Madoc peered around the broad shoulders of a boy named Narris, who’d told Madoc that the last trainee to fill Madoc’s bunk had lost the front of his skull in a hailstorm of gravel. When Elias had responded that they’d once defeated Fentus, an expelled fighter from the facility in Xiphos, Narris had laughed like this was a joke, slapped them on the backs, and told them they were all right.
They were in with the trainees. Now they just needed to make sure no one caught on that they were cheating.
The golden circle of light at the end of the hall was blinding. The crowds in the stands shouted, their stomping feet quaking the arena and shaking sand through the gaps in the stone ceiling.
The arena needed new mortar. Under other circumstances, Madoc and Elias would have been called in to fix it.
“Stand ready!”
The order came from the front of the line and caused a ripple of excitement down the ranks. Whispers bounced off the narrow walls and low ceiling. Leather armor creaked, flicking at Madoc’s raw nerves. He was the last of the dozen trainees in his line, which ran parallel to the trainees from Xiphos. Another sponsor’s gladiators would come from the opposite side of the arena and meet them in the center. They were to stand behind Lucius’s real gladiators as Geoxus chose the Honored Eight who would fight in the war against Kula. The trainees were to look menacing and ready to attack. That’s what Narris had said, anyway.
The rumbling outside quieted, then gave way to silence. Madoc’s stomach pitched, but he tightened his jaw and glared ahead. He’d lived as pigstock long enough to know that the only way to fit in with the Divine was to pretend to be one of them, or to be tough enough that it didn’t matter.
Now he had to be both.
“What are we doing?” Elias muttered. “There has to be an easier way to get Cassia.”
“Like robbing a temple?” Madoc hissed. “You want to steal bread from starving children, be my guest.”
In truth, he wasn’t above it at the moment.
Narris’s attendant, a boy called Remi with silver-painted lips and streaks of gold in his hair, glared at them. “Quiet! The officials have begun the ceremony!”
“Was I talking to you?” Elias motioned with his hand for Remi to turn around, which he did only after giving them another dirty look.
“It’s fine,” Madoc told Elias. “This is just for show. The money is what matters.”
“Don’t let Geoxus hear you say that,” Elias muttered.
A tremor ran through Madoc as he recalled this morning’s inspection at Headless Hill. The trainees had been talking about the lavish parties the Father God threw in wartime, how the light from his palace burned straight through until dawn, when Arkos had called them into formation. For long minutes, they’d stood in silence, gladiators side by side with trainees. Madoc had waited for Lucius to address them but found him at the front of the group, staring forward, as still as the rest of them.
That’s when the sand beneath their feet began to churn, like ripples in a pond, and the stones around the training arena had begun to groan and shift.
A chill had crawled over Madoc’s skin as he realized the inspection had already begun. They were being watched through the earth, by Geoxus.
Maybe it was his sixth sense, or maybe they’d all felt scrutinized, but Madoc swore he could feel the Father God’s eyes on him alone. He’d expected to be called out on the spot, shamed for his lie and his lack of divinity, maybe even killed. But the earth had settled, and they’d been ordered to load into the carriages that would bring them to the great arena.
“Listen up, dust mites,” came Arkos’s growl from the front of the line. “You will march out there with your heads high and your backs straight. If you fall out of formation, I’ll sand your skin raw. If you so much as flinch when Geoxus chooses his gladiators, I’ll give you to the real fighters to play with. Are we understood?”
The response from the other trainees was instant and bone-shaking. “Yes, dominus!”
“He seems friendly,” Elias muttered.
Outside, the crowds roared.
Madoc pulled again at the golden breastplate. A cool rush trickled through his veins, coming faster and more powerful with each passing second. He felt like he did before a fight. Ready. Eager.