Gladiatrix Read Free Page A

soon, or I’d have to bite the next person I met. I’d had classes all day and no time to squeeze in lunch.
    I climbed the stairs. Time to go home.
    I live on the second floor of the dojo, just above the training rooms. Just me and my black pup, Spud. She’s nearly eighteen months old, and you can guess what her favourite food is. Mashed, fried, any way she can get her paws on it. Over the years the dojo has been built, and rebuilt. Now, it sits on the slopes of the escarpment, surrounded by Illawarra flame trees, turpentines and cabbage palms, and looks out over the local village to the ocean.
    Yuki started the centre not long after she found me, twenty years ago. Before that she’d travelled, studying combat in places like China, India and South America. When she applied to adopt me, the Australian authorities forced her to settle here; they said that until the case was closed I had to stay within reach. Her Japanese mother, Miko, had died when Yuki was born, and her father, Caleb Jarratt, died when she was a teenager, so there were no other ties to consider. Yuki made the commitment to stay, adopted me and began to teach what she’d learnt.
    As I hit the top of the stairs, the phone started ringing. I made it on the third ring. Spud had heard mearrive, and skittered across the wooden floor to circle my legs like a wagon train in hostile territory.
    â€˜Hello, Makepeace Dojo, can I help you?’ I patted Spud, trying to calm her down. You’d think I’d just returned from six months away.
    There was a pause, then, ‘Sorry, wrong number. I was trying to find a Ms Jarratt. I thought this was her number?’
    The voice was definitely familiar. ‘It is. This is Kannon Jarratt, can I help you?’
    â€˜Ah. Yes. Kannon.’ He coughed nervously. ‘It’s Martin Cockburn here.’
    â€˜Of course, Professor Cockburn.’ Head of the Archaeology department at the University of New South Wales. Lanky body. Long, basset hound face. Keen eyes, and brown socks and sandals on his feet year round. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice. I’ve had a pretty full day.’
    I hadn’t done a subject with him yet, but we’d spoken enough times to be familiar. Archaeology wasn’t a very big department at UNSW; it didn’t have the prestige of the older faculty at Sydney Uni, and these days there weren’t any jobs waiting at the end of the degree. Most of us would be lucky to get a place in a museum, let alone a field appointment.
    â€˜Er, well, Kannon. That’s all right.’ He paused again.
    I tried to work out why on earth he’d be calling. Nothing came up.
    I’d been enrolled, on and off, in a part-time archaeology degree since I left high school. The family business came first, of course, but I did what I could, when I could. I was due to start one of Cockburn’s subjects next semester.
    He still hadn’t spoken yet, so I prompted, ‘Did you want to talk to me about next semester?’
    â€˜Ah yes. In a way.’ He coughed again. ‘Kannon. Let me say first I think you’re an exceptional student …’
    Oh no. He’d left the statement half finished, hanging there, which meant there was a big BUT coming next.
    â€˜Is there something wrong?’ Of course there was.
    â€˜Eh, yes. The problem is some of our staff have raised major objections to your enrolment.’
    I knew what was coming. ‘Are you talking about me not finishing the last two fieldwork assignments?’
    â€˜Yes, Kannon, I am.’ He took a breath. ‘We all understand your problem with enclosed spaces.’ He took another breath. ‘And we sympathise, but …’ He paused for dramatic emphasis. Here it comes. ‘You haven’t finished any of your fieldwork subjects.’ I could almost see him shaking his head. ‘Not one.’
    â€˜I know. Look, maybe I could …’
    He cut over the top of