The trouble with playing against Blasius was that he cheated. The two men with him, his associates, would help Blasius dupe the mark and then split the take afterward.
I’d been warned by regulars in this popina that Blasius carried several dice in his bag that were weighted to turn up certain numbers. He’d start with fair dice to build up the wagers, then palm the weighted ones when it was time for him to rake in the coins. I’d wondered why the landlord, a round-stomached man with graying dark hair, did not report him or banish him, but I suspected the landlord received a share of the winnings.
On a usual night, anyone unwise enough to lay down wagers with Blasius would simply walk away embarrassed and minus a few ases.
Tonight, Blasius was trying to fleece Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the first citizen of all Rome. This man could have Blasius dragged into an arena and executed in an exotic fashion, such as having him choke on dice poured down his throat, or made to play a sham game with a hungry bear or lion. If Blasius was a Roman citizen, he might be given the dignity of dying by strangulation or beheading, but no matter what, he would be killed.
As much of a nuisance as Blasius was, I had no wish to see him and his companions taken away by whatever guards were waiting outside and reappearing in the next executions at the Circus Gai.
Nero rubbed his hands in delight. “Yes, let us play.”
Blasius showed his foul teeth again as he poured copper coins onto the table. “Leonidas?” He leaned to me, his rancid breath on my cheek.
“Not yet.” I growled my gladiator growl, displeased that a mere freedman would hurry me. “I’m hungry. I came for supper.”
In truth, I’d left home because I was restless. Tomorrow I’d start working for the builder Gnaeus Gallus as his assistant on a new project near the Emporium. I was excited to begin the sort of job I’d trained for years ago, and at the same time, I dreaded it.
One reason for my apprehension was that I didn’t want to disappoint Gallus, who was putting his faith in me. A second reason was that building sites made me uneasy, so much so that I broke out in a cold sweat when I thought about working on one.
My previous mentor had died tragically when a half-constructed building had buried him. I’d been blamed for the disaster. That day, I’d not only lost the one man who’d believed in me, but my entire life had changed. The youth I’d been had ceased to exist, and Leonidas the Gladiator had been born.
“Eat later,” Nero snapped, dragging me back to the present.
The landlord had already started ladling out stew from the big copper vat that rested in a hole at the end of the counter nearest our table. I supped here sometimes, and he knew what I liked. Lentils and beans, with greens and broth, flowed into a bowl in a chunky stream.
It was not the best stew, but it would fill my belly and maybe ease the cold worry about tomorrow. I took the bowl from the landlord with a curt nod of thanks.
Blasius began practice throws while Nero glared at me with great impatience. I saw the cords on his throat working, a corner of his eye twitch.
I’d never been this close to Nero without having to quickly bow to the ground. This near, I could see how young he was—twenty-five summers, I’d been told, which was only two years older than myself. He’d become princeps at sixteen, a boy who’d had to take on a job that should belong to a much wiser man.
Nero’s mouth had a petulant set that said he didn’t like being told he couldn’t do whatever he pleased. Which was why, rumor had it, his mother had been murdered, as had his wife and anyone who’d been a threat to his self-indulgences.
Blunt fingers minus their jewel-studded rings drummed on the table. “Enough,” Nero said, his imperious tones emerging. “We play now.”
I growled again and pushed the bowl from me. Without a word, I snatched Blasius’s dice and bag. He squeaked a protest as I poured the remaining tali into my hand.
I shook all eight as though asking Fortuna to bless them for me. Then I rolled, but I made sure my elbow banged into the corner of the half-wall next to me, muddying my throw.
The dice took flight, making for the vat of stew on the nearby counter. Every single tali plopped into the stew’s sludge, raining small warm droplets of broth over me, Blasius, and his associates. Only Nero, too far from the vat, was spared.
Nero’s mouth popped open, revealing teeth a bit better cared for than those of his table companions. Rage flashed in his eyes, and then our changeable princeps threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Leonidas the Clumsy!” he bellowed. “Leonidas the Oaf! All hail him in the games!”
Others in the popina, familiar with Blasius and his foul dice, joined in the laughter. They knew full well why I’d sent his dice to a brothy death.
I let a smile crease my lips to show I took Nero’s ribbing good-naturedly. Blasius was furious but I turned a steady gaze on him, and he fell silent.
As Nero’s laughter wound down, he brought out a pouch from his own belt. “We will use my tesserae.”
My concern did not cease. Nero’s personal dice were no doubt cast from gold or some such, which, if they didn’t reveal his identity outright, would make him a target for every thief on the street. I grabbed the pouch out of his hand, pretending I didn’t risk execution doing so.
Nero reached to snatch the bag back, his snarl worthy of a gladiator’s. “Mine shall not go into the soup as well.”
I evaded him and peered inside the pouch. The dice were not gold, but they’d been carved of ivory, the spots on them inset with winking gems. I closed the bag and handed it back to Nero before Blasius, at my shoulder, could see what was inside.
“Those are too fine for a popina,” I said with derision. “Who did you steal them from?”
