“As you say, my lady,” Galanta agreed, still down in her curtsy.
“Leave us,” Honoria said. “Dr. Chase and I have a ceremony to oversee.”
Galanta left without a word.
“You must excuse her,” Honoria said. “She really is a delightful companion but I’m afraid the topic of my Gladius is not a favorable one to bring up in her company. I’ve had to reprimand her for her zeal before.”
“No harm done.”
Honoria looked her over. “Quite. Shall we? Our citizens are getting impatient for the show to begin.” She motioned for Amelia to join her and they left the room side by side.
Amelia had never felt so out of place as she did in that moment, walking next to the Caesar with people staring at her as if she’d taken something that didn’t belong to her. Each and every one of their gazes slid over her, noting the absence of a pendant at her throat. As they descended down the grand staircase to street level Amelia brought her hand up to her stomach so the pendant on her wrist would be easier to see.
“Very clever,” Honoria said. “But it won’t save you if somebody is overcome with passion for you.”
“What a lovely way to put it.” Actually, it had done exactly that last night. For all the violence Rome engendered, even when mindless with an aphrodisiac, that pendant had kept everyone to each other and away from her. Apparently, some laws here were absolute. And the Romans picked and chose which ones.
“I’ve become somewhat of a word smith in my time as Caesar. It’s a necessity.”
Amelia kept looking forward, taking her cue from everyone else. “And a fairly adept strategist, socially speaking. Although I fail to see what the purpose of last night was.”
“Everyone played their parts,” Honoria replied vaguely. There was a disturbing veil of civility they were speaking through. It made Amelia think of a snake dancer. The melody was haunting, the movement of the instrument hypnotic, but the poisonous snake following both could strike with deadly precision at the slightest misstep. “I learned what I wanted to know and my goal was achieved.”
“Meaning what?”
Honoria turned to smile at her. “I wanted to see exactly how attached my Gladius has become to you. On that score alone, my dear, I should tear your heart out where you stand.”
“Our arrangement is purely physical, if that’s what worries you,” Amelia said. She delivered the line flawlessly but the words felt hollow.
“Even if that were true, you are enough of a distraction to him that I have no doubt your presence here will affect his performance. Although I must confess to some curiosity. I do not for one second believe you to be as heartless as poor, mistreated, misguided Galanta claimed. And it would take a woman completely devoid of feeling to not be moved by Gladius’ tale—which, again, you are not. So either you are hiding your feelings for him or you’ve sufficient reason to not feel for him at all. Which is it?”
What was it, a pastime for Romans to psychoanalyze her? Three telepaths and her sister hadn’t bothered asking so many questions about her emotional state. She was the one putting others under a microscope, not the other way around.
“Is there someone else?”
“Dozens,” she lied.
“Is it his scars? I’ve always been quite fascinated by them. They’re a testament to his determination.”
Maybe not all, maybe not most, but Amelia knew many of those scars could be traced directly to Honoria and Gabriel’s wanting nothing to do with her. She kept her hands flat against her thighs and bit her tongue against a scathing response. When they got out of here, Amelia would treat each and every one of those scars and make them disappear. She had the tools; it was only a matter of calibration. Gabriel would have no reminders of his stay in Rome if she had any say about it.
They entered the arena where a path had been cleared for them up a staircase to Caesar’s private balcony. The very same one Amelia had seen in the recording Gabriel had smuggled out of here. It was such a tight fit in the staircase that emerging onto the wide open platform was a shock. Going up to the railing and looking out over the vast arena, already vibrating with thousands of voices, made her speechless.
All those people, chanting together, standing as one and demanding blood. Multitudes of human beings stomping their feet and raising their voices in unison to see gladiators slaughter each other. Amelia had thought she’d seen the worst of what humanity had to offer. But this…
“Or is it because he shared with you the particulars of his contract?”
Amelia blinked, tearing her gaze away from the disturbing sight back to the Caesar.
Honoria smiled. “I see he might have failed to mention it.”
“Mention what?” She almost grated the words.
Honoria made her wait two whole minutes before she said, “Gabriel Connors’ time here is not being measured in days, but victories.”
“You mean kills,” she said, glad she hadn’t eaten anything at breakfast. She remembered Honoria’s little visit to her lab. Her parting words to Gabriel that day. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if the blood debt she’d called in might have been literal.
“You make it sound so base and vulgar,” Honoria said. “There is much more to gladiator battles than death. It’s almost an art. You’ll see.”
Amelia didn’t trust herself to answer, or look at the Caesar.
“This round of games is not just a home coming for him. It’s a sort of graduation as well. If he can manage to best three opponents his contract will be fulfilled.”
Three. He has to kill three more. How many had he killed by now?
Honoria’s mouth compressed in displeasure. “Although the stunt he pulled, leaving Rome and running to you, should be considered a breach of contract. If I choose to see it that way, his quota will be expanded indefinitely.”
Chapter 28
Minutes … hours? Couldn’t be days. Could be eternity, for all he knew. Gabriel was a shivering heap of misery on the sand, deaf and blind to everything but the acid wreaking hell on his insides. He was losing himself, part by part, inch by inch. Soon there would be nothing left of him but a shell filled with blood.
