She was magnificent.
It was almost exactly how I remembered her from the night she rode out of Durovernum for the last time—to face the Roman legion on our very own soil. She was still as beautiful as I remembered, slender and lean-muscled, with her bronze-gold hair spilling over her shoulders to tumble in loose waves down her back. Something I didn’t remember was the pale streak of silver that ran through her hair above her left eye, which seemed darker than her right. Thin blue lines, painted in woad—the bright blue paste we used to mark the warriors of my tribe—swirled across her cheeks and forehead. A sword, carved with a triple raven, was sheathed on her hip. It was identical to the one Charon had taken from me that first night after my capture. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, if only to drive away the memory of the morning I learned she was dead.
My sister wasn’t dead. My sister would never die. My sister was a goddess.
Sorcha guided the horses with an expert hand as they drew her war cart in a slow circle around the oath takers, who all stood together with heads held high, shoulders back, and eyes fixed fiercely forward as if searching out the next adversary, the next challenge, the next target.
“Target or weapon, Fallon . . . Choose.”
Her voice echoed in my head.
And what did you choose, Sorcha? How did you come to this?
With a sudden shock, I remembered Olun the druid’s prophecy: that I would share the same fate as my sister. And here I was, having followed her footsteps all the way to Rome to accomplish just that. In that moment, I would have whispered a prayer to the Morrigan to ask for her guidance, but I suspected she was too busy laughing at me to have heard.
I glanced at the ranks of the gladiatrices and saw that more than one of them wore an expression that was almost worshipful. Over the years I’d grown up mourning her, my sister had clearly inspired these girls. I swallowed hard against the tightness in my throat.
Sorcha stepped down and reached into the chariot, drawing forth a bow and quiver. Wordlessly, she presented them to the student named Tanis at the end of the row. The girl dipped her head in respect and took them, her eyes shining. I’d seen Tanis practicing with Ajani and suspected that, in time, she had the potential to become just as good.
The next girl was a Phoenician—I gathered that was a place somewhere on the other side of the Mare Nostrum—named Damya who frequently proclaimed herself “descended from a proud warrior race.” I was inclined to believe her. When her turn came, Sorcha reached back into her chariot and brought forth a heavy rectangular shield and a bronze arm guard, fashioned of jointed metal plates like the scales of a fearsome dragon. And the fearsome Damya burst into tears of joy at the sight.
I knew that in the weeks since we’d arrived at the ludus, Lady Achillea—no, Sorcha—had been watching us. I’d seen her up on her terrace, observing, analyzing how we fought and what we fought with. I’d never realized just how closely she’d watched us. But that night she presented us with our first earned weapons, matched perfectly to each girl’s talents. It was cleverly done, I thought, as I watched each new recruit’s eyes brighten and their spines straighten with pride. I wondered just what weapon she had chosen to bestow upon me.
The next three girls, I suspected, had only just made the cut to take the gladiatrix oath. They all showed promise and fierce enthusiasm but had yet to move beyond the basic combat drilling stage to distinguish themselves with a particular weapon. Accordingly, each was presented with the same oath gift of a gladius and small round shield—the standard weapons every gladiatrix learned to master before moving on to other disciplines—but that didn’t mean that Sorcha hadn’t put just as much thought into personalizing them. Each sword was made to fit the hand of the girl, and each shield was decorated with a different animal that was clearly chosen to match their personalities. Wolf, Lion, and Serpent were all delighted.
Elka was next. She had, of course, distinguished herself over the long days of practice when it came to throwing a spear. And when it came to not throwing it, those long arms of hers, together with the reach of an even longer weapon, made Elka virtually invincible as she wore her opponents down from afar. Accordingly, her oath gift was a small round shield and a slender spear with a polished, pointed iron blade that gleamed in the moonlight. I could tell without even hefting it that the weapon was perfectly balanced. Elka marveled at the craftsmanship when Sorcha laid it across her calloused palms.
And then it was my turn.
I stood there, shoulders back, head high, eyes focused somewhere over Sorcha’s left shoulder as, wordlessly, she stalked back from retrieving my oath gift from the chariot. And what she gave me . . . was already mine.