by L. A. Witt
But somehow, he’s familiar. A face I swear I’ve seen before.
And he’s still watching me.
His gaze slides from my face all the way down to my feet, then back up. Down once more. The corner of his mouth twitches just a little, so subtly I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t so aware of his lips and their half-smirk. Slower this time, his gaze rises, and I suddenly realize I can’t remember the last time I took a breath.
Then the lanista speaks. “I am Drusus, the master of this ludus.” What his voice lacks in deep resonance, it makes up for in sharpness. “What is your business here?”
“I’ve brought a gift from Cassius, the magistrate.” I hold out the coin purse in both hands. “Five hundred sestertii to show his gratitude for your fighters honoring his father’s death at the last Ludi.”
“Five hundred?” Drusus sniffs derisively. “I should have known the seven hundred he promised was a fantasy.”
Once again, spiders scramble along my spine.
Give me a single reason to believe you’re not doing precisely as I’ve ordered, Calvus had whispered, or that you’ve breathed my name within the walls of the ludus, and I will see to it the magistrate asks Drusus if he received the full seven hundred sestertii.
Drusus waves a hand at the scribe. “Account for this. And make sure it’s all there.” With a sneer, he adds, “Damn noblemen seem to think they’re the only men in this city who know how to count.”
“Yes, Dominus.” The scribe nods sharply, takes the coin purse from me, and returns to his seat in the corner.
Drusus watches me, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Is there something else?”
“Yes.” I silently curse the timidity of my voice. Speaking more like a man this time, I say, “Yes, Dominus. There is.”
Leather creaks as he folds his arms across the thick breastplate. “Go on.”
I take a deep breath. “I wish to join your familia gladiatori. As an auctoratus.”
Surprise sends his eyebrows up again. “Do you?” His gaze slides all the way down to my feet, back up, down once more. “Well, you certainly look like a gladiator. Tell me your name.”
“Saevius,” I reply. “My arena name is . . .” I hesitate, my gut twisting into knots. Close as I was to earning my rudis, my arena name is hardly unknown, and I’m not certain how much I want this lanista to know about my recent past. How much of that past might lead him to the reason I am here?
Drusus inclines his head. “Your arena name, gladiator?”
I take a breath and give him the arena name of a long-dead gladiator I once knew: “Nikephoros, sir.”
“And do you have any skills that will make it worth my while to feed and train you, Nikephoros?” Drusus taps his fingers on his arm. “Or am I wasting my money and my trainers’ time on a man whose guts will be soaking up the amphitheatre’s sand?”
“I have fought before,” I say. “As both a myrmillo and a thraex. And I’m left-handed.”
Drusus straightens. “Left-handed, you say?”
I nod slowly.
“And you’re skilled? Experienced in the arena?”
“I am.”
Eyes still locked on me, Drusus stands. He holds his hand out to the side. “Arabo, your weapon.”
One of the bodyguards hands Drusus a thick club. The lanista grasps the weapon but never takes his eyes off me.
My heart beats wildly. Fighting an armed man with no weapon of my own? Especially a lanista who could rightfully beat me to death if I bruise or bloody him in my own defense?
Assuming the bastard didn’t get bored one day and kill you for sport before you even had a chance to make a mistake.
Without warning, without breaking our locked gazes, Drusus tosses the club to me, straight at my chest. Instinctively, I catch it, and the lanista’s eyes flick toward my hand. My left hand.
“So you are indeed left-handed,” he says, more to himself. His bodyguard quickly takes the weapon back while Drusus eases himself back into his seat. The lanista watches me silently for a moment, and though he’s convinced now I’m a left-handed fighter, I’m certain he’ll see through all the lies I’ve fed him. He cradles one elbow in the opposite hand and strokes his chin with this thumb. “Do you have documents proving you’re a citizen and eligible to volunteer as auctoratus? And have you been to the magistrate? I won’t have my time wasted with chasing down documents if you don’t already have them.”
