Revolving Door: Volume 2
Chapter 37: ĪRA DRACONIS - I
Content warnings (may contain spoilers)
This chapter contains depictions of animal death, alcohol use, and graphic injury. It mentions violent human death and implied sexual activity.
The war drum rolls. Ba-dum, ba-dum, like the pounding of her heart, like the pounding of her feet on sand into the jaws of her fate.
The ground beneath her is a grave. Three days it has been since Cyrus died upon this oval—a friend once, in the same way that all comrades in the barracks are. Blood streaked across sand. Screams streaked across stone. Did his heart pound the way hers does, as the heat burns through her soles?
The beast opposite her could well have sprung full-formed from a myth, glossy eyes and tongue flicking in search of prey. There has never been a legged reptile in the colosseum before—pools of snakes hold no candle to this beast, one they call “dragon”—this creature of claw and scale, brought from far eastern kingdoms aboard so many ships.
Its scales ripple as it sizes up its foe, the shape of its jaw belying great teeth. Marcia watches carefully in kind. Every breathing beast can be read. Pain, rage, fear—as she stands, sweat and blood dripping on the sand, she watches it with narrowed eyes. Then it lurches towards her.
She can usually end fights quicker, but she chooses to draw them out. They like to watch her struggle, and then the beast, in turns; they scream louder when she does. So she lets the creature come almost as close as the toes of her sandals, to spread its jaws wide, and—
The teeth gash her leg, deep enough to draw blood, and she cries out as she shoves her blade between its jaws, wrestling with this beast that stretches longer than she is tall. Its weight is remarkable. From here she can see the wrinkling of its hide with every kick and toss of its head, its pillar of a neck wrenching her arms about as she clings to her sword.
Cyrus flashes in her eyes again: the hippopotamus stampeding over him, pounding his face to pulp. Where did Cyrus go, his smile, his sorrow?
Claws and sandal heels dig into sand, while the crowd surges like the surf. The fresh wound throbs with the heat, but with arms and hands slick with sweat, Marcia grinds her teeth and flexes her arms so the edge cuts in, the dragon’s bloodied maw struggling to dislodge the blade.
Marcia can feel the crescendo of the crowd’s vigour, rising and rising to a peak. As their excitement ripens, she grips the sword tight, and levers it with the strength of her arms. A gasp echoes across the terraces as her gladius cracks its jaw hinge and sends it writhing on its knees. It crumples and hisses, bleeding out on the sand.
And a special treat for you, she thinks. She has been practising this for some weeks now: with an easy flourish, she tosses the sword, spinning, into the air, scattering its blood. She leaps to snatch its handle mid-fall, and punches it straight through a gap in its ribcage.
The creature dies much like a python would die, with twitches and a rattling hiss. It bleeds red, like she does. The calf blood they rubbed on her mingles with the blood of the beast.
The sky darkens as fanfare lights the arena, to rousing rapturous applause. She has the audience in a chokehold, as she always does. The terraces ripple when she waves.
In the waiting hall, Marcia’s leg wound burns, telling her it will fester if she leaves it. Whatever grew on its teeth, it is like nothing she has felt in her blood before. She focuses her attention upon the pain as the serfs wash her, and feels the heat flare, almost unbearably, around its ragged edges.
Her coach Quintus grins as he marches towards her, and she raises her sword hilt in greeting. While serfs towel off the blood, he laughs and claps her forearm.
“Remarkable game,” he says. “That flawless sword toss shall be the talk of the town! A proper prize bull, that's what you are.”
“So you’ll ask them to throw more denarii my way, yes?” she answers with a grin.
“Well, since you ask so nicely,” he sighs with a grin. As she takes a proffered towel and scrubs her face, he points at her leg wound. “Is that going to take care of itself?”
Marcia glances at it. It is livid red, and the foreign contaminants from the beast’s teeth are doing their work, the wound trying to rot even as she fights it. This one is more aggressive than she is used to, but already she can tell it will heal by tomorrow.
“It will,” she says.
“Truly, you must be blessed by the gods, to heal so quickly.” He begins rummaging his waist satchel, and produces a roll of parchment. “By the way, you have been invited to the lord Gaian’ birthday banquet.”
“Surely not the birthday banquet.”
“The very one…”
“There will be a scandal about this. Me, at the feast?”
“There are scandals every year! Yours would be overshadowed. As you might think, most invitees will be senators and landowners.” He winks. “Be on your best behaviour, it could mean better business for us.”
