Page 82 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Peering out into the arena, Marcus smothers his tired smile. Dru only banters when she’s comfortable in a situation, even if it’s a dire one that she can do nothing about. His own confidence rises.
Three drum beats sound from directly below them. The crowd quiets as the Phaedran and Durevolian gamemasters step forward inside their own shared balcony beside theirs, Legatus Ambitus seated between them.
Ettore speaks first. “Spettatori, combattenti: welcome to the Valorem Blood Trials.”
The arena leaps to their feet and erupts into cheers, some beating their own small drums they brought with them. Both countries came out in excited droves to watch the bloody spectacle. Something to bond over, he supposes, to talk about at the tabernaes. Although more Durevolians might not have come if the Phaedrans hadn’t created a common enemy by inserting themselves into a tradition established long before they existed.
Ettore continues, “A hundred years have passed since this land was soaked with the valiant blood of our people?—”
“—and now the blood of the Phaedran people will join you,” Blaise finishes.
Fewer cheers scatter across the arena, losing the enthused voices of the Durevolians. Marcus nearly laughs.
Ettore cuts in again. “The first trial is hand-to-hand combat. The pairings have been randomly selected, and will allow us to rank each competitor for the rest of the trials. The rules are stated as such: allparticipants must adhere to the fighting style of Anziano, known as scazzottata. As is tradition, no strikes below the waist are allowed, and only hands may be used.”
Alessandra stands now, holding out her open hands to the arena. “Let the Valorem Blood Trials begin.”
The crowd explodes again, nearly drowning out the dual-drum beat beneath them. A moment later, two men walk into the arena from opposite ends. Build-wise, they appear evenly matched; one dons a red band on their arm, the other a blue. An equal number of cheers and boos from the spectators make it so loud, Marcus can barely think.
Dru leans in. “The Imperium must be trying to prove a point, pitting a Durevolian against a Phaedran for the first fight.”
Cato scratches at his jaw. “If they were trying to prove a point, they would’ve sent one of the lottery winners out. That Durevolian, at least, is a skilled fighter.”
With the sound of a single drum beat, the two men square up.
At first, they don’t go near each other. Fists raised, knees bent, they circle one another, taking the time to size up their opponent. It’s a decent tactic, but not one the spectators will like. To prove his point, the crowd begins to heckle them.
Another single beat of the drum, and the Durevolian man lunges for the Phaedran. But the Phaedran leaps out of the way, shifting the temperament of the crowd.
They exchange equal blows, riling up the onlookers. Despite the initial miss, it becomes clear the Durevolian man is superior: the second punch thrown hits the Phaedran man’s ribs with precision and impact, putting the Phaedran on the defensive before he can attempt an attack of his own.
The Phaedran manages to hold his own, landing a couple hits to the other man’s ribs and stomach when he sees an opening.
Eventually, the crowd grows restless and more boos fill the stadium. The Phaedran glances toward the balconies warily before landing on a specific spot. Marcus follows his gaze andfinds it on Legatus Ambitus. He keeps his attention there, waiting for the legatus to slip up.
And he does: the most imperceptible nod and the beginnings of a smirk give him away.
Marcus’s nostrils flare. He knew the Imperium would find a way to rig these games, but he had no idea they’d take advantage as quickly as the first fight in the first trial.
When the Phaedran makes his next move, he misses completely.Purposefully. The Durevolian takes advantage and lands an uppercut, slamming his opponent directly beneath the jaw. The Phaedran man’s feet lift off the ground before he crumples to the dirt, unmoving.
The cheers of the Durevolian spectators swiftly drown out the dissenting Phaedrans.
Marcus, however, finds Ambitus again as they drag the man’s unconscious body across the arena. The ambassador hides his smirk now beneath a mask of indifference, despite the boisterous cheers for the Durevolian man.
Someone else appears behind Ambitus—someone with blond hair who looks a lot like the bard.Hopefully, he’s gathering something useful.Either that, or he’s on the side of the Phaedrans.
For all of Cato’s trust in the bard, Marcus harbors the same amount of suspicion.
Marcus glances over at Dru to find her gaze on him, confusion and mistrust squinting her eyes. She opens her mouth, likely to ask what he’s seen. But, at that moment, Sabina comes up behind her, a black silk hood draped over her head to hide her features.Good. They can’t risk Sabina being discovered. Not if Dru is to keep up her farce.
If it were for anyone but Sabina, he would’ve fought harder for her not to do this. Locked her up in the barracks if it meant keeping her away.
“You’re up after these next two pairings,” Sabina relays softly. “I’ve come to fetch you.”
“Cato, Marcus.” Dru nods at them, her gaze lingering on Marcus. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
With Sabina at her side, she walks away without glancing back. Something stuck in his throat stops him from calling out to her, from wishing her luck or telling her to be careful.
