her direction, finding a horde of girls in pale blue-and-gold gowns pressing against a centurion’s horizontal spear. They were cheering, cheeks flushed, a mass of bare arms and plunging necklines and laughter, and Madoc found himself completely at a loss about how to respond.
“Was Stavos scared of you, Brave Madoc?” one cooed.
“How many fights have you won?”
“Have you a lover waiting for you in the stonemasons’ quarter?”
“You’re my pick for champion!”
Madoc’s breath lodged in his throat. His blood moved too fast through his veins. A lover waiting for him? How did they know where he lived?
“Why couldn’t I be the champion?” muttered Elias.
Madoc tried to smile but only managed a tight grimace. He clutched the bag of gold against his side. He didn’t even realize he was backing away until the stone edge of the exit’s archway was pressed between his shoulder blades.
“Madoc. Elias!” One woman’s voice cut through the rest like a pointed knife plunged straight into Madoc’s chest.
Pushing to the edge of the crowd was a thin woman with a wrap around her dark hair and a hard stare set to punish. Her tightly cinched dress was made of the plain, worn muslin of the working class. Her skirt was splattered with mud. Madoc suspected this meant she had walked all the way from the stonemasons’ quarter.
“Oh no,” said Elias.
Ilena waited expectantly, fists on her narrow hips.
Since it was clear he and Elias weren’t making it out of here anytime soon, Madoc motioned her through the barricade.
“It’s all right,” he said when the centurion shot a wary glance his way. “She’s my mother.”
Ilena pressed between the armored shoulders of the centurions, dragging a frail, hobbling woman behind. Seneca. Madoc couldn’t think of why she was here, or how she had managed the trip, but it didn’t matter, because Ilena was rolling toward them like storm clouds on the sea, and he was not about to get a beating in front of all these people.
He and Elias retreated into the tunnel and were just out of sight before Ilena grabbed both their ears.
“Ow!” Elias howled.
“You’re gladiators now? You’re fighting in a war?” Her voice reverberated off the ceiling, high enough to shatter eardrums.
“I haven’t fought anyone,” Madoc countered, just as her iron grip began to twist.
Behind her, Seneca chuckled, her voice like gravel shaking in a jar.
“Champion!” One of the centurions from outside had heard the noise and came rushing toward them, spear extended. He took one look at Ilena and then sent Madoc an uncertain scowl. “Unhand him, domina . . .”
“Keep talking and you’ll be next!” she hollered, but her grip loosened enough for Madoc to slide free. He waved off the centurion, massaging his hot earlobe and wishing he could melt into the floor.
The centurion waited one more beat before turning.
“That was embarrassing,” Elias muttered, wriggling free.
“Your pride is the least of my concerns,” Ilena responded. She jabbed a finger at Madoc. “You two leave to get Cassia, and I hear nothing. I fear the worst. And three days later you’re one of the Honored Eight? I had to hear it from Seneca! My own sons couldn’t tell me the truth!”
“Whispers on the wind,” sang Seneca, adjusting a belt around a tunic Madoc was fairly certain had been stolen off their laundry line. “They say you’re very impressive, Madoc.”
Elias gave her a disgusted look.
“I’m sorry,” Madoc said to Ilena, hot shame washing between his shoulder blades. “But . . .” He drew open the pouch of gold nestled in his arm.
The anger ripped from her face, leaving her skin pale and the bones in her cheeks too prominent. “How did you—”
“A thousand gold coins for every round he wins,” said Elias. “One forfeit, and we’re over halfway to paying off Cassia’s indenture.”
Ilena hushed him, closing the bag with one hand. She looked over her shoulder, as if fearful that someone might try to steal it. It was almost funny. No one would think of stealing from a champion—not here, anyway.
“It’s too dangerous,” she hissed. “These aren’t street fights, Madoc. These are trained gladiators.”
“I know,” he said grimly, wondering again where Stavos had gone. As much as Madoc wanted to believe the champion had run scared, he knew that was unlikely. Could it have been illness? Gladiators sometimes fell to pox.
“Does Lucius know you aren’t . . .” She didn’t have to say the word to make her meaning clear. Does he know you aren’t Divine?
Madoc shook his head.
“Of course not.” Ilena huffed. She inhaled slowly, gaze