They didn’t approach, but the weight of their leers pressed down on her as she and the other women huddled together. She pretended not to see them. These were the men who had survived the day’s games, and their reward would be the sacrificial victims known as the Flowers of Spring. As one of those unfortunate blooms, Gilene would whore for her village tonight and burn for it tomorrow.
The girl on the other side of Pell shuddered and chanted a desperate prayer in a foreign tongue. Gilene leaned past her chain mate and grabbed a stretch of links attached to the praying girl’s manacle, giving it a quick jerk. The girl gasped, prayer forgotten as she stared wide-eyed first at Pell, then at Gilene.
“Shh,” Gilene instructed her in a soft voice. “Be still. Be silent. Some lust for beauty, others for fear. Don’t show them yours.”
The other woman nodded, her lips moving in a now-soundless chant. Gilene gave her a brief smile of approval. She could offer little else, at least for tonight.
Pell leaned down to whisper in Gilene’s ear. “Her prayers are in vain. She’s too pretty, even under all the dirt. She should pray the one who chooses her will be gentle.” Her words were blunt rather than merciless.
Gilene sighed. “Gentleness has little meaning when one is unwilling.” She stared at Pell, wondering at the woman’s practical calm. Gilene had made this horrific trip four times before this one. She knew what to expect. The only unknown was how terrible each year would be compared to the one before it. “What will you pray for, Pell?”
The slattern’s calculating smile deepened the lines around her mouth and those fanning the corners of her kohl-lined eyes. “I haven’t prayed in years, girl. Wouldn’t know how to go about it even if I tried. I’ll be happy to get one of those fine stallions with the blood washed off him and enough skill between the blankets to make it worth spreading my legs for free.”
Gilene admired Pell’s bravado. The woman knew what awaited her with the dawn yet still held on to a cynical wit.
Pell made to say more but stopped when a short, muscled bull of a man strode into the chamber. Dressed in mismatched armor and carrying both whip and dagger, he was a formidable sight. Blue markings decorated his skin, sleeving his bare arms. The marks curled over his shoulders and crept up a thick neck to cap his bald head. Some of the women in line cowered away from him, and he grinned.
Hanimus, gladiatorial master trainer, still presided over this event each year with relish. Like Pell, Gilene didn’t pray, but if she did, she’d beseech the gods for Hanimus’s death. He represented all that was rotten about the Empire.
He walked the long row of women, pausing at times to lift the chin of one with his whip handle or fondle the breast of another. His fighters called out encouragement and vulgar suggestions for what they wanted to do to their chosen prizes.
“They sent us a good crop this year, lads,” he proclaimed. “Too bad you only have them for a night.” Groans and ribald laughter filled the room, drowning out the softer weeping.
“We’ll all grow old before we can choose,” one impatient fighter protested.
The trainer’s eyes narrowed, and he spun to glare at the men. They snapped to attention. “You’ll wait your turn,” he warned. “Azarion is still fighting. If he lives, he’ll have first choice as Prime.”
As if on cue, the boisterous cheers of the arena’s crowd vibrated against the stone walls of the catacombs, sending dust raining down on everyone’s heads. The death bell pealed a sonorous song—tribute to the victor, a dirge to the slain.
“Lot of good it’ll do him,” someone muttered. “Herself will summon him like always. She rides that cock every chance she gets.” A chorus of ayes answered him.
Hanimus shrugged. “He still has first pick.”
Gilene bowed her head to hide her anger. Most of the women in chains had been separated from husbands and children, parents and siblings. Brought to Kraelag for the sole purpose of dying, they shouldn’t have to suffer this final degradation.
A part of her recognized they were alike in some ways—the condemned women of the villages and the enslaved gladiators of the arena. They had once been beloved sons and brothers, maybe husbands and fathers. Now they were all fodder for indifferent gods and the entertainment of the Empire, their deaths more valuable than their lives to those who ruled. Still, she couldn’t find it within her to pity these men who would subjugate them.
An expectant silence descended on the group as the crowd’s triumphant chant swelled to a thunderous bellow.
“Azarion! Azarion! Azarion!”
Hanimus smacked his whip handle against his thigh and grinned. “Ha! I knew he’d take the fight. The Margrave of Southland owes me a goodly sum now.”
The march of feet soon sounded on the steps leading down to the catacombs—the last victorious gladiator and his entourage of guards. Gilene watched the doorway from the corner of her eye, her stomach knotting itself in dread of seeing the man who would come through the entrance.
Like the other gladiators already here, he’d be dressed in blood-spattered armor. Unlike the others, he’d suck the air out of the room with his presence. She remembered Azarion from her previous annual treks to the capital. Worse, Azarion seemed to remember her.
Boot heels scraped across the dirt, and the Gladius Prime made his appearance. He bent to avoid hitting the lintel and entered the chamber. Stifled gasps from the women and bows from the men greeted him—this slave who commanded the deference reserved for kings.
He’d changed little since she’d seen him the previous year. A tall, solidly built man with wide shoulders and long, muscled arms, he exuded a presence that diminished the men around him. He was disarmed now, but she had no doubt he could kill as easily with his bare hands as he did with the weapons he carried into the arena.
His dark hair was shorter than she remembered, resting on his shoulders in sweat-dampened tendrils. She refused to look at him directly, choosing instead to watch him from the corner of her eye. She’d met his gaze before and regretted it.
He was handsome, with the high cheekbones and light eyes characteristic of the nomadic clans that roamed the Stara Dragana. The cold expression he leveled on the room’s occupants turned his green eyes flinty. Gilene hunched her shoulders and tucked herself as far back from the line as her chains allowed.
One of the gladiators broke the expectant silence. “Was it a good fight, Azarion?”
Azarion glanced at him before returning his attention to the women. “Aye. Damiano fought well and died honorably.”
Gilene shuddered. She’d forgotten his voice. Low and gruff, it carried to all corners, challenging, as if he dared anyone to make light of his victory or the death of the man he’d fought.
Hanimus tapped him on the arm. “We’ve been waiting for you. Best make your choice quick before Herself calls for you.”