by Lydia Pax
A ripple of surprise pushed through Caius. The years had changed Lucius. The young man he had known would have sooner punched Rufus in the face and suffer a month in the mines than apologize.
“Welcome back, Caius.” Rufus smiled. “Welcome home.”
He raised his arms with a grand flourish, as if Caius had not spent ten years inside these very walls, dreaming of a way to get out.
Rufus had always been a bit of a fop, but Caius never thought him a bad man. He was the sort who would serve you his cheapest wine and talk at length about the intimate efforts gone into creating it simply because he thought knowing more than you did might wow you into submission. For a lot of the gladiators in his ludus, Caius supposed he was right. Most were not exactly mental giants, and all were more cunning than smart.
“Thank you, Dominus.” Caius nodded, surprised at how easily the deference returned to his voice. “I am glad to be here.”
“That makes one of you.” The gladiator behind Rufus shook his head. “I don’t think any freedman belongs in this place at all.”
“Easy, Flamma.” Rufus held up a hand. “Caius here is as much a gladiator as any of you.”
Flamma was a tall man, thick of belly and chest. Some gladiators attempted to earn the favor of the crowd with a body cut from stone, as Lucius did. Others were not able or willing to trim down, and so developed layers of protective fat to have more flesh they could safely lose.
This one—Flamma—was definitely the latter. He had not been here when Caius was here last, and even with his ignorance of the games, he had heard of the brutal wins of Flamma. Maimings. Mutilations. Decapitations. All at the crowd’s behest.
That was the other way to win the crowd’s favor—to be as brutal as humanly possible to your opponents. Flamma had a wicked, dirty smile. Long, dark hair sprouted from the back of his head and knotted in several long tails down his back.
The presence of all this past hit him hard:
Rufus, who had owned him for ten years.
Lucius, fair-haired and handsome, who had been a younger brother to him.
Septus, grizzled and lean, who had been an older brother to him.
Flamma—who Caius had not known, but of whom he had known a dozen others like—as mean as the day was long.
And because he had known a dozen men like Flamma, he had expected this sort of protestation. That he was only a freedman now, now a fighting man. Caius slipped his pack down from his back. It contained mostly just some spare clothes from his house and a number of sweets that he thought might earn him some points with the bonafide fighters in the ludus.
Reaching in, he pulled out a short wooden sword.
“This is my rudis,” he said, holding it up so all could see. “Given to me the day of my last fight. The symbol of my freedom.”
“I know it well,” said Rufus. “I had it commissioned myself.”
With a flourish of his own, Caius broke the rudis over his knee. The crowd of gladiators around them was stunned silent.
“I am not a free man any longer,” said Caius. “I am a slave. I am a gladiator. And I am one of you.”
The crowd roared now with laughs and approval. Septus stayed quiet, however, stooping low to gather up the pieces of the rudis before they were crushed or spirited away.
Waves of overwhelming feeling threatened to pull Caius under. He knew that by returning to this place, he risked drowning again in the bloody zeal of honor and glory that the ludus advertised.
But there were parts of himself he had discovered over the past few years—fatherly parts, sensitive parts built from raising his dear Fabia. These were parts of himself that he liked.
His relentless ability to hold her tight and love her for everything she was and would be; his ability to wake early in the morning to feed her; his ability to work from dawn until dusk and dusk until dawn, just to put food on the table.
Not that it was enough. If there were some cosmic drawing of numbers in the universe, then Fortune had Caius’s number, and had no intention of changing his luck anytime soon. A dozen bad investments—each one seeming more promising than the last—had destroyed his finances since his last win over Vox in the arena.
That everything had soured after that fight only made the fight itself, already a sour memory, something more sinister altogether. An omen of destruction for Caius’s wellbeing.
Now, being back in the ludus, those feelings of instant brotherhood fought with his learned understanding that the world was out to get him.
And there was one more man left—wasn’t there? Who was Caius forgetting?
A crack of a whip answered his question. It all came flooding back now.
“What is this nonsense? Have you all lost your dignity? These are hours for training, not for standing. For learning, not for dallying. And I—”
The heavy, rough voice of Murus the doctore rang through the ludus air, bouncing off the tall stone walls. Like any good leader or teacher, Murus’s most important quality was the sound of his voice. Immediately authoritative and immediately heard, Murus was most often immediately obeyed. But, when the scarred, old gladiator saw Rufus and Caius, his face softened somewhat.
“Forgive me, Dominus,” he said. “I did not see you here. Of course there is no dallying if the men are learning from you.”
The play to Rufus’s ego was a necessary deception to placate the man. A sly smile indicated to Caius that the cause of the commotion was not lost on Murus.
“Caius here was just informing us that he was as much of a gladiator as ever.” Rufus smiled. “I’d like to see you put him to the test, Doctore.”
Again, Caius found himself slipping into the past, standing up straight and readying his legs. “I’d like that myself, Doctore.”
“Very good,” said Murus. “Now. Let us see if you still know anything. Lucius?” The elite gladiator stepped forward, crisp as ever to the doctore’s voice. “Take up your weapon. Give us a show.”