“Yes, Dominus.” I pull the sealed scrolls from my belt and hand them to him. “The documents from the magistrate and medicus.”
Drusus breaks the wax seals with his thumb and unrolls the first scroll. Then the second and third. Shallow creases form between his eyebrows while he looks over each scroll in turn as I gnaw the inside of my cheek.
With a quiet grunt of approval, Drusus hands the scrolls to his scribe. “You know what to do with this.”
Then he rises again and steps toward me as he extends his right hand. “Assuming you fight well enough to impress me, welcome to my ludus, Saevius.” He grins, sending a familiar shiver down my spine. “You and your left hand will be valuable assets to my familia.”
“Thank you, Dominus.” I clasp his forearm, but my heart pounds so hard I’m certain he’ll hear it.
“Come with me.” He releases my hand and gestures toward the door. “My medicus will look you over to make certain you’re fit for the arena, and then we’ll see how well you fight.”
I follow him out of the room and down the corridor.
All the while, as we walk in silence through the halls of the place that’s now my home, I’m certain I’d be safer in a lion-filled arena without a sword in sight.
I should have known my days of tasting this dusty, sweaty air weren’t over. Even from here inside the cool infirmary, over the medicus’s herbs and the masseur’s oils, the smell of men and sand reaches me from the training yard. All that’s missing are the fumes of blood, shit, and vomit; with the games of the Ludi Appollinares rapidly approaching, I’ll be breathing those again soon enough, unless Fortune or the Fates decide to intervene.
I’m as devoted to the gods as any man, but I can’t say I’m optimistic they’ll take me from here before I set foot in the arena once again.
For now, I’m confined to the infirmary until the ludus medicus concurs with the forged document that declares me fit enough to volunteer for two years as a gladiator. He inspects every inch of me, prodding muscles and frowning over scars. Occasionally he picks up the medical document and examines it, and every time he does, my heart beats faster as I wonder again just how convincing the forgery is.
After what feels like days, the medicus gives a curt nod and a terse “very well,” and summons someone to collect me. Moments later, a burly, bald man carrying a club lumbers into the infirmary to take me to the training yard.
“Hey, Titus,” the bald man barks, and shoves me forward. “New auctoratus. The master wants to know if he’s worth keeping.” Another shove. “He’s all yours.”
A trainer steps away from a sparring match, sets his sword and shield on the ground, and approaches. He’s my height, probably about the same width in the shoulders, with black hair pulled back in a cord behind his neck. Reminds me a great deal of a fighter who warmed my bed for a winter in Rome.
He extends his hand. “Titus. And you are?”
“Saevius.” I clasp his forearm.
“You’ve got him from here,” my escort says. “He gives you any trouble, let—”
“I know the routine,” Titus growls, releasing my hand. My escort gives a grunt and a sharp nod, then leaves us. Titus’s brow furrows slightly. “Have you fought before?”
“I have.”
“Well.” He picks up a pair of short, dulled swords and tosses one to me. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Saevius.” He starts toward the circle drawn on the ground for sparring, but pauses. His gaze drifts down my arm to the sword in my hand, and when he raises his eyes, they echo the grin on his lips. “A left
-handed fighter, eh? Drusus has been after one of you for some time now. You could make the master a rich man, you know.”
I chuckle. “Then I hope I’m accepted into the familia.”
Titus laughs. “Long as you know which end of the sword is the sharp one, I’d say you’re in.”
How fortunate.
“None of the other men fight left-handed,” he says. “If you are accepted, you’ll have to spar with right-handed fighters.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t expect any different. I’ve always trained against right-handed men.”
“Good. Can’t say I’ve ever fought with a left-hander.”
“Then you ought to make me look good, won’t you?”
He laughs. “We’ll see about that, gladiator.”
Swords and shields in hand, we step into the circle.
All around us, other men spar and shout, weapons clanging against weapons and feet shuffling across sand. Though they concentrate on their bouts, my presence hasn’t gone unnoticed. I know this game. The men will size me up now, observe me, determine my place in the hierarchy of the familia.
