Chapter 1
Rome, AD 63
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“Well met, Leonidas.”
The hearty greeting came from Aemilianus, the lanista who’d once owned me, when I’d been the most famous gladiator in Rome.
Since I’d been granted my freedom, exactly one year ago, he’d constantly tried to persuade me to return to his ludus, either for exhibition matches or to help him train other gladiators.
Any joy in Aemil’s voice at seeing me on this damp December day meant he wanted something.
The chance encounter on this teeming street in the Carinae was made worse by the presence of Regulus, once my friend, now primus palus of Aemil’s gladiators and my sworn enemy.
“Aemil,” I said neutrally. I did not bother to greet Regulus, who glowered at me over Aemil’s shoulder.
“If you’re looking for Saturnalian gifts, you won’t find any sigillaria here,” Regulus sneered. “This is a street for respectable people.”
I didn’t bother with the obvious response, then why are you here? I’d learned it was a waste of time to argue with Regulus.
Nor did I bother to explain that I wasn’t shopping for sigillaria, the small clay or wax human-shaped figures that were traditional gifts for friends at Saturnalia. I didn’t know exactly why we exchanged such presents, and even Nonus Marcianus, the medicus with a wide range of knowledge in his head, didn’t know either.
But, as with most festivals in Rome, we followed the tradition, because it was what you did at Saturnalia. Some shopkeepers made their livings by supplying the small doll-like figures throughout the month of December, with an entire street devoted to their shops. Other popular gifts were joke items I didn’t see the point of—lamps that wouldn’t light, vinegar labeled as fine wine, crudely carved erotic figurines.
I had decided this December to hunt for a true gift for Cassia, to reward her for putting up with me for an entire year. What I sought from which craftsman was none of their business.
Aemil and Regulus were probably on this street because it led more or less directly from the Subura to the Forum, and from there to a bridge that would take them across the Tiber to Aemil’s ludus. Citizens, freedmen, slaves, and foreigners surged around us, pushing through the arcades of the narrow street, trying to avoid the cold, misty rain that had begun this morning.
“One year ago nearly to the day since you were handed the rudis,” Aemil said, naming the wooden sword that symbolized my freedom. “That happened during the Saturnalian games, didn’t it?”
He well knew that it had, having been at the games in question and not happy to lose his best gladiator. The fees Aemil had received for my appearances had been enormous.
“Yes,” I said tersely.
“Why not come back to the games to celebrate your first year as a freedman?” Aemil asked brightly, as though the idea had just come to him. I imagined he’d been planning this question for some time, waiting for the right moment to hurl it at me. “Carry the rudis in the parade, maybe fight an exhibition match with Regulus.”
Regulus scowled in sudden annoyance.
“No,” I said at once. “I am finished.”
Aemil’s optimism didn’t evaporate. He had eyes of two different colors—one blue, one brown-green—and they both glinted. “Walk in the parade anyway. Your followers will be thrilled to see you.”
I shook my head.
Regulus, I could see, agreed with me. As primus palus since my departure of the ludus, he should lead the parade of gladiators and other fighters at the opening of the games. He fiercely guarded his position and all the perks he obtained as top fighter in Rome.
Aemil’s hard face took on its usual stoniness. “You don’t have to do anything at all, Leonidas. Just stand there. It will bring more people to the games.”
The more popular Aemil’s gladiators were, the higher the fees he could charge. Me enticing in a mass of spectators would indicate that Aemil’s ludus was worth hiring at a high price.
“Just stand there,” I repeated.
“Maybe raise the rudis.” Aemil quickly shrugged as he saw my frown deepen. “Or nothing at all. Whatever you like.”
The thought of stepping out onto the arena floor of the Circus Gai, while the mob chanted my name, made my body chill and my chest tighten. I’d smell the sand carted in to mask the blood, plus the sweat and fear of the condemned, the wild animals, and the gladiators prepared to fight to the death for the pleasure of the crowd.
Could I even make myself enter? Or would my feet refuse to move once I was through the gate, blackness rising before me to send me to the ground? Regulus would make sure the crowd mocked me, the former great Leonidas falling on his face in a swoon.
