The auctioneer didn’t start the bid-asking. Not immediately. And when I opened my eyes, I realized that the crowd was staring at us, wide-eyed and silent. In the bright sunlight, Elka and I glittered and sparkled, dazzling. I saw the brothel mistress lean forward, a gleam of interest in her sharp gaze.
She wasn’t the only one. Pontius Aquila, the man Gruoch had pointed out to me as “the Collector,” shifted in his seat, one gold-ringed fist clenched tight and resting on his thigh. He focused his attention wholly on Elka and me, and where the Collector’s gaze fell upon me, it seemed to burn my skin with its intensity. I flinched and looked away as Charon stalked onstage, draped in a richly bordered tunic dyed a deep sapphire blue. In his hands, he carried two short broad-bladed swords. Charon turned and dropped the swords on the stage between us, the blades ringing like bells.
Elka and I stared in confusion at the swords. Were we to fight each other?
And then the two brigands from Alesia climbed the steps up to the stage.
Oh goddess . . .
One carried a wicked-looking pike, the other—his thigh still bandaged from where I had wounded him that night—bore a long sword. He radiated a long-simmering anger, and I knew just by looking at him that the Alesian meant to settle a score on that stage.
“These men,” Charon cried, “survived the sieges of the mighty Caesar only to be brought low by two fierce, beguiling young women—Furies who appeared in their midst one dark night, bound by chains, bearing swords, fighting like she-wolves.”
The slave master spoke in a musical cadence, weaving a tale of a night in the wilderness, atop a hill, in a ruined Gaulish town—a gripping story of runaway slaves, of brigands and danger, and now . . . a chance for revenge.
“He’s laying it on a bit thick,” Elka muttered.
“Here! Now!” the slave master boasted with a flourish. “For the enrichment and entertainment of you fine citizens of Rome, I present the chance for these noble barbarians to seek redemption! To decide their ultimate destiny in mortal combat with these two deadly beauties, as skilled with swords as the Amazons of legend! Aaaand,” Charon drawled, drawing out the tension of the moment, “if either of these Gauls can defeat these girls—daughters of the goddess Minerva herself, I swear, and on sale exclusively as a pair today—I will grant them their freedom.”
I gaped at him. Why was he doing this?
But as I looked around at the gathered crowd, buzzing with excitement—some of them even trading wagers—I began to understand. I’d heard that male slaves who could fight were often bought and trained for combat in arenas. For the crass entertainment of the mob, which was mad for blood sport. I’d always considered the notion repugnant. And I knew what contempt the legions held for the women warriors of my tribe, so it had never even occurred to me that the Roman masses would consider my sex capable of that kind of fighting.
But it was clear to me that Charon saw that as my fate. He had all along.
Not a brothel. Not a salt mine. An arena.
There are your exceptional skills for you.
The Alesian accepted Charon’s challenge with gusto. With a roar, he stepped forward and swung his sword, the blade whistling past my ear.
It’s a good thing I injured his leading leg that night, I thought as I dove frantically out of the way. He staggered between Elka and me, stumbling over the chain that leashed our ankles and pulling my feet out from under me. I scrambled on hands and knees to get to the swords Charon had left on the stage. My fingers closed on a hilt, and I clambered to my feet as the second brigand—far more wary and perhaps less vengeful than his partner—circled around us.
“Fallon!” Elka’s voice held a warning note.
“I see him,” I said.
Together, we shifted away as the man approached. He was lanky, with long, ropey arms, and his blade whistled as he swiped it menacingly side to side through the air in front of him.
“This one’s got reach on me,” I said in a low, tense voice to Elka.
“Not on me,” she said. “But I think he learned that lesson in Alesia. He won’t make the same mistake as his friends did.”
Elka stepped out to try and goad him into an attack. Instead, he made as if to lunge toward my blade but, at the last moment, spun and hewed at Elka’s weapon in a wide arc that sheared a handsbreadth of iron off the end of her cheap sword.
Elka drew back sharply, her weapon suddenly useless, and the chain pulled taut between us. My leg went out from under me again and I fell to the ground, only to see the first man—the one I’d wounded in Alesia—looming above me. He raised his pike high over his head in both hands and let out a cry of vengeance. I gasped the Morrigan’s name—the only supplication I had time for—and threw my arms up in front of me, knowing the blow would cleave through me like an axe through kindling.