Nero gaped at me, shocked I was brave enough to utter such words. Then he glanced about, remembered his role, and relaxed into a short laugh.
“They were a gift, but you are right. I should not lose them.” He called out to the rest of the popina. “We need dice—now.”
I let my voice rumble over his. “Who has tali or tesserae to lend us?”
The landlord started forward, but my severe look made him stop. His dice might be as crooked as Blasius’s.
At the same time, nearly every man in the place eagerly dug out small bags or tied-up cloths holding their dice. A collection landed on the table as the patrons surged around us with interest, happy to assist the famous Leonidas to best Blasius.
I took my time picking through the lot. Some of the dice were true tali, knucklebones with numbers on four sides, their two ends rounded. Other were Roman tesserae, made of bone or stone, six sided like Blasius’s and Nero’s. I tested each set, picking out two pairs that felt the most evenly weighted.
I handed the others back to their owners, and the five of us settled in to play. The remainder of the popina hovered to watch. One of Blasius’s companions offered an empty cup to shake the dice in, but I shoved it away. I didn’t trust him not to have carved a compartment into its bottom for hiding a more favorable die.
I insisted Nero go first, explaining that he was a guest in this part of town. Blasius and his friends nodded, and I sensed Blasius tense in anticipation.
I fully knew what was being planned—if Nero won, Blasius and his companions would follow him and try to rob him in the dark. Again, this would land Blasius on the execution block or sentence him to die in some creative fashion while all of Rome cheered. I would have to trail after Blasius to make sure he and his companions left Nero in peace.
Nero’s opening throw turned up random numbers on the six-sided tesserae I’d chosen, none of which gave him any points. In this game, we wanted a roll of a six on one die and any other combination of numbers on the others to earn coins. The coveted Venus throw—all dice showing a different number—would win the entire pot.
We put down ases, one of the smallest valued coins, as we bet on the throws. If someone made all of a kind, called a Vulture, we’d each have to add more to the pot. Blasius grew sour as his money clinked down—he, with his unfriendly dice, was used to winning much more rapidly.
Nero, to his credit, left his arrogance behind as he faded into the game. As I’d witnessed one afternoon when he’d sung for us on the Palatine, he was at his best when he forgot his cosseted but dangerous life and sank into what interested him—music, art, racing, gladiatorial combat, or simple games of chance.
I had sometimes submerged myself this way while dicing at the ludus. With the camaraderie of fellow gladiators competing for a few coins, arguing, laughing, and drinking, we could pretend we were ordinary men passing the time in an enjoyable diversion.
Xerxes, my closest friend, had been bad at the games, snarling in displeasure whenever he lost. But he’d cheerfully pay up, then somehow talk me and others who’d won into buying him drinks at our usual popina for the rest of the night.
I missed Xerxes with a sharpness that struck me when I least expected it.
We played for a long while until Nero, on his turn, slammed his hand full of dice to the table. I turned the tesserae over—the numbers facedown were what counted—and realized that he had won.
Nero raised his fists in victory. “Venus—she smiles on me.” His arms came down, and he raked the coins to him, gloating at Blasius and company. “I love a beautiful woman.”
He slid the accumulated wagers into a large bag, which he tucked under his cloak. Then he rose, swaying with the many cups of bad wine he’d drunk.
“Thank you for a fine evening.” Nero kicked his stool out of his way as he moved from the table. “Walk out with me, Leonidas.”
I stood, but Blasius had squeezed himself around me to Nero, a knife in his hand.
“Not so swiftly, my friend.” Blasius’s voice was soft but deadly. “Give us a chance to win our coin back.”
A sneer curled Nero’s lip. “You lost. It is your fault for putting your money on the table.”
The knife point rose toward Nero’s throat. “How do I know I lost it fairly? I saw Leonidas change one of the tesserae.”
Nero’s gaze went to the blade, and I saw the obsessive fear all in power carried for their lives rise inside him. In a moment, Blasius would be surrounded by guards, his existence ending as a smear on the popina’s floor.
I shoved aside Blasius’s companions, who were trying to get in my way, and seized Blasius around the neck. One twist of my other hand took the knife from his fingers. I dragged Blasius over stools and through the popina to its entrance, his boots leaving black marks on the grease-stained tiles.
Once I reached the street, I flung Blasius away from me. He stumbled and staggered, reaching for the boards of the closed shop opposite the popina to keep himself upright.
“Get out of sight if you want to stay alive,” I advised him.
Blasius’s friends had already faded into the night. Blasius gawped at me—I was still holding his knife—and seemed to realize that flight was his best choice. He skittered away down the street, limping a little, and disappeared into the darkness.
A hand landed on my shoulder. Instinct made me seize it, trapping its owner in a hard grip while I spun to face this new threat.
It was Nero, swaying mightily, his smile full of triumph. “Leonidas,” he said in a near shout, his breath holding the many cups of wine he’d consumed. “You let me win. I saw you do it.”
