by Tanya Bird
‘Lugula!’ they continued to shout.
Sabina shook her head. ‘Lady Prisca wrote every detail down. It’s all there. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Remus’s fist collided with the wall. ‘It won’t matter!’
There was only one thing to be done.
He turned towards the arena—and ran.
Severus stood at the edge of the podium, looking about and listening.
‘Lugula!’ the people shouted.
Mila watched Hebe’s chest rise and fall, eyes struggling to remain open. She kept her sword steady, the tip pressed to Hebe’s neck while she waited for the emperor to decide the woman’s fate. He had one arm outstretched, observing the reaction of the crowd, wanting the people to feel heard. The entire amphitheatre vibrated.
Kill her.
The woman had fought well, but she was a Spaniard, and the people felt no attachment to her.
The emperor’s thumb turned up, like the thrust of a sword. The crowd responded with cheers and clapping. Mila stared down at the woman, a fallen goddess at her feet. The sword shook in her hand, and she wondered if she would be able to finish what she had started—what she had promised.
She had tried to imagine the moment, every detail, playing the scene over and over in her mind more times than she cared to admit. She had sat in the kitchen and watched Germana slice through raw meat with a sharp knife, imagining the animal’s heartbeat slowing, its lungs emptying.
She had thought she was ready.
She pulled Hebe up by the arm into a seated position. The woman slumped against Mila’s leg and coughed, blood spraying from her open mouth. Her injuries were worse than Mila had realised. She recalled the dog she and Nerva had found as children, the one hit by a cart and left to die. Nerva had broken its neck and Mila had let him, knowing the animal was better off. Was this the same? Was she just putting an end to the pain?
‘Mila!’
She blinked and the sword wavered. For a moment she thought she could hear Remus calling to her. What would he think of all this? Yes, he would be grateful that she had lived, but would he look at her differently? Treat her like a killer?
‘Mila, stop!’
She shook her head, trying to focus on the task. Raising her sword, she stared at the throbbing spot on the woman’s neck that she would pierce. Hebe’s breaths shortened, the noise distracting her.
That was when she noticed the small scar above the woman’s breastplate.
‘No! Mila, put the sword down!’
She blinked, certain she was seeing and hearing things.
‘Mila!’
She looked up then, wanting to prove to herself that Remus was not there. But to her surprise, he was, sprinting across the sand towards her.
‘It is all right,’ said the woman at her feet, her voice like splintered wood. ‘Listen to that crowd. It is glorious.’
Mila released her grip and staggered back. Hebe collapsed onto the sand, coughing and gasping. She looked up at Remus, who was shaking his head at her.
Hebe’s breathing turned to a wheeze as Remus skidded to a halt next to her, falling onto the sand and pulling the helmet from her head.
Mila’s sword fell to the ground and her insides coiled like a snake. She looked down at her empty hands, unsure whose blood was on them.
The guards who had chased Remus across the sand arrived the same time as the referee. They all stared down at a blood-soaked Lady Prisca Fadius. She was dying.
‘Someone get a physician!’ Remus shouted. ‘And find Jovian Fadius.’
The men turned and ran towards the podium where the emperor remained on his feet, watching.
Mila fell to her knees and crawled towards them, every movement an effort. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, almost pleading. Who was she speaking to?
When she reached Prisca, she lifted her domina’s head and cradled it in her lap. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said again, shaking her head at her own stupidity. Now that she did know, she wondered how she had not seen it from the beginning. She had been a pawn in an elaborate suicide.
Prisca stared up at her. Her skin had turned grey. ‘It was everything I imagined.’ Her breathing softened. No more choking or coughing, no more gasping. Her chest went still. Mila stared at it, waiting for it to expand. She blinked and tears escaped, falling into her domina’s hair. She looked up at Remus, but he was staring at the sand. He raised a fist and punched the ground.
‘I didn’t know. I swear it.’ She needed him to look at her, needed to see he believed her.
