He kept his gaze on the moon, partially hidden behind a scuttle of clouds, as the cart that had transported him to his assignation with the empress brought him back to the catacombs. The bone-rattling ride took on new and more painful depths as he struggled to sit as straight as possible. To slump meant to suffer, and he already exerted what will he still retained not to howl his misery into the silent night.
Never before had he been so happy to return to the grim reality of the catacombs and the cage he’d called home for ten years. The sight of the hollow-eyed agacin crouched in one corner as his guards shoved him inside revitalized his hope.
She was the wide grass plains of the Sky Below, the horse herds grazing under the sun, the Savatar women singing as they felted, the flap of the clan flags atop the atamans’ tents. She was freedom made flesh, and in that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever beheld.
CHAPTER THREE
Gilene gripped the cage bars for balance and surveyed the crowd in the arena seats as the cart navigated the uneven expanse of stirred sand. Drunk on wine, spring heat, and a day’s worth of brutal blood sport, the spectators shouted for more, eager to witness the immolation that closed the annual Rites of Spring. Her fellow victims either clutched the bars and stared at the scene in horror or huddled in pairs and hid their faces.
Beside her, Pell tucked a skein of matted hair behind one ear and straightened her dress as if preparing for a street-side tryst. “If any of our worthless gods are willing to trouble themselves, may they be merciful and make this death swift.”
The gods have nothing to do with it. Gilene didn’t voice her acerbic thoughts. She touched the prostitute’s hand briefly. “It will be.”
The look Pell gave her held both doubt and amazement. “You have such faith then?”
Gilene’s dry chuckle lacked any humor. The cart transporting them rolled toward the pyre built of dried kindling, carcasses of animals killed in arena battles, and dead gladiators. A great wooden pillar, wound with thick rope, stood at its center—the final destination for the women sacrificed to the gods in exchange for their goodwill toward the Empire.
She had no faith in deities who found glorification in senseless butchery, nor did she believe they understood the concept of mercy. But she had faith in herself and her talent for wielding fire. She answered Pell in a sure voice. “Yes, I do.”
They said no more as the cheers grew to a deafening roar. The cart halted at the base of the pyre. The stench of blood, fear, and death filled her nose.
Guards gathered around the cage, their sun-creased features leering and cruel behind their helms. One unlocked the cage door and reached inside. Gilene was the first to tumble out. The crowd roared with laughter. Another guard hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward the pyre. The frightened cries of struggling women and curses from the guards accompanied her as she climbed over the dead piled around the waiting pillar. Flies swarmed about her head, their buzzing as loud in her ears as the crowd’s shrieking exuberance.
The soldier who pushed her onto the pyre bound her to the pillar with a length of rope, cinching it tightly so she wouldn’t escape when the flames licked at her feet.
“I hear the Prime picked ya last night.” A puzzled note entered his voice. “Odd, considering the look of ya.” He shrugged and left her to ponder his words.
Azarion had selected her for a purpose, not her appearance. She had little faith in the idea his plan for escape would work, but she had no choice in acting as his accomplice. His threat to reveal her deception had ensured that. The expression he’d worn while they bargained had been resolute. When the guards came to deliver him to his royal mistress, hatred had cast a shadow over his handsome features and flattened the color of his eyes to a flinty gray, and she had wondered whether this was the look his opponents saw when they faced him in the Pit.
She had retreated to a corner when the door opened and three guards crowded into the cell. They shackled Azarion’s hands and feet, securing the short lengths of chain to a collar snapped around his neck. The fetters forced him into a subservient hunch, and he shuffled instead of strode.
He had left the cell bound and returned the same way, except for the reek of perfume and the musk of sex. In the small hours before dawn, the catacombs’ dim torchlight revealed a faint limp and shoulders held more stiffly than proudly.
She’d awakened from a fitful doze at the first creak of the cell door and watched as Hanimus himself accompanied Azarion into the cell and removed the chains. The tattoos on his cheeks twisted into macabre shapes as he scowled at his champion fighter.
“You’ll not be fighting tomorrow with those injuries. You’d go down in the first melee.” He took a bucket of water and washcloth from one of the guards and set it at Azarion’s feet. “Have your bitch help you clean up.” He shook his head and exhaled a disgusted sigh. “I don’t see any other broken bones, but if you hurt too bad to stand it, tell the guard to summon a leech.”
Gilene almost believed Hanimus held some infinitesimal regard for his best fighter until she heard his last muttered comment as he exited the cell.
“Stupid cunt. She’ll end up killing him, and I’ll lose a fortune.”
Quiet returned to the cell once the guards left, except for Azarion’s staccato breathing. “Woman, are you awake?”
She’d hugged the tattered blanket he left with her. “Yes.”
“Help me with my shirt.”
His voice was no less commanding for its softness. Still, she heard its weary strain, the hints of pain suffered in silence.
He loosened the lacings in preparation and smothered a gasp when she eased the shirt off his broad shoulders. She winced as new scabs tore away with a crackle. A crosshatch of lashes ran the length of his back and disappeared into his trews.
She tossed the bloodstained shirt to the ground and stepped back for a look at his injuries. They stood out among the mural of old scars carved into his back, glistening a crimson-black from the oozing ribbons of dark blood that trickled down to stain his trews. Gilene forgot her reluctance to touch him. Her fingers glided a hairbreadth over the wounds. He must have sensed her near touch. Gooseflesh pebbled the bronze skin.
“Did the empress do this to you?”
He spoke to the wall. “Aye, and other things. You’ll need to clean the wounds and wrap my chest. I’ve a cracked rib or two as well.” He eased out of the trews, pausing to lean against the wall and take shallow breaths. More blood had dried in rivulets that ran the length of his thighs. More whip marks decorated his buttocks.
Empress Dalvila’s particular carnal preferences were fodder for gossip and sly laughter throughout the Empire. The reality of those preferences robbed any humor from the conjectures. Gilene wondered in which arena Azarion faced his deadliest enemies.