My sister Sorcha’s voice echoed in my mind: “Weapon or target . . . Choose, Fallon!”
Weapon.
With a snarl, I ducked low beneath the whistling swipe of Meriel’s trident and, with a distinctly un-defensive move, batted it from her fist with the edge of my shield. The tactic would have left me wide open for a thrust, except that her spear was tumbling through the air and landed far from her reach.
Now I have a weapon, and she doesn’t—
Wrong. The net in her other hand whipped forward like a living extension of her arm. The lead weights at its corners stung painfully as the thing tangled around my legs and I went down in a heap for a second time. I was angry enough to beat Meriel. I just wasn’t strong enough.
She snorted. “You’ll never win a bout the way you fight.”
I bit back a retort and kicked at the hemp snare.
“At least you bruise pretty colors, gladiolus,” Meriel said, snapping the net out from under me with a flick of her wrist, leaving stripes of angry purple welts on my legs. “That ought to get the crowd’s attention. Assuming you ever make it to a real arena.”
She grinned and bent down to pick up her trident and, slinging it over her shoulder, walked away. Whistling.
The crowd of other girls broke up and went back to their own practice, all except Nyx. In the short time I’d been at the Ludus Achillea, I’d noticed that she seemed to be the nominal leader among a group of the academy’s “veteran” students. Veterans like Meriel. We were of a similar age, I reckoned, and from what I’d heard in passing, I knew Nyx had been virtually raised at the academy from the time she was nine years old, an orphan of Greek peasants killed in a tribal raid.
As one of the senior gladiatrices, she often acted as a kind of lieutenant to Thalestris, drawing up sparring-partner lists and scheduling drills, and so far, on her watch, I’d faced off against most of the academy’s toughest fighters—even in my less than optimal condition. By comparison, the other girls who’d arrived only a few weeks earlier than me hadn’t even really started sparring yet. They were still doing basic strength and agility drills, facing off mostly against practice dummies. It was either a testament to my obvious if rusty skills . . . or an attempt to cull the weakest member of the herd.
Nyx leaned against a practice post, arms crossed, watching me as I climbed wearily to my feet. Her expression was unreadable. I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or not, but I decided to find out. I took a step toward her, but Thalestris appeared in that moment, stalking back and forth across the yard with her wooden staff in hand, and I wasn’t about to bring that kind of trouble down on my head. Nyx had an ally in Thalestris, and one of the first things I’d developed on arrival at the Ludus Achillea was a healthy respect for its chief fight mistress.
The girls of the Ludus Achillea had paired off again and returned to sparring. I watched them for a moment, all so different and yet each one the same—each one striving to be the shining star in the arena—and I knew I’d been right when I’d first suspected that the ludus “sisterhood” might be a treacherous sea to navigate. Meriel, with her sea god’s trident, was a painful reminder of that. Back in Durovernum, I’d had the luxury of choosing whom I fought against, but that was clearly no longer an option. I headed toward the weapons storage building so that I could maybe find a throwing spear or a bow to practice solo with.
But I knew that eventually I was either going to have to face my fellow ludus-mates head-on or curl up like a hedgehog and let them kick me around the pitch.
Weapon or target, my sister always said.
I felt the small hairs at the nape of my neck prickle, and I suddenly remembered something else Sorcha often said. Never let down your guard until you’re off the field of battle.
Whether it was instinct, luck, or the Morrigan whispering a warning, I twisted sharply to one side just as the throwing knife spun past my ear. The point of the blade stuck in the scarred face of the wooden target ten paces in front of me. I didn’t turn to see who’d thrown it. I just kept walking and, as I passed the target, reached out and yanked the still-quivering dagger from the wood. A thin line of crimson marred its edge, and I felt the sear from where it had kissed the side of my neck. I wiped the blood off on the hem of my tunic and thrust the knife into my belt.
I had just acquired my first new possession.
