I spoke the oath, Elka’s voice joining with mine: “Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari . . .”
Simple words, simple promises. The very same oath the men swore in their rings of sand and swords. We were no different—except we were. And no one was more surprised by that than I. We were castoffs and slaves, orphans and unwanteds and used-to-be princesses. We were infamia . . .
But we were a sisterhood.
“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari.”
And we were mighty.
XXV
FROM THEN ON, the games in the towns that followed were easier. I fought, and I fought well, but I never again fought like I had against the Fury. I didn’t have to. The circuit ended in a small arena on the outskirts of Rome, and by the time it was finished, all the girls of the Ludus Achillea were seasoned fighters.
And I was a tiny, growing legend. The Fury Killer. Victrix. Victory.
Whether or not I would be chosen as Caesar’s Victory remained to be seen.
After the last fight, Sorcha had announced that Caesar’s scouts had reported back to him and that the competition for the role had come down to just two of us: me and Nyx. We were to present ourselves to him in two days’ time at his villa across the River Tiber so that he could interview us in person and decide for himself to which gladiatrix he would bestow the honor of the Victory role. The announcement generated a great deal of chattering and whispering in the hallways of the domus where we lodged in the capital. But it didn’t account for the shouting and commotion I heard as I walked back toward my quarters.
I pushed my way through to see what the matter was and was brought up short by Ajani, whose expression was grim.
“Don’t” was all she said.
“Don’t what? Let me by, Ajani.”
I shouldered her out of the way and saw a knot of girls gathered in the hall in front of the door to my room. Elka was there, storm clouds in her blue eyes. When she saw me she shook her head and strode toward me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing. Someone’s idea of a sick joke.”
I looked past her, and my heart turned over. The door to my room was closed—and streaked with the blood of the dead bird nailed to it. Not just any bird. A crow. I swore and scanned the faces of the other girls who stood there gaping. I snarled when I spotted Nyx, her eyes fixed on the grisly sight.
“Nyx—”
I lunged for her, but Elka caught me by the arm.
“Wasn’t her,” she said. “It wasn’t there an hour ago, and Nyx was in the dining hall the whole time. So were Meriel and Gratia. Lydia found the thing and was so hysterical when she saw it, it couldn’t have been her.”
That ruled out all of Nyx’s most ardent minions. Unless there was another gladiatrix in the ranks trying to curry favor with her. For her part, Nyx had barely even seemed to notice that I was there. Her gaze was riveted to the door.
“It’s a curse,” she murmured. “An ill-luck omen.”
“It’s a bird.” I pulled my knife from my belt so that I could pry out the nails that held the poor dead thing there, crucified like a slave.
Only, it wasn’t dead.
As I reached for it, the crow—a juvenile, by the look of it—lifted its head and cawed weakly at me. One of the girls behind me screamed, and the bird struggled to flap its wings.
“You should break its neck,” Elka said. “End its suffering.”
I frowned. I wasn’t sure how the Morrigan would take that. And I wasn’t going to kill an innocent creature if I didn’t have to, just because somebody thought it would be fun to try to frighten me. I glanced back at the other girls and saw that Neferet was standing in the crowd. I called her over, and she came, her steps only a little hesitant. Ever since she’d started taking care of Antonia, she’d been studying under Heron and learning medicine.
“Can you help me try to save it?” I asked.
She nodded and supported the weight of the bird as I worked the two nails out of its wings. Whoever had done this must have fed the bird something to drug it into a stupor first. Once we freed it from the nails that pierced its wings just below the mid-joint, it was plain that there wasn’t anything else wrong with it. Neferet cooed gently to the bird, and it tucked itself in close to her chest.
“I’ll keep it warm and clean the wounds,” she said quietly to me. “It will probably never fly again . . . but perhaps it will live.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Neferet.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone who has no idea how angry they’ve just made my goddess,” I said. “And me.”
I spun on my heel and strode down the hall in the other direction, in search of a bucket and rag.
? ? ?
Sorcha found me just as I was cleaning the last of the blood from my door. It was plain she had learned about the crow. Her face was flushed, showing the whiteness of her scar in stark contrast, and angry sparks seemed to dance in the darkness of her damaged eye.
“It’s nothing,” I said to try and forestall what I knew was coming.