Lucullus noticed his focus and placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Ah, I forgot you won’t have met Velia, my niece. She joined me here a year ago. She’s become a trusted assistant.”
Ferox nodded to her. He couldn’t help wondering how in Hades Lucullus’s niece had ended up working for him here, of all places.How does a young woman find herself working at a ludus?
Velia returned his acknowledgement, then glanced at the graffiti, just visible through the open door. “I can have someone whitewash that for you,” she offered. Then her eyebrows arched. “Unless you prefer to, well, under-promise and over-deliver?”
Behind Ferox, Jason snorted.
The pert insinuation in her words made a discomfiting heat rise to his face. Thankfully, the light was dim. “Leave it,” he grunted, affecting carelessness. “A bit of graffiti doesn’t bother me.” His name was scrawled all over the city in various contexts—usually flattering, but not always—and he’d long ago learned to ignore that sort of notoriety.
“Very well,” Velia said, a smile still playing around her lips.
“Training starts tomorrow morning,” Lucullus said. “I trust you remember the schedule?”
Ferox nodded. He’d be woefully out of practice, no doubt, so the first few days would be grueling, but he had to put in the work if he didn’t want to dishonor himself in his first match.
Lucullus left, and Velia followed after casting Ferox one last curious glance. Lea and Jason also returned to their own rooms with a promise to see him tomorrow for breakfast, leaving Ferox alone.
He sat heavily on his bed, staring at the blank wall opposite him. This was always where he used to feel Hector’s ghost the strongest, when he was in this room by himself at night. Ferox closed his eyes, extending his senses. He hoped that the time elapsed since his departure might have released the shade’s tether on him.
But as he sat in the darkness, a vision hit him, burning itself into the space behind his eyes: the last moments of Hector’s life, a sword driving down, the deafening cheers of the crowd. Ferox’s desperate helplessness as he watched.
His eyes flew open, fixating on the flame of the lamp even though the brightness hurt.
Yes, Hector was still here. Still haunting him. Still wanting to make Ferox suffer.
He’d heard of such things before, ghosts who lingered near their living relations or friends. Some were benevolent, there to watch over those they’d cared for in life. Others, not so much.
In life, Hector had been the best of men: warmhearted, generous with his jokes and smiles, somehow maintaining his goodness despite the brutal and bloody business they were all entangled in.
On its face, it wasn’t so surprising that one of them had died in the arena, even though a losing gladiator was likely to be sparedif he yielded. Gladiators were valuable, and though the decision depended on the whims of the audience and ultimately rested with the host of the games, the host had to pay a hefty fine to the manager of a slain gladiator.
Death, however, was still an ever-present risk. Each fight could be one’s last, and Ferox had always known that sooner or later, he would mourn one of his friends or they him.
But it was different with Hector, because Ferox himself had been slated to fight that day. He’d been laid up with a minor injury, so Hector had taken his place. That was why, two years later, guilt still had its claws in him. Hector would be alive if not for him.
Even worse, Hector’s opponent hadn’t granted him the professional courtesy of a quick, clean end. Instead, it had been bloody, torturous, one of the most stomach-turning things Ferox had ever seen. And the crowd loved every moment.
This was the life he’d elected to return to—one where the entire city cheered to watch a man be slaughtered. That could very well be his fate if he lost any of his three fights, which was more likely than ever after so long away. He was out of shape, out of practice. Maybe he’d lost whatever spark had given him such an illustrious career. No one could fight forever. Eventually, both luck and skill ran dry. Would he even make it through his three fights?
Well, he’d find out soon enough.
2
Veliastoodbeneaththeshaded portico as she watched the new gladiator, Ferox, train. To be fair, he wasn’t exactly new—in fact, he was the most experienced in the ludus. He must be at least thirty, and his body bore the marks of a long fighting career. As he sparred with Jason, sunlight glanced off an array of scars over his bare chest and arms, and Velia bet his nose had been broken at least three times.
But his rugged appearance still drew her eye. Muscles bulged and rippled as he thrust the blunt practice sword at Jason, who nimbly caught the blow against his shield.
“What do you think of him?” her uncle Lucullus asked from where he watched beside her.
She turned her scrutiny from appreciative to assessing. “He’s out of practice, but I can tell he’s experienced. I see how he anticipates each move from Jason. But his footwork is clumsy, and it seems like he’s finding this taxing.” For all his evident strength, sweat gleamed on Ferox’s forehead and shoulders, and he was breathing hard, while Jason looked as effortless as if enjoying an afternoon stroll.
“I agree.” Lucullus gave an approving nod. “He’s talented—there’s a reason the emperor asked for him specifically—but he needs to put in the work to get back to where he once was.”
Her uncle’s confirmation of her opinion sent a warm flare of pride through her. If she was going to achieve her dream of managing her own troupe of gladiators one day, learning to assess their strengths and weaknesses was an essential skill.
After a year of living with her uncle at his ludus, she’d gained many skills she never knew existed. She might not be able to weave or cook to save her life, but she knew how to negotiate a gladiator’s fees, maintain their weapons and equipment, and manage their diets to keep them in top fighting shape.
Lucullus left to go supervise another training match, but Velia stayed, watching Jason and Ferox spar. Jason was an animated fighter, whooping and grunting, a smile on his face with each successful hit. Ferox, on the other hand, fought with a look of grim, unwavering blankness. It didn’t change, no matter if he managed a hit on Jason or took one himself.