Chapter 6
Aeliana stood in her office above the training grounds, looking out the window as events unfolded.
Right away, watching the two men square off in the sands, tension wrapped around her heart.
The crowd of gladiators all stood or knelt around the two, each picking the likely winner. Iunius, a slave eunuch who acted as something of a black market dealer for the other slaves in the estate, sidled up next to fighter after fighter, taking bets.
Caius and Lucius took up their thick training weapons and began to circle one another. Lucius held a long pole, simulating the spear-like trident. Caius’s held a wooden sword but also a basketwork wicker shield which rustled noisily as he circled in the sand.
Lucius thrust, and Caius parried and counter-thrust, and the duel had begun.
Neither man could lose this stupid match, she realized.
If Lucius lost, then he would lose face among his fellows in the collegium. Like most other tradesmen, gladiators formed a sort of union—called a collegium—for mutual protection. Though, unlike other trades, the protection was not to ensure a promise of work.
Being slaves, gladiators had little say in what work they did in the first place. And even if they did, there was always a demand for the spilling of blood in the Empire, and so always more work.
No, rather the official purpose of the collegium was to ensure the protection of the gods. Each collegium had its own patron deities they paid tribute to. Small portions of every win or loss were donated to the collegium, and if a gladiator died, then his funeral services were paid with by withdrawing from the donatives.
The unofficial purpose of the collegium was to ensure that the gladiators were of a common mind and that they did not kill one another in training. It was a social club, with clear hierarchies, and Lucius was at the tip-top level. The group that followed him was mostly other retiarii, but more than that, it was simply the folks that Lucius got along with, like Septus.
Vying for his top role, though, was Flamma—with a group of his
own—and up to this point the two had been civil, if not altogether friendly. Lucius had racked up seventeen victories in the arena over the last three years to Flamma’s twelve in the last two.
Both fought—and won—much more than the average. Normally, a gladiator fought four times a year at most. Lucius and Flamma stalked one another like lions in the wild, each carving out their own territory for the hunt.
And so, a loss to Caius, even in a duel, would bring Lucius’s reputation down. And Flamma would not hesitate to strike.
Yet, Caius could not lose either. Having gone so long as the undefeated champion of Puteoli, if he indeed lost on his first outing back, he would be shamed. No one in the school would trust him to fight again, and he would live in the ludus under a shadow of doubt.
The fighters in the sand continued to go at it, countering and thrusting, parrying and feinting. Both got good blows in. Caius slammed Lucius’s face with his basketwork shield, drawing blood from his nose. But in the very next volley of blows, Lucius managed to elbow Caius in the face right back, drawing blood from his.
And they were smiling.
Maniacs, thought Aeliana. Pure maniacs.
It didn’t help that her heart was pumping so fast, watching Caius move with his shirt off. She had, before, thought him large but ungainly. Like the bear of his namesake. But watching him now, she got to see all that bulk move, and move it did. It was not bulk, not really, just layers and layers of thickly wrapped muscle over long, strong bones. They may have called him a bear, but he moved like a cat, and every second that passed with him in the sands he seemed to gain more and more confidence in his feet.
Lucius was clearly the more handsome of the two, and yet he had never interested Aeliana all that much. He was one of the few in the school who she could stand, who was actually genuinely interested in hearing what she had to say when she went off on one of her limitless explanatory tangents.
But something about Caius struck her. Was it the lean cut of his jaw despite all that firm density in his body? Was it the broadness of his chest and muscles? The easy smile he wore, masking all that hurt?
For there was hurt there.
He acted like she had not offended him, and he acted like he was perfectly fine returning to the ludus, but Aeliana was not very much fooled by any of that. She had watched him break his rudis, and there had been—just for a moment—clear flashes of true sorrow on his face.
And how could there not? He had broken his very freedom by returning here. She had made out the decision as something of stupidity, instead of the clear desperation he must have clearly been feeling.
This wasn’t a man like Lucius or Flamma, seeking fame and glory. He sought something else.
She just didn’t know what that would be yet.
“Who’s this, then?”
From behind her, Chloe approached. Chloe was Aeliana’s assistant. Like many educated slaves, she was Greek—a region famed for its understanding of education and thought. Her hair was thick and dark, and she had a stout frame capable of doing the oft-required heavy lifting of a medicae’s assistant. At eighteen, six years the younger of Aeliana, Chloe still had much to learn when it came to medicine. And life, for that matter.
“It’s a fight. We’ve had a new trainee arrive.”
Chloe’s dark blue eyes lit up. She loved meeting new fighters. Despite Aeliana’s constant reminders not to get close to any of them—more than fifty percent of the fighters who came in were dead within a year, after all—Chloe never listened. She was the sort who thought her love and affection could change the terms of fate. Aeliana found this obnoxious, although she would never admit that she was also jealous of Chloe’s ability to feel so strongly for one man after another.
“I thought new trainees weren’t due here for another week?” Chloe looked down at the sands and then gasped. “It’s not a new trainee.” Chloe rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know anything? That’s Ursus. Look at him go!”
Chloe followed the fights with great zeal. She was a member of at least three fan clubs that Aeliana knew of. Gods forbid that any of the three might actually have to fight one another—she thought Chloe’s head might tear itself off her own shoulders if it did.
