My mouth is sour. My head spins and throbs. I can’t even lift it, and just let it fall forward. Concentrate on walking. And not getting sick again. And staying conscious.
And the pain.My back. My shoulders. Every movement—every breath—brings more flames to life. I’ve given up begging the gods for death. Maybe it’ll come, maybe it won’t, but I don’t have the strength to send up another prayer.
The world is brighter now. Blinding. Heat presses against drying blood and scourged flesh. When my eyes adjust, I’m outside. There are voices nearby, clattering weapons, and all those sounds falter. Or maybe I’m fading again, spiraling from this world into—
“On your feet,” a voice beside me barks. The hands on my arms tighten. Shake me. Jolt me hard enough to clear my mind.
We stop. I’m on sand. The voices and weapons really have ceased now, and only a hushed murmur remains.
“Into ranks,” someone near me shouts. “All of you. Now.”
Feet thump on the ground. I swear I can feel every step reverberating through me. Then, everyone is still and silent again.
Another set of footsteps—only one this time—crunches on the sand behind me until they too stop.
“Turn around, Saevius.” Drusus’s voice sends chills through me.
Forgive me, Saevius, I hear him whispering what seems like a lifetime ago.
I bloodied your face, Drusus. It was so easy to say then. I knew what the consequences would be.
“Turn. Around.”
The hands on my arms let go, and I will my shaking legs to stay under me as I go through the simple but excruciating motions of a slow about-face.
Behind me, the men murmur and curse. I think someone retches, but I can’t be sure. Gods, how badly is my back wounded to make gladiators ill?
“Saevius,” Drusus says coldly. “Look at me.”
I swallow the rising bile and lift my chin. I blink a few times to bring my vision into focus.
His face is as cold as his voice. “Get on your knees.”
I hold his gaze. He holds mine.
Forgive me, Saevius.
I knew what the consequences would be.
“The master gave you an order,” Arabo barks, and before I can think, he kicks my knee out from under me. The other buckles, and I drop to the sand.
Drusus walks past me. He’s behind me again. He’s still. I shiver, bracing just as I did before the first strike in the pit.
“Look at him,” Drusus snarls. “Look at him, and remember this. Let him be a warning to every last filthy bastard among you.”
No one makes a sound. I’m not sure anyone is even breathing. Not even me.
“This will not be tolerated,” Drusus says.
The familiar rattle. Oh gods. My throat closes around my breath, and every inch of shredded flesh burns with anticipation of more, especially as Drusus says, “Any one of you attacks me like this fool did, I promise you that this will only be the beginning of your punishment.”
Whoosh.
The lashes carve fresh streaks of fire across my back. The sound that leaves my lips seems to come from somewhere else, and I fall forward onto my shaking arms.
Another whoosh warns me there’s more coming. The lashes haven’t even touched me before I vomit on the sand between my hands. My elbows almost buckle. Much more, and they will.
I barely feel the flagellum’s talons rip into my flesh this time. The pain is there, but I’m not. I’m somewhere else. Fading deeper into blackness with every vicious stroke. Every stroke I can’t even count.
Shaking.Falling.
One elbow collapses. Then the other.
Hot sand.More pain. More vomit. Blood.
A foot rams into my hip. I grunt and topple onto my side. Sand grinds itself into my mutilated back and shoulder.
I blink my eyes into focus and look up at him. He sneers down at me, but for a fleeting instant, half a heartbeat at best, his brow knits together.
His expression quickly hardens again, and he looks past me. “Get him to the medicus.” Then he turns on his heel and leaves.
Forgive me, Saevius.
I close my eyes.
Hands around my arms. Someone jerks me upright.
Darkness.
The foul-smelling tincture threatens to make me retch again, but it dulls the fierce burning across my back and shoulders enough that I’ll gladly deal with what it does to my stomach. The medicus works slowly on my scourged flesh, suturing the worst of the wounds.
Finally, he’s finished. “You’re not to spar again until you have my say so.”
“Right.” I don’t think I could spar now if I wanted to anyway.
The medicus eyes me. “I mean it. Drusus has a problem with it? Send ’im to me.”
I nod, but say nothing.
Drusus. My stomach twists. My mouth still tingles with the absence of his lips and tongue, but after what feels like an eternity of my head being light from pain and all the blood I’ve lost, I wonder if I imagined it all. My lanista kissed me? Impossible.
Why are you telling me and not the Master Laurea?he’d asked. Calvus Laurea could kill you for this.
I know.
And yet you did it anyway. Why?
I slowly run the tip of my tongue across my lower lip, searching for a taste of that long-since-cooled—and possibly imagined—kiss. Why, indeed?
The medicus finishes bandaging my back and gives me one more gruff warning about sparring before I’m healed.
Arabo comes to collect me. He shackles my wrists and ankles, and neither of us say a word as he leads me out of the infirmary. We pass through the training yard. I don’t look at the men. I don’t need to. I can feel their gazes—curious, murderous—even as I keep my own fixed on the sand beneath my feet.
Their matches slow. Some stop. Whispers. Murmurs. Gods be with me when I return to my training, because no gladiator will want to associate with one who’s willing to attack the lanista. The greater distance they keep from me, the less likely they are to be killed if I try anything again. Except we all know damn well no lanista wants another Spartacus on his hands, and no gladiator wants to die because a lanista suspects a possible uprising, so the first chance these men get, they’ll be falling over themselves to be the one to kill me.
For now, though, I’m to be kept under lock and key. As far as the men know, I’m under heavy guard to keep me from committing another such offense. Just as well.
Arabo takes me to a new cell, separated from the rest of the barracks. No windows. A single door. Two guards I pray haven’t been bribed, persuaded, or otherwise compelled to kill me for the other men’s safety.
Let someone kill me. Death would be merciful now.
I settle onto the small, hard rack, cursing the straw that prickles my flesh and the bandages that press against my wounds. Gods, yes, death would be welcome. Or sleep. Some kind of oblivion.
Before long, thank the gods, darkness takes over.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here. Days, at least. The grimy bowl has been refilled with cold gruel . . . four times? Five? The pain has diminished, though it won’t be gone anytime soon. My desire for death or sleep has changed to boredom. Restlessness. The cell is shrinking around me, and pacing only makes it shrink faster.
At least Calvus or Ataiun can’t summon me from in here. I’m long overdue for a meeting with one of them, but I can’t as long as I’m imprisoned within the ludus.
Chains rattle, and I look up to see Arabo approaching with shackles in his hand.
“The master demands your presence.” He pushes open the door. “Immediately.”
I don’t fight him as he shackles me. It’s best for the men to see me this way as much as possible; anything to convince them Drusus and I are enemies.