And from the shape of it, a body beneath the shroud.
Six figures stepped apart from the crowd and approached the bier, lifting it up onto their shoulders as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. A procession formed behind them as they moved with stately dignity toward the gates of the ludus—which was, on that night, open to the world. I fell in behind Ajani and followed. Once outside the ludus compound, the sky seemed enormous to me. Growing up, I’d been so used to being hemmed in by the trees and forests of the Island of the Mighty. But now I felt small beneath the vast canopy of stars.
Mouse small . . . too small to notice . . .
I slowed my pace, dropping back in the ranks of the gladiatrices until I trailed behind them. If I could lose myself in a hollow and wait until they were far enough away, perhaps I could make a dash for freedom.
And the collar around your neck? How will you outrun that?
The cold metal twinged against my skin.
I might be just a wee mouse outside those walls, but the slave iron marked me as easy prey for an eagle. Runaway slaves were criminals, punished by flogging or branding—or outright death. I was in the middle of a foreign land, friendless and forsaken. Running—at least, running without a plan—would only get me killed. Somewhere over one of the distant hills, a wolf howled, and I quickened my pace to catch up with the others.
We walked for a while in silence. In the distance, I could see the dark shapes of other villas, and everywhere we passed, there were lamps burning brightly in all the windows. I was reminded of all the sleepless Samhain Nights I’d spent growing up in Durovernum, nights when the shades of the unquiet dead walked the earth and the lamps in all the houses burned until dawn to ward them away. Now, I felt as though I were one of those hungry, roaming shades—torn away from the world, but still tethered to it.
We kept walking until a low stone wall with an arched portal appeared in front of us. We passed through, and at first, I didn’t understand what the place was. On the Island of the Mighty, we burned our dead or buried them beneath mounds of earth. We did not lock them away in cold little houses made of stone where their spirits would be trapped forever, barred from ever reaching the peace and plenty of the Otherworld.
But our procession wound past all those marble tombs, toward an isolated spot beyond. There I saw another kind of grave, with a log pyre stacked above it. We formed a circle, and those bearing the bier lifted it up and placed it on top of the pyre. In the place where I stood, I was close enough to see that the pit dug in the earth beneath it was filled with shallow baskets bearing all kinds of food—meat and bread, jugs of wine, a wheel of cheese—and other baskets that held personal belongings. A mirror and an ivory comb. Neatly folded clothing. Weapons—a lot of weapons. I counted three swords, a pair of spears, a small round shield, and a belt adorned with throwing knives. An impressive collection.
But there was one last item to be added to the grave hoard, it seemed.
The woman who’d led the procession—the Lady Achillea, I assumed—stood at the head of the grave pit, her face hidden in the depths of her deep hood. She reached beneath the folds of her cloak and brought forth a lamp, a delicate thing hanging on a slender chain.
“To light your way in the darkness,” I heard her murmur. She let the chain slide through her fingers, and the lantern dropped gently into the pit on top of the other things. Then she raised her voice and said, “Her name was Ismene. Let it be known. She was a sister of our familia. A gladiatrix of House Achillea. She fought as we fight, with bravery and with skill. Five days ago, she fought to win honor in a match with a warrior maid of the House Amazona. She won, but Ismene was grievously wounded in that fight. Our surgeons did what they could for her. Last night the goddess Nemesis, she of the midnight brow, in her great wisdom called Ismene to the realm of heroes and sent forth Mercury to guide her there. She feasts now in the halls of Dis, she spars with Minerva, and she waits for all of us to join her there, and we mourn her absence even as others have this very day joined our ranks here.”
I swallowed the knot in my throat. She was talking about Elka and me. But I swore in that moment that I would never wind up in this graveyard like this girl, burned and buried in soil far away from home.
“So it goes,” the Lanista continued, and something about the way she spoke teased half-forgotten memories from the back of my mind. “The circle of glory, the river of blood. Mourn her, gladiatrices. Celebrate her. Make her proud.”