Blood and Sand by C. V. Wyk

Author:C. V. Wyk
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

CHAPTER 13

Xanthus would say this much for the Ardeans—they knew how to handle themselves. After ten years in the arena, he could take one look at a man and determine how well he was going to fight. New slaves panicked. Their motions were erratic, and they often died quickly. Former soldiers tried to jab and cut, following too many rules that no longer applied. The best gladiators had a mix of formal training and good instincts. Their eyes took in everything—arm movements, leg movements, the twitch of a brow or quirk of the mouth.

The Ardeans didn’t seem to have any training to speak of, but their instincts and ferocity almost made up for it. It was clear to Xanthus from the very first contender that these were men who had fought often and for much of their lives.

His eighth opponent strutted into the arena like a peacock, but he was light on his feet, for all that he looked slightly drunk. Back and forth, they circled each other. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Xanthus wondered if he could keep this up until dawn.

During one particularly long circuit around the arena, Xanthus’s attention drifted, and the peacock chose that moment to take a jab and nick Xanthus’s side. Blood spilled from the narrow cut, and the crowd began to scream in earnest. Xanthus reacted instinctually, spinning around and restraining the man’s arm. The peacock kicked backward and broke free. With a shout, he raised his sword high and brought it crashing down. It was almost too easy for Xanthus to block the hit and drive his own sword into the man’s chest.

The words that followed felt like they’d worn themselves into his soul. “Forgive me,” he whispered as the body was dragged away.

Gods, he was tired. It had been days since he’d had a proper night’s sleep. He just needed to close his eyes for a moment. He could feel his lids starting to drift shut when the sound of shouting caught his attention.

“He is not a gladiator!”

Xanthus looked up in confusion.

“He is barely a man!” Lucius was shouting. “Yet his one true wish is to fight beside his hero, the Champion of Rome! Are you not bored with these cheap wins? What do you have to be frightened of? Look at him!” He swung his arm around to point at the figure standing at the edge of the balcony.

Xanthus had no idea what was going on, but Lucius was right about the stranger—he was barely a man. His short legs were strapped with leather manicas meant for a soldier’s arms, and he wore a light, useless piece of leather across his chest. Black clothing covered the rest of his body and most of his face. He was laughably small.

Amusement and curiosity bloomed on the Ardeans’ faces.

Xanthus gritted his teeth in exasperation. Lucius wanted to send that boy into the arena with him? Was he trying to get them both killed?

“And when he dies,” Lucius continued with a

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