Текст книги "The Left Hand of Calvus"

Автор книги: L. A. Witt

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

My heart beats faster. If the men can get through the locks and into my cell, they can get into the armory as well. Possibly even to the sharpened weapons reserved for actual games. I work faster at the knot between my wrists.

“Make a sound,” someone hisses, “and you’re a dead man. Understood?”

I nod.

The rag is jerked from my mouth, nearly taking a couple of my teeth with it.

Someone yanks off the blindfold. Before my eyes adjust or I can figure out where we are, a foot knocks my knees out from under me. I drop to the sand. Then another foot between my shoulder blades sends me forward. With my hands still tied, I can’t protect my face, and land hard. Spitting and blinking away sand, I try to get up, but a knee lands in the middle of my back and forces me down again.

A hand claps across my forehead and pulls my head back.

“All right, gladiator,” the Parthian’s voice snarls as hot spittle hits my ear. “It’s time you learn who to respect in this familia.” He slams my face down into the sand. Before I can catch my breath, I’m turned onto my back, and a fist in my gut forces what breath I have right out of my chest.

I bring up my knee, and I’m rewarded with a satisfying grunt when it connects with Sikandar’s crotch. He falters and groans. I jerk one hand free from the cord behind my back, grab a handful of sand, and throw it into the Parthian’s face. While he sputters and chokes, I hit him, my knuckles connecting sharply with his cheekbone. Before he’s even finished swearing in response, I hit him again.

Hands grab my shoulders. More grab my legs. Men wrestle me all the way back to the ground. One arm is pinned. Then the other. I manage to wrench one arm free again, and one leg. My foot connects with someone’s face, my fist with a gut.

Out of nowhere, another man’s fist hits the side of my head, and the world turns red and white. I’m only briefly disoriented, but it’s enough to give them the upper hand, and I’m pinned once again.

“Get him on his feet.”

Rough hands haul me upright. Someone pulls my elbows back and laces his arms through them so I can’t move.

“Look at me, you fucking novice,” Sikandar snarls.

I deliberately keep my eyes down.

He grabs my jaw and forces me to look him in the eye. “You need to know your place in this familia, you piece of—”

I spit blood in his face, and while he’s off guard from that, I use the man behind me for stability and sweep Sikandar’s knees out from under him with my leg. He hits the ground with a furious growl.

“Son of a whore!” he roars, and flies to his feet. He punches me hard enough to knock the man holding me up off balance, and we both go down. Someone else drags me up so I can take another punch, but I’ve got an arm free, so I swing at Sikandar.

“Hey! Hey, all of you!” a voice shouts. “Break it up! Break it up!”

“Shit!”

In a heartbeat, the men around me are gone, and I crumple to my knees. My mouth is metallic and salty. My ribs and gut ache furiously with every breath, and the entire training yard whirls around me.

“At attention! All of you!” someone else shouts.

“Hey! Come back here!”

“Get back here and into ranks!”

“I catch you, you’re all going to the pit, I swear it!”

Shouts and footsteps fade behind me. Still disoriented, I spit out some blood and hold myself up on a shaking arm as I keep the other across my gut.

No teeth missing. Nothing so painful it might be broken. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow, but I’ll survive.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” a sharp, icy voice barks.

I pull in a breath through my teeth. So much for surviving.

Gods, let it be anyone but him . . .

But that voice is too distinct, and as I raise my head and blink my eyes into focus, Drusus approaches from the other side of the dark training yard, carrying a flickering torch and flanked by the massive shadows of his bodyguards.

“Get up.” Hands grab my arms and jerk me upright. “Stand at attention, gladiator.”

Despite my wavering balance, I obey.

Drusus stops directly in front of me. The torch heats the air between us, but I barely keep from shivering as the lanista snarls, “What happened out here?”

Blood pools inside my cheek, and I swallow it to avoid spitting it on my master. “My apologies, Dom—”

“Save it,” he snaps. “I assume you weren’t beating yourself senseless.” His eyes narrow in the dim, flickering light. “Who else was involved? Tell me, gladiator. Now.”

I turn my head and spit blood on the sand. “I was responsible, Dominus.”

Drusus says nothing, but an eyebrow arches in an unspoken demand for me to continue.

“The altercation,” I say. “It was between me and another gladiator, but I started it. I was the one responsible.”

“Between you and another gladiator.” He slowly looks me over. “I see.” He folds his arms across the breastplate. “You have a choice, Saevius. There will be a punishment for this. It’s up to you whether you take it yourself or share it with those who bloodied your face.”

But if I give up one name, all the other men in the familia will see to it I don’t survive another night in this ludus. I say nothing.