He raised his eyes, his expression as broken as her own. ‘I know. But they’ll never believe you.’
The crowd had grown quiet, watching as Jovian Fadius marched across the sand towards his dead wife. Remus continued to stare at Mila.
‘You’ll be put to death for this,’ he said, glancing at the sword laying behind Mila.
Mila turned to look at the weapon. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Whatever you are thinking, stop.’ She could see he was torn between good sense and his desire to protect her.
Before he could reply, Jovian Fadius came to a stop beside them. He did not bend to his wife, simply looked at her, his expression collapsing for a moment before he gained control again. Remus stood. Mila gently lay her domina’s head on the sand and did the same.
‘What is this?’ Jovian said, trying to process the sight in front of him. ‘What have you done to my wife?’ His eyes went to Mila, filled with accusation.
Remus spoke up. ‘She didn’t know. Your wife’s slave, Sabina, came to me just moments ago. As soon as I realised, I stopped the fight. I was too late.’
Jovian kept his blazing eyes on Mila. ‘You killed my wife. The mother of my sons. Your own domina,’ he hissed.
‘She didn’t know,’ Remus repeated, louder that time. ‘Sabina will tell you.’
Something in his tone made Mila doubt that. As if on cue, a guard arrived, whispering to Jovian. Sabina was already dead. The past few weeks, she had not been readying for Mila’s death but her own.
It was all there now, in plain sight.
Jovian shook his head and looked at Mila. ‘Arrest the girl.’
‘No!’ Remus said. ‘Your wife wanted Mila freed if she won—and she won.’
Jovian turned to Remus, almost laughing. He pointed at Mila. ‘That slave is my property, and she is not free unless I say so.’
Remus fought to calm himself. ‘I swear before all the gods, she didn’t know. Your wife kept the entire thing secret.’
Jovian glared at him, mouth trembling. ‘I am well aware of my wife’s secrets.’
Remus shook his head and stepped back. When the two guards stepped forwards to take Mila, he swooped to collect the sword behind him, fixing his gaze on Jovian.
‘Remus,’ she pleaded. She thought back to the hardest times in her life and could not remember ever having begged for anything. But she would beg for him.
The sound of her voice stopped him. He looked at her, ignoring the third guard who had drawn his sword, ready to protect Jovian if need be. She held his gaze until he eventually looked down at the weapon in his hand. He flipped it, catching it by the blade, and held it out for Jovian to take.
‘Your wife’s sword’ was all he said.
The senator stared at it for a moment before reaching out and taking it from him.
As Mila was led away, she glanced back at Remus. All of their plans were dead on the sand between them.
‘Remember your promise,’ she called to him.
Chapter 28
Mila thought Jovian Fadius would place her under house arrest. She had seen the dungeon door near the stables, heard slaves being thrown in there when they needed reminding of their place.
But she did not return to the Fadius household. Instead, she was taken to Mamertine Prison inside the Comitium at the foot of Capitoline Hill, a dark dungeon twelve feet underground. Mila was dropped through the hole where she landed in a crouch, her legs exhausted. The smell of death and human
waste made her cover her mouth. She peered around the dark space, her stomach heaving in protest. The iron grid was replaced above her, broken light painting the filthy floor.
There was a reason she had never met anyone who had spent time in Mamertine—they were never released. Any who died inside were simply thrown into the sewer that ran below the prison. She suspected some of the bodies scattered around would soon join them.
As her eyes adjusted, she saw a young girl in a filthy red toga. The other prisoners appeared to be men. One had been stripped naked, likely dead.
No noble person would be held in such a place.
The room was cold, and when night came and the adrenaline wore off, she would feel it. She suddenly remembered she was wearing nothing but a breastplate, loincloth and a layer of sand. Her armour had been taken from her.
‘Do you have any food?’