• • •
That evening, I decided a good long soak was in order to soothe the bruises and muscle knots, and I shuffled wearily over to the bathhouse. The lateness of the hour meant that the only other occupants were Elka, whom I met in the dressing foyer, and Ajani, lounging on a bench in the steam of the calderium. I’d found myself watching the Nubian girl practice her archery in between my own training bouts, impressed by her sharp-eyed aim and dexterity. And her quiet confidence. Ajani was no show-off, even if she had every right to be.
I hung up my tunic on a hook and padded over to the hot pool, sinking up to my chin with a sigh that was almost a groan.
“You missed all the fun today, little fox,” Elka said as she sank down beside me and tipped her head back into the steaming water.
“Fun?” I shook my head to get the water out of one ear. “When did this so-called fun happen?”
“Just after you were finished getting pummeled all over the practice pitch by Meriel.” Elka grinned. “You left, and Nyx had a few unkind things to say about your abilities in your absence.”
I shrugged. “She probably had a point. I was terrible today.”
“The only point she has,” Elka said, “is the thorn she’s had stuck up her arse about you ever since we first got here. The gods alone know why—it’s not as if we’re the only new recruits. Anyway, I guess I just got sick of her casting an evil eye at you everywhere you went.”
I sat up, blinking away the spangles left by the steam on my eyelashes. “What did you do?” I demanded.
Her eyes widened with mock innocence. “I simply asked when Nyx was going to call off Meriel and her other attack dogs and muster up enough guts to fight you herself.” Elka stretched her arms above her head and knit her fingers together with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Oh, dear goddess,” I groaned. “You didn’t.”
“She did.”
The surface of the water rippled, and I turned, peering through the steam to see that Ajani had slipped into the pool to join us, an amused gleam in her wide, dark eyes.
“She also said that once you had finished fighting all of Nyx’s lackeys, you’d be more than happy to explain to her personally all the ways she holds a blade wrong.”
“Elka!” I gaped at her.
“Well, she does.” Elka rolled her eyes. “She hooks her thumb over the crossguard—which we both know is the best way to lose a thumb—and she’s all white knuckles. Brutish grip. No finesse.”
“Nyx didn’t take the criticism very well.” Ajani’s lilting accent gave her precise Latin a musical quality. “Started screaming in Greek about clawing Elka’s eyes out and feeding them to the stable dogs.”
“Was that what she said?” Elka asked. “I’m not up on my Greek.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I can fight my own battles.”
“I know.” She grinned. “Only, you didn’t even seem to know you had one brewing. Besides,” she continued, “someone had to liven things up around here. All we do is eat, sleep, and whack-whack-whack with wooden swords on wooden posts. At least now we’ve got something to keep us on our toes!”
“That much is for certain.” Ajani propped her elbows up on the mosaic-tiled edge of the pool and grew serious for a moment. “Elka may have actually done you a favor, Fallon. I’ve seen this kind of thing happen here before. Better to lance the boil before the infection grows too deep. Still, you should be careful. Both of you.”
I swam over to the edge of the pool and hoisted myself out of the wa
ter.
“I’m going to bed,” I said, plucking a towel from a cubbyhole in the wall. “Please try not to win me any more mortal enemies before tomorrow?”
Elka saluted me with a grin and sank beneath the surface of the lavender-scented pool. I dried off and dressed, and walked out into the darkness. The ludus guards were somewhere making their rounds, but I didn’t run across any of them. Instead, it seemed as though the academy grounds were utterly deserted. And yet, all the way back to the barracks wing, I could not ignore the feeling that I was being watched.
The sensation set my nerves jangling.
I crossed the courtyard where the moonlight-limned figure of the goddess Minerva gazed dispassionately down at me. In the darkness, I almost didn’t notice the dead crow lying at the statue’s feet. But when I got to my room, I definitely noticed the single black feather resting on my pillow.
It was stained with blood.
XVI
“GLADIOLUS!”
