by L. A. Witt
Gods, now what do I do?
I don’t leave yet. Maybe I need more proof, maybe I’m just not sure what to do next, but I can’t bring myself to leave until . . . until they come back out? Until I’m more certain? I’m not even sure, but for the time being I wander amongst the crowd, feigning interest in various goods while keeping an eye on the building Drusus and Verina will eventually have to leave.
That’s when I see him.
Shrouded in a hood and shadows, lingering nearer to the door than I am, he’s barely visible, but he’s poised like a predator. Watching. Waiting.
So I watch him. And I wait.
The hooded man doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Verina emerges from the building first. Her hair and clothes aren’t disheveled, but the smoke-colored kohl around her eyes is wetter now, with faint streaks sliding down her flushed cheeks. She hurries out into the crowd and makes her way north toward her husband’s villa.
And the hooded man is on the move now, inching closer to her.
My heart jumps. There are too many people between him and me. He’ll get to her before I get to him.
I look around, and a jeweler’s booth is a few paces away.
“That man over there”—I point in the direction of the hooded man—“I saw him pocket something of yours.”
“What?” The jeweler’s head snaps toward the other man, and while he’s distracted, I palm a bracelet off the table. “What’d he—”
“I saw him take it,” I insist. “It was right here, and he pocketed—”
“Hey!” the jeweler shouts. “You there! Get back here!”
Heads turn.
“That man!” The jeweler points frantically. “Thief!”
The hooded man glances back, and I casually turn so he won’t see me. While passersby run after the man they think is a thief, diverting him down an alley instead of the road leading north, I surreptitiously set the bracelet back on the table. Then I slip away from the booth and follow Verina.
I keep my distance from her, and keep her in sight until she’s nearly back to the villa. Then I let the shadows hide me while I wait until the guards open the gate. When she’s safely inside her home, I slip back down the darkening streets. I avoid the market and go around the south side of the Forum to avoid the man who’d been pursuing Verina, and head back to the ludus.
All the way back, my heart is pounding. Not only are my suspicions about Drusus and Verina confirmed, but there’s another man involved in this now. It doesn’t take a fool to know what the man was doing, what he had in mind. If he wasn’t going to kill Verina or Drusus, I doubt his intentions were much better.
I could leave him to finish what he’s started. Stand aside and let the scandal be settled by someone else’s hand.
But I can’t. I can’t do it. I, along with every man in the familia, stand to be executed if there’s any suspicion that one of us killed Drusus, but even if my own throat weren’t at risk, I just . . . can’t.
Someone’s made an attempt once, which means they’ll make an attempt again. I can’t risk him being successful this time.
Question is, how do I guarantee I’m there to stop him when he does?
“Dominus.” I stand at attention in front of him as he casually drinks wine in that familiar chair.
“Gladiator.” He gives a slight nod, and I relax my posture a little.
“With respect, Dominus,” I say, trying not to let my eyes dart toward Arabo and the other bodyguard looming behind Drusus, “I need to speak to you. Alone.”
Drusus watches me over the rim of his cup. Then he waves his free hand. “Leave us.”
Men move. The door closes. We’re alone.
Drusus holds my gaze expectantly.
I will my heart to slow down. “I need to be away from the ludus. For a few days, no more.”
He doesn’t move. “For what purpose?”
“Whoever’s sending messages from here to someone on the outside,” I say quickly, “he’s keeping his head down inside the ludus. And following men through the gate when they leave will just rouse suspicion.” I search Drusus’s expression for signs I’m overstepping my bounds.
“Go on.” His voice offers nothing.
I take a deep breath. “If I’m already outside the gate when he leaves, I might be able to follow him. To, to whomever he’s meeting on the outside.”
Drusus’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head just slightly, but he doesn’t speak.
“With your permission,” I say, “I’d like to leave my training for a short period. Seven days, perhaps less. If I can be at the ready when he leaves the ludus, and follow him without anyone noticing my absence from the training yard . . .”