Mila turned to the young girl crouched against the wall a short distance away, looking at her. She was frail, and her eyes reminded Mila of the hunting dogs she had seen as a girl—unhinged and hungry. She could not have been more than seventeen.
‘No,’ Mila replied, remaining where she was. She studied the girl in the dark, watched as her head fell back against the wall, staring back at her like a wary cat.
‘You a gladiator?’
Mila nodded. What other answer was there? ‘Yes.’
The girl pushed hair back from her face, and Mila noticed a tattoo on her forehead: FUR. Thief. A common punishment for slaves caught stealing.
‘When was the last time you ate?’
The girl thought for a moment. ‘Days, I think. It’s always so dark. I can’t tell.’ Her eyes moved over Mila. ‘Why you in here?’
The answer seemed ridiculous. ‘I accidentally killed my domina.’
The girl gave a sharp laugh, life flashing momentarily on her hollow face. She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them. ‘You’ll die for that. Not quietly—they’ll make a big show of it. Can’t have slaves thinking they can get away with murder.’
Mila swallowed. ‘What is your name?’
‘Tacita.’
She nodded at the tattoo on her head. ‘What did you steal?’
Tacita rolled her bare feet on the ground. ‘I didn’t steal, really. I was collecting from a customer who didn’t want to pay.’
‘Pay for what?’
A pause. ‘Me.’
Mila’s gaze fell. ‘He raped you?’
Another laugh. ‘It’s not rape when you’re a whore.’ She gestured to the door above. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘The guards?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Everyone.’
‘Not everyone.’
Tacita pointed to her forehead. ‘This is what they did the first time. The next time they put me in here.’
Mila sat down, wrapping her arms about her knees. ‘Have they sentenced you?’
The girl just stared. ‘Sure feels like they have. Probably forgot I’m here. Who’s going to remember the young whore with the hideous face?’
Mila would—for whatever time she had left. ‘Do you have family?’
The girl chewed on a fingernail. ‘It was just me and my brother. He was a legionnaire. Used to send money, and when the money stopped, I knew he was dead.’
‘I am sorry.’
It was a common story. Young girls did what they could to get by. Once you registered with a brothel, you were a prostitute for the rest of your life, so many took to the streets alone, telling themselves it would just be for a little while, until they found other employment or a husband.
‘You should try to sleep as much as possible,’ Tacita said, lying down on the cold floor. ‘It helps pass the time and stops the hunger.’
Mila buried her face in her knees. ‘I am not hungry.’
The girl closed her eyes. ‘Not yet.’
Aside from an occasional cough or groan from a person she had assumed dead, the room was still. Mila stared up at the light above her, imagining her mother and sister learning the news. She had been the better fighter. She had worked so hard to ensure she had won. She had a plan, a promise, and she should have been free.
Prisca had used her to end the life she despised. A woman with wealth and influence, two healthy sons, and every comfort she could desire. But below all that was resentment, discontent, and a gladiator’s heart. At some point in her life, she had chosen something different than the life laid out for her, the life everyone had told her was enough. As much as Mila wanted to hate her for it, she understood. They had both been fighting for something more, wanting to take charge of their own fates. And the price of rebellion was death.
‘Mila.’
She opened her eyes, taking in her surroundings. The air did not seem so putrid after breathing it for hours. She moved, suddenly aware of her aching limbs, every muscle in her body complaining. Too much fighting, too much cold. A stone bed had not helped matters. Her eyes sank shut.
‘Mila.’
Her eyes snapped open and she looked up, pale light streaking her face.
‘Remus?’ Her voice was hoarse. She focused on his worried face visible through the bars. Remus. She sat up, wincing as she straightened her neck. Scrambling to her feet, she noticed Nero crouched beside him. ‘I cannot believe they let you through.’
‘Albaus knows one of the guards. They didn’t exactly ask questions.’
They stared at one another. Remus’s eyes were enclosed by dark circles.
