Page 30 of Brother at Arms

I leaned closer, old anger burning. “Someone got at Perseus. Told him exactly how to murder Xerxes.”

Aemil shook his head. “Couldn’t be. Perseus wasn’t skilled enough. No, that blow was pure chance, because Xerxes wasn’t paying attention.”

“Xerxes always paid attention,” I said stubbornly. “Even when he was playing the fool. Especially then.”

“Well, he wasn’t at that moment. He looked away, distracted, maybe. Perseus saw his chance and darted in.”

Landing the killing blow. The practum est—a practiced thrust, a perfect kill.

“What distracted him?”

Aemil slammed both fists to the table, making his tablets dance. “I don’t know, Leonidas. It was a long time ago. I had twenty bouts to put together, twenty pairs of gladiators to keep track of and out of trouble, including you. You’re still confounding me, and you don’t even live here. Won’t do me the courtesy of assisting me—you only pelt me with bothersome questions.”

He trailed off into mutters, pulling the tablets that had slid halfway across the table back to him.

I continued to scowl at Aemil, but he bent over the figures again, pretending to ignore me.

I knew I’d get nothing more out of him, so I turned and stepped quietly from the cubicle.

The afternoon was waning into evening, but I moved down the line of cells toward the room where Marcianus doctored hurt gladiators.

He wasn’t there. This late, he’d more likely be at home, but sometimes, he’d return to the ludus if there were injured gladiators who needed extra tending. Apparently, everyone was well tonight.

I was too unsettled to return to our apartment and eat stew and bread alone. After standing motionlessly in the arcade for a few moments, I decided to seek Marcianus on the Aventine before climbing the Oppian Hill to Livius’s home and reporting all I’d learned this afternoon to Cassia.

The thought of the calm way Cassia listened to all I said, the careful movement of her hand as she took notes, almost soothed my agitation.

Any chance of peace fled the next moment, when Regulus strode from the dining hall and nearly ran straight into me.

“The gods are pissing on me today,” he proclaimed. “What are you doing here, Leonidas? Toadying to Aemil?”

I regarded him without hostility—Regulus could no longer needle me. He and I had once been friends, or at least drinking companions. The day I’d been given my freedom, I’d enraged him by not slaying him and releasing him from this life. He’d become primus palus once I’d gone, but he hadn’t yet forgiven me.

“You were there when Xerxes was killed,” I said.

Regulus’s scowl deepened. “You mean the day I became secundus palus?” He’d been third, behind Xerxes.

“You watched the bout.”

“Of course I did. Xerxes was an idiot. He could have blocked that thrust easily enough—I’d seen him do such a thing a hundred times.” Regulus’s bluster faded. “I think Fortuna put her finger out and moved his shield out of the way. That’s the only explanation I can manage. His arm went down instead of up.” He demonstrated.

My focus narrowed as I watched him. “Show me.”

“What?”

“In the practice yard. Be Xerxes. Show me what he did.”

Regulus’s brows jammed together once more. “I just ate. I need a dump.”

I reined in my impatience. “Do it, then. Meet me in the practice yard.”

“Yes, yes.”

Regulus stomped away, but I saw a flicker of interest in his eyes before he sought the latrine.

That curiosity was likely the only reason he reappeared in a short time, bearing two wooden swords and two round shields. The practice weapons were locked up after training was finished for the day, but Agapios, the slave in charge of them, wouldn’t oppose Regulus.

Regulus handed me a set and threaded his arm through the other shield, tossing his sword once before catching it in a perfect grip.