“I haven’t fought anyone,” Madoc countered, just as her iron grip began to twist.
Behind her, Seneca chuckled, her voice like gravel shaking in a jar.
“Champion!” One of the centurions from outside had heard the noise and came rushing toward them, spear extended. He took one look at Ilena and then sent Madoc an uncertain scowl. “Unhand him, domina...”
“Keep talking and you’ll be next!” she hollered, but her grip loosened enough for Madoc to slide free. He waved off the centurion, massaging his hot earlobe and wishing he could melt into the floor.
The centurion waited one more beat before turning.
“That was embarrassing,” Elias muttered, wriggling free.
“Your pride is the least of my concerns,” Ilena responded. She jabbed a finger at Madoc. “You two leave to get Cassia, and I hear nothing. I fear the worst. And three days later you’re one of the Honored Eight? I had to hear it from Seneca! My own sons couldn’t tell me the truth!”
“Whispers on the wind,” sang Seneca, adjusting a belt around a tunic Madoc was fairly certain had been stolen off their laundry line. “They say you’re very impressive, Madoc.”
Elias gave her a disgusted look.
“I’m sorry,” Madoc said to Ilena, hot shame washing between his shoulder blades. “But...” He drew open the pouch of gold nestled in his arm.
The anger ripped from her face, leaving her skin pale and the bones in her cheeks too prominent. “How did you—”
“A thousand gold coins for every round he wins,” said Elias. “One forfeit, and we’re over halfway to paying off Cassia’s indenture.”
Ilena hushed him, closing the bag with one hand. She looked overher shoulder, as if fearful that someone might try to steal it. It was almost funny. No one would think of stealing from a champion—not here, anyway.
“It’s too dangerous,” she hissed. “These aren’t street fights, Madoc. These are trained gladiators.”
“I know,” he said grimly, wondering again where Stavos had gone. As much as Madoc wanted to believe the champion had run scared, he knew that was unlikely. Could it have been illness? Gladiators sometimes fell to pox.
“Does Lucius know you aren’t...” She didn’t have to say the word to make her meaning clear.Does he know you aren’t Divine?
Madoc shook his head.
“Of course not.” Ilena huffed. She inhaled slowly, gaze turning toward the arena, where the crowd had begun chanting, “Burn her up! Burn her up!”
“What’s going on out there?” Elias stepped closer to the golden sand at the end of the corridor, the long beam of light reaching the tips of his sandals.
“Ignitus has lost his temper,” said Seneca, tightening the knot of silver hair at the base of her neck. “It seems to happen more often than not.”
Ilena ignored her and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “All right. We need to explain that there’s been a mistake. Can you speak to the sponsor—Lucius? Maybe he can help.”
Madoc could see her scheming, trying to figure out how to work with what they’d done, and he loved her for that.
Which was why he couldn’t tell her that Petros had claimed him as his son. She was more of a parent than his real father had ever been.
“Or maybe you should keep fighting,” Seneca clucked, prodding the muscles in Madoc’s arms.
“Seneca, please,” said Ilena.
“The boy’s a gladiator now,” Seneca said. “If you’d stop coddling him, we can see what he’s truly capable of.”
Her words grated on Madoc’s nerves. The old woman knew as well as any of them that Madoc was Undivine. It was as if she wanted him to fight for her own entertainment—an experiment that could only last so long.
A commotion came from the entrance to the arena. Three figures crammed into the narrow corridor, seeming to trip over each other in an attempt to get off the yellow sand. It wasn’t until they’d crossed the threshold that Madoc registered the silver gleam of the two helmets and breastplates and the broken reed patches of Kulan armor.
Two centurions were dragging a gladiator out of the arena.
Not just any gladiator—Ash.
