The Left Hand of Calvus

by L. A. Witt

  Drusus catches my thigh with the flat of the blade, but not before I shove my own blade into the leather plate covering his side. With a grunt, Drusus falters. Instinct takes over and I seize advantage of his loss of balance to deliver the “fatal” blow to his midsection.

  The men around us freeze as our lanista drops to the dust.

  Oh gods, what have I done?

  Not sure if I’ve just earned a bit of respect or a trip to the pit, I tuck my sword under my arm and extend my other hand. We clasp each other’s forearms, and I help him to his feet.

  “Well done, gladiator.” He grins and releases my arm, and the panic eases in my chest. “Very well done.” He dusts himself off, then claps my shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you in the arena.” The grin widens. “And reaping the benefits, no doubt.”

  I bow my head slightly, hoping my relief isn’t obvious. “Gods willing, Dominus.”

  Titus and I spar until both of us are drenched in sweat and coated in dust. The afternoon’s a hot one, so I’m more than a little thankful to visit the water trough once again.

  As we drink in silence, my muscles aching and various bruises throbbing in that all too familiar way, the reality of my situation sets in.

  I’m a part of this familia now. A part of the ludus, anyway. It’ll take time before I know my place—before I have a place—in the hierarchy. Nevertheless, the lanista has accepted me, and now this will be my home.

  As I drink from the ladle, I let my gaze sweep around the training yard and take in the men of the familia. I swear it, when I find the man—the men, perhaps—fucking the Lady Verina of Laurea, I’ll be sure to put a few of his teeth down his throat before I give him over to Calvus. It’d be justice for him, considering his rutting with the wife of a politician is the reason I’m condemned to this place.

  “Didn’t expect anyone new,” someone behind me says with a smirk in his voice. “New shipment of slaves don’t come into the market for another three days yet.”

  With my back turned, I roll my eyes. And so it begins.

  “Left-handed,” another gladiator says. “Already puts him in the master’s favor, don’t it?”

  Someone grunts an affirmative.

  “A favorite before he’s even seen the arena,” another man says with no shortage of venom. “He might as well go all the way and suck the mast—”

  “Hold your tongue,” someone else snaps, then adds in a sharp, hushed whisper, “I’ll have no part of you disrespecting Drusus.”

  The other man quickly shuts up.

  “Fucking idiot,” one of the men mutters.

  I take another drink, then set the ladle beside the trough. As I walk away, someone behind me shouts, “Hey. Novice.”

  I grind my teeth but don’t stop and don’t turn around. They’ll haze me, of that I’ve no doubt, but they won’t turn me into the bitch of the ludus. They won’t break me, though they will try.

  I’m halfway back to the sparring circle when someone grabs my arm. I wrench it away and spin around, and suddenly I’m eye to eye with the Parthian fighter I scarred two summers ago.

  “I’m talking to you, novice,” he snarls.

  I step toward him. To my satisfaction, he takes a startled step back, and when a murmur of surprise ripples through the gathering crowd, the Parthian bastard’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.

  “You want to talk to a novice?” I say. “There are plenty of them in this yard. You and I both know I ain’t one of ’em.”

  I start to go, but he grabs my arm again and then shoves me back a step. Gesturing past me with his chin, he says, “Go to the trough and get us some water.”

  “You know where the trough is. Have at it yourself.”

  Another startled murmur rises within the crowd around us, this one more urgent, and now I don’t dare take my eyes off the man who’s challenged me.

  He gets so close he’s nearly touching me. “You’ve got until I—”

  “Why don’t I take you to the trough?” I snarl back. “I’ll put your head in it for you, and you can get as much water as you want. Would that suit you, gladiator?”

  Cautious laughter around us brings a pulsing vein to the surface above the Parthian’s thick eyebrows.

  “You need to know your place,” he says. “You may be an auctoratus, but in here? You’re shit on my boot.” He spits at my feet. “Watch your back, gladiator. In my familia, you’re nothing but a novice. And novices sometimes have unfortunate accidents.”

