ATALIA

She sat on her bed, elbows on her thighs, head lowered.

I killed them. I killed three lions. Symbols of my homeland. She closed her eyes. They made me a monster.

Atalia had not left her cell since. The healer had come to her again. The old man had stitched her new wounds, those of the lion's bite, and given her a frothy drink against the pain. But what was physical pain by the torment in her heart?

Is this my life now? Atalia balled her hands into fists. To fight in the arena for Tirus's pleasure until one of his beasts slays me?

She opened her eyes and caressed the burlap tunic they had given her. She could weave this tunic into a strand. She could wrap it around her neck. She could die here instead of the arena. At least that would rob Tirus of some pleasure.

She took a shuddering breath. But no. She did not have that courage. Her death would be in battle. That had always been the death planned for her, perhaps. Not death as an old woman among family. The death of a fighter—young, foolish, screaming. Thus did warriors die.

The barred door to her cell clanked, and a woman swung it open.

"Atalia Sela," the woman said, nodding. "The lion killer."

Atalia stared. The woman in the doorway was long-limbed, muscular, and perhaps thirty years old. Her skin was coppery, her eyes almond-shaped and black, her hair short and dark. She wore bronze armor. The armor was decorative, made for show, not the battlefield. The breastplate was curved to highlight the breasts, leaving the belly bare, more lurid than functional. The studded pteruges showed too much thigh. A whip hung from the woman's belt, the handle shaped as a serpent's head. A second serpent was tattooed onto the woman's cheek, coiling and sticking out its forked tongue.

"Who the fuck are you?" Atalia said.

The woman moved so quickly Atalia couldn't even react. A blow slammed against her nose. A second blow hit her temple, knocking Atalia off the bed. She tried to rise when the woman's sandaled foot pressed down on her throat, crushing her windpipe. Atalia grabbed the foot, trying to tug it off, but could not. The woman was leaning down hard. She raised her whip.

"You will speak to me with respect," said the woman. "I am Leyla, domina of the Ludus Magnus. I will teach you respect or I will teach you pain."

Finally the foot pulled off Atalia's neck. She sucked in air, spat, and cursed. She rose to her feet and glared at Leyla.

"What the fuck could you possibly teach me about anything?" Atalia said.

She was expecting the next blow. She blocked it on her forearm. But Leyla's knee to the belly caught her unprepared. Atalia doubled over, only for Leyla to grab her arms, twist her around, and wrap the whip around Atalia's throat. Atalia struggled, kicking, trying to pull the thong off, but Leyla yanked back, constricting her.

"Should I keep going?" Leyla hissed into her ear. "Should I tug and tug until your neck rips? Oh, would that I could! But I still have use for you."

With a grunt, Leyla tossed Atalia free. She stumbled in the cell and spun back toward Leyla, breathing hoarsely, and spat.

"Are you ready to learn respect?" Leyla asked, whip in hand.

"Teach me to fight like that," Atalia said, "and I'll respect the shit in your chamber pot."

Leyla grunted. "I teach all my gladiators and gladiatrixes to fight like that. Most never live long enough to learn much. Come with me."

As they left the cell, Atalia frowned. The woman had called herself a domina. That was a title given to great lords and emperors in Aelar. Leyla wore an iron collar—a slave's collar like the one Atalia herself now wore.

They walked past the bathhouse where the slaves had prepared Atalia for her first battle—or more accurately, Atalia thought, her failed execution. An archway took them to a sunlit courtyard. Walls surrounded a dirt square, and above them rose columned walkways and a balcony. Beyond a wall, a short walk away, loomed the Amphitheatrum. But while that amphitheater was a place of splendor—its marble archways shadowing statues, its columns supporting golden eagles, and its gateways engraved with scenes of battle—this courtyard in its shadow was a humble place, all rough bricks and sand and sweat.

Several gladiators stood in the courtyard. Most were men, dressed only in subligaculi to cover their privates, holding blunt swords. A handful were women, as fierce as the men, shouting as they dueled. Atalia saw no Aelarians here. These were fighters from across the Empire, from every race and nation. Many had shaved the sides of their heads and covered their arms with tattoos. Some were missing teeth, and some looked like their noses had shattered a hundred times. All were scarred. All were strong, their muscles rippling as they drilled, lust for battle in their eyes.

But these are not true warriors, Atalia thought, watching them. Not one among them.

They fought for show. Those who wore armor only protected arms, breasts, and loins, not the abdomen or face. When they drilled with swords, they did not aim for the kill. They swung their blunt blades in a flourish, aiming to look fierce more than deliver a quick death.