“My best behaviour would be too crass for that lot.” She chuckles. “Where and how do I get in?”
“It will be in his villa on the slopes of Fourth Hill. Gaian has shared one fact about himself with every invitee, and you must speak it at his door to enter.” His voice drops. “Yours is: ‘Gaian would rather pet a horse than ride it.’”
“Some fact that is,” she mutters. “He sounds self-absorbed. But certainly, I can humour him. Odd that he should want the likes of me in his residence.”
“Of course he does! The emperor himself watches your matches, now and then. It is even less surprising that his son does. Besides,” he winks, “perhaps he enjoys ruthless women.”
“Well, I don't do candidates for the throne. If this invitation comes with ulterior motives, then he can kiss my arse.”
“I'm sure he would die for the chance to do so.”
“And he just might if he tries.”
Marcia has been doing well for herself lately. The matches line her pockets, but the customers after dark make her life cushy. It is the gladiator’s lot in life to be adored and desired by their followers, but only the wealthy can afford them for a night.
With those earnings, she has bought herself a flowing tunic as red as the cape she wears, with a dipping neckline and embroidered golden flowers. It is no matron’s stola, but then she is no matron, and she wears it proudly as she climbs Fourth Hill.
As the first roof shingles rises from the rolling swells, Marcia gazes up in wonder. The glowing walls of the villa crown the hill, girt by olive and orange trees in full bloom. In the golden sunset she enters the susurrus of leaves and the fragrance of blossoms, and reaches the portico, sheltered by a carved tympanum on grand red pillars.
As she passes between the columns, a bearded man with a chaplet of olive leaves in his salt-and-pepper hair lifts his head. His eyes flick to the book in his hand.
“May I hear your key phrase?”
She cannot help sighing as she says, “Gaian would rather pet a horse than ride it.”
The gatekeeper looks her in the eye, and then laughs barkingly. “How many of these has he come up with? Each one is better than the last. Welcome, Marcia, to the villa of Isicus Pollius Alexius Gaianus.”
She hears the festivities go before she sees them: chatter, laughter, the clatter of ceramics. The fores, carved with sinuous floral motifs, radiate stateliness older than the emperor’s son himself. As she wanders through between them, all questions and misgivings leave her mind in the face of what she sees. The lamplit atrium is bordered by colonnades of pale pillars, enclosing a lush garden thick with blossoms as with the trees outside, circling a small square pond. Never has she seen such well-kept verdure, nor some of the species on display, hanging in veils like a nymph’s curtain. She wanders up the hallways of woven banners, passing lords and ladies holding each other by the waists.
The strum of strings and the glow of golden firelight from the peristyle draw her. There she finds, lit in burning gold, the heart of the feast. In the middle of this courtyard, the ground descends to a square pool stirred by a fountain, around which senators and generals mingle—ones she knows and ones she doesn’t, some of them in furious lip-lock. Long past are the decades when women could not hold office—this is the modern empire, they say—and all kinds mix here, equal to each other in haughtiness.
Up along the left colonnade of the courtyard stands a banquet table bearing trays of food for twenty diners. A serf in one corner keeps the wine flowing, and plates of olives have already been spilled on the ground. Past the guests, upon a gilded couch by the pool, reclines the man of the house himself, with a golden chaplet, much like the doorman's, perched in his curly brown hair.
Marcia thinks to have a word with him, but the pull of the banquet—and the gnawing of her hunger—take her attention first.
Already a few recline in the couches by the table, and when Marcia leans between them to take some skewers of meats and fruit for herself, she is met with a menagerie of expressions—lascivious smiles, odd stares, a scowl. “Is that who I think it is?” asks one to another, but not to her.
“I thought she was only loved on the streets,” the other answers, popping a grape between his lips. “Not the strangest guest Gaian has had.”
Shrugging, Marcia turns in search of Gaian—but where there was no one before, a blonde woman now looms behind her.
Hers is a face both foreign and familiar, an echo of a hundred carved reliefs before her time. Her golden hair falls like spun silk over her shoulders, the black embroidery of her gem-draped golden dress depicting the swirling figures of scaled beasts—dragons, but in the eastern style.
As their eyes meet, the lady’s widen, gleaming gimlet grey. “The Brazen Bull? Surely not!” she gasps. “Strange to see you here.”