My lanista drums his fingers on the side of his wine cup. His eyes lose focus. My heart continues pounding.
“So you’re asking to be excused from your training,” he says at last, “with the Ludi Romani coming up?”
I take a breath. “In the name of finding the man who is communicating with someone on the outside, yes.”
He’s quiet again, and for a longer moment this time. Then he gives a slow nod. “Very well.” He sits back. “Granted. I’ll expect you back in the barracks before sundown each day. Otherwise”—he waves a hand—“you’re free to roam as needed if it means finding out who’s plotting against me.”
It’s all I can do not to release an obviously relieved breath. “Thank you, Dominus.”
“I expect results,” he says. “You’ll report to me every evening when you return, and if I discover you’ve wasted valuable training time for nothing, there will be consequences.”
Phantom lines itch along my back, reminding me of every place the lash bit my flesh in the pit my first night.
“I understand, Dominus.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
I stay away from the ludus as much as I can during the day. Once, I meet with Ataiun to tell him I’ve learned nothing. He warns me that Calvus is growing more impatient, as he always is, and promises to summon me in another seven days’ time.
Mostly, I wander along the street connecting the ludus to the marketplace, waiting for Drusus to emerge.
He gives me nothing. For four straight days, he hasn’t left the ludus.
I have, however, and my absence does not go unnoticed.
The first day, one or two heads turn when I come back to the training yard from checking in with Drusus. Sikandar and Hasdrubal prod me with some good-natured questioning about where I’ve been while they’ve been training. The second day, the questioning is more pointed and vaguely hostile. And on the third day, no one speaks, but everyone looks.
I brace for the questioning, but it doesn’t come. Not while we eat, not while we’re on our way up to the barracks. The silence unsettles me. Considering how they hazed me when I first arrived here, I’m more than a little nervous. I triple check the lock on my cell after the guard secures it. Twice, I get up from my rack to check it again.
It’s secure, but it was that first night too. That didn’t stop the men from getting to me. And they weren’t angry then. They had no reason to be suspicious of anything except my possible presumptuousness about my place within the ranks.
And tonight, just as that night, there is nothing I can do but lie here and wait for them to come if they will.
Movement. Near-silent, but there nonetheless. And it isn’t just a single set of footfalls or one man’s breathing. Like a swarm of unseen insects closing in, they’re there, just outside the door.
Click. Scratch.
The lock. Oh gods . . .
My heart pounds. I turn my head toward the door.
Clink. Clink. Click. Scratch-scratch.
I leap from my rack and move to the door. The shadows on the other side are nearly impossible to distinguish from the cover of darkness. Even harder to count. One man? Five? A dozen? And—
A massive hand shoots through the opening and snatches me by the throat. Then another. I seize the forearms,
try to pry the fingers off, but my hearing dulls. My awareness clouds. Blackness takes over.
My knees crack on the floor and jolt me back to clarity just as the door screeches on its hinges. I don’t even have a chance to shout before a hand is over my mouth.
I’m shoved to the floor. Someone is on my back. A foot pins my hand. A knee pins the other. Weight presses down on my legs.
“Stay quiet,” someone growls, “or I’ll snap your neck. Understood?”
I nod as much as the hand on my mouth will allow. A moment later, the hand lets go.
“Where have you been the last few days?” Sikandar says, and I realize he’s the one on top of me. “And what business do you have with Drusus every time you return?” He grinds my face onto the stone floor. “Talk to—”
“Easy, Sikandar,” someone—Lucius, I think—says sharply. “Don’t mark his face.”
“What? Don’t mark—”
“Do you want Drusus to get suspicious?”
No answer, but the pressure eases.
“Answer him.” That sounds like Quintus. “Now.”
I take a breath, and manage to pull in some of the dirty straw off the floor. I cough and sputter, wincing as Sikandar leans into me.