Then something changed. It was subtle, a different kind of pain that speared down his back and into his legs. His muscles contracted, curling him into a tighter ball, spine straining under the pressure. That he still had muscles was amazing. The pain concentrated, condensed, intensified in his midsection. Another contraction squeezed it even tighter. The next one would snap his neck.
Gabriel gasped a shuddering breath, wishing he could have seen Amelia one last time. Grateful she wasn’t there to see him this way. He prayed for another chance, knowing he didn’t deserve it. Just to tell her…
Another spasm made him whimper. A sound. He’d made a sound. Gabriel held as still as he could; held his breath and waited. The pain in his limbs had lessened. It was … receding? It felt as if the acid was being pushed back together, channeled somewhere else. As it shifted back from outside in, the pain coalesced in the very center of the mess his insides had become. He could wriggle his arms now and felt he had the use of his legs, though his abdomen was filled with searing hot agony that kept him immobile.
Then the burning center shifted and somehow his body felt like it was insulating itself from harm. Gabriel heaved, casting up the vile stuff, ridding himself of every last drop. It burned its way up his throat, out of his mouth but the damage was paltry compared to what the acid had already done and he healed the burns so well that by the time his muscles unlocked, Gabriel was whole again. Weak as a kitten, shaking, shell shocked, but whole.
He barely had strength enough to raise his head when he felt footsteps approaching. The animals had grown eerily quiet; he could scent their fear and confusion. He wasn’t one of them but he was close enough to be familiar. They recognized a creature in torment. Did they pity him? Were they capable of sympathy? Or was he another prey, a meal made easier because it would limp instead of running?
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Gabriel didn’t have time to dwell on it. Slaves approached. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him through the catacombs beneath the arena to the armory.
They passed the gladiator cells and each and every man stood and came forward to see him be carried past. They were silent, all of them familiar enough with the games to know now was not the time for jokes and insults. Now was when they sized each other up, committed to memory the face of every opponent, their strengths and weaknesses.
They would see him as an easy target. Good. That meant they’d fight each other first while they still had their strength. It gave him minutes more to live and recover before all hell broke loose.
The slaves dumped him on the floor of the armory. They dressed him in his own clothes, strapped on his own breastplate and leg guards. His bracers needed to be laced, which took time. But with three slaves working at them, Gabriel watched the laces slip in and out of their holes and tighten just right.
One of the helpful eunuchs settled a helmet on Gabriel’s head and handed him a pair of swords. Gabriel couldn’t hold them steady, let alone up. They clattered out of his hands.
The slaves exchanged a look. Someone removed his helmet, grasped his shoulders and made him look up. “What do you need?” He didn’t recognize the face but the voice was familiar.
“To get out of here,” he said, voice hoarse.
The man grinned. “Try something we can actually get you.”
“Water.”
An earthen jug appeared in front of him. They had to hold it up to his mouth so he could gulp down half the contents. The cool liquid soothed his ravaged throat. It revived him enough that he could sit up by himself and breathe in deep.
“How are you still alive?” one of the other two asked, baffled.
“The gods show me favor?”
The third snorted. “Yeah, right.”
The one who sounded familiar wasn’t amused. “When Soren finds out he won’t be happy.”
“Don’t plan on sticking around long enough for that,” Gabriel said. He straightened in his seat. “The woman I was with. Where is she?”
“With Caesar,” the eunuch replied. “As far as anyone can tell she has not been harmed.”
The yet remained unspoken.
Above them the hum of the crowds became a steady beat of thousands of people stomping in unison, demanding their money’s worth.
“That’s your cue, Sword of Caesar.”
They helped him to his feet. He could stand on his own now, barely, but his hands still refused to cooperate. Rather than send him out unarmed the slaves tied his swords to his hands. They pulled him aside so the others could arm and assemble. Puppets with weapons. So well trained that within moments they were lined up in two rows, all but holding hands, waiting for the doors to open and release them out to slaughter.
Sometimes Caesar felt merciful and let a handful live. This time Gabriel saw a dozen new faces, fodder for the beasts. They were the ones chosen specifically to die, only no one had bothered to tell them. There was nothing Gabriel could do for them. They wouldn’t listen, not when he was swaying on his feet like a drunk and couldn’t hold his own swords.
“Rico,” he called to one of the men at the front of the formation. He and a few others were still sane enough to know they were in hell and strong enough to look for a way out. They’d helped Gabriel escape the training rink the day he’d hitched a ride out of Rome. He was counting on them now more than ever.
The gladiator turned, face grim.
“Today’s the day.”
Rico didn’t crack a smile. “You had your day, Gladius,” he said. “You failed and we paid the price.”
Several men grunted at this. Honoria would have been livid when she found out. Had they been beaten? The punishment couldn’t have been that bad. Rico wasn’t showing any bruises or marks consistent with torture.
“You’re right,” Gabriel said. “There is no way I can ever atone for my failure. I can’t ask you to fight for me but you can spare lives. Any hand that can hold a blade at the end of the day is a victory.” The best way he knew to get back at Caesar and all her nobles was deny them what they wanted so badly—blood.
