dividing the space into different levels, from ten feet high to ten feet deep. A broad circle was marked with white stones, and sigils of the Familia Remus flew proudly upon the battlements.
The gladiatii paired off to spar. Mia saw different combinations of weapons, different fighting styles. The Vaanian girl hefted an ironwood bow and began peppering targets at the other end of the yard. Furian took up twin swords, began beating one of the training dummies as if it had insulted his mother.
The executus limped to the verandah, greeting a huge dog sitting in the shade. It was a mastiff, male, with dark fur and a studded collar. The dog was clearly overjoyed, and the big man knelt with a wince so it could slobber on his face.
“Good to see you again, old friend,” he murmured, patting the dog. “Been guarding the collegium while I was gone?”
Mia and her fellows sweated in the boiling suns while Executus finished making a fuss of the dog. It was the first time she’d seen the bastard smile in a month, though with that scar at his face, it was still a little hard to tell. Once he was done, Executus limped out into the stone circle, snapped his fingers.
“Maggot,” he barked. “Sword and board.”
Mia caught movement from the corner of her eye, saw a girl dash out from the shade of a small building in the corner of the yard. She was Liisian; skinny and tanned, with dark hair growing wild. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, but three arkemical circles branded on her cheek marked her as the highest tier of slave.
What skill is a girl that age prized for?
The girl ran to the weapon racks, picked up a wooden practice blade and a broad oaken shield, fetched them to the executus. The big man pointed the blade at Matteo.
“Come. Show me what you’re made of, boy. Maggot, fetch the lad a cock and something to hide behind.”
The girl nodded, ran back to the racks and returned with another wooden sword and shield. Matteo squared up, adopted a halfway-decent fighting stance.
“Attack!” Executus roared.
Matteo swung his wooden blade with a cry, but the executus blocked the assault with ease.
“I didn’t ask for a fucking kiss, I said attack!”
The boy scowled, launching a series of blows, head, chest, belly. The executus was strong as a bull, but he moved slow on that iron leg of his, and Matteo’s footwork proved surprisingly good. The boy pushed the older man back, sword cracking against sword, dust rising from their shields as they clashed. Mia noted the gladiatii were only sparring half-heartedly, watching the bout with interest.
Matteo grew more aggressive—like Mia, he’d obviously expected the executus to be a master bladesman. But in the face of the boy’s furious attacks, Executus was on full defense. Matteo landed blow after blow against the big man’s guard, utterly dominating, until the executus was pressed against the circle’s edge.
And then, like a bear too early from its slumber, the man came awake.
He shifted from back to front foot in the blink of an eye, moving swift and graceful despite his iron leg. And in the space of a few seconds, he’d knocked the sword from Matteo’s hand, cracked his blade into the lad’s gut, and left him sprawled in the dust.
Executus loomed over the gasping boy, only a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.
“What did you learn?”
Matteo grasped his bruising belly, too breathless to speak.
“The sand is no place for brawlers,” Executus said, his scar creased in a scowl. “It is a checkered board. And on it, we play the greatest game of all. A wily opponent may feign weakness. Allow you to exert yourself and learn your patterns, all without breaking a sweat. Overconfidence has ended a thousand fools who’d name themselves gladiatii. Mark this, or it will be the end of you. Now get off my fucking sand.”
Executus turned to Mia, pointed his wooden blade.
“You next, girl. Show me how many of those thousand priests you’re worth.”
The girl named Maggot handed Mia a practice blade and shield with a shy smile. But Sidonius snatched the weapon from the little girl’s hand, shoved Mia aside.
“Fuck that,” he growled. “No bitch steps onto the sand before me.”
Perhaps it was the heat, or three weeks of eating shit from this man at sea. Perhaps her legendary temper coming out to play without Mister Kindly to keep her in check, or Furian’s dark eyes following her across the yard. Whatever the reason, Mia found her hands on the big man’s shoulders, and her knee buried in his bollocks.
“Bitch, am I?” she whispered.
Sidonius’s eyes bulged as he doubled up. Mia locked her fingers behind his head and brought his face down into her knee. She was on top of him in a heartbeat, fists pounding his jaw, teeth clenched, blood in her—
Crack!
The whip etched a line of agony across her shoulder blades. Another blow sent her scrambling away with a gasp, twisting out of range. Laughter rang among the assembled gladiatii. Executus glared at her, lash unfurled in his hand.
“That is your domina’s property you just damaged, cur. If he falls now in the Winnowing, will you pay her the forfeit of his life?”
Mia rubbed the welt on her shoulder, growling. “No man speaks to me that way.”
“He is not a man!” Executus spat. “He is a slave. As are you. And both of you forget your places. Until you survive the Winnowing at next venatus, you are less than nothing. Now pick up those weapons and show me a scrap of the promise your domina sees in you, before you truly test my patience.”
The girl called Maggot helped Sidonius to his feet, and with gentle hands, led the him out of the circle. Executus coiled his lash at his belt, took another swig from his flask as Mia scooped up the sword and shield with a black scowl. Fury burned in her belly, teeth clenched tight. Mia could feel Furian watching her with those dark glittering eyes, that hunger and sickness coiled in her gut.
And without a word, she struck.
Her attacks were vicious, blinding. Dancing across the ochre sands, sliding between the executus’s blows. But during her training in the mountain, she’d spent most of her time learning Caravaggio style, fighting with a sword in each hand. It wasn’t likely a Blade of the Mother would be traipsing about with a great bloody shield strapped to her arm, and so in all her time, Mia had never trained how to use one.
It was deadweight. Each impact jarring her elbow, her shoulder. And as desperate to make an account of herself as she was, she was still aware enough to know that the executus was toying with her. Letting her dodge and weave and grow wearier by the moment, all the while studying her patterns and setting her up for the kill.
But she was no worthless punching bag or training dummy. She’d be damned if she let him treat her like one. And so, looking to show this man what she was truly capable of, she narrowed her eyes and reached out to the shadows at his feet.
None would have marked it—the executus’s shadow barely rippled. Mia