Her tone does not sit right. “Yes, strange even to me,” she replies. “I was invited on a whim of Gaian’s.”
“The man’s a fickle fool, to let you in here and cheapen this gathering.”
Marcia has been expecting an insult, but she is not expecting it undressed. “Do you have more of a claim to being here?” she answers.
Her lip curls. “Of course. I am a proper patrician, heir of an honourable general’s bloodline. You slay a few beasts, and now you dare carry yourself like one of us.”
“Whatever you say, lady…what’s your name?”
Her brow twitches. “My name is Lucia Publia Diana—and you will remember that.”
“I’ll remember you, alright,” Marcia answers with a cool smile. “One would hope an honourable man’s daughter would learn some of his honour.” Then she walks away, leaving her raving and snarling behind.
The one thing Marcia has heard of the lord Gaian’ birthday festivities is that the man has a penchant for a certain kind of guest. Among the people of Constantinople, he is both loved and scorned—a singularly outlandish man, whom Emperor Alexius will someday crown. His annual birthday banquet, however, is only ever derided from without, and already she can see it was not all talk.
She skirts the pool on her way to Gaian’ gilded couch, where a couple have already dived in and the red of wine mingles with its meek tides. As she passes, a man reaches from the poolside and clutches at her ankles, running fingers up her shins. “Beauteous one! Spare Acacius a kiss, won't you?” One crushing step upon his arm halts those efforts.
Gaian does not immediately notice Marcia as she arrives, but once she clears her throat, he turns at once, and a toothy grin spreads on his face. He lifts himself from the cushions to sit on his seat’s velvet edge.
“Oh, if it isn't Marcia, the Brazen Bull herself! I'm thrilled you could make it. How wonderful to have you in my home! How are you enjoying yourself?”
Though grinning and reeking of wine, the man has the stature of nobility about him, like gold dressed in tacky fabrics. He has some of Alexius’ traits: curly black hair, dark tan skin, and a strong nose, his eyes housing a complex mirth mingled with euphoria.
“I am enjoying myself well, thank you,” she answers. “Though I cannot help but wonder why you thought me a worthy guest. I am honoured, of course! Honoured but curious.”
“Oho! Well, that's simple.” He glances across the room, then back at her, grin unceasing. “I enjoy your matches, and admire your command of a crowd. I have beheld your deeds from afar, and have wanted to speak to you in the flesh!”
She chuckles. “Well, you needn't have gone to these lengths to speak to me. Just call on me at the barracks. Or send a messenger to find me, if that place is too lowly for you to set foot there yourself.”
Gaian smirks back, then bites from an olive. “Oh? Then the next time we speak, it can be elsewhere. Anyhow, my friend, come sit down.” Gaian pats the other end of his recliner, and she glances at the cushioning, then back at the crowd, before taking that place. “You fought an impressive match this week. I've never seen one of those creatures! A dragon!”
“I can never understand how the gamemakers keep finding these beasts,” she replied.
“The Colosseum of Constantinople has coffers rivalling mine,” he answers. “And I, too, would buy every manner of exotic beast, if I mixed well with them. Instead, I have a garden.”
By now, the sun has set upon the very gardens Gaian speaks of, and the merry lanterns paint the peristyle in gold and pink. There in the rousing bustle and the capricious tunes of the musicians, a wine goblet spills and guests prance with each other. They look in Marcia’s direction now and then, and the gazes are always furtive or conspiring—nothing like the raucous cheer she commands in the amphitheater.
“A garden won't attack you, that's for sure,” she says.
“You'd be surprised. It has broken my heart plenty a time…”
For a while they converse about nothing important, a casual duel of quips—and she finds he plays with words like game pieces, and she responds in kind, surprise mounting at how little he cares for the astronomic difference in their social standing.
Then as Marcia rises to take her leave, Gaian says, “Thank you for gracing me with your presence, Brazen Bull,” as if in dismissal, but a mirth sparkles in his eye. “This shan’t be the last time we talk.”
“I will allow it,” she answers with a grin of her own.
As Marcia picks up a couple more skewers, she casts an eye about. The dining has squarely turned to drinking. Passing the corner of the pool again, a tap on the arm draws her eye—and there is a woman, rosy-faced and all in blue, with her brown tresses combed into immaculate spirals.
“Marcia, you're more gorgeous up close,” she purrs, beckoning with her painted half-lidded eyes. The woman wears too much gold on her neck and wrists.
