“Ajax is a sodding ass.” I could see by Regulus’s red-rimmed eyes and swaying stance that he was half drunk. “If he facesmein the next games, he’ll be dead.”
Ajax was third in the ludus, always with an eye to becomingprimus palus. Rufus wassecundusnow that Regulus had moved up into the slot I’d vacated. It was Aemil’s decision who his top fighters were, but there was always rivalry within the ranks.
Herakles, who was equivalent in talent with Ajax, had never completely adapted to being a gladiator. He had the pride of the savage peoples who made life for soldiers on the Roman frontier exciting, and he’d never lost his air of scorn. Romans to him meant conquerors. Herakles sometimes talked about working to buy his freedom, but more often declared he’d die in the arena, taking several Roman dogs with him.
Many of Aemil’s gladiators were, like Herakles, captives from outposts, but Herakles sneered at any who’d embraced the Roman way of life. He’d hated me, Roman born, on sight.
“Good riddance to them,” Regulus went on.
If the three ran away or caused trouble, Aemil also would have to answer for it, either with a large fine for not keeping his slaves contained, or with imprisonment, or his life, depending on what the gladiators did and to what Roman.
“Did Ajax have a favorite woman to visit?” I directed my question to both Septimius and Regulus, ignoring Regulus’s bluster.
“True—he could be smothered in some woman’s bosom.” Regulus waved an arm, bracing himself on the wall when he lost his balance. “Look for him in the Subura.”
So Septimius had said. I turned to Septimius, noting he remained out of arm’s reach of Regulus. “Who is Herakles’s lady in the villa?”
“Don’t know.” Septimius’s reply was quick, but I could not decide if he lied. “Nonus Marcianus does, I think.”
Nonus Marcianus was themedicuswho doctored the gladiators when we were cut up in the arena. Marcianus sewed wounds, set bones, and gave us concoctions that brought us back to life.
Marcianus was in the Equestrian class, maintaining a practice on the Aventine among the plebeians even while working for Aemil. He’d told me he liked healing those who had no expensive private physician at their beck and call, as well as learning all he could about anatomy and medicine by treating gladiators. He was an unassuming man, but very few disputed Marcianus.
“Is he here?” I glanced through the gate to the sunshine glaring on the practice space. The air was cool but the sun warm on my shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Regulus snapped. “I’m not your errand boy.” He pushed past me with a growl at Septimius. “Tell Aemil I’m off to find dinner.”
Septimius glowered at his back. Aemil must have given Regulus leave to depart because Septimius said not a word as Regulus stalked away along the street.
A boy who’d escaped the tutor teaching letters darted to Regulus, wide-eyed at seeing a true gladiator. Regulus scowled at him but stopped to scratch his name on the piece of brick the boy held up. Regulus had no use for fawners, but he knew how to keep the public of Rome cheering for him.
“Themedicuscame in maybe an hour ago,” Septimius told me once Regulus had gone, the boy scampering back to the annoyed tutor. “One of the tiros was hurt.”
While Aemil hadn’t had gladiators in games since Saturnalia, he didn’t hold back on training, which could become as brutal as actual bouts.
I gave Septimius a nod and moved through the gate into the ludus.
As usual when I entered the place, a feeling came over me that I’d never left. The practice yard was full, mostly with the younger, rawer gladiators battling away at the posts. Two more experienced gladiators were practicing throwing the weighted nets.
My feet wanted to take me to the rack where the wooden swords waited, my hand remembering the weight and heft of them. I’d pick out a newer gladiator and force him to face me, teaching him how to survive by coming at him without mercy.
Afterward, I might take the limping, bleeding lad to the nearest popina and relieve his pain with drink, but I wouldn’t go soft on him in the training yard. They either learned to fight back and hard, or they’d die on the day of the real games.
I made myself not assess the net throwers on their skill or the swordsmen on their thrusts. I had been a secutor, fighting with a short sword, my left arm swathed in padded armor, but Aemil liked to train everyone in multiple areas in case a fighter was needed to replace a fallen one, so I’d had some experience as a retiarius.
I strode into the dim interior of the building that held the gladiators’ cells. Most cells were empty, the men in the practice yard or lounging in the sun watching the training.
I paused in front of a grated door that was closed and pushed it open.
This had been my cell. I’d lived here the last two years I’d been with Aemil, and I knew every cranny of it. Regulus had taken over once I’d gone, and his spare tunics hung on pegs driven into the stone wall.
I glanced at the ceiling. My best friend, Xerxes, had drawn erotic stick figures there as a joke one day, roaring with laughter when I’d laid down to sleep and the flame of my lamp had flickered over the drawings. I’d shouted, and Xerxes had nearly pissed himself with hilarity.
I saw that Regulus had scratched most of them out. Only one remained, a gladiator with a large phallus chasing a maiden in the far corner, the rock there too rough for the marks to be easily erased.
Anger burned in my stomach. I was slow to wrath, but any pity I’d had for Regulus vanished. He’d erased what Xerxes had made, destroying a part of the man I’d loved like a brother.
I shouldn’t have looked. I slammed the door and strode on in rage.
