It never came.
Instead, with a powerful thrust of her long legs, Elka had launched herself toward us, howling with battle madness. The point of her sword blade disappeared up under the man’s helmet chinstrap. There was a frozen moment of silence from the crowd. And then the man’s chest bloomed suddenly with a dark crimson that flooded down over his painted skin. Through the grate of his helmet, I saw his eyes roll back in his head, and he dropped the pike behind him. As he sank to the ground, grasping weakly at the sword lodged in his throat, Elka freed her blade with a grunt. I scrambled to my feet, kicking away his body.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Elka, I could feel her shaking violently. For all her talk of war, I wondered if that was the first man she’d ever killed. I wondered if I’d survive long enough to find out.
With that kill, the watching crowd realized this wasn’t just a show designed to inflate auction prices, and they howled for more blood. The brigand’s, Elka’s, mine, it didn’t matter. It made my stomach turn. This was what the Romans thought of as entertainment?
And they called us barbarians.
Charon came forward and held a long painted stick horizontal between us and the remaining Alesian, keeping us separated as two other men leaped up onto the stage to drag the body off to a waiting cart.
Elka watched them go, her face pale beneath the makeup.
In the lull in the action, I looked out at the crowd and saw the sharp-featured Pontius Aquila flick his card up, as if to do no more than whisk away a fly. The first bid was his, the Collector’s. As one of Charon’s men ran forward with a bucket of sawdust to spread on the bloodstained stage, a flurry of cards fluttered up into the air, held up by patrons scattered throughout the stands. Each one was followed by another card flick from Aquila to outbid them, and the orange-wigged auctioneer called them out rapidly, gleefully pitting the bidders against each other.
My mouth went dry at the thought of the Collector owning me—or Elka, for that matter—and I scanned the other bidders in the crowd, torn between feeling helpless and hopeful. It was then that a flash of crimson caught my eye, and I recognized the figure of Decurion Varro moving through the crowd. He was carrying what looked like Charon’s trunk—the one I’d helped the slave master rescue from the sinking galley—up to the back row of the stands. I saw him stoop to speak to one of the patrons sitting beneath the shade of a yellow-and-white awning. After a moment, the Decurion left the box with the patron and climbed back down the wooden steps to disappear back into the crowd without so much as a glance toward the stage.
Charon lifted the wooden staff out of the way and stepped back, indicating with a flourish that the fighting should continue. Bolstered by the roaring crowd, the betting, and the bidding, the remaining Alesian snarled in rage and charged at me. Suddenly, time seemed to stop. The sound of all those voices clamoring for violence faded to nothing. It was as if I were a young girl again, fighting my first real match with an iron blade instead of wood. For an instant, it seemed I stood not in the blinding-bright sunshine of Rome but in the cool green light of the fields outside Durovernum, sparring with Sorcha while Mael cheered me on.
The Alesian tried a feint and shifted his aim midstrike, but my training and instincts—all the memories stored in my muscles and blood—took over. My blade swung up at a sharp angle and met my attacker’s weapon, screeching up its length in a flash of sparks. My momentum carried me a step further, and I brought the sword back around and down in a vicious slash across the man’s extended forearm. Blood spurted, crimson and sparkling in the sunlight, and with a cry of pain he drew back, clutching his wrist.
My sister had laid the foundations upon which I’d built my skills as a warrior. And even if I’d never been made a member of the royal war band like she had, I’d be damned if I’d dishonor Sorcha’s memory in front of that crowd of braying Romans.
A crouch, lunge, and another slash, and the Alesian was down on one knee with a gaping wound in the meat of his calf muscle. The tip of my blade was bright with blood, and I was almost surprised at how easy it had been.
But then he heaved himself back to standing and, heedless of the injury, lashed out with a swift kick to my ribs. I let out a grunt of pain and collapsed on all fours, gasping for breath. A second kick from him flipped me over onto my back. Through watering eyes, I could see blood dripping from his leg as he drew back his foot to deliver another kick.
I braced for the blow.