“Do you watch my matches?” Marcia answers, gliding towards her.
“All of them,” the woman whispers, running fingers down her waist. “Such power and poise…you are nothing if not mesmerising…”
Marcia allows the woman's beauty to lure her into a kiss, but she knows connecting herself to nobles can promise nothing but danger. So she does as she always does, and comes and goes like a shadow at night, playing her part but learning no more names.
“Lady Diana,” Quintus repeats the name to Marcia, before the next morning’s training bout. “Yes, she is known well among high society. Loved among the senate, hated by the tavern-goers. Her father was a general in China—they say his army slew an entire city, and their family took the likeness of their dragon as their trophy.”
Marcia frowns. “She is a piece of work, that one,” she says. “But of course she comes from a family of conquerors.”
“Be more charitable now,” he answers. “Most wealthy people are some kind of mess or other. Like Gaian himself. How did that go?”
“I was expecting much worse.” she answers.
*
With Quintus leading, the group jog in circles around the colosseum, spar on the sand, and talk under trees. The camaraderie, their coach often declares, is part of sharpening their minds. But among the cohort, Marcia enjoys talking only to dark-haired Lavinia and towering Canthus, whose banter is always a delight to partake in.
Drills completed, the gladiators gather for a debrief in the shadow of the armoury’s archway. “It must be known,” announces Quintus, “that the colosseum is seeing important changes. With new funding, we have been asked for a fresh roster of matches. You may see stranger foes, and possibly larger numbers of them. I will continue to advocate for your safety to the game makers, but I urge you to sharpen your skills.”
There is some glancing between the gladiators, and Marcia frowns—the words ring like a warning, though Quintus seems unable to phrase them as one.
*
When Marcia returns to the barracks, she halts at the sigh of a man waiting at her door in the barracks. Her pace slows, and she watches quietly. He wears a poor man’s trousers, and she cannot say for sure if she has ever seen him. But as she approaches, he waves to draw her attention.
“I hope I find you well, Marcia!” he calls as she reaches earshot, raising a sealed scroll. “A delivery for you.”
“Thank you.” She takes the letter with a nod and makes to re-enter her home, but he holds an arm up before her and clears his throat.
“I cannot leave until I hear your answer to the missive,” he declares.
Either it is important, or it wants to be. Frowning, Marcia pries up the seal with her thumb and unrolls the letter.
Junia Paetina Marcia, I seek your audience tomorrow morning in my abode, shortly after dawn. There will be no festivities this time. I simply have an opportunity for your consideration, and hope to see you tomorrow. Let my messenger know your answer.
Gaian
She keeps her face steeled. What kind of job could this be? Marcia does not like mixing with the wealthy. And yet the manner of this invitation reels her in. She can feel his hand in it, and see his smirk, plotting a mystery she cannot turn away.
“Tell him I shall visit tomorrow,” she says then, and the messenger nods. “I’ll find out what it is he wants. But he must know I may refuse.”
Marcia wakes before dawn as promised, and walks for an hour among carriages, through stands of fragrant trees to the portico of the villa on Fourth Hill. There is no gatekeeper today, so she knocks and waits to enter.
Gaian himself opens the door. Without the revelry, the atrium is placid and gleaming, marble and gold, dusted by shadows between palm leaves. “Marcia!” he declares as she appears, all grins. “Thank you for coming, despite my vague directions. You must wonder why I called you here.”
“You always had a penchant for incomprehensible caprices,” she replies. “I did not question it so much as let the intrigue lure me.”
“I would like a champion,” he says.
“What?”
“I would like you to be my champion, and a guard at my right hand. If you are willing. I would have you walk before me in public, and take the spoils that come with it.”
Studying the wall reliefs of flowers and clouds until now, she whips around. “Why so suddenly? Does your endless roster of associates not include a warrior?”
At this, he frowns, folding his hands together. “I suspect ill intent against me. You must know I am intended as Alexius’ heir. But not all in the senate like me as his choice.”
“And I was the first person you considered?”
“Oh, you know,” he answers, “I am not just looking for combat prowess, which you have in plenty. I want someone not already entangled in the houses, too. And you are special, I can sense it. Special in the way you placate, then kill. I think you have something beyond what an ordinary warrior does.”
Marcia shudders under his piercing brown gaze, wondering if he knows of her abilities. Showing magic is showing an allegiance to the gods.
