“Are you suggesting the Domitor of the Academy cannot manage a single race safely?” The Tertius’s eyes bore into mine. “And as you said—no one here has the advantage of experience. Even Telimus’s arm shouldn’t hinder him as much as it would in other types of contests. It is as fair as I can make it, given his … limitations.”
I bite my tongue. He got a rise out of me already, and while I have no doubthe was well on his way to proposing something like this regardless, my talking only helped his cause. I won’t do it again.
“We don’t have time for such nonsense. Just organising for the chariots—”
“There are chariots stored right here. Weren’t you just saying that, Darinus?” The senator behind him nods, though Decimus doesn’t even bother turning to confirm it. He just smiles at Tertius Ericius. “I won’t even demand that Telimus forfeit Domitor when he loses. I simply want him to see that things have changed, and hope that understanding that might convince him to do the right thing. So there would be no official stakes. Surely you cannot object to what amounts to little more than a dash of friendly rivalry to celebrate our collaboration here.”
The hill is silent. Everyone has heard. There is no graceful way to get out of this now, and both I and Tertius Ericius know it.
“Catenicus?” Tertius Ericius’s eyes are all that reveal his frustration as he looks at me. He’s giving me the option, even though there isn’t really one.
“Of course. On one condition, though.” I turn to face Tertius Decimus squarely. Proud of how serene I make my voice. “When I win, that ends this discussion: you will publicly acknowledge me not only as Domitor, but as Catenicus. Here. In the Senate. Everywhere. If this is really about proving myself, I need to know you’re going to recognise it when I do.”
I see some people in the background hide laughs, even as others go wide-eyed at my disrespectful ultimatum. It’s improper, far too blunt for Catenan tastes. I don’t care. Either Decimus dislikes the idea enough that he refuses—giving me a way out of this—or he publicly agrees. Either way, I get something.
Tertius Decimus stiffens, and I can see several senators behind him do the same. Iro shoots me a familiar dark look. His demeanour has screamed discomfort up until now too—even he doesn’t think this is right, apparently—but his sympathy doesn’t extend to my disrespecting his father.
“Telimus,” the Tertius says eventually, “if you win, I will do all of that and more.” The faint sneer in the words says just how much chance he thinks I have of succeeding. The fact I can hear it means he’s bitter at being forced into the agreement.
Good.
“Darinus, if you could arrange for the chariots? Two teams each. Iro and Indol will represent us as one. And we’ll take the next two from whoever else had the highest scores from our graduates,” continues Decimus, without takinghis eyes off me. Voice relaxed, eyes cold. “Who do you choose as your teammate, Telimus?”
“I have experience, Vis.” I look up at the new voice calling out from nearby. It’s Marcellus, watching on from the stands nearby. He’s still sweating from his tests, but looks painfully eager.
“No.” I don’t even have to think about it. I say it to him, make eye contact. Ensure he understands that it’s not because he’s in Religion but because I’m refusing him, personally, no matter how good he is at racing chariots. Then I turn back to Iro’s father. “I’ll take Aequa.”
I say it without thinking, then hesitate and glance back at her. She nods her approval.
“Then it’s settled,” says Tertius Ericius, sounding as displeased as I feel as an excited susurrus sweeps through the crowd. He sighs, turning to Aequa and me. “Come on, then. Let’s find our second team, and get you two prepared.”
XXVII
MY TUTOR ONCE ASKED ME WHO WOULD WIN IN Afight between two men. It was a lesson about Will, funnily enough. About how obvious advantages can lead to presumptions, but that strength can never truly be known until it is tested.
Sometimes, though, the obvious advantages are too much to overcome. I am skilled, and I am athletic, and I have a well-made weapon.
Gallchobhar is bigger, stronger, equally equipped, more skilled. He has both of his arms.
And he is using Will.
The mountainous man circles me, spinning his spear with a wide, lazy smile as the spectating crowd of warriors boisterously urge him on. I wonder if it’s overconfidence and try to take him by surprise, darting in without even a feint. The butt of his spear whirls, a blur despite an economy of movement. I jerk back and barely avoid having my skull cracked open.
“You are slow, littleleathfhear,” he taunts, to laughter around us.
“Better than a coward,” I respond, pointing to my eyes meaningfully.
There’s a shocked moment, as if Gallchobhar can’t quite process what I’m saying.
Then he snarls, and his spear snakes forward.
For all his size he moves like a dancer, the carved wood in his hands an extension of himself, licking out so quickly I barely have time to sway to the side. Again. Again. He’s angry but he attacks with grace and precision. A man who has seen too many battles and too much blood to be truly distracted by words.
Still, my balance is good. I feel better than I’d expected to. Painfully hard though it has been, these past months of work and travel have completed my body’s adjustment.
I flick my spear up to awkwardly bat away another attack and slide forward in response this time. Gallchobhar’s reach with his weapon is far greater than mine, and he simply steps back. Never in any real danger.
It visibly annoys him that I felt confident enough to try, though.
