Whisper (Riley Bloom 4)

I leaned into Dacian, so overcome with excitement and nerves, too busy watching Theocoles slice his opponent to shreds, it was a moment before I noticed our shoulders were pressed snugly together.

“Why doesn’t he just kill him already and get it over with, so he can claim his victory?” I asked.

My gaze darting between Dacian and the arena, suddenly aware that he’d taken my hand, laced his fingers with mine as he said, “Worried about Theocoles, are you?” His voice teased at my ear as he leaned even closer. “Not to worry—he’s just doing what he does best. He’s playing the crowd. He’s giving us the show that he’s known for, and it hasn’t failed him yet.” He motioned toward the arena, where Theocoles, having removed his studded steel helmet and tossed it aside, shook his long, shaggy hair in acknowledgment of his tens of thousands of roaring fans. “He’s addicted to the applause. Needs it as much as a flower needs rain. He knows this is it. He’s all too aware that after today he’ll never again claim center stage. They’ll talk about him for a while, recount each move of his victory, but soon enough their attentions will begin to wane, just like they always do. And, once that happens, it won’t be long until the memory of Theocoles fades into oblivion, as another champion rises up in his place. And, despite what Messalina prefers to think, one day the great champion, the Pillar of Doom, will be reduced to nothing more than a ghost of a memory, with no lasting proof that he ever existed. I’m sure on some level, Theocoles is all too aware of that, and so, it’s for that very reason that he’s determined to milk it—to glean all from this moment that he possibly can.”

“Milk it?” I peered at Dacian, struggling to decide why I was so struck by the phrase, especially with all the other things that were happening. A boy was holding my hand! There was major bloodshed in the arena! Still, his words nudged at me, they just didn’t blend, didn’t quite mesh with the kinds of words he usually used.

Dacian looked at me. Assuming I didn’t understand its meaning, he said, “I mean he wants to seize the moment—he wants to squeeze it for all that it’s worth. Much as one might squeeze a goat’s udder for i

ts milk—”

“Got it,” I said, stealing a chance to remove my hand from his. I was suddenly jumpy, testy, something nudging at the edge of my memory, though I had no idea what it could be, no idea why I was feeling that way.

The crowd roared, dragging my attention back to the arena, eager to catch up on all that I’d missed. Watching as Theocoles loped around its perimeter, sword and shield outstretched to either side—proving that, once again, Dacian was right. Theocoles loved the adulation. Thrived on it from what I could see. He was definitely milking it, to be sure. He wouldn’t go easily.

I glanced around the box, noting how, just like me, everyone else was on the edge of their seats, including the emperor who’d pushed aside his heaping platter of wine and grapes in order to direct his full attention to the games, while Messalina’s uncle, the owner of the ludus, the owner of Theocoles, stood off to his side, mumbling a long stream of words under his breath that I couldn’t quite hear.

Though when I looked at Messalina, I couldn’t help but notice how her reaction differed from the rest. While everyone else was in full-on nail-biting mode, she’d already turned away, refusing to look. Despite the fact that aside from Lucius and Theocoles, she had the most riding on the outcome.

Though a moment later when Dacian reached for my hand, the thought slipped away. The only thing I was conscious of was the tentative way his fingers laced with mine as his face veered close, then closer still as he said, “He’s getting ready. It’s almost over. And trust me, you will not want to miss this.”

We rose to our feet, everyone did. A crowd of people all pushing forward, straining to get a better look as Theocoles finally turned his back on the crowd and approached his severely wounded opponent, who, despite the grave condition he was in, despite the fact that he could barely gather enough strength to stand, refused to fall. All too aware that imminent death was well on its way, he was determined to die nobly, bravely, a death worthy of a gladiator. He would not give in without one final fight.

“Kill!” I yelled, following the lead of the crowd, my thumb pointing down as did Dacian’s beside me. The word shouted over and over again in one long, rhythmic chant—the soundtrack of a bloodthirsty crowd.

Theocoles turned, letting us know he’d acknowledged the word, and that he planned to oblige us at the first sign of the emperor’s bidding.

But while Theocoles was facing us, his opponent had taken the opportunity to regroup, to make one last stab at victory, or at least die trying.

Stumbling forward, he used whatever remaining strength he had to take one last, wild swing with his blade. Its sharp, pointed edge clipping Theocoles at the back of his knees where it sliced wide and deep. Causing him to stagger, to sag toward the sand, his sword and shield having slipped from his fingers, abandoned at his side.

His hands grasped at the air as he tilted erratically, body swaying, face bearing an expression of unmistakable shock when he found himself falling, collapsing, his once celebrated form no more than a bloody, lame heap.

The crowd hushed into a strange, eerie silence, needing a moment to adapt to such an unexpected turn of events, as I did the same. My hand clamped over my mouth, unable to believe what I saw unfolding before me, vaguely aware of Dacian sliding a comforting arm around my waist.

We moved forward, rushed to the edge of the box, as did everyone around us—Rome’s finest all bunched up together, eyes bulging, necks craning, eager to see what terrible, unexpected thing might happen next.

Theocoles struggled to rise, but his wounds were too deep, his muscles now sliced in half were no longer working. He fell onto his back, staring in complete disbelief as his battered and bloodied opponent towered over him with his sword raised high, ready, willing, waiting for that one simple word that would allow him to claim certain victory by plunging it deep into Theocoles’ throat.

Not expecting Theocoles to turn, to use whatever strength he had left to roll onto his side—his eyes frantically searching for Messalina’s—longing to apologize, to say a final good-bye.

That one single look containing so much longing, so much meaning, so much regret, I couldn’t stop the crystalline tears that rolled down my cheeks.

But the crowd failed to see what I saw.

They misread the whole thing.

Knowing only that Theocoles had turned his back on his opponent, they mistook his final good-bye for an act of cowardice.

Furious to learn that the man they once held as their hero was neither noble enough, nor brave enough, to face his own death (an act that could not, would not be tolerated—an act that went against everything a gladiator stood for), they were quick to turn against him.

Tens of thousands of mouths that just a moment ago had hung silent in shock, were now fueled with revenge, shouting the verdict of: “Kill!” over and over again.

The demand so overwhelming, so all consuming, the emperor was quick to nod his consent.

The crowd pressed tighter, causing my head to grow foggy as I gasped for each breath. Swallowing mouthfuls of air only to realize I didn’t exhale.

I had no need of it—no need to breathe.