A blade flashes in the sunlight, and I’m drawn back to my own match just in time to divert Titus’s sword before it bites in above my hip. It’s dull and non-lethal, but I’m not about to let anyone see me making novice mistakes while the men are still deciding how far above me they believe themselves to be.
I retaliate, using my shield to block Titus’s weapon again, and since he’s accustomed to shielding his left side, his right is fully exposed and vulnerable to the blow I deliver. He grunts and retreats a step, then comes back again, but the moment he’s off balance, I go in for a second strike to his right side. That hit doubles him over. I’m about to go in for a third, but he puts up his index finger.
I stop, lowering my weapon and shield.
He puts a hand on his side and, as we catch our breath, says wryly, “Glad I won’t be facing you in the arena. Damn left-handers.”
I laugh. “Practice with me enough, and you’ll be prepared if you face another fighter like me.”
“I’ll remember that. Now let’s get some water, and we’ll give it another go.” Titus takes me to one of the two water troughs in the yard. No doubt deliberately, he’s chosen the one that doesn’t have three fighters and a trainer standing beside it, throwing narrow-eyed glances in our direction.
Titus fills a ladle and drinks from it. As I do the same with the other ladle, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention. I look over my shoulder.
Drusus. I shouldn’t be surprised.
The man’s a strange presence in the training yard. He has power and he radiates it, from the set of his shoulders to the piercing look in his eyes, and though I’ve never seen him fight, I’m certain from his presence alone that he could take down any opponent he faced. Myself included.
He keeps his bodyguards close, as any wise lanista does around a yard full of violent fighters, but he walks as if his safety is ensured regardless of the giants behind him. As if the guards are little more than figureheads, and any man who tries to cross him will be dead or crippled before the bodyguards lift a finger.
Strange, the stories I’ve heard about him. In the same breath that men describe him as a ruthless tyrant who kills for pleasure and doesn’t believe in mercy, they also whisper that he’s effeminate and weak because of his size and fine stature. Near as I can see, any weakness stops at his stature and perhaps the voice that isn’t as low as that of most Roman men. That, and he carries himself with a nobleman’s dignity, almost an elegance that no fighting man could ever possess. Before today, I never would have believed a man his size could survive as a lanista, but I’m starting to understand the legends about the man who can wither gladiators twice his size with nothing more than a look.
I’m not the only one who notices him out here, either. The other men concentrate on their bouts, fight good and hard, but they keep one eye on the lanista.
I pull the ladle from the water and take a drink. Then, keeping my voice as low as I can, I ask, “So is it true what I’ve heard about Drusus?”
Titus takes a long drink from the other ladle, then lowers it. “Depends. What’ve you heard?”
“That even other lanistae keep their distance. Don’t want to be associated with someone as violent and unscrupulous as him.”
Titus laughs. “What lanista isn’t violent and unscrupulous?”
“Do the other lanistae really avoid him?” I bring the water up to my lips. “Or should I say, do they have reason to?”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Titus says with a shrug. “Just don’t let his size fool you. The man is small, but cross him and then put a flagellum in his hand?” His eyes drift toward the lanista, and he shudders before he quietly adds, “He could make any man in the Empire beg for mercy. Most men don’t cross him twice, and those that do don’t live long enough to do it a third time.”
Which begs the question, how would it sit with Drusus to know that a gladiator with false papers joined his familia to spy on behalf of another master?
I take a long drink. “So is it true what they say? That Drusus killed half the men in the ludus when the old master died?”
Titus shrugs. “Who knows?” He raises the ladle almost to his lips, but lowers it instead of taking a drink. Eyes focused on our lanista, who’s watching fighters spar on the other side of the yard, he speaks quietly, “They don’t call him the Caligula of lanistae for nothing.”
“What’s he done, then?”