“And do I keep attending my matches? Or do I cut ties with the colosseum?”
“I have no intention of depriving you of your matches. Please attend them, and take your leave when you need.’’
“Well, you must name me a price I can't refuse, then,” she answers in steady measure. “I don't like mixing with politics.”
“Two silver denarii a day.”
“My wealthy customers pay me that much for a night. Surely you can do better than love-making rates.” Two silver denarii could feed and clothe her for a week.
Gaian chuckles. “Oh, so spoiled for choice, are you? Well, I am spoiled, too. I can make that four denarii a day.”
“If you can also guarantee I will be treated twice as well as any old nighttime client treats me…”
“I would have my house feed you, when you are here for mealtimes. It would be no object.”
“Then I am sold.”
They shake hands, clasping wrists, to seal the agreement. “Marcia, you are welcome in my house anytime. I shall see you tomorrow, then?”
“If tomorrow is as soon as you would like me to begin, then certainly.”
It is as she is making her winding way back to the barracks, drenched in the evening light, that Marcia hears a telltale crackle behind her. She whirls to look behind her, but sees no movement. She studies the surrounds—the walls, bushes and pillars—just long enough and with enough care to notice a few curls of hair jutting from behind a tree.
She frowns, but feigns ignorance and carries on homeward, ears pricked.
It is hard to miss the faraway footsteps that never grow softer now that she is seeking them. Though she briefly thinks to frighten the spy away, it piques her curiosity too much.
So she pretends she hears nothing, walking with nonchalant stride until they are headed up a straight stretch of road, where she can tell her tail is behind and to her right.
Then she turns again, and the spy finds herself caught out in the lamplight—a woman of short stature and black curls pulled into a bun. She yelps, hair flying askew, as Marcia pounces.
With all the strength of her warrior's training, she pins the woman against a retaining wall. “Why are you following me?” she growls, leaning over her.
Cowering, the stranger bites back a whimper. “I—I’m sorry! I am simply an enjoyer of your matches!”
Marcia feels the woman's pulse surge, easily as reading a letter. Adoration? Lying? Terror? “And why should you be following me home at this hour? Are you meaning to watch me?”
With a tremor, she breathes, “I am…curious. About you.”
“What is your name?”
“Olivia…” Her eyes hunger, and so does her blood.
“Alright, Olivia, tell me the truth,” Marcia draws out the syllables, leaning into the role it seems Olivia wants her to play. “Why were you following me?” Her grip tightens.
Inopportunely, she thinks upon the softness of Olivia’s skin.
The woman eyes her intently. “Are you trying to interrogate me or kiss me? I can barely tell.” Her pulse rises again.
“It could be both, couldn’t it,” she answers with a smirk, “if you enjoy—”
Marcia’s words are cut short as Olivia leans in to kiss her outright. There is nowhere else for her thoughts to turn now, so she returned the kiss, hands running down her back.
It is too sincere for a tactic of interrogation. They tumble onto the grass and shackle each other in lip-lock, occasionally coming up for breath. Her brown eyes glisten with startled longing.
“So who else are you, when you aren't following gladiators home?” Marcia asks then, brushing curls out of her eyes to see her better.
“I am a table server,” she answers. “I wipe and wait tables, polish crockery…”
The words plunge Marcia into a memory. “A grand and noble house it must be,” she murmurs.
“It is.” She sighs. “You’re as beautiful as I imagined.”
Those words are what pull Marcia briefly out of herself, to an impassive view of the scene. Look at me now, getting amorous with spies.
She slips away, and dusts herself as she rises. Then she extends a hand to help the other woman up.
“If you do mean what you say,” she says then, “come back again another day.”
Watching Olivia scurry away into the dark, Marcia feels a steely certainty that she was sent, letting slip her allegiance to a wealthy house. As to which house, she thinks as she re-enters her dormitory, the possibilities are few. The ghost of Olivia’s touch lingers on her arms.
From her first day walking before Gaian through the forum, Marcia already senses her place on the streets changing. All at once, merchants speak to her properly as they cross the bustling square, though with a quirk of the eyebrows, and beggars glare from the corners of their eyes.
“Ah, the brazen bull dresses herself in gold! A golden calf is she!” declares a man in the market, before his friend shoos him away.
“Oh, don't mind them,” Gaian murmurs in the shade. “They only envy you.”