  I step closer until I’m almost touching him. “Is that how men in this familia gain rank and respect? Huh? By being here so long?” Grinning, I add, “Where I come from, it’s not how long you fight, it’s how well. Not just surviving a fight”—I jab a finger into the scar on his chest—“but winning it.”

  Renewed fury contorts his face, and his lips peel back from his teeth. “You’re asking for a blade in—”

  “That’s enough.” Titus pushes us apart with a hand on each of our chests. “Unless you want Drusus to take you both down to the pit.” He smacks the Parthian in the chest. “And you’ll be there again if you keep this up, you fucking idiot.”

  “Hey,” the fucking idiot retorts. “Only trying to make sure the—”

  “Save it, Sikandar,” Titus mutters. Louder now, he says, “Back to your training, all of you. And you.” He gestures at me. “Come. I’ll show you to the barracks.”

  As they do in every ludus I’ve ever known, each slave in this familia wears a brass tag around his neck in case he attempts to escape.

  This slave belongs to Master Drusus, I’m told they say, and if he’s found, he should be kept here until he can be collected.

  As far as Drusus knows, I’ve volunteered to be here, but it doesn’t matter. Auctorati are slaves: citizens here of our own free will, but voluntarily enslaved for the duration of our contracts. Enslaved, and tagged.

  I barely keep my stomach from coming up my throat as the tag is fastened around my neck. I had fully expected to wear one for Master Calvus, but something about the coolness of the chain as it settles against my flesh makes me shiver. I’ll always be owned by one man or another—have been since I was born—but today I am once again owned by a ludus. By a damned lanista.

  The brass tag isn’t heavy, but like the forged scrolls I carried from the house of Laurea, its presence refuses to go unnoticed. Cold against my skin, the chain weighing against the back of my neck, it’s undeniably there. It isn’t enough I had to pledge to him as I pledged to my previous master—“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword”—but I must wear a tag.

  Inspected, tagged, and still wishing the Fates might strike me down rather than leave me here, I’m taken to my cell in the barracks.

  The barracks are separated, as they always are. Each man has his own cell, and each cluster of cells divides a group of men from another. My cell is among the rest of the auctorati—there are five of us here—and heavy, locked doors divide us from the rest of the barracks. The other men are probably arranged like they were at my previous ludus in larger groups of cramped cells. As long as they don’t fight amongst each other and get us all beaten for being unruly, or make so much noise they keep me from sleeping, they can share cells with beasts for all I care.

  I won’t be disturbed tonight, I’m sure of that. For once, I’m comforted by the click of the lock on the outside of my cell’s door as well as the one between this group of cells and the next. Being caged isn’t pleasant, but for new blood in an established familia, it’s safe until the guards unlock the doors at dawn.

  Just easing myself onto my hard rack reminds me of my aching, exhausted muscles, and I have no doubt sleep will come easily. Sure enough, darkness quickly takes over.

  Suddenly, I’m awake and alert.

  Heart pounding. Breath held. Certain something is out of place. The air in the cell is . . . different. The night still echoes with a faint sound that I cannot recall exactly, except that it jar
red me awake.

  Slowly, I sit up, searching the darkness for something that doesn’t belong.

  Movement. Shadows moving through shadows like black fish through dark water.

  Just an illusion, Saevius.

  I rub my eyes. Nothing more than the paranoia of a marked man in an unfamiliar place. I’ve lost all my sense and—

  The door is ajar.

  The faintest strip of light, as if from a distant torch, cuts a thin amber line through the darkness, which means the door has been unlocked and opened. Which means—

  One of the shadows comes to life and lunges at me, shoving me back onto the rack. The back of my head smacks the wall, brightening my vision with a flash of white, and I’m stunned just long enough for a huge, rough hand to cover my mouth.

  The world spins and lurches. Before I can orient myself, my chest hits . . . the wall? The floor? A heartbeat later, my face follows, and then a tremendous weight presses between my shoulder blades. The floor, then. Someone pins me down. I struggle, but my legs are held down by strong hands and my arms are pulled painfully behind me. A rough cord burns my skin as it’s tied around one wrist, then the other.

