enemy of House Sertorian. What I knew about Marcus I had pieced together from the stories other gladiators told and historical records Iâd accessed via the vox populi. He never spoke about his past to me or, as far as I knew, to anyone else.
Marcus had lied about his age and joined the legion at fifteen, fighting on a dozen barbarian worlds between Mother Earth and the imperial frontier. There was even a rumor heâd spent a year in a Sertorian hard labor camp on suspicion of espionage. By the time he was in his thirties, he had more medals than you could pin on his chest, had attained the rank of centurion, and was assigned to the Praetorian Guard, which would ordinarily be a high honor and an easy commission, except he found himself close to the emperor Julius Heliogabalus in his final years, when the old man was at his most unstable and unpredictable.
It so happened that the emperor had seen Amphiara Calpurnius Merga (reputedly the most beautiful woman in Mare Byzantium province and a skilled huntress to boot) display her skills in marksmanship, and he
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
T HE CHANGE ROOMS STANK of blood and sweat. Nervously excited hopefuls prepared for matches, while the defeated, including those wounded by my cousin Darius and the Sertorian hammer fighter Lurco, were being treated by physicians.
When I first heard the emperorâs announcement that the games would decide the fate of the empire I was elated. It seemed like divine providence. Iâd already built up enough points in the arena to qualify for the Golden Wolves and turned all my efforts to getting on the team. A one-off opportunity for me to right the wrongs visited against me by right of arms.
I unslung my weapon case and removed my armilla and stola. My costume went over the top of my base-layer fighting outfit, that of a provocator, a legionary soldierâs armor with the minimum of weightâgolden breastplate, dark green leather gloves and boots, a manica that ran from the wrist to the shoulder of my discus-wielding arm, and a helmet capped with two feathers, one on either side, to symbolize swiftness. As I was a woman and therefore forbidden to fight as a soldier, Iâd decided to dress as one in the arena. Less armor and more mobility allowed me to focus on a strong offense, and in green and gold, there was no one watching who could doubt that I was a fighting Viridian. Then came the band of five short tassels tucked into my bracers.
More than fifty victories to my name, but I fell short of being awarded the sixth tassel, indicating the highest grade of gladiatorâprimus paulusâbecause none of my fellow gladiators had died at my hands in the arena. When there were enough bloody victories to my name, the committee would be forced to grant me a sixth. I tied my hair back tight. No hair in my face, nothing that might give Marcus the edge.
My instructors at the Academy had taught me that if I knew the enemy and knew myself, then Iâd never be defeated. What did I really know about Marcus? He was a plebeian member of House Calpurnian, an ally of my own house and therefore an enemy of House Sertorian. What I knew about Marcus I had pieced together from the stories other gladiators told and historical records Iâd accessed via the vox populi. He never spoke about his past to me or, as far as I knew, to anyone else.
Marcus had lied about his age and joined the legion at fifteen, fighting on a dozen barbarian worlds between Mother Earth and the imperial frontier. There was even a rumor heâd spent a year in a Sertorian hard labor camp on suspicion of espionage. By the time he was in his thirties, he had more medals than you could pin on his chest, had attained the rank of centurion, and was assigned to the Praetorian Guard, which would ordinarily be a high honor and an easy commission, except he found himself close to the emperor Julius Heliogabalus in his final years, when the old man was at his most unstable and unpredictable.
It so happened that the emperor had seen Amphiara Calpurnius Merga (reputedly the most beautiful woman in Mare Byzantium province and a skilled huntress to boot) display her skills in marksmanship, and he
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