I shift my stance, ready to issue the final blow. Another win. Another knockout. Victory in the fight ring won’t change my past, but it’s still something.
Sweat stings as it drips down my forehead into my eyes. I blink twice, and then everything slows. The wraps around my hands suddenly don’t feel as tight; my heart beats slower. I bounce on the balls of my feet, my legs nearly weightless with each movement. One. Two. I draw a breath, ready for my fist to collide with the man’s cheek. He’ll hit the mat with a thud, and I will be declared the champion—as I have dozens of times before.
Nothingcan dull this moment.
“Praetorian! Praetorian,” a panicked voice shouts from the crowd. I clench my jaw.
Son of a jackal—well,almostnothing.
With stiff shoulders, I turn at my title, although I already recognized the voice. It’s Antinous, Clerk of the Senate Council, along with a cadre of armor-plated sentries. Antinous is a small man with round spectacles who has never seen the inside of a ring in his life. Judging by the nervous way he shifts around as he waits, I’m not sure he’s even been this close to one.
“The Senate is awaiting you, Praetorian. The Revelry will start within the hour.”
Which I knew. I had calculated plenty of time for a quick match, but this nobleman surprised me with his refusal to give up. I’ve knocked him to the mat twice, and he’s still fighting.
For a moment, I consider ignoring Antinous long enough to put this nobleman down one final time. But duty makes my fists too heavy to swing.
I sigh as I raise my arm to forfeit the match, even though conceding feels like pushing sand under my skin. Responsibility comes first for the Senate’s protector, as it must. The needs of the republic are greater than any one man’s pride.
The crowd in the stands gasps because I’ve never once been beaten or forfeited. They want to jeer, especially those who bet on a knockout, but they don’t dare. Not with ten sentries and the Senate Clerk standing here. And certainly not with my reputation.
The referee lifts my opponent’s hand in the air. No one applauds.
I shrug on my cotton shirt and button it. The fabric sticks to my sweat and the man’s blood speckled across my chest, but I planned to bathe and change before the Revelry anyway.
Antinous smiles up at me. He’s around average height for a man, so a head shorter than me, and maybe half my weight when he’s soaking wet. I gesture for him to go first as I catch Julian’s blond hair in the crowd. He falls in line beside me, and I knock fists with my closest friend.
“It was a good fight, Tor,” Julian says.
I glance at him and raise my eyebrows. “Was it?”
I wait for a reply, but he’s already smiling to men he knows and women he’d like to. We’re opposites, he and I. He’s a few inches shorter and less muscular, and he has blond hair where mine is ebony, but it’s our personalities that are diametrically opposed. For example, people like him.
“Your fights never are.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you still manage to con the upper crust out of money and into the ring.”
I shrug. There’s never a shortage of overconfident men.
Julian is also one of those upper-crust nobles from a storied family in the Southside, but I like him in spite of all that. In spite of myself, I suppose.
I run my hands through my short hair as we walk the paved stone streets past the noisy hawkers in the sprawling market and the quiet, empty arena.
“Are the men ready?” I ask.
He nods, but he’s delayed a moment, distracted by a pair of pretty brown eyes and a green sash. I groan. I swear women will be the death of him.
I idle, and two small, dirty children pull at my pants leg. One look and I know they’re from the Northside. Beggar children cross over the Palatine Bridge to reach the deeper pockets here. It’s a punishable offense, seeking alms across the river, but they appear to be no more than four and six years old. I toss them a few coppers, pretending they fell from my pocket.
Julian catches me, glowing with happiness as he adds silver coins to their little hands. With his money, they’ll be fed for a month. There were days I could only wish for that kind of blessing. Memories of hunger pangs stir in my stomach, and I shake them off.
I clear my throat and look away from the children. “Your report, Commander.”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “All sentries are on duty, Praetorian.”
The Capital Commander smirks as he inclines his head at me. He uses my title because he knows the formality annoys me—at least when it’s from him. Julian is one of the few who still views me as a person, not just the Senate’s fearsome watchdog and brutal investigator.
I keep walking.
“You seem particularly surly today,” he says. “Which is no small feat for you.”