“Honoria will punish us again!” someone snarled. “Last time she had our wives whipped, what will it be next time?”
Gabriel’s stomach dropped. These men had simply created a diversion for Gabriel to slip away. Nothing more than they would have done any other day for any other guy who couldn’t wait until sunset to see his girl. And for that, their women had suffered. Probably suffered still. Honoria had struck these men where they were most vulnerable. That he bore the responsibility for their pain was unforgivable. There were no words. Nothing he could say or do would ever be enough. “I would have spared them if I knew,” he said.
“Worry for your own woman,” the one who spoke before said. “Ours live. Yours won’t.” The warning sounded so much like a threat Gabriel clutched his swords tighter.
Rico didn’t show any reaction. He was a warrior to his core and would sooner die than show weakness. He looked Gabriel over, measuring him. “Who are you fighting for, Gabriel? Do you even know?”
The faces of his friends appeared in his mind’s eye, replacing the grim expressions of the warriors lined up to slaughter each other. They were his answer.
They were a lie. And somewhere deep inside, he’d always known it.
Jack, Alex and Paige had died for Rome’s ambition. None of them would have wanted this. He’d told himself that he was avenging them. In truth, all he’d been doing was venting his rage and grief. He’d killed a hundred men in the arena, slaughtered the ones ordained to whet the others’ appetite. And when he’d gone to Caesar, knife in his bracer, thinking his contract was fulfilled, she’d told him with an indulgent smile the full terms of it.
One hundred duels.
“Any thug with a weapon can take a lesser life. You, my Gladius, are an artist. What I want from you is art.”
He hadn’t taken another life unless it was in duel. And the bitch had kept him on a fucking leash, doling them out when she saw fit, sometimes out of spite, then later to give him hope. But no matter how he entertained, how well he killed, she always chose which fights counted and which didn’t.
Who do you fight for?
With the growl of an animal kept too long by a cruel master, Gabriel silently admitted, For myself. He selfishly wanted to be free of his shackles. He wanted to stand beneath the roaring heavens as icy rain poured down on him and lightning struck all around and breathe in the freedom of it. He wanted to look at his woman and feel at peace. Gabriel had fought his way in. It had been reckless, and he’d carry the stain of it on is soul forever, but he’d done it. If there was another way out he would take it but there wasn’t.
Gabriel was going to fight his way back out.
The challenge was there in his eyes when he met Rico’s gaze again. Fight with me or don’t. But I’m getting out one way or another. The surety of that made him smile. No matter what, this fight would be his last.
Rico didn’t smile back. One nod was all he allowed. “I won’t kill unless I have to.” It was more of a concession than Gabriel had expected. Rico was a fierce fighter and he respected the man for that. For whatever reason Honoria had never pitted them against each other. Probably because she wouldn’t be able to match such a spectacle ever again. Gabriel was thankful. He never wanted to fight Rico.
A pair of fresh meats right next to Gabriel looked at each other and snorted.
He leaned toward them and warned, “Don’t make him have to.”
The crowd cheered and the gates opened. Gladiators marched out like the proper little army, taking center stage on the sand. Gabriel limped out after them, dragging his swords.
Do or die time.
*
The warriors came out, spreading into formation, a perfect square of ten by ten. One hundred men, armed to the teeth, faced the Caesar’s box, eyes straight ahead while a
ll around the arena holographic screens flashed with the face of each one, their name and statistics. Among them, the odds of winning so everyone would know exactly how much they stood to gain in a wager.
When Honoria stood, they looked up as one and thumped a fist or weapon against their chest. Their greeting rang out flawlessly synchronized. “Ave Caesar! Morituri te salutant!”
Honoria smiled. “Not exactly traditional in ancient Rome, but it certainly has a nice ring to it,” she purred. “They say, ‘Hail Caesar. We who are about to die salute you.’”
“You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”
Soren entered, taking his place by the door. He had a broken nose, but the smug look on his face made Amelia’s stomach turn. What had he done?
The general met her gaze and gave a jeering smile.
Amelia wanted to beat the smugness out of him. She bit her tongue to keep quiet. Anything she might say would amuse him that much more. He’s strong, she told herself. He’s gone through the treatment and survived; came out stronger for it. Whatever Soren can dole out Gabriel can take.
Then, He’ll come back to me. He promised.
She would not cry. Gabriel needed her to be as tough as he was.
“Look at them down there,” Honoria said, drawing her attention away from the general. “A hundred strong, all loyal to me and only me. All willing and eager to fight for me and die if I ask it. Who wouldn’t be proud?”
“A sane person, for one,” she spat the retort before she could filter her words.
Honoria didn’t seem to mind. “Sanity is so objective. All those people out there cheering their champions are living their dreams. It’s what we all strive for, even you.”
“So what happens when they wake up and all they’re left with is the blood and carnage to clean up?”
Honoria chuckled. “Who says the dream ever has to end?”
“They do,” Amelia said, nodding at the gladiators down below. They were shifting to make way for one lone man. He limped, dragging his feet and his swords.
Amelia wanted to kill Soren.
Blood Debts (The Blood Book 3) Page 26