  The hand over my face moves, but before I can shout, a rag is shoved into my mouth. It’s sour with sweat. I try to spit it out without retching, but can’t work it past my teeth and lips, so I settle for keeping it out of my throat.

  Someone puts another rag over my eyes. It’s tied tightly around my head. Then I’m hauled to my feet and shoved forward. If they want me somewhere other than here, there’s a reason for it that can only mean an extra advantage for them. I try to dig my heels in, but I can’t gain any purchase on the ground, and I’m too disoriented to fight without risking hitting a wall or losing my balance. And if I go down, they’ll no doubt drag me, and there’s more than enough of them to do it.

  I stop fighting and let them lead me. On the way out, I count the steps and turns in hopes I can find my way back to my cell once I get free.

  The knot between my wrists is a shoddy one, tied hastily in darkness, and I work at it as I walk. I lose count of my steps—but not turns—and concentrate on loosening the cords.

  The ground beneath my feet is cool and solid, stone with a thin layer of grit on top. After two left turns and a right one, plus two sets of stairs, the stone suddenly gives way to sand that’s still warm from the heat of the day. I pull in a deep breath through my nose, and this time the air isn’t made of the thick, pungent warmth of the barracks. It’s cooler. Still warm, but cooler.

  We’re outside. Probably in the training yard.

  My heart beats faster. If the men can get through the locks and into my cell, they can get into the armory as well. Possibly even to the sharpened weapons reserved for actual games. I work faster at the knot between my wrists.

  “Make a sound,” someone hisses, “and you’re a dead man. Understood?”

  I nod.

  The rag is jerked from my mouth, nearly taking a couple of my teeth with it.

  Someone yanks off the blindfold. Before my eyes adjust or I can figure out where we are, a foot knocks my knees out from under me. I drop to the sand. Then another foot between my shoulder blades sends me forward. With my hands still tied, I can’t protect my face, and land hard. Spitting and blinking away sand, I try to get up, but a knee lands in the middle of my back and forces me down again.

  A hand claps across my forehead and pulls my head back.

  “All right, gladiator,” the Parthian’s voice snarls as hot spittle hits my ear. “It’s time you learn who to respect in this familia.” He slams my face down into the sand. Before I can catch my breath, I’m turned onto my back, and a fist in my gut forces what breath I have right out of my chest.

  I bring up my knee, and I’m rewarded with a satisfying grunt when it connects with Sikandar’s crotch. He falters and groans. I jerk one hand free from the cord behind my back, grab a handful of sand, and throw it into the Parthian’s face. While he sputters and chokes, I hit him, my knuckles connecting sharply with his cheekbone. Before he’s even finished swearing in response, I hit him again.

  Hands grab my shoulders. More grab my legs. Men wrestle me all the way back to the ground. One arm is pinned. Then the other. I manage to wrench one arm free again, and one leg. My foot connects with someone’s face, my fist with a gut.

  Out of nowhere, another man’s fist hits the side of my head, and the world turns red and white. I’m only briefly disoriented, but it’s enough to give them the upper hand, and I’m pinned once again.

  “Get him on his feet.”

  Rough hands haul me upright. Someone pulls my elbows back and laces his arms through them so I can’t move.

  “Look at me, you fucking novice,” Sikandar snarls.

  I deliberately keep my eyes down.

  He grabs my jaw and forces me to look him in the eye. “You need to know your place in this familia, you piece of—”

  I spit blood in his face, and while he’s off guard from that, I use the man behind me for stability and sweep Sikandar’s knees out from under him with my leg. He hits the ground with a furious growl.

  “Son of a whore!” he roars, and flies to his feet. He punches me hard enough to knock the man holding me up off balance, and we both go down. Someone else drags me up so I can take another punch, but I’ve got an arm free, so I swing at Sikandar.

  “Hey! Hey, all of you!” a voice shouts. “Break it up! Break it up!”

  “Shit!”

  In a heartbeat, the men around me are gone, and I crumple to my knees. My mouth is metallic and salty. My ribs and gut ache furiously with every breath, and the entire training yard whirls around me.

