Wolf’s Empire: Gladiator by Claudia Christian and Morgan Grant Buchanan Page A

to be content.”
    â€œContentment? I want justice. I burn for it.”
    â€œThere is no justice in this life. Your mother’s death should have taught you that, as Aulus’ death taught me. House Viridian is working in the Senate and behind the scenes to ensure victory in the coming tournament and in the war at large. You know nothing and yet you strut around, a hothead, a spoiled brat. You’ve had your run, Accala. You wanted to run off the rails and you’ve done it, but I won’t allow you to tarnish the reputation of our house. Not now when there’s so much at stake. You’re done. That’s my final word on the matter.”
    As he stormed away, I became aware that I was surrounded by dozens of my fellow gladiators. Standing quietly, staring at me, no doubt laughing to themselves now that the she-wolf had finally been muzzled. Back on my leash, no voice, no opinion, no justice. Just as I began to follow my father out of the Colosseum, I heard my full name called. Had the emperor changed his mind? No, it was that damned pest Gaius Sertorius Crassus.
    â€œLady Accala, you were magnificent. A thrilling performance. Allow me to congratulate you.”
    I looked at him, through him. What was he saying? Was he mocking me? What possible thing could he have to say to me that I would care to hear at this moment? He leaned in close and whispered, “Come to my town house on the Palatine. Come late, after the contestants’ banquet.” He pressed something into my hand. A card. My fingers numbly closed around it, and then he was gone. Did Crassus actually think now that I was humiliated there would be an opportunity to bed me? That I was so desperate I would come crawling to him for affection? My head held high, I resisted the urge to flee the arena floor and chose an even, steady pace. A roar of laughter started up behind me as I passed into the tunnel to the Ludus Magnus. The comedy play had started up. Or perhaps it was me they were laughing at, for I had certainly played the part of a fool that day.
    The change rooms were empty, a small mercy. The sooner I was free of the arena the better, but first things first. I carefully oiled Orbis, properly returning him to his restraining gel. “You were perfect,” I said, gently touching him before slowly closing the weapon case and storing him on the top shelf of my locker. As for the rest, I hastily threw my armor into a heap at the bottom of my locker. My armilla was beeping. Journalists were sending me communicats, trying to arrange interviews. As I shut off the device, I saw the alert at the top of the list—a dozen traffic infringement notices for violating aerway regulations. As if I needed any further proof that the gods were against me. Back into my clothes and stola, I shoved the card Crassus had given me into one of the inner pockets and fished out a light gray cloak with no house markings that I’d stored for just such an occasion. I threw it around my shoulders and pulled up the hood to conceal my face.
    â€œAccala!” Marcus was searching for me. That day, my father, my team, my own house had let me know what they thought of me. I would have given them the chance to win not only the tournament but the war itself, but apparently it was a far better fate that all the best houses of the empire burn and fall than be aided by a woman. Right then I didn’t want to speak to any man, not even Marcus. Exiting by way of a service door, I bypassed the arena crowds altogether, exchanging them for the anonymity that came with the crush and drive of Rome’s bustling streets.
    The sun was high in the sky; it was almost noon. Every muscle hurt. Raw and drained, I headed south along the Vicus Patricius. Sertorian ships were docked to the north above the Campus Martius, hovering like a flock of vultures over the city. They would depart the following morning, transporting the Blood Hawks to Olympus Decimus, but I