I was shocked when that oldest of ruses actually worked.
Cai’s gaze flicked over, following mine, and the pressure eased off my sword for the briefest of instants. I assumed he’d seen right through my little trick and was mocking me, ready to dance away from my blade. With a cry, I wound up with all the strength I could muster and delivered a slashing blow to his exposed flank.
I heard his rib crack like the slap of a hard-shot arrow.
Cai dropped to one knee in the sand with a cry of pain.
The fight masters were on us in a flash. Thalestris shoved me out of the way, warning me with her rudis staff to stay back. I was stunned that my laughably obvious attempt at misdirection had worked. I glanced up and realized it was because there actually was something unexpected in the shadows at the edge of the pitch.
For the first time since the accident, Antonia was out of the infirmary. She sat ghastly pale in a chair well back from the edge of the practice enclosure. Her right arm lay cradled in her lap, heavily bandaged, the strips of linen dark and discolored from the stubborn seepage of blood and from Heron’s salves.
I felt my face redden with shame. If I’d known she was sitting there watching, I never would have tried to trick Cai like that. I would have to apologize, I thought. And try to explain.
“You really don’t like that boy, do you?” Elka said, strolling over to stand beside me as Kronos helped Cai stand. Elka had her practice spear slung over one shoulder and a satisfied grin on her face as she watched the Decurion stagger painfully to his feet. “Wonder how it feels for the legion to be on the receiving end for once?”
I didn’t answer her. Once, not so long ago, I would have laughed right along with my Varini friend—two girls from two tribes that had both felt the hobnailed tread of the legion’s sandaled foot. But in that moment, all I could feel was the shock of my blade slamming into Cai’s ribs. If we’d been using real swords, he’d be dead.
And I would have killed him.
“Have you really thought about what it means to be a warrior, Fallon?” Sorcha had once asked me. “It means you kill. You kill men. You kill women. All while they are trying very hard to kill you. And if one of them is better at it than you, then you die.”
Conflicting emotions of savage triumph and regret tore at my heart. I wondered what Aeddan had felt in the instant when his blade sank into his brother’s flesh. Elation? Satisfaction? I shuddered and pushed the memory away.
“That was well done, gladiolus.”
I turned to see Nyx standing there, looking in the direction Cai had gone.
“That Decurion is an arrogant arse,” she said. “Maybe now he’ll understand that even the lowliest gladiatrix is worth being wary of.”
She slapped me on the back—a blow that fell somewhere between hearty and pummeling—and shouldered past Elka to join the rest of the veteran students gathered at the far end of the pitch. I watched as Cai moved stiffly toward the infirmary with the help of a trainer. I looked down at the wooden sword still clutched in my hand. It felt heavier than lead.
I handed it to Elka, who took it with an amused shake of her head. It was time for the midday meal break, but I found myself without an appetite. Instead, I headed to the baths and immersed myself in the cold pool, scrubbing savagely at the dust and sweat caked on my skin. My stomach was churning with emotions as I dressed and combed my fingers through my damp hair, pulling it back into a loose plait.
Then, for the second time in only a handful of days, I found myself standing inside the door of the infirmary. Heron was just on his way out, and he paused to offer me a wan smile and a pat on the shoulder.
“In the arena,” he murmured, “that blow would have won you the adoration of the crowd, you know.”
I nodded my thanks. He was right. What I’d done in practice was the very thing I’d been trained to do in a bout. Why, then, did I feel so bad for having done it? Heron pulled the door shut behind him, leaving only me and his most recent patient alone in the room. Cai was sitting on the end of one of the cots, his clothes stripped away except for a length of linen wrapped around his hips like a kilt and more linen—strips of it—wrapped tightly around his torso. As I approached, I tried not to notice the lean, defined muscles of his chest and arms. He didn’t look at me as I sat down on the low stool in front of him.
“Broken?” I asked.
He shifted, wincing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for that trick to really work. I didn’t think it had—”
He shook his head. “Cracked. It’ll heal. And it was well-deserved anyhow, even if you’d broken my rib in half. My behavior was inexcusable, and I beg your pardon, gladiatrix.”
His apology confirmed what I’d begun to suspect.
“You mean your attempt to teach me a lesson?” I asked quietly.