Marcia often forgets that the average citizen of Constantinople laps up scandal like parched cows at a river. The news propagates through the barracks, and then she finds that her comrades eye her as if her face has changed, during bouts and after. Only Quintus still looks at her like a friend, as if he foresaw this from the start.
“It was I,” he admits then, “who gave the messenger the directions to your dormitory.”
She cannot help a laugh. “Sorry to bother you with a host of pesky messengers.”
“Not at all. If the upper echelons want you, then that is your business.” Then he grins. “So long as you don't mean to abandon this post for your new one.”
*
Not two nights later, Olivia returns, knocking on Marcia’s door with two sharp raps.
She wears a tunic the colour of jasmines, trimmed in golden ochre. Once she is inside Marcia’s room, they fly into an embrace, kissing and whispering into each other's ears.
“I'm glad you kept your word,” Marcia says.
“What can I say? You are impossible to resist.”
As they caress each other upon the wrinkles of her bed, Marcia finds herself pondering. Olivia is withholding herself, strung out by some trouble that she can sense in her skin.
“Tell me more about your house,” she whispers. “And how it is to serve in such luxury.”
Olivia smiles distantly. “My mistress is of a grand bloodline, and her house is equally grand. Armour stands in the hallways. Trophies of distant lands. She has the aspect of royalty, and aspires…higher than her station. And no matter her rage, the floggings, the house still dazzles me so…”
“Let me tell you a secret,” Marcia says, then, calculating. “I once lived in such a house, too. And all that gold and polish…it is but a veneer.”
Olivia studies her face with wide eyes. “Have you?”
“Yes. A peerless house, with marigolds in the garden, and feasts aplenty. But every stone was hewn by the blood of those they slew and enslaved.”
They lie facing each other a minute, each gazing so deep into the other’s eyes that it seems such intensity could burn any lie away.
Then Olivia whispers, “I am afraid. That I will never find what she's looking for.”
Marcia’s brow furrows. She recognises that masked agony, in a small, lost part of herself. “And what is she looking for?”
“You are friendly with the emperor’s son. And she is jealous. Not of you, but of the alliance.” Once the words have left Olivia’s lips, she curls up to shield her face. “I am ruined! I have spoken too much.”
“No, no.” Marcia lays a hand on Olivia's arm. “I wish no ill on you. And I can help you. Why have you truly come here?”
“My lady seeks to know you. And to know what Lord Gaian seeks from you. She suspects you of some secret, something you have told no one, that has bewitched all of Constantinople and the Emperor and his son…”
“Secret?” she laughs. “Then tell her you watched me bathing, and saw a scar on my back, from a slaver’s lash.”
Her eyes widen, glistening in the candlelight. “Do you really…”
Wordlessly, Marcia lifts the back folds of her tunic, until the scar peeks from under its hem. It only happened once—a lashing meted out in a fit of drunken rage. But she still feels the ridge along the small of her back every time she bathes, and takes pains to hide it from the public.
She feels Olivia’s fingers run along the scars. “Then you have truly lived in a patrician’s house before. But not in the way I thought.”
She smiles. “Do I look like a noble to you?”
The woman’s voice regains its verve. “You treat a woman with a noble’s manners,” she answers. And Marcia returns the passion in kind, but not with words.
*
As she watches Olivia’s back disappear down the street, Marcia feels an old foreboding resurface that she has not felt in years. She has tripped into some plot by her own chain of decisions. But Olivia, who asked for none of this, for whom no barrier stands between her and her master’s wrath, is endangered by her, too.
She has no more hours to ponder it than the ones spends laying awake, for in the morning, she turns herself in for training only to be confronted by a cloudy-faced Quintus, who says:
“Marcia. The masters have called a game in three days—a special game that will draw every man, woman, and child to the terraces. And you will be its centrepiece.”
“You don’t seem very keen,” Marcia mutters.
“None of us are, not after…” He does not have to speak Cyrus’ name for her to hear it.
“But any word on what the game will be?” she asks then.
Levering his wooden gladius over his shoulder, Quintus bows his head. “I do not. But I can only pray they took heed of Cyrus's fate. Surely the people of this city have left the bloodthirsty appetite of Rome behind…”
Marcia feels, in his words, the chill of what he implies. The game is the noble sport, war without war, borne by the threat of death. But for the fighter, there is no glory in it.
It is her turn to be laid on the chopping block, and she has only glimpsed an inkling of what is to come.