‘Have you… spoken to my mother? To Dulcia?’
He shook his head. ‘I called by the house but Nerva’s still in Antium with his father. Aquila wouldn’t see me.’
Mila fought back tears. ‘Aquila would have heard the news by now. I doubt she will even send word.’ She thought for a moment. ‘It is better this way. The news will be hard on Nerva.’ She found a smile for Nero. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.
His fingers wrapped the iron. ‘Sabina’s dead.’
Mila swallowed. ‘You must be hurting a lot.’
He just stared at her for a moment. ‘Will they hang you?’
Remus put a hand on Nero’s shoulder. ‘Go and wait with Albaus. I’ll be there in a moment.’
The boy glanced once at Mila as he stood. She smiled at him, doing her best to appear brave.
When they were alone, Remus said, ‘I’ve visited all the schools, trying to find out who trained Prisca. Someone did. She’d never have fought unprepared.’
‘I see it all so differently now, all the signs, all the clues. Everything so blatant.’
‘Whoever helped her isn’t talking. They’ve been paid too well.’
‘It does not matter now.’
‘We could prove that she wanted it kept secret.’
‘Jovian Fadius does not care. He already knows the truth.’
Remus began pulling items from secret pockets. ‘Catch,’ he said, pushing them between the gaps in the iron bars.
Food rained down on her. A few small loaves, an apple, some salted pork wrapped in wax paper. And a palla, stuffed through a gap a few inches at a time until it floated down to her. She wrapped it around her cold skin, keeping hold of the food as best she could. ‘No lemon tart?’ she asked, attempting a smile.
‘We ate them on the way here.’
A genuine smile that time. He stared down at her, and his expression made her chest hurt.
‘You have to go soon?’
He nodded, then retrieved a waterskin. It did not fit between the bars, so he emptied some water from it before sliding it through. Balancing everything in one arm, she caught it with her free hand.
‘Make sure every man in there knows you’re a gladiator. They might think twice about stealing your food.’
Mila glanced around. Tacita’s starved eyes were indeed fixed on her. One man had sat up for the first time since her arrival, but he did not look strong enough to actually stand. The others remained asleep or dead.
‘Don’t drink the water they bring,
’ Remus continued. ‘Use it to wash.’
He remained where he was. She wished she could reach up and touch his face, have his warm arms wrap her for just a moment.
Someone called his name and he looked away, nodded.
‘Got to go,’ he said.
She really did not want him to leave, but she did not want to make a show of the fact either. It would make things worse for both of them. ‘Is there any word on sentencing?’
He shook his head. She shivered, and the apple fell from her hand and rolled a short distance before being snatched up by Tacita.
Remus cursed.
‘What is the best outcome I can hope for?’ Mila asked, not caring about the apple.
He shifted above her. ‘Best? You walk free. If I can just get my hands on those papers—’
‘Remus,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘What is the most realistic outcome I can hope for?’
He swallowed. ‘A swift death, and the rest of the house pardoned.’
Her knees gave out and she collapsed, somehow managing to keep hold of the food.
‘Mila,’ he called, gripping the iron bars. ‘There’s still time—’
‘It is bad enough that I will die due to my own stupidity, but to punish an entire household…’
He blinked. ‘It’s likely some of them knew.’
She looked up. ‘So they should die?’
‘No—’
She lowered her gaze. ‘You should leave Rome, at least until this all passes. I cannot be responsible for your death too.’ She spoke through her fingers, holding in tears. ‘Promise me you will forget about the papers and stay away from Jovian Fadius.’ Her face was wet now. ‘Promise me!’
His fist collided with the iron grid, and she jumped. He cursed and shook his hand.
‘What would you do?’ he asked her, his voice breaking. ‘If you were me, what would you do?’
Tacita had already finished the entire apple. She sat eyeing the bread. Mila lay her free hand flat on the ground, her nails pressing into the stone until pain shot up her fingers.