  “At attention! All of you!” someone else shouts.

  “Hey! Come back here!”

  “Get back here and into ranks!”

  “I catch you, you’re all going to the pit, I swear it!”

  Shouts and footsteps fade behind me. Still disoriented, I spit out some blood and hold myself up on a shaking arm as I keep the other across my gut.

  No teeth missing. Nothing so painful it might be broken. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow, but I’ll survive.

  “What the fuck is going on out here?” a sharp, icy voice barks.

  I pull in a breath through my teeth. So much for surviving.

  Gods, let it be anyone but him . . .

  But that voice is too distinct, and as I raise my head and blink my eyes into focus, Drusus approaches from the other side of the dark training yard, carrying a flickering torch and flanked by the massive shadows of his bodyguards.

  “Get up.” Hands grab my arms and jerk me upright. “Stand at attention, gladiator.”

  Despite my wavering balance, I obey.

  Drusus stops directly in front of me. The torch heats the air between us, but I barely keep from shivering as the lanista snarls, “What happened out here?”

  Blood pools inside my cheek, and I swallow it to avoid spitting it on my master. “My apologies, Dom—”

  “Save it,” he snaps. “I assume you weren’t beating yourself senseless.” His eyes narrow in the dim, flickering light. “Who else was involved? Tell me, gladiator. Now.”

  I turn my head and spit blood on the sand. “I was responsible, Dominus.”

  Drusus says nothing, but an eyebrow arches in an unspoken demand for me to continue.

  “The altercation,” I say. “It was between me and another gladiator, but I started it. I was the one responsible.”

  “Between you and another gladiator.” He slowly looks me over. “I see.” He folds his arms across the breastplate. “You have a choice, Saevius. There will be a punishment for this. It’s up to you whether you take it yourself or share it with those who bloodied your face.”

  But if I give up one name, all the other men in the familia will see to it I don’t survive another night in this ludus. I say nothing.

  Drusus taps his fingers on his upper arm and lifts his eyebrows as he says, “Who else was in
volved, gladiator?”

  I swallow blood again, though there’s less this time. “The blame was mine, Dominus.”

  “Yours.” He reaches for my face and draws two fingertips across my cheekbone. When he pulls his hand back, he looks at his fingers, then turns them toward me so I can see the smear of blood across them. “You did this yourself.”

  “No, Dominus,” I reply. “But the fight, it was my doing.”

  He looks me in the eyes, that eyebrow arched once again, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “You men cost me a lot of money, you know. Every one of you.” He wipes his bloody fingers on my tunic. “I hate having my property damaged inside the arena, so you can imagine how I feel about it being damaged when I’m not making a profit.”

  “I understand, Dominus,” I say quietly.

  “Good. And just to make sure you do understand”—Drusus snaps his fingers—“Arabo, take him down to the pit. Ten lashes.” He shifts his narrowed eyes back toward mine and gets right in my face. “Let it happen again, gladiator, and you’ll see just how merciful I’ve been tonight.”

  With that, he stalks away into the shadows.

  “C’mon.” Arabo grabs my arm. “To the pit with you.”

  By the time the medicus releases me, I’ve vowed to myself a dozen times never to challenge Drusus’s mercy again. My wrists ache and burn from straining against the shackles, and I’m so certain my back and shoulders are on fire I’m surprised I don’t see flames dancing on the walls as I trudge down the corridor to my cell with my sweaty, bloody tunic in my hands.

  Arabo shoves me into the tiny room. “No more of that, eh? The master doesn’t like being disturbed in the middle of the night.”

  I say nothing. The door slams and the lock clicks into place. At least I’m safe for the night. I hope, anyway. The men got past the locks before, so I suppose they can do it again.

  But I hope they aren’t that stupid, and even if they are, I’m too exhausted to care.

  I lie facedown on my rack, leaving my scourged back exposed to the air. My eyes are heavy, my body aching, but sleep doesn’t come easily. More than once I wonder if it’ll come at all, but finally, if only thanks to sheer, bone-deep exhaustion, I sleep.