When morning came, the crowds of the sleepy little town of Perusia were out in full force, filling the stands of the arena and spilling out into the marketplace beyond. The smell of roasting meat wafted on the breeze, and children raced through the crowds like bounding rabbits.
In the early part of the day, there were musicians and the bawdy antics of comic actors to entertain the crowds. That was followed by displays of “exotic” animals. Unlike the larger venues closer to Rome, the smaller arenas avoided using rare and expensive beasts in favor of what amounted to wrestling matches between handlers and trained bears with trimmed claws and wildcats that weren’t particularly wild. Still, the crowd loved the theatrics.
Next up after the bestiari were the male gladiatorial contests. The combatants were from two regional ludi and were clearly well-known, judging by the cheers and catcalls that filled the air. Most of the matches were draws or, in the cases where there was a clear winner, nonlethal. Gladiatorial bouts rarely ended in death. Only if one combatant performed exceptionally poorly—or one performed exceptionally well—did a match end in anything other than a win, loss, or draw in which both fighters left the field alive.
I saw only one lethal fight that day.
One gladiator’s trident had gone straight through the guts of his opponent. Two of the tines stuck out obscenely from his back, dripping red. I watched, my heart in my throat, as the wounded gladiator sank to his knees in the sand. He clawed his helmet from his head, face rigid with pain, and gestured for the mercy blow. The crowd held its breath as his opponent saluted him solemnly, then picked up his sword where it lay in the sand and thrust the point down through the other man’s neck.
There was a moment of respectful silence. Then the gladiator’s body was dragged from the arena by hook-wielding men dressed in outlandish headdresses meant to resemble long-eared desert dogs. I had heard from Kronos that the men were playing the ritual part of an Aegyptian god of the dead called Anubis, whom the Greeks and Romans had adopted as a kind of guide for lost souls to their underworld. I shuddered as the jackal-men trudged past, dragging their burden behind them, leaving a trail of blood.
They will never take me out of the arena like that, I vowed. Never.
The men’s fights concluded, and there was a midday break.
We were up next.
I swallowed nervously to ease the tension in my throat, glancing around to see if I could gauge how the others were feeling. I wasn’t surprised to find Nyx and her crew positively champing at the bit to get out and do some damage.
Nyx had already proved herself a consummate performer. The leather straps of her armored kilt were just a little shorter than those of the other girls, and they were oiled, supple, and spaced so that when she moved, there were flashes of sun-browned thigh. Her helmet lacked a visor to fully cover her face, and I noticed she had carefully painted her eyes with dark kohl and stained her lips a deep red. Even the curves of her breastplate were more exaggerated.
I had to admire the way she played to the crowds. Flirting and fierce, confident, arrogant. When we’d first been led across the arena sands to the gladiator trenches, she’d paused to blow a kiss to a little boy sitting with his father in the first row of seats. Both of them had blown kisses back, and the crowd had cheered in delight.
Just before the first bout, I noticed Sorcha standing near the judges’ bench, arguing vehemently with the games master. It surprised me. During the games, the master’s word was law in the arena, and any dissention, even from the lanistas, could result in heavy fines or disqualification. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw my sister throw her hands up in disgust and walk briskly toward me.
“Be careful,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder hard. “And remember this: The most dangerous adversary is the one who already thinks they’ve nothing left to lose.”
She left me standing there, and I turned to look at the girls from the opposing ludus, the Ludus Amazona. I could tell just from their equipment that they were well-funded. Two or three of their girls wore heavier gear and would likely be matched with our retiarius fighters, like Meriel. Most of the others were kitted out thraex style—with shield and sword—and I would probably be paired with one of them. None of them looked as though they fought dimachaerus-style.
The Morrigan willing, that would give me an edge.
As usual, Elka knew more about what was happening than I did. She trotted over and threw herself down beside me, her armor shimmering in the sun. Ajani had loaned her a tunic of scale mail that fit her reasonably well but made her look a bit like some kind of sea nymph, albeit one with a wickedly accurate throwing arm. Elka begged the roster of fights from the games master’s assistant and was kind—or maybe cruel—enough to point out my match to me.
“She’s from your part of the world.” She pointed to a gladiatrix standing at the far end of the other trench. “Well, near enough, anyway. Eire-land.”
“Really?” I squinted in the direction she pointed.
“Calls herself Uathach,” Elka continued.
I groaned and gazed skyward. “Wonderful.”