True soldiers are not like this, Atalia thought. True soldiers are like Daor. Like my brothers. Just people—the sort you wouldn't look twice at on the street—who want to protect their homes.

As she stepped into the square, all eyes turned toward her. The gladiators paused from their drills. A few smirked. One woman, her red hair braided a hundred times, wagged her tongue at Atalia and grabbed her crotch. A bald, burly man with a scarred face spat and muttered something to his friend, who laughed.

"Fresh meat," a man muttered.

A golden-haired woman, perhaps Gaelian, pointed at Atalia. "She's lion fodder. I know that one. She's no gladiatrix."

"Fucking botched execution shit." The bald, scarred man spat again. "Is this the scum they bring the Magnus Lud—"

Leyla lashed her whip. The thong, which just moments ago had wrapped around Atalia's neck, hit the scarred man's face. Blood spurted, and the gladiator grabbed his cheek.

"Silence, all of you!" Leyla shouted. She cracked her whip again, spraying droplets of blood. "This woman slaughtered three lions—after losing her weapon. She was a botched execution, yes. And we will make her a gladiatrix." She pointed at the bleeding man. "Duel with her."

The bleeding man grunted. He hefted his sword—a chipped hunk of iron. Leyla placed a second sword in Atalia's hand. The blade was blunt, the weapon heavy and poorly balanced.

Atalia spat and tossed the sword down. "Fuck this. I'm a soldier. I'm not a trained monkey."

"You'll be a dead monkey," said the scarred man, leaping toward her with his sword.

Grimacing, Atalia sidestepped, dodging his blade. She scurried back and glared at the beefy gladiator. "I won't fight you. I fight real battles. Not for show."

The gladiator glanced toward Leyla. The domina flicked her whip. "Beat her senseless, Uro," she said. "Show her how real our battles can be."

Uro's face still bled from the lash. When he licked the blood off his lips, he revealed sharpened teeth. He charged toward Atalia again.

His sword swung. Atalia sidestepped, and the dulled blade glanced off her arm. A second blow slammed into her side, hitting her ribs. Pain exploded. When the sword swung toward her face, she ducked.

Oh, fuck this, she thought.

She ran across the courtyard to the sound of jeers. All the other gladiators gathered around, calling for Uro to smash her bones. Atalia grabbed her fallen sword an instant before Uro swung his blade again. She raised her sword, parrying. She growled, leaping forward, attacking furiously. She had not wanted this, but now she would win this. She hit Uro's arm, then his thigh, cutting the skin.

The blows only seemed to enrage him. Uro attacked again and again. His blunt blade hit her arm, her shoulder, her wrist. She cried out. She pressed her attack, raining blows on him, and smashed his fingers. He cried out and dropped his sword, and Atalia grinned, but his fist slammed into her cheek an instant later. She fell.

He was atop her at once, raining blows. Atalia raised her arms, trying to protect herself. He grabbed her sword and wrenched it free, drooling above her, a mad beast, dripping blood between his sharpened teeth. He raised his fist.

"Now I knock every fucking tooth from your mouth," he said.

A whip lashed out, wrapped around his wrist, and held his hand back.

"Enough!" Leyla barked. "Leave her face pretty. The crowds love a pretty face. Fight's over."

Atalia struggled to her feet, grunting. Her injuries hurt, but worse was the shame. Every other gladiator looked at her, smirking. A few spat her way. The woman with the red braids reached out to pat Atalia's cheek; Atalia shoved her hand away.

"Some soldier," a man muttered.

Atalia lifted her fallen sword. She wiped blood off her forehead.

"Next!" she shouted. "Somebody else, fight me!"

As a gladiatrix approached—the woman with red braids—Atalia launched back into battle.

For hours she fought, gladiator after gladiator, suffering bruises and cuts, defeating some, losing to others. She panted and spat out blood, but still she battled, because someday soon she would be in the arena again.

And I will survive that day, Atalia vowed, swinging her training sword against an opponent. I will survive until I get another chance, Tirus. Until I meet you again, Seneca. And then I will kill you.

As Atalia swung her blade, she was not fighting the gladiators, was not standing in a courtyard. She was fighting Tirus. She was fighting Seneca. She was fighting Claudia. She was fighting every Aelarian in the legions. She no longer wore scale armor, no longer fought in Gefen—but she was still a soldier of Zohar, and she still fought for the lions.