Aeliana, lost in her thoughts of watching Caius move, did not respond. Chloe rolled her eyes harder—and how was that possible?—and huffed out a dispirited sigh. “Ursus. Champion some three years ago? Undefeated for ages. He was a glory in the arena. You really should watch sometime.”
“I see enough from here.”
She cleared her throat and turned away from the window. Caius had unleashed a rather successful series of blows, swiping Lucius to the ground. Lucius rebounded quickly, rolling on his feet, but he was put clearly on the defensive.
Her heart caught on itself, and she felt herself urging Caius onward to victory—as if that mattered! As if anything she wished could matter for a stupid, stupid gladiator. That creeping flush—once strange and now quickly becoming familiar, slipped up her neck again.
She occupied herself with setting her jars of herbs back in order after refilling them earlier that morning.
“And,” she said, “Anyway, I know who he is. I met him this morning when he was on his way here.”
“No way!” Chloe did not tear her eyes from the match. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. Is he great? Is he as great as they say? You’ll have to tell me.”
“You’re the one watching him fight.”
Chloe made a noise. “They just ended. A draw. And…oh.”
The concern in Chloe’s voice brought Aeliana back to the window. A draw was the best possible outcome. Perhaps the fighters themselves even knew it. They had embraced readily, smiles on their faces. Enjoying the combat like the fools they were.
But now, below, she saw that Flamma had approached Caius, shoving him angrily. He pulled up his own training weapons, brandishing them before Caius.
Flamma scared Aeliana. If there was one fighter she would have preferred not to treat, it would have been him—or perhaps his underling, Cammedius.
Aeliana could not hear them, but she did not think she needed to.
The doctore, Murus, waited for a minute, eyeing Rufus carefully. After a slight nod, Murus gave the signal—and Flamma and Caius began.
*
Immediately, Caius knew he was outmatched.
The duel with Lucius had tired him out totally.
From the years of his peaceful absence, he knew that certain elements of his fighting ability would be lacking. His skill was still intact—the only reason he hadn’t embarrassed himself completely—but his endurance was all but gone. To fight in the arena, a man needed to be prepared to thrust, parry, block, and slash hundreds of times in the space of just a few minutes. Caius had gone at full speed for maybe five minutes, and his arms already felt like lead. He was barely able to get his shield up in time to prevent Flamma from braining him.
As he had fought Lucius, he had picked up on the courtesy of his brother-in-arms. Three times, maybe four, he had made mistakes that a fighter of Lucius’s caliber should have easily ended a fight following. But he hadn’t, probably not wanting to hurt Caius’s reputation so soon.
Flamma had no such sensibilities. He fought in the dimachaerus style—that is, with a sword in each hand. The swords in this case were wooden, of course, but that made them no less dangerous in the hands of a wild dog like Flamma. Caius was drenched with sweat, the training sword and loose in his hands.
Flamma swung low, and Caius could not block quickly enough. The sudden pain in his leg was a resounding fire, a signal to quit this madness immediately.
Somehow, when making the decision to return to the arena, his brain had focused only on the good parts. As if trying to convince him subconsciously, his memories had been pulled entirely from the glory of victory, the thrill of the crowd chanting his name, the exultation at a blow well struck.
But what he had forgotten was the constant pain. Flamma brought it all back now.<
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Around them, the crowd of gladiators had changed their volume from a cheerful, quiet roar to a hushed observation. Occasionally one of Flamma’s men would cheer his name, but that was all.
The other gladiators knew this was not a test of skill—it was Flamma sending a message.
The blow on his leg was followed by another, and Caius barely shoved his shield in to block the blow. That saved his leg from being broken. Having none of this, Flamma struck again at Caius’s shoulder, numbing it. He couldn’t raise his arm anymore. Swinging his sword to clear some distance, Caius backed up quickly, hoping for time. Just a little time to catch his breath.
Flamma approached, a great pot-bellied vision of terror. He feinted to one side and Caius bought in wholesale, tired and reeling. With his head turned the wrong way, Flamma had an easy time of slamming his training sword against Caius’s head.
He fell to the sand in a heap. Summoning all his willpower through the ringing pain in his ears, he held up the two fingers, asking for mercy.
Flamma did not look as if he would give it to him. The gladiator spat on Caius and grinned, hoisting his weapon up high.
“Flamma!” Murus voice was clear across the ludus. “Enough.”
An immense frown crested Flamma’s face. He spat again and stomped away through the sands. Mercifully, the ordeal was over.
But unless something changed, and soon, Caius knew he would only have more of that beast to contend with in the future.
Chapter 7
Septus and Lucius brought Caius up to Aeliana shortly after the sparring match with Flamma. He was out of his head from the blow to his skull, insisting on standing up for several moments.
“I am a gladiator and I stand.” He sounded drunk, but it was just from the concussion force of the blow to his head. “I walk from place to place.”
“Of course you do, Caius,” said Septus. “You walked all the way here.”
He had not, of course. Caius had been half-dragged, half-led up the many stairs to the medicae’s office, held up by Lucius and Septus.
