Ash.
His heart gave an unexpected lurch.
“Champions, take your places!” the announcer called. Madoc homed in on the voice—a tall man in a white-and-silver toga standing at a podium above the spectators’ box. He couldn’t think about Ash now. He needed to secure his placement in the next round.
Madoc evened his steps as he walked to the center of the arena. The sand slipped between his soles and the hard leather of his sandals. He adjusted his grip on the gladius’s handle and tried to shut out the cheers.
“You offend me, boy,” Jann said as they drew closer. He’d chosen two knives Madoc recognized from training, and they gleamed in his equally lethal hands. This match was to submission, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t end in death. “You learn you’re fighting Stavos, and he doesn’t make it to the arena. But here I am. Are you not afraid?”
Madoc ignored him.
“The fight begins now!” shouted the announcer.
But Jann only lowered his stance, turning the knives in his hands so the sunlight danced in Madoc’s eyes.
“You know why I moved to Arsia?” Jann asked. The long braid over his shoulder was fastened with rubies the color of blood. “I was born in Crixion. Me and my four brothers.”
He began to make a slow circle, and Madoc countered, one hand lifted, the other gripping his weapon. He looked for a weakness in his opponent’s side, as Elias had said, and found a slight hitch in Jann’s gait.
“I left because the taxes were too high, but then you’d know nothing of that, would you?Petros’s bastard.”
In the blink of an eye, Jann dropped the knife in his left hand and scooped his fingers into the dirt at his feet. A storm of gravel slashed across the arena, and Madoc lifted his forearm to shield his eyes as the small rocks pinged off the blade of his gladius. The other man sprinted toward him, half hidden by a curtain of sand. Madoc raised his gladius just in time, deflecting Jann’s windmilling knives, and threw himself to the side.
The larger bits of gravel fell, but the dust did not settle.
“He came to my house,” Jann continued, as if he had not just attacked. “I was only nine, but I remember as if it were yesterday. He took my mother as payment—a servant for debts we didn’t even owe. And when my father objected, Petros’s men stoned him to death.”
Madoc swallowed, grains of sand gathering as grit between his teeth. He needed to remain focused. He needed to win.
He glanced back, but Elias was still not in the doorway.
Jann had snatched up his second knife, one for each hand, and begun circling again.
“My oldest brother was next,” Jann said. “Beaten so badly he would never walk again. All thanks to your father.”
Madoc didn’t care. He wouldn’t. He needed to attack with Elias’s geoeia to land a powerful enough blow. Jann was so busy talking, he wouldn’t see it coming.
Madoc tapped his thigh twice.
Nothing happened.
“We had to live with a cousin in Arsia,” Jann said. “Which is more than Raclin can say. Did you know she grew up on the streets? A few of the other fighters too. All thanks to your father.”
Madoc tapped his thigh again, but to no avail. Sweat poured into his eyes, mingling with the dust coating his face. Panic raced through him. Where was Elias?
With a roar, Jann dropped to one knee, the ground beneath Madoc’s feet quaking hard enough to knock him backward. He scrambled away as Jann flew toward him, leaping through the air, knives slicing downward.
Madoc twisted aside, clearing the jump, but not before Jann spun on him. Madoc swiped his leg low, tossing the other gladiator onto his back. He raised his weapon but was hit hard in the gut by a punch of geoeia. His gladius fell to the sand as he gasped for breath, white frames ringing around his vision.
Jann charged, one knife scraping Madoc’s breastplate. Madoc dropped and threw his weight forward, tossing the taller, thinner manback onto the sand. His fist connected with Jann’s right side—the space between his breastplate and his back shield—once, twice.
With a grunt, Jann dropped his knives, and dust flew into Madoc’s face, blinding him. He swung at where he thought Jann’s face would be, but the gladiator had twisted and elbowed Madoc hard in the side of the head.
They grappled, fists thudding against metal and meat, the roar of blood in Madoc’s ears louder than any crowd. Then Jann was kneeling over him, his hands closing around Madoc’s neck. Madoc could feel the thick tar of Jann’s hatred clogging his throat as he struggled to get free.
“You’re no better than him.” Spittle flew from Jann’s split lower lip. “You have no honor.”
Elias, where are you?