“Talk,” he says, speaking almost directly in my ear. “Or we can just make sure you have an unfortunate accident on your way down the barracks stairs in the morning.”
I spit out more dust and straw. “I’m reporting back to the master when I return to the ludus,” I say through clenched teeth. “He ordered me to. I swear it.”
“Reporting what?”
“That I’ve returned, you fool.”
“Then where are you going when you leave?” The knee presses down harder on my back. “Speak, Saevius.”
I wince as my ribs threaten to crack beneath his weight.
“What are you telling the master?” Lucius demands. “Talk, gladiator. What are you telling him?”
“About what?” I ask. “What would I tell him? That you’re dragging me out of my rack—”
A foot in my side silences me.
“Enough,” someone growls. “What are the two of you discussing behind closed doors?”
My heart pounds within my compressed ribcage. “Nothing that has anything to do with the familia.”
“Then what?” Sikandar spits. “Talk, curse you.”
I think quickly. “The munerator of the Ludi Augustales, he—” I struggle to breathe beneath Sikandar’s knee. “He wants me on the billboard. For the Ludi. A featured fighter.”
The pressure on my back lessens slightly.
“He is left-handed,” someone says.
I wince as I try to pull in some more air. “He wanted me to prove I could fight well enough. And to sit so the painter could put my face on the billboard.”
“I don’t believe him,” Lucius mutters. “He’s been meeting with Drusus since—”
“Because Drusus still thinks I’m the one sending messages out of the ludus,” I throw back, straining to look over my shoulder in the direction of his voice. “He suspects me, you fool.”
“As do we,” Lucius says. “Either of communicating with someone outside, or watching and listening to us for Drusus.” Quiet movement. When he speaks again, his voice is closer to me, like he’s knelt beside me. “Near as we can tell, Saevius, you’re a danger to every man in this familia.”
“I’m not a danger to any of you. I swear it.”
“See that you aren’t.” Quintus’s tone is laced with murderous venom. “We’re watching you. Every move you make. Every time you speak to the master.”
“Whatever business you have with Drusus,” Lucius says, “you can address it in the yard.”
“And if he summons me?” I ask, wincing as the Parthian’s knee presses into my back.
“If he summons you, then that’s the master’s prerogative,” Lucius says. “But if you go to him? You’ll wish we’d snapped your neck tonight.”
“And remember this, gladiator,” Sikandar says. “Give us any reason to believe you’re going to turn on us, that you’re putting a single one of us in any danger with the master, we’ll make sure that unfortunate spill down the stairs is arranged.” He presses harder against my back. “Understood?”
I grimace, and barely manage to choke out, “Understood.”
The knee on my back lifts away. Feet scuff past me. The door closes. The corridor outside empties.
And I don’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Just as they promised, the men are watching. Every time I come and go, every time I even look in the direction of Drusus’s rooms. I barely sleep, jumping out of my rack at every sound that could be the men coming in to remind me of—or make good on—their threats.
The seven days Drusus granted me are nearly up. I have until sundown, and I have nothing to show for the days Drusus has granted me. I doubt he’ll let me leave again, not with the Ludi Romani coming up.
Hiding in the shadows not far from the ludus’s back gate, I’m restless and nervous. Bruises under my tunic and on my cheek and jaw throb relentlessly, reminding me that even if Drusus were to grant me more time, there still remains the constant threat of my suspicious familia.
Fortune is, for once, on my side this morning: Drusus leaves the ludus. Alone. I follow him down the street, past the Forum, into the marketplace, and to a different building tucked back into a crowded, narrow street that’s teeming with people.
And just as I suspected, I’m not the only one interested in the secretive lovers.
Another man follows, but not closely, and his face is concealed. When Drusus disappears into a building, the hooded man waits outside, leaning against a wall, casual and unassuming.
Casual and unassuming except for the hand resting on the hilt at his belt.