The mocking epithet rang out across the practice ground, and I groaned, knowing it was most likely directed at me. Again. I glanced up from stretching out my calf muscles to see Nyx crossing the sand, her long dark braids swinging behind her and Thalestris’s wooden staff slung carelessly over her shoulder.
My guts knotted in apprehension. That morning, Elka had scoffed when I told her of the crow and the feather and said I shouldn’t worry about a silly attempt to spook me. But I could tell that she was amused by the prospect of stirring up a little trouble among the other gladiatrices, whose ranks we would soon officially join. If we survived the training.
“Gladiolus!” Nyx shouted again. “You! The skinny Celt.”
I gritted my teeth. Decent food, a bed that wasn’t the floor of a cage, and an overabundance of exercise had begun to restore my body after the rigors of the slave train. But I still had a long way to go before my strength and reflexes were back to where they should have been.
“Today you’ll spar with . . .” Nyx’s gaze roamed over the ranks of the other students. “Gratia.”
I swore under my breath. Here, I thought, was my payment for Elka’s mischief. Gratia was an ox-necked thing who didn’t speak so much as she just grunted, and she handled her wooden gladius—the practice weapon meant to approximate a Roman short sword—like a stone mallet. Nyx grinned coldly at my reaction and gave me a sharp nudge with the end of her staff.
“Get going, gladiolus,” she said. “The day’s wasting away.”
I endured a round of thoroughly crushing sparring with Gratia and, after all the other girls had retired to either the dining hall or the baths, slunk off to a corner of the stable yards to sit under the noon sun and massage my aching shoulders. I sat there, staring dully at the ground and watching my shadow creep out along the ground past the edges of my toes. Gratia fought in the style of the murmillo gladiators, with sword and heavy shield. It suited her physique—and her penchant for thoughtless brutality—and made her something of a force to be reckoned with in the arena. It also compensated for her utter lack of personality.
And that was something that the masters of the ludi, the gladiatorial games, coveted above all else.
Flair.
The ludus fight instructors drilled that into us almost as much as weapons technique. Winning a fight was one thing. Winning the crowd was another. But I had yet to even settle on a particular style. Most of the new girls had already begun to discover their natural inclinations toward one style of fighting over another. Me? The sword and round shield were as familiar to me as walking, but the majority of the other gladiatrices fought that way. I’d never distinguish myself with such common methods. I could shoot a bow and drive a chariot, and I certainly threw a spear well enough . . . and I sincerely doubted whether any of the girls at the ludus could even come close to executing the Morrigan’s Flight, even Nyx. The fleeting remembrance of that morning back in the vale triggered a wave of emotions that swept over me.
I had done it. And Mael had seen me do it.
Maelgwyn Ironhand.
Lethal and beautiful, every move—every cut and thrust, slash and block and feint—had been, for him, like dancing, as if Mael had heard music no one else could. Sometimes, when I’d watched him practice with his blades, I almost thought that I could hear it too.
That music had been silent since the night he died.
On a bench near the stables, there was a stack of short wooden staves that had been roughly carved to uniform lengths and now sat waiting to be turned into practice weapons. I walked over and picked up two that looked to be of equal balance. They needed shaping, sanding, and polishing, and leather wrapped around their hilts. But, for my purposes, they’d do nicely.
I looked around to see if there was anyone to watch me. There wasn’t. The only other creature in sight was the swaybacked donkey that stood placidly munching at a hay manger. I gave him a sideways look and vowed in that moment I would learn—and not only learn, but master—the gladiatorial style of the dimachaerus: the double-sword-wielding warrior who fought with a blade in each hand.
