“The Morrigan’s Flight!” I answered, reaching back to grab the two spears that rested in hooks hanging off the chariot’s sidewall.
“You’re mad! It can’t be done—”
“Shut up and drive!”
I held the spears out in front of me for balance and, without letting myself overthink what I was about to do, stepped out along the pole, one foot in front of the other. I concentrated on Ajani’s path of arrows. The chariot flew over the flaming markers, and I saw them pass beneath my feet. Then Ajani fired her last shot, and it stuck not in the ground but in the leering wicker god. The effigy roiled with flame, and the arrow was followed close behind by my hard-flung spears—one through the heart, and one to a supporting leg. The whole construct buckled to one side and sank slowly to the ground, wreathed in fire, as if I’d just brought the god of the Britons to his knees. The crowd roared approval. I shifted my weight forward and flung my arms out to the sides as Aeddan eased into the turn . . .
And like the Morrigan herself, I flew.
The entire audience was on its feet cheering ecstatically as we did a victory lap and Aeddan guided the lathered horses to a halt near Caesar’s canopied box. I slid to the ground, wobbly legged and dizzy, and spun in a mad, careening circle, thrusting my clenched fists skyward and shouting hoarsely. Aeddan leaped from the deck of the chariot and, caught up in the mad thrill of our win, whooped with joy and threw his arms around me.
And for a moment, it wasn’t Aeddan. It was Mael.
The same gray eyes, the same build, his hair even smelled the same. I melted into the embrace, and his arms tightened around me. But he whispered my name, and it wasn’t Mael’s voice. I thrust Aeddan away from me with every drop of strength I still possessed. Then I cocked my armored fist back and plowed it into his face. He dropped to the arena sands, senseless, at my feet.
And the crowd went absolutely rabid with delight.
Victory was mine. Victory was me.
I’d shown the mob just how Rome had conquered the wild warriors of Brittania—through fighting, allegiances, betrayals, romancing, and rebuke—and they loved me for it. The breath heaved in and out of my chest. I threw my arms wide again and turned in a slow circle, and the roar of the crowd thundered over me.
And then, when a handsome young decurion in full ceremonial armor suddenly ran down the steps of the spectator stands, leaping the barrier into the arena to sweep me into a passionate embrace, I thought the cheers would bring the stones of the Circus Maximus tumbling down. When Cai set me back on my feet, I cocked my fist again—in jest this time—and when I didn’t punch him but kissed him, long and slow on his glorious mouth . . .
Well.
I’d thought that my tribe back home—that the Celts in general—were the most hopeless of all romantics. But the way to the heart of the Roman mob, it seemed, wasn’t just violence and mayhem. It was equal parts blood and roses.
The spectators howled, “Victrix! Victrix!” at the top of their lungs. They hugged and kissed each other and rained flowers down upon us. Cai spun me around until I was so dizzy I almost toppled over. When I turned to salute Gaius Julius Caesar, he beckoned me with a languid wave of his hand. I stepped forward and bowed deeply, fist over the place where my heart would have been—if it hadn’t already been in my throat. His expression was inscrutable. The games certainly hadn’t gone the way he’d meant for them to. Not that it was my fault—not exactly—but I didn’t know how he would see it.
Was my improvisation clever in his eyes?
Or wildly impertinent?
Off to one side, I saw Cleopatra grinning with sly amusement, and I could have sworn I saw her wink at me. Not far from the Aegyptian queen, I saw my sister sitting with the other lanistas and ludus owners, and her eyes shone fiercely. She didn’t even seem to mind that I’d very passionately—and very publicly—just kissed Caius Varro. After all, it had helped me win the crowd.
I squeezed Cai’s hand, and he smiled down at me.
Not just the plebs but all of the spectators beneath the awnings—the men dressed in purple-striped togas, the women in butterfly-brilliant stolas, glittering with jewels—were on their feet. The crowd was giddy with anticipation, waiting to see what judgment the mighty Caesar would render on the performance. Even Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, bore a tiny smile.
None of that loosened the knot in my guts.
Caesar’s opinion was the only one that mattered now.
“Gladiatrix Victrix!” Caesar called out, and the arena went silent as a tomb. “Come forth.”