In between watching the vacant doorway, he scans the crowd. Sweep to the left, check the door, sweep to the right, check the door. He’s as alert as an alley cat, fingers opening and closing on the barely visible hilt.
I can’t see his face, but he seems completely unaware of me. His posture doesn’t change as I approach him slowly from his right. The sun hasn’t been up long, and there are plenty of heavy shadows, not to mention a rapidly thickening crowd, so it’s easy to hide. It’s also easy to lose sight of a man, and my heart skips every time a cart lumbers between us or someone blocks my view of him.
The lady Verina emerges from the building, and he makes his move.
So do I.
As he approaches her, I approach him, counting steps and adjusting my gait to match his. He’s perhaps ten paces from Verina when I cross his path, and just as I’d calculated, we collide. Feigning an attempt to right myself, I thrust my elbow into his chest.
He stumbles back a step, but quickly rights himself.
“Hey!” I grab his arm. “Watch yourself.”
“Out of my way,” he snarls, jerking out of my grasp. He starts toward Verina again.
“Out of your way?” I grab his arm again and pull him back toward me. “You hit me, citizen.”
He swings his arm to get mine away from him, and I throw a balled fist at his covered face. He ducks, whirls around, and punches my gut, doubling me over. Sunlight flashes on metal, and someone gasps as the blade slices through the air toward me. My forearm deflects his wrist. The blade clatters to the ground, and I grab his arms.
He tries to jerk away. “Hey, what is your—” The hood slides back.
Our eyes meet.
I shove the hood off his head and stare in disbelief. “Iovita?”
“Fucking fool,” he snarls. “You’ll get us both killed.”
“I’m not the one with the dagger.”
He glares at me. “Let me go, gladiator. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Doesn’t it?” I growl. “What’s an auctoratus doing in the market with a dagger like that?”
“Protecting myself.” He tries to shove me, but gains little ground. “From fucking plebs who see danger
where it doesn’t—”
I laugh dryly. “Of course. Danger where it doesn’t exist, except at the hands of armed auctorati roaming the streets.”
He scowls. Then he glances past me and curses. I tighten my grip on his arm and glance back myself in time to see Drusus emerging from the building.
Iovita grabs the front of my tunic and hauls me into a nearby alley where we’re no longer visible to people on the street, especially our lanista. He slams me up against the wall and presses a second blade against my neck. “I said, this doesn’t concern you, gladiator. Go back to the ludus, get back to your training, and never speak of this, or I will open your throat while you sleep.”
I swallow, which pushes my throat against the sharp edge. “Why are you pursuing him?”
“Drusus?” Iovita laughs. “You think I’d come all the way out here to pursue him?”
“The woman, then.”
Iovita’s humor instantly vanishes, and he presses the dagger harder against my flesh. “This is your last chance, Saevius. Walk. Away.”
“Tell me what—” I cut myself off and knock his arm away from my neck. The dagger drops to our feet, and I punch Iovita in the mouth. He recovers quickly and shoves me back against the wall. Then he hits me in the gut. Again. He draws back, but I bring my knee up between his legs, and he grunts in pain. I swing at him, and when I’m off balance, he throws an elbow into my chest, and we both topple onto the cobbled ground.
Fists, feet, elbows, knees; anything that can inflict damage does so. And somewhere in the melee, Iovita gets his hand on the weapon he dropped. I realize it just before the blade would have bitten into my hip. I pin his wrist with one hand and throw three rapid, violent punches into the side of his face. While he’s still stunned, I grab his other wrist, but he doesn’t let go of the dagger.
He tries to head-butt me, so I push myself up and force him over onto his stomach. I twist his arm behind him, and still he tries to swipe at me, but when I grab his wrist again and bend it backwards, he releases a roar of pain, and the dagger falls from his fingers.
“You’re a dead man, Saevius,” he snarls, and manages to free his arm. As he tries to get up, I pin him down again, this time with an arm around his neck.
