She begged the gods to save him. Pinned atop the fallen elephant and exposed to the hateful whims of Fate, Quintus made a clear target for the archers taking aim. The sounds of rapid horses’ hooves filled her ears, competing with the spectators’ cries and fist-pumping demands for death.
In desperation she begged every deity she could think of for mercy, even the illegal one Quintus worshipped, “Jesus, please…” she whispered under her breath.
“Viriathos has lost a fortune in gladiators today!” Claudia cackled with amusement. She pointed toward Quintus. “Look at that one struggle. He’ll never get away. The archers have him for certain.”
The glee in Claudia’s voice filled Adiona with rage, horror and a sinking sense of anguish. “Bite your tongue, you vicious crone! Quintus is an honorable man. How dare you delight in his death?”
Adiona’s gaze flew back to the action in the arena. Quintus had disappeared in the mayhem. Panic seized her. She pressed past Claudia, raced down the steps and clung to the barrier, desperate to find him through the black smoke and crush of chariots forming a victorious circle around the few gladiators left alive.
As expected, the charioteers and their team were declared the victors. The mob jeered the decision and the unfair fight, then erupted into cheers as Quintus used the fallen elephant to slowly pull himself to his feet.
The game’s referee dismissed the men who were able to walk. Quintus looked over his shoulder and scanned the crowd before limping to the edge of the field. His back to her, she couldn’t see if he’d been able to pull the arrow from his shoulder. The other one remained in his thigh. Blood seeped down his leg and into the sand.
At least he lives. Relief as pure as a mountain stream flowed through Adiona, robbing her of strength. She braced against the barrier for support, promising herself she’d do whatever Caros required to ensure Quintus never entered the games again.
Turning to leave for the gladiator hospital where Quintus would be taken, she bumped into Claudia whom she hadn’t noticed beside her. The spider’s eyes gleamed bright and with dawning horror Adiona realized she’d given herself away.
“What a day!” her rival said with malicious satisfaction. “Not only was the sport amusing, but I learned so much. Little wonder you’re happy for the lanista and his bride when you’re enamored with a slave of your own.”
Quintus Fabius Ambustus eased onto a bench in the gladiator hospital behind the amphitheater. Smoke from the torches lining the concrete walls burned his eyes. The stench of blood and sweat reeked in his nostrils. Delirious moans and cries for help from other wounded men ricocheted off the arched ceiling, but not even the chaos and bolts of pain radiating through his body failed to erase the image of Adiona’s horrified gaze and frightened expression.
He rubbed his eyes, irritated by the beauty’s hold on him. Two months of near starvation in a disease-infested prison, a fortnight trekking through half of Italy in a slave caravan, and months of training in a gladiator ludus hadn’t felled him. Yet one unexpected glimpse of Adiona’s haunting visage in the stands of the arena had been enough to break his concentration and see him almost killed by arrows.
Dear God, what is wrong with me?
The question made him laugh, which made him groan as pain shot through his chest and bruised ribs. What wasn’t wrong with him? In the last seven months he’d become infamia— disgraced, the lowest of the low. He’d lost his family, wealth, freedom, citizenship and reputation. Everything but his faith in Christ and that, he acknowledged, was hanging by a thread.
Whether he was being punished or tested like some other believers suggested, he knew he didn’t need or want to be tempted by a vixen with an ability to sneak past his defenses and shred his self-control. No woman had ever done that, not even his wife.
He slammed the door on thoughts of Faustina. She was dead and memories of her filled him with guilt and eternal regret.
A solid blow jarred his wounded shoulder. “There’s the mob’s newest darling.”
Quintus cracked open one eye. Alexius, the manager of the gladiator school, stood over him, a grin parting the Greek’s swarthy face.
Rubbing the spot where he’d torn the arrow from his shoulder, Quintus pressed on the piece of cloth he’d used to cover the ragged flesh. “Was that necessary?” he asked, his tone as dry as dust.
“Of course. You don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re famous now, do you?”
“One lost battle isn’t enough to make anyone remember my name.”
“On the contrary.” The tall Greek moved deeper into the small alcove. Pleased by the afternoon’s events, he pulled up a stool and sat down. “Romans appreciate bravery above all else. The way you leaped on that elephant and protected your troupe… The whole city will know who you are by sundown.”
Quintus grunted, unimpressed. “A lot of good it will do me if I bleed to death.”
Alexius glanced at the arrow and growing ring of blood around the wound. “From that scratch? I doubt it.”
A man’s scream echoed down the corridor. A moment later, two of the hospital’s attendants ran past.
“Where’s the physician?” Quintus asked, weary of waiting when the deeply embedded arrow in his leg was making him light-headed from loss of blood.
“He’ll be here soon. By the sound of it, the day’s amputations are almost finished.”
Quintus grimaced. He was thankful to God his injuries were relatively minor, but a part of him wished God had taken him and spared the other wounded in his troupe.
“You’d better get used to injury,” Alexius warned. “You’re not a coddled merchant anymore. You’re a gladiator.”
Quintus curled his lip at the veiled insult. He may have been a merchant, but he’d never been an idle man. “I’ll try to remember that.” To punctuate his disinterest in the lecture, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.
A stab of pain sliced through his thigh. His eyes flew open. Alexius had taken hold of the arrow and was slowly twisting the shaft. “Listen to me, Quintus. I know you’re angry at the world and probably your God, though you deny it. But if you plan to live long enough in the arena to earn your freedom, understand these paltry wounds are only the first of many.”
He threw off Alexius’s hand. Let the Greek think what he liked. He wasn’t concerned about his injuries. In truth, he didn’t care if he lived or died. It was his reaction to the widow that had soured his mood. “You do want your freedom, don’t you?”
“You know I do.” His freedom was the prize he longed for above all else. The goal he’d set for himself to return home and make certain the precious son he’d lost had received a proper burial.
“Then fear not. Today’s games will bring you a wagonload of good. A messenger brought word Caros and his lady return from Umbria next week. Once Caros hears what happened, he’ll see you’re rewarded. Your price for each fight is bound to rise. Caros is a generous master. Mark my words, he’ll see you benefit from your improved status for certain.”
Alexius would know. As the