Mael had been the Cantii equivalent of a dimachaerus, an absolute genius with two blades. Growing up, he had developed a series of drills for himself. For two years he’d tried to get me to fight two-handed with him, but I’d been happy with my sword and shield and spear. And the other young Cantii warriors soon tired of getting themselves beaten black and blue fighting against him. So, mostly, he fought the weathered stump of an ancient, lightning-blasted oak. Mael used it as a practice post, and the old forest guardian bore the scars of its encounters with his blades graciously. I thought about all the times I’d sat in the grass watching him practice, and wondered if I could reproduce those patterns from memory.
There was only one way to find out.
I walked over to the stable post and took up a ready stance in front of it. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered the rhythms, the sounds of the patterns of Mael’s drills. Then slowly, tentatively, I began to emulate them. At first, I was clumsy. Awkward. And then, gradually less so.
I could feel the heat of the sun moving across my back, shifting from one shoulder to the other before the clack-clack-clack of my swords against the stable post began to sound like something other than a demented woodpecker. I don’t know how much longer it was before I fell so deeply into the patterns that I closed my eyes and the rhythm didn’t break, or even slow down.
Left high-left side, right low-right side, left low-right side, right high-right side, sweep and switch . . .
The patterns changed and became more complex as I practiced. I felt, for the first time since the morning of the Lughnasa feast, as if Mael were right there, close enough for me to reach out and touch. I almost felt as if his spirit guided my blades for real. But when the heat of the sun on my left shoulder went cold—blotted out by a shadow—my eyes snapped open. I saw the silhouette of a crested helmet on the barn wall in front of me. Without thinking, I spun around, both wooden blades slashing horizontally through the air.
“Aiy!” Decurion Caius Varro yelped, leaping back to avoid the blows.
My momentum carried me forward, and suddenly, as if released from a spell that had kept me mesmerized as I’d practiced, I felt the full weight of exhaustion hit me. I staggered a few steps toward the Decurion, who put out a hand to stop me from falling on my face.
“Tell me,” he said after a moment, “are you going to get tired of attacking me anytime soon?”
I glared at him, silent except for the breath heaving in and out of my lungs.
“Working on that wrist strength, I see.”
“What are you doing here?” I panted.
His lip twitched with amusement. “I was watching you,” he said. “It was quite entertaining. And enlightening. I’m not sure what grudge you bear that poor stable post, but it’s obvious you have some real talent and some training.”
“S
ome,” I agreed dryly.
He nodded. “But you’re clutching your weapons too tightly. You’re sacrificing accuracy and fluidity for brute force.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed past him so I could return the wooden blanks I’d been using to the pile for finishing. But when I looked down at them, I saw that they were ruined, with the unpolished edges dented and hewed to splinters. I threw them into the basket of scrap wood beneath the table. It was possible the Decurion had a point, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.
I sat down on the bench beside the table and kneaded at the burning in my neck muscles with tingling fingers. After a moment, I realized that the Decurion was still standing there watching me. There was a look of curiosity—or maybe it was uncertainty—on his face.
“What are you really doing here, Decurion?” I asked.
He sat down on the other end of the bench and clawed at the chinstrap of his helmet, lifting it off his head. His hair was damp with sweat from the day’s hot sun and plastered to his scalp until he scrubbed his palm briskly over his head to make it bristle.
“Officially?” He shrugged. “I’m running errands on behalf of Caesar to his Lanista.”
“And unofficially?”
“Satisfying my curiosity. Or trying to . . .” He glanced over at me and paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. Then he asked, “What does a mark in the shape of a knotted triple raven mean to you?”
My breath stopped in my throat, and everything around me seemed to get very quiet. Even the singing of the birds in the trees died to silence. And in that stillness, I could hear the Morrigan’s throaty dream-voice whisper my name. Was she telling me to trust him? Or was she trying to warn me?
“Why do you ask?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he countered. “If your expression is any indication, it clearly means something.”
Of course it meant something. It was the symbol of my goddess and the brand that had marked my blade. I had no idea why he was asking, but even the way he posed the question made me cautious. I didn’t know how to answer, and so instead, I just stared at the donkey, which stared back, no help at all.
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