Drusus taps his fingers on his upper arm and lifts his eyebrows as he says, “Who else was involved, gladiator?”

I swallow blood again, though there’s less this time. “The blame was mine, Dominus.”

“Yours.” He reaches for my face and draws two fingertips across my cheekbone. When he pulls his hand back, he looks at his fingers, then turns them toward me so I can see the smear of blood across them. “You did this yourself.”

“No, Dominus,” I reply. “But the fight, it was my doing.”

He looks me in the eyes, that eyebrow arched once again, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “You men cost me a lot of money, you know. Every one of you.” He wipes his bloody fingers on my tunic. “I hate having my property damaged inside the arena, so you can imagine how I feel about it being damaged when I’m not making a profit.”

“I understand, Dominus,” I say quietly.

“Good. And just to make sure you do understand”—Drusus snaps his fingers—“Arabo, take him down to the pit. Ten lashes.” He shifts his narrowed eyes back toward mine and gets right in my face. “Let it happen again, gladiator, and you’ll see just how merciful I’ve been tonight.”

With that, he stalks away into the shadows.

“C’mon.” Arabo grabs my arm. “To the pit with you.”

By the time the medicus releases me, I’ve vowed to myself a dozen times never to challenge Drusus’s mercy again. My wrists ache and burn from straining against the shackles, and I’m so certain my back and shoulders are on fire I’m surprised I don’t see flames dancing on the walls as I trudge down the corridor to my cell with my sweaty, bloody tunic in my hands.

Arabo shoves me into the tiny room. “No more of that, eh? The master doesn’t like being disturbed in the middle of the night.”

I say nothing. The door slams and the lock clicks into place. At least I’m safe for the night. I hope, anyway. The men got past the locks before, so I suppose they can do it again.

But I hope they aren’t that stupid, and even if they are, I’m too exhausted to care.

I lie facedown on my rack, leaving my scourged back exposed to the air. My eyes are heavy, my body aching, but sleep doesn’t come easily. More than once I wonder if it’ll come at all, but finally, if only thanks to sheer, bone-deep exhaustion, I sleep.

In the morning, I don’t bother with my tunic. Let the sun burn me if it will, but I don’t dare cover the welts still stinging my flesh.

Out in the training yard, I say nothing to any man. They notice me; heads turn more conspicuously than perhaps they realize, and conversations and bouts alike lose their intensity when I pass by. They notice the damage to my back. How could they not?

Some of the men have marks themselves. A cut lip here. A black eye there. A mottled bruise beneath ribs. Not unusual for fighters, of course, but at least some of those, I’m sure, were from my feet and fists.

I don’t speak to anyone. Titus and I spar, and I’m certain he and every man in this yard knows what happened last night. He scowls at the bruises and I catch him eyeing the welts on my back, but he doesn’t say a word. The only sounds in our sparring circle are our weapons clanking and clattering together.

Halfway through my third bout with Titus, every movement aggravating the burning welts on my back, Sikandar goes to the water trough. I put up a hand.

“I could use a drink,” I say, and Titus nods, but when he looks toward the water trough, he stiffens.

“Saevius,” he warns, “you don’t—” He stops when I brush past him. He curses under his breath, but doesn’t get in my way.

Sikandar stills when I join him. All around us, pair by pair, the other men freeze.

Every set of eyes is focused on us, and no one breathes. The only sound in the yard is the soft splash as I dip the ladle into the trough, and the quiet trickle of water dripping off it as I lift it again.

I’m in no hurry. I take my time, and when I bring the ladle up to my lips to drink, I stare Sikandar right in the eyes.

Still, no one else moves, especially not the Parthian standing beside me.

I finish my water and turn away to rack the ladle. Then I slowly face Sikandar again.

He raises his chin and looks down at me. He sets his shoulders back. His eye is black and his lip split, and a deep bruise has darkened just above his hip. I find no small amount of satisfaction in the way he hunches just slightly, probably accommodating a lingering ache below his belt.

Eyes still locked on mine, he turns his head slightly and spits on the ground. “Something you need to say, glad—”

“Fuck you, Sikandar.”

His eyebrows jump. Several men pull in breaths.

I’m not finished, though. “I may be new to this ludus, gladiator, but I’m no idiot. I won’t rat out my fellow man to the master.” I step closer, and though he stands his ground, Sikandar is tense now, less like a lion and more like a deer ready to run. “But let’s get one thing clear. Last night is the last time I take a blow from you. And with the Furies themselves as my witnesses, it is also the last time I take a blow for you.”

Before he has a chance to react, my fist connects with his jaw. The massive Parthian grunts in surprise and drops to the ground, grabbing for the trough with one hand and clutching his face with the other.