“Beaten more than a few men senseless,” Titus says into his water. “Usually takes ’em down to the pit where nobody can see or hear what’s going on.”
“Doesn’t punish them out in the open?”
The trainer shakes his head. “Worse. He takes ’em away so no one knows what’s happening to them. Most of the time, you don’t even know if a man’s going to come back alive. Plenty of them haven’t come back at all. Sometimes he’ll have the body dragged through the yard before it’s taken outside the walls and burned. Others, they’ll go to the infirmary and we never see them again. Gods know if they lived and then he sold them, or if they died before dawn.”
“And those that do come back?”
Titus’s eyes shift toward me. “Usually they come out so bloody and battered, they can’t stand for days, let alone fight.” He shakes his head and again looks toward Drusus. “Mark my words, Saevius. Stay out of his way and don’t make him angry.”
I nod. “Duly noted.”
“By the way, if you surrender in a match?” Titus grimaces. “You’d better have fought with everything you have and not just done something foolish to give your opponent the upper hand.” He nods at Drusus. “He’ll accept a loss, but the man doesn’t take ‘the sun was in my eyes’ as an excuse.”
“Good to—”
“And he’s coming this way.” Titus puts his cup back on the rack. “Back to sparring.”
We’ve just put blade to blade when Drusus stops outside our circle, and I can barely concentrate now. I’ve fought in front of the Emperor himself without concern, but the scrutiny of my new lanista brings cool sweat to the skin beneath my tunic.
But then, why shouldn’t it? He’s legendary for being ruthless, but he also hasn’t signed me on as an auctoratus yet. Not until I’ve proven myself. And if he doesn’t accept me into the ludus, then what? Then I face Master Calvus again, and there aren’t many options for a slave who knows the secrets of a politician’s wife. Whether or not I want to fight for Drusus, I need to. I have no choice.
When we’ve finished the bout, Titus and I give Drusus a respectful nod. He returns it.
“So,” he says to Titus while gesturing at me. “What say you? Is he a worthwhile addition to the familia?”
“He is, Dominus.” Titus wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Left-handed and skilled.”
Drusus’s lips twist into an odd—and oddly familiar—smile, and he watches me silently for a mome
nt. Then, “Spar with me, Saevius.” Drusus holds out his hand, and Titus lays a training sword in his palm. “I’ve always wanted to fight a left-handed man.”
As he enters the circle, I quickly size him up as a fighter. He’s small, of course, both in breadth and height, but if he’s ever fought a man before and survived, that means only one thing: he’s fast. And a lanista doesn’t last long unless he’s cunning. To fight him, I decide as I face him in the circle, is to take on a legionary with the mind of a general. One who I need to impress if I want to stay in the ludus, but not harm if I want to stay alive.
Gods, watch over me.
Drusus doesn’t attack immediately. We circle each other, every step calculated and precise, and he watches my eyes. Not my weapons, not my feet, my eyes. Just as I’m watching his.
Subtle movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention as his fingers loosen, tighten, loosen on the hilt of his weapon, and his posture tenses just slightly.
I lunge forward, shoving his shield out of the way with mine and thrusting my sword toward his midsection. He parries the sword and attacks, but I move to the side and knock his sword off its course with my own. Before he has a chance to recover, I lunge at him again. He isn’t accustomed to defending his right side with his weapon, but he’s light enough on his feet to get out of the way. And fast enough, even as he avoids my sword, to send the fist holding his own sword into my chest.
He drives a grunt out of me, but I stay on my feet and slam my shield into him. We both falter. Stumble. Recover. With our feet back under us, we face each other again. Lunge. Clash. Recover.
He’s a solid fighter, a fast and intelligent one, and as dust swirls around our feet and our weapons clank and clatter, a thought crosses my mind that nearly makes me forget how to fight at all.
Do I beat him? Or do I let him win?
I need to impress him enough that he’ll let me stay in the ludus, but beating him in front of the other men? That could as easily put me in the pit as keep me in the familia.
