“I have something for you, gladiatrix.” Charon reached under the bench and hauled out a large wooden box. “I know the Lady Achillea gifted you with dimachaeri swords—”
I rolled my eyes at him. “One of which she got from you, yes.”
“But I also know that you haven’t the means to equip yourself with anything else.” He glanced at me as he lifted the box onto the bench between us, and his dark eyes glittered. “On the circuit, you’ll be fighting against other gladiatrices who’ve already won purses—enough in some cases to kit themselves out head to toe with the best weapons and armor money can buy.”
I frowned. It was true. In my time training for the games at the ludus, it had been made abundantly clear to me that skill was one thing. Showmanship was another. I could fight like the goddess Minerva and perform with all the flourish of the bull-vaulting acrobats I’d heard tales of, but if I didn’t look the part, I wouldn’t win the crowd. And winning the crowd had become a fierce motivator for me, ever since my visit with Arviragus. I remembered the king’s words. It wasn’t enough to simply win the fight; I had to win their hearts.
I glanced down at the crude leather wrist bracers I’d crafted for myself.
“I don’t need charity,” I muttered.
“Not charity, patronage.” Charon lifted the lid from the box. “My patronage.”
He smiled and handed me a set of greaves—bronze shin guards—that were beautiful and made for someone just my size. But that wasn’t all. The greaves were matched with a pair of bronze wrist bracers, again sized for my wrists. But the real surprise came when Charon drew forth a magnificent breastplate, embossed with subtle patterns that echoed the knotted, swirling designs of my own tribe. It was studded with bronze fittings in the same style as the greaves and bracers.
I couldn’t contain the gasp of delight that escaped my lips as I reached out and took the breastplate from his hands. My pride warred with my gratitude—and my relief—but only for a moment. Wearing such a thing, I would rival not just Minerva but the Morrigan herself! I held it up in front of me and was surprised to find that it looked as though it would fit me like a second skin.
I looked up at Charon from under raised eyebrows.
“How did you manage to get the proportions so accurate?” I asked.
“Ah, yes, well, I asked Cai for his help.” The slave master cleared his throat. “He made a best guess, I suppose.”
I remembered the sensation of Cai’s hands traveling over the lines of my body and felt my face flush with heat.
Charon was good enough to pretend not to notice. He turned back to the box and withdrew a battle kilt made of bronze-studded leather straps. “Here. It goes with this.”
I hesitated, regarding him suspiciously.
“Why are you doing this?”
Charon took the armor back from me and laid it gently in the box. He closed the lid and, after a long moment of silence, slid the box toward me with a sigh. “I traveled with Caesar’s legions when he invaded Britannia,” Charon said quietly. “To assess the slave prospects.”
I felt myself grow very still as he spoke.
“Sorcha. I saw her for the first time in Caesar’s camp, in his tent. And I loved her the moment my eyes met hers. I still do.” He held up a hand. “And nothing ever came of it. Nothing ever will. I came to terms with that a long time ago, Fallon.”
“She never even tried to come home,” I blurted out, the old hurt surfacing like a toothache. “She could have at least sent word.”
“To what end?” Charon said gently. “Your sister Sorcha is no more. And Achillea belongs to Caesar, who will never let her go. She’s far too valuable to him. How would the torment of knowing that his daughter was alive be any kinder to you and your father than letting you both think she was dead?”
My head spun. All I could picture in my mind was my heartbroken father sitting night after night in front of the banked embers of the fire in his hearth, drinking slowly from a great mug of ale late into the night, his gaze roaming the shadows of his hall as if seeking her out. All I could think of was that he’d made the decision to marry me off to Aeddan because he didn’t want to lose me like he’d lost her.
I looked at Charon and saw that his dark gaze was also clouded with memory.
“My love for Sorcha is an old, scarred-over wound on my heart, the ache dulled by the passage of time. Finding you ripped that wound open again. I knew there was something about you from the first moment.” He shook his head. “Then I found your sword, and seeing Sorcha’s mark on the blade confirmed it. By then it was too late to let you go, so I decided that the best thing I could do was bring you here, to her.”
“And sell me to my own sister for enormous sums of money.”
“I might be a romantic.” Charon grinned wryly. “But I’m also a businessman.”
“Does Sorcha know how you feel?” I asked. “Does she know you’re in love with her?”