Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [98]
This time he got in a dirty kick to the man’s groin, half- connecting even as the gladiator caught his heel and flipped him upside down.
Caelan was rolling before he hit the ground. The gladiator didn’t even come close to him that time. Regaining his feet, Caelan crouched, letting the coldness carry him farther and farther from any awareness save his opponent.
“Stop!”
The command came sharply, cutting across the battle haze. The gladiator, breathing hard and slick with sweat, paused immediately. It took longer for Caelan to adjust. He dropped abruptly out of severance and bit off a sharp gasp of pain. The broken rib felt like a knife stabbing him with every breath.
He refocused his gaze and realized the trainer’s hand was gripping his shoulder. The man tipped back his head and checked his eyes, then forced a thumb into his mouth and felt of his teeth.
“How old?” the trainer asked him in Lingua.
Caelan glanced around for Ubin, but the old man was nowhere in sight. “I am one and twenty,” he said.
A commotion from the crowd made him look, and even the trainer swung around quickly and bowed.
The prince appeared, oblivious to the stares and talk. He was perhaps a decade older than Caelan, slim and upright, with black hair and a narrow, very precisely trimmed chinstrap beard and mustache. A handsome man, this prince of the empire. He wore a linen tunic dyed a vibrant shade of blue, and sleek hose of patterned cloth. A modern dueling sword—thin and almost dainty had it not also been a deadly weapon—swung at his side, and his hands were strong and well shaped. A large square-cut sapphire glowed in his left ear.
He stared up at Caelan with one dark brow arching in visible admiration. “Impressive,” he said without preamble. “This young giant moves quicker than thought itself. Quicker than his size should allow. Who owns him? What is his provenance?”
The auction officials stirred about and dragged forth a shaken Ubin, still fuzzy-eyed and confused.
“No provenance, sir,” the trainer said with scorn. “Anyone can see he’s green-trained, if that. A rower, by the look of his muscles.”
“Yes,” the prince murmured. “Rowers who are properly rotated develop the bodies of gods, and this one has a face to match.”
Caelan eyed him warily. Excessive compliments could indicate the kind of interest he didn’t like. Caelan had been sold to the galleys in the first place because he spurned his first owner.
The trainer snorted. “A Traulander by the look of him, and Traulanders don’t fight.”
Prince Tirhin’s gaze ran over Caelan. “This one would, if he knew how. There’s plenty of spirit in those blue eyes. Now, I just paid top price for a team of champion fighters, and the man got in only two strikes against this one. Either I have wasted my money, or this boy has potential. What say you, trainer?”
The trainer shook his head. “I don’t like the looks of him, sir. And who has the time to train him from the ground up, with season starting in two months?”
“That is your problem,” Prince Tirhin said. He stepped closer to Caelan and smiled. “Well, lad? Have you spirit enough to fight under my colors?”
Caelan felt hope and satisfaction rising in him. He kept his eyes lowered respectfully to hide what he felt. “Yes, master,” he said quietly.
“A dodger,” the trainer grumbled, still frowning. “Could be the mark of a coward, when it comes to the pinch. All the fancy footwork in the world won’t make a man fight if he hasn’t the heart.”
The prince’s smile widened. “Then he’ll be good practice fodder for the others. Buy him.”
The trainer bowed. “Yes, sir.”
As the prince walked away, Ubin lifted his hands in the air and crowed. “A prince has bought my slave. I am doubly honored. I am a rich man.” Gloating openly, he grinned up at Caelan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Good boy! Hah, you’ll do fine now. Pampered on a rich man’s team. Fed well and trained daily. Yes, yes.”
An answering grin spread across Caelan’s face.
The trainer, however, counted out twenty ducats into Ubin’s palm, and even as Ubin’s mouth