Two of the wounds on my shoulders burn with renewed fury, aggravated all over again by the motion of my arm, and pain shoots up from my knuckles, but it’s mild enough.

At my feet, Sikandar sits up. The dust settles around and between us.

Without a word, I offer my hand.

Sikandar regards my hand with a sneer. His eyes dart to one side, then the other, then back to my hand. Grumbling under his breath, likely cursing me to his Parthian gods, he clasps his hand around my forearm and allows me to help him to his feet.

“So,” I say, letting go of his arm, “do we have an understanding?”

He holds my gaze. For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to punch me and we’re going to brawl again right here in broad daylight.

Instead, though, he extends his hand again. “Yes, gladiator. We do.”

I’ve been at the ludus a few days now. My back is healing slowly, the bruises fading, and the men have left me in peace every night since that first one. Aside from the occasional cheap shot during a sparring match, no one has given me a moment’s trouble since I put Sikandar on the ground. Now that the hierarchy has been addressed, I’ve turned my attention to getting on with the task that landed me in this place to begin with.

That’s my intent, of course, but today we’ve barely begun our morning training when Titus suddenly calls us into ranks. Weapons clatter to the ground, and we fall into line at attention like soldiers.

“What’s going on?” I ask the fighter beside me.

“I don’t know. Can’t imagine it’s good.” He glances at me. “Never is, if the master calls us out of training like this.”

Titus stands in front of us.

“Lucius, Quintus, Iovita, Saevius, and Philosir,” he shouts, and ice water trickles through my veins at the sound of my name. “Come with me. The rest of you are dismissed back to your training.”

My blood turns colder as the men scatter.

The other fighter claps my shoulder. “Good luck, brother.” And then he, too, is gone.

The five of us remaining throw uncertain glances at each other. None of us dare speak. I’m still learning names and faces in the familia, but I realize all four of the other men have cells in the same block of the barracks as mine. Auctorati, all of them. All of us.

“This way.” Titus waves for us to follow, and he leads us down the corridor, past the barracks, and into the empty courtyard. There, he faces us and snaps, “Into line. Quickly, now.”

We immediately fall into a single rank.

“No one moves,” he snarls. “The master wants a word with all of you.”

My gaze shifts toward the door to the room where I met Drusus after my arrival at the ludus, and I have time for one silent prayer before the man himself emerges. He was intimidating the first time, but now, now I see where his legendary reputation comes from.

His gait is slow. Calculated. Every step placed with the precision of a hunting wildcat, and we are the five helpless deer waiting to be struck down. The breastplate doesn’t hide the fact that his shoulders are thrust back, and I’m sure every muscle beneath the thick leather is taut with the same fury that sets his jaw and digs deep crevices between his eyebrows. His blue eyes are narrow and icier than I’ve ever seen them, even compared to the night he sent me to the pit.

Drusus walks down the line, eyeing us one at a time. He looks us up and down before holding each man’s gaze for an unsettlingly long time. When it’s my turn, I’m certain he’s looking right through me. Right into my soul and all the lies I’m hiding beneath the brass tag that sits on my chest like a guilty weight.

But he keeps walking.

He reaches the end of the line, and starts back the other way again.

“Five citizens,” he says now, his voice even and cold. “All joining my ludus as auctorati in very, very rapid succession. I rarely get one in a year, but suddenly, five since the start of spring.” He smiles, and I swear it makes his eyes colder. “I’d almost think Fortune was favoring me, though I can’t imagine why, and perhaps I’m being ungrateful.” The smile falls. The ice doesn’t melt. “Except I can’t help thinking there’s more afoot here than five fools up to their asses in debt.”

The urge to look at one another and search for guilt and explanations in each other’s eyes is palpable, crawling beneath my skin like a terrible itch and radiating from the men on either side of me. But I don’t move. As far as I know, the others don’t either.

Drusus reaches the end of the line once again and starts back the other way. “A message left my ludus this morning. Or, well, it tried to.” He pulls a rolled scroll from his belt and holds it up for all to see. “Do any among you recognize this?”

He halts. His eyes lock on mine. Iovita’s. Quintus’s. Every one of us in turn, his gaze boring into each of us. He doesn’t say a word or lower the scroll.

No one speaks. No one moves or even breathes.

Drusus resumes walking back and forth, scroll still held aloft. “Speak. If one among you recognizes it, or knows the name of the man who sent it, speak now before I forget the meaning of mercy.”

Still, no one speaks. Drusus makes his way from one end of the line to the other, back again, a third time. The only sounds are the distant shouts and noises of men sparring in the training yard that seems miles and miles away.

Abruptly, Drusus halts in front of Philosir and steps closer so their faces nearly touch. “Do you know anything of this, Philosir?”

The massive Carthaginian shakes his head. “No, Dominus. Nothing. I swear it.”

“Nothing?” Drusus asks, almost whispering. “Are you certain?” He raises the scroll and holds it just in front of Philosir’s eyes. “You don’t recognize it?”

Philosir shakes his head.

Drusus stares at him for a long, unnerving moment before he steps to the left, and I swear I feel the shudder that runs through Iovita.

“Iovita,” Drusus says, “not a Ludi goes by where I don’t see you stealing off with the servants of noblemen before you’ve even fought. And again after.” His eyes narrow just slightly. “The servants of politicians in particular. Tell me, Iovita, do the servants of wealthy politicians truly have such noteworthy cunts?”

Iovita doesn’t speak.

Drusus nears him, lowering his voice to a shiver-worthy growl. “Or do you and they have conversations that would perhaps be of interest to me?”

“No, Dominus.” Iovita’s voice shakes like the man facing him down is twice his size rather than half. “We don’t talk. Not about nothing.”

I’m the next in line, and all the while Drusus is interrogating Iovita, I can’t breathe.

Calvus Laurea is a cunning man. He keeps me toeing the line with the threat of letting Drusus believe I’ve stolen from him; what’s to stop him from having other men within the familia? Others to search for signs of Verina’s infidelity, but perhaps also to be certain men like me are faithfully obeying our orders?

Be warned, Saevius, Calvus’s voice echoes in my ears. I do not tolerate treachery or dishonesty.

The ghostly spiders come back to life beneath my skin. Am I not only watching, but being watched? I swear I can still feel Calvus’s hand pressing my shoulder and his voice reverberating through my bones.

I will see to it the magistrate asks Drusus if he received the full seven hundred sestertii. Am I understood?

What’s to stop another gladiator, especially one as concerned for his own safety as I am for mine, from setting me up to be accused of betraying both my masters?

Drusus is in front of me. His icy eyes threaten to bore right through me. “Saevius. The newest man of my ludus.” He holds up the scroll, looks at it, then looks at me again, his eyes narrowing. “Someone on the outside waiting to hear from you, Saevius?”

I moisten my parched lips. “No, Dominus. No one.”

“Is that so?”

“No one,” I say again. “I swear on my oath to you, Dominus.”

He doesn’t move or speak. Doesn’t look anywhere but right at me. Cold sweat beads on my neck. The wounds on my back and shoulders tingle to life, reminding me of every place the flagellum bit into my flesh, and those wounds will be scratches compared to today’s punishment, I’m sure of it.

Abruptly, Drusus moves on to Quintus, and I barely keep a relieved breath from escaping my lips.

“Quintus,” Drusus growls. “You were a businessman before you sank to the level of an auctoratus, weren’t you?”

Quintus sets his jaw. “Yes, Dominus. I was.”

“Which means,” Drusus says, “you can read. And, I assume, write. Would that be correct?”

Quintus swallows hard. “Yes, Dominus. I can read and write.”

“Mm-hmm.” Drusus holds the scroll in front of Quintus’s face. “So this could feasibly have come from you, yes?”

“I can read and write, Dominus.” Quintus’s voice wavers just enough to reveal his fear. “But I didn’t write that message. I swear it.”

Drusus raises on eyebrow.

Quintus struggles to look him in the eyes. “I swear it on the names of my ancestors, Dominus. The message isn’t mine.”

Drusus eyes him silently for a moment. Then he continues down the line. “And finally, Lucius.” He puts a hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “You know, it would seem the wife of Senator Octavian Aurelius has a soft spot for you.” Leather creaks as Drusus withdraws his hand and folds his arms across his chest, and the smirk on his lips turns my blood cold. “Would you care to show us all what fascinates her so much about you?”

Lucius’s jaw falls open, and he stares at Drusus with wide eyes. “Begging your pardon, Dominus?”

“Go on.” Drusus makes a sharp, downward gesture. “Is there something we should all envy for fascinating such a beautiful and influential woman?” He leans in closer, and all the amusement leaves his voice. “Or do you two have things to discuss that are best discussed behind closed bedchamber doors?” The scroll crinkles quietly in his hand. “Or perhaps on paper?”

Lucius gulps. Then he reaches for his belt.

“Oh, keep it where it belongs.” Drusus waves a hand and turns to walk away. He faces us all from a couple of paces away, and he glares at each of us in turn. “Every one of you, look at the men standing beside you. Memorize their faces as they’re memorizing yours. Whoever among you is here for any reason at all beyond training and fighting so you don’t starve out on the fucking streets like the stray dogs you are, you can be sure I will learn your name. And when I do find out who’s responsible for this”—he holds up the scroll again—“rest