Page 45 of Taming the Eagle
Snarling, he went for The Wolf Cub, raining down heavy blows upon his shield until the wood splintered. The Picti fought back with savagery, but it wasn’t enough. The two men were fighting in front of the magistrates’ box now, and Justin could see that Eogan was starting to tire. There was only so much a man could withstand.
The Dacian was dauntless.
The seasoned gladiator fought like a man possessed now, his face a rictus. Finally, he got close enough to his opponent to smash him in the face with his shield, before he kicked The Wolf Cub’s feet from under him.
Eogan crashed to the ground.
The Dacian threw aside his bloodied and scarred shield and knelt on his opponent’s chest, raising his gladius above him, both hands on the hilt. He was readying himself to drive the blade down through the younger man’s throat.
Yet, even as he stared death in the eye, the young warrior snarled up at his opponent, his gaze goading.
“Halt!”
The Dacian froze, and the crowd settled, silence falling over the arena. The onlookers’ gazes flicked between the gladiator and the legate, who had risen to his feet in the magistrates’ box.
“General?” The Dacian rasped.
“You fought well.” Justin’s voice echoed through the stands. “But the match ends here.”
Gasps and mutters of outrage rippled through the arena.
“What’s this,” one of the magistrates sputtered. “I paid for a death match!”
“Justin,” Marcus warned from next to him. “This isn’t usually how it’s done.”
Justin ignored them both. Instead, his gaze remained upon The Dacian.
He couldn’t let Eogan die. If he did, Fenella would loathe him for eternity.
And so he raised his hand and held up a closed fist with his thumb wrapped around his fingers.
The rumbles of discontent in the stands grew louder. Anger darkened the faces of many of the spectators, yet they all knew better than to speak against the legate of Valeria Vitrix.
General Aquila had spoken. Mercy had been given. The Wolf Cub’s blood wouldn’t stain the sand crimson this afternoon.
Fenella walked along the portico toward the tablinum. Her belly pitched as if she sat in a rowboat upon a storm-tossed loch. Dusk had settled over Ardoch, and a chill, damp wind had sprung up. Returning from the arena, she’d resumed her chores. However, her thoughts had been on her brother and the fight.
At one point, she’d heard the roar of the crowd in the arena. Heart slamming against her ribs, she’d straightened up from potting herbs.
What did that sound mean?
There was no way to know.
But now the Eagle had sent for her—and she would find out whether or not Eogan had survived the fight.
Heart in her throat, Fenella halted before the doors to the Eagle’s living space. She then heaved in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and knocked.
“Enter.”
Pushing open the doors, Fenella stepped inside and closed them behind her. She halted then, spine pressed against the doors and every muscle tense, while her gaze swept straight to the man seated upon one of the two couches in the center of the space. Even in repose, dressed in a fine purple knee-length tunic trimmed with gold, a cloak of the same color draped over one shoulder, Aquila exuded coiled energy.
Aquila’s amber gaze speared hers, and then he rose to his feet with the same easy grace she’d seen Electri display, and placed the calix of wine he’d been cradling upon a low table.
Anxiety now beat like a caged raven in her chest, but she forced herself to move away from the doors. Walking forward, Fenella halted a few feet from him. “Is he dead?” She blurted out the question, unable to bear not knowing any longer.
“Your brother lives,” he replied, moving forward to face her.
Fenella exhaled sharply. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. “Eogan bested his opponent?” Pride constricted her chest. She should never have doubted him.