Page 43 of Taming the Eagle
Eogan's gaze roamed over her face before it skimmed downward, taking in her slave tunic and sandaled feet. “You look … well.”
“Do I?” she rasped.
Fenella moved sideways then so that her back blocked the general’s view of her brother. This was her only chance alone with him; she wouldn’t waste it.
“We have to be cautious,” she murmured, careful to keep her voice low, without whispering, which would only make Aquila and his men suspicious. “The Eagle speaks our tongue.”
Her brother nodded, his gaze wary.
“Fenella,” Aquila’s voice carried over the yard. “Say your goodbyes now … the match starts soon.”
She cut the Eagle a sharp look then, resentment bubbling up. Curse him, she wished he wasn’t standing nearby. She wished to speak frankly with Eogan, but she knew he would be listening.
Swallowing once more, she stepped forward and gripped her brother in another hard hug.
“I intend to escape,” she hissed in his ear, “and I will … soon.”
“Good,” came his whispered response. “Ready yourself, Fen … an attack is coming at the next full moon.”
Fenella stepped back, her heart galloping. “May the gods be with you, brother.”
A slow smile stretched Eogan’s lips in reply, and it struck her how much he’d matured of late. Her brother was a warrior now and carried himself with the same arrogance as their father did. “They always are, sister.”
Marcus hadn’t exaggerated. News of the fight between The Dacian and The Wolf Cub had spread throughout the fort and the vicus beyond. Spectators packed the wooden seats that made up the tiers of the circular Ardoch arena, giving the event a festive atmosphere.
Justin took his place next to Marcus in the magistrates’ box in the first tier. In more heavily populated areas, four magistrates administered the civilian towns outside forts, yet Ardoch had just two. Of course, both men were present this afternoon, and their faces lit up at the sight of the legate joining them.
“Should be a good fight, General,” one of them called out.
“I hope so,” Justin replied.
“Great day for it,” the second magistrate added, beaming.
“Indeed,” Marcus agreed. “Some sun at last.”
Justin had only just settled into his seat, when a food hawker entered the box and sidled up to its occupants. “A sausage, General?”
A delicious aroma wafted over Justin. He had to admit the sausages, which had been charred on sticks over a brazier, looked good, although he wasn’t hungry.
“Here.” Marcus pressed a coin into the man’s palm and helped himself to a sausage. The magistrates also decided to indulge, digging into the purses at their belts for coin.
Meanwhile, Justin settled back in his seat, his gaze surveying the arena. It had been some time since he’d attended a game. Death matches weren’t that common in this arena. They were expensive to run, for gladiators were hard to come by on the edge of the frontier, and they’d soon exhaust their supply of slaves if men died at the end of each match. However, they’d recently acquired a new cohort of slaves. One of the magistrates had sponsored this match, and owing to the interest in The Dacian and The Wolf Cub, this fight was to be to the death.
And the promise of blood had drawn men and women alike. Ardoch arena wasn’t grand—not like the vast stone stadiums in other parts of the empire. Nonetheless, it was well maintained, and they’d carted in sand from the coast to cover the floor. Arena attendants were just finishing raking the sand smooth, ready for the next fight. As soon as they withdrew, trumpets blared, causing the excited chatter in the stands to settle.
Moments later, the gladiators’ gate at the far end of the arena swung open. A huge man swaggered into view. This was The Dacian. Justin viewed him with interest; reports of this man’s size hadn’t been exaggerated. He was a giant with tanned skin and a bald head that gleamed in the sunlight. Under one arm, he carried a horsetail crested helmet, and over his shoulder hung a shield.
The crowd roared its greeting, and the gladiator strutted up to the magistrates’ box across the fresh sand and saluted them. He had the weathered, scarred face of a seasoned fighter, and observing him, Justin realized why he had stopped attending fights over the past years.
Death was something he saw daily; he didn’t need to pay to witness it. And unlike the whooping crowd—many of whom were calling out to the gladiator, while others threw coins and flowers his way—he didn’t hunger to see blood spilled.
Instead of fighting in the arena, a talented man like The Dacian should have been a soldier, defending the walls of Ardoch.
Grinning at the adulation, The Dacian circuited the space, waving to the crowd.
Moments later, a smaller, slighter figure entered the arena.
The cheering died, replaced by heckling and catcalls.