and Elias had fumbled through the morning routine. Breakfast Madoc couldn’t stomach. Armor that didn’t meet Arkos’s high standards for inspection. A wrong turn in the barracks that made him late for the morning roll call. He’d only just found his place in line with the other gladiators when Lucius had announced that in his first fight, Madoc would face Stavos, the giant gladiator who’d heckled Ash in the arena and who favored a broadsword for ramming straight through his opponents.
Madoc had vomited twice on the carriage ride to the small arena on the west side of the city. Even Elias, who could talk his way into and out of anything, had fallen quiet.
But Stavos hadn’t shown.
“Probably scared of looking bad when we beat him,” Elias had offered weakly.
While the guards had searched the streets, suspicion had gnawed at the edges of Madoc’s thoughts. Stavos’s forfeit didn’t make sense. Madoc had seen him get into his carriage that morning. He’d watched the gladiator mime how he would crush Madoc’s face and laugh when Madoc had gone pale. Stavos was a seasoned gladiator; he wasn’t afraid of some untrained stonemason who’d barely bested a Kulan fighter without energeia.
So where had he gone?
But when the guards had returned without Stavos, holding a sack of gold coins so heavy Madoc had to use two hands to take it, his worries ground to dust.
He’d won, and it didn’t matter how. He was one thousand coins closer to saving Cassia and humiliating his father in front of Geoxus.
“We should take this to Petros now,” Elias said. “Offer it as an installment. Maybe he’ll let Cassia go once he sees we’re going to make good on his demand.”
Madoc focused on Elias’s voice through the roar of the crowd above them. They were still in one of the exit tunnels, only a short walk from the outside of the small arena. Lesser matches were held here during the week along with plays and livestock auctions, which left the corridor crowded with stage planking and tattered curtains, and smelling vaguely of sheep dung.
“He won’t.” He couldn’t take the edge out of his voice. The crowd was screaming, their stomping feet a stampede one rock layer above his head. Whatever fight had gone on in place of his must have ended quickly, and in a bloody mess.
The crowds always loved those the best.
“Then go back to Geoxus,” Elias said. “You’ve won now. Maybe he’ll front you the rest of the money, or grant you a favor.” Elias’s hands were circling as he talked. “He might free Cassia if you ask.”
“And what will I say?” Madoc steered them toward the exit so they could get back into the carriage that would bring them to Lucius’s villa. Hello, Geoxus. I know half of my wins since becoming a champion are by forfeit, but can you do me a favor and set our sister free? He only chose me in the first place because he trusts Petros.”
Elias groaned and pulled at his dark hair, making it stick forward like a wave reaching for shore. The smudges beneath his eyes said that he’d slept about as much as Madoc had last night. Every minute they stayed at Headless Hill was another they risked exposure, and Lucius’s training had been particularly brutal that morning following the meeting with Geoxus. Convinced that Madoc had deliberately lied about his lineage, the sponsor had promised to take Madoc’s fingers, one by one, should he step out of line. On top of that, rumors had already begun to circulate about Madoc’s father, and judging by the heated glares he and Elias had gotten at breakfast, his relationship with Petros wasn’t making them popular.
Fifteen hundred gold coins, and then this would be over.
“Madoc! There he is . . . Madoc!” A burst of screams had Madoc bracing in defense.
A crowd had gathered near the exit of the arena. Deiman women and men, even a few children, all held back by an arc of centurions. Madoc’s immediate response was to run—these people knew he was a fraud. They were angry at him for his appointment to the Honored Eight, or bitter that he hadn’t put on a good show. But their smiles had him hesitating.
“Are you truly a stonemason?” a man called, drawing Madoc’s eyes to the mortar stains on his tunic, and his sun-bronzed shoulder, where Madoc’s name was etched in black ink.