1
Feroxtippedseveralsilvercoins into his hand from the leather bag. They gleamed against his scarred palm, more money than he’d seen in a long time. The coins would show their age soon, as they still bore the image of the recently deceased emperor Tiberius, rather than the new one. But that didn’t make them worth any less.
“A hundred thousand sestertii?” Ferox repeated, sure he’d heard the figure wrong amid the noise of the bustling tavern. That was as much as a skilled, educated man would make in ayear. And Lucullus was offering him that for three fights in two months?
His former manager, seated across from him at the table, nodded. Lucullus was a diminutive man of middle age whose even-handed manner held the respect of every man in his ludus. “That bag contains the first thousand, as a deposit. The rest will be paid after each match. Thirty thousand after each of the first two fights. Forty thousand for the last. Plus additional prize money, at Gaius Caesar’s pleasure.”
The numbers tangled themselves up in Ferox’s mind. “And that adds up to a hundred thousand?”
Another nod from Lucullus. Ferox trusted him; during the decade that Ferox had been fighting for Lucullus’s ludus, theirdealings had always been honest and fair, despite the fact that until recently, the manager had owned him.
Ferox stared at the coins, imagining that amount a hundred times over. Life had been hard since walking away from the arena eighteen months ago. His position at the ludus offered a stability he’d learned not to take for granted, even though he hadn’t chosen this life. He probably never would have left, if not for Hector’s death.
But his best friend had died because of him, and leaving seemed like the only way to get some relief from the ghost that haunted him.
“I’ve seen many men leave,” Lucullus said. “Or try to. Not easy, is it?”
Ferox made a reluctant noise of agreement. He’d scraped together enough money to buy his freedom and left with barely a sestertius to his name. He had no skill except fighting, and only the most rudimentary education.
He’d managed to pick up jobs here and there as a guard, trading on his imposing size and reputation. Plenty of powerful men—senators, other politicians, businessmen—wanted to be seen with a famous gladiator like Ferox in their entourage, and they paid well enough, but Ferox tried to avoid those jobs. His reduced circumstances were embarrassing, and he hated feeling like he was on display. He preferred working for merchants who needed security as they transported their goods to Ostia, Tibur, or other nearby cities. That work at least made him useful, providing an opportunity to use the skills and strength he’d honed over nearly fifteen years of fighting.
Still, more often than not, he’d gone to bed hungry, cursing the circumstances that had led him to abandon the closest thing he had to a home. There was something to be said for knowing where his next meal was coming from, for having a safe place to rest his head at night.
But Hector’s death had changed everything. Victory in the arena no longer held any pleasure for him, and he couldn’t face his two remaining friends without knowing he was the reason Hector had died.
Ferox swept the coins back into the bag, hiding them from view of any too-curious onlookers. “Gaius Caesar is truly offering this much? For me?”
Lucullus nodded. “He wants to host the greatest games the city’s ever seen to celebrate his accession. He seeks all the best gladiators, even the retired ones. When his representative came to see me, he asked specifically for you.”
A touch of pride flared at the thought that the young emperor, now the most powerful man in the world, knew his name. “He’s the one they call…what was it? Little Shoe?”
A wrinkle appeared between Lucullus’s gray brows. “Little Boots, I believe.”
Ah, right. Ferox remembered hearing a tale of how the new emperor had earned the nicknameCaligula: the result of a childhood spent in his late father’s military camps, dressed in a child’s version of an army uniform, complete with miniature legionary boots.
“But I would not speak that name too loudly, if I were you,” Lucullus continued. “No man wishes to be reminded of his childhood nickname. Especially not an emperor.”
Ferox grunted in acknowledgement. He couldn’t argue with that.
“The games will last eight weeks,” Lucullus said. “You’ll fight in three matches, as I’ve said, and you’ll keep any winnings in addition to the hundred thousand.”
Three matches. A hundred thousand sestertii, plus winnings. That much money could truly give him a fresh start at anything he chose. He could finally return to Hispania, his homeland, and forge a new life of peace and stability. He could buy a vineyard, or a farm, or invest in a mine, something profitable that would see money in his coffers without having to toil for it. Not that he knew anything about vineyards or farms or mines, but with that much money, he could hire people who did.
“Three final fights,” Lucullus pressed, his voice taking on that persuasive note that Ferox remembered well. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal. You know it is.”
Ferox wanted to refuse, to turn his back on the money. Coming back to the ludus would force him to face the ghosts he’d been fleeing. But rejecting an offer like this would mean more hungry nights and days spent feeling like a failure. Lucullus was offering him a second chance, a way to secure his future once and for all.
“Fine,” he growled.
A broad smile spread over Lucullus’s weathered face. “Excellent.” He tossed down a few bronze coins to pay for their wine. “I’ll have your old room cleaned out. Gather your things and come tonight. Training starts tomorrow. In three weeks, the games begin.” He bid Ferox goodbye with a nod, then left the tavern.
Ferox tied the bag of coin tight. Another man might be nervous to walk the streets carrying a sum of this magnitude, but Ferox’s reputation meant thieves and brigands gave him a wide berth. Even so, he wasn’t about to flash the money carelessly.
He rose to his feet, bag grasped in his fist, and navigated the maze of tables and stools to find the exit. Despite the fortune that awaited him, his decision weighed heavy in his gut. Returning meant giving himself over to the guilt he’d been trying desperately to keep at bay. But for two months, he could weather it.
Three more fights. Then he would truly be free.
As twilight shadows stretched, Ferox made his way back to the ludus, the walled complex of buildings where Lucullus’s gladiators lived and trained. The guard at the entrance recognized him and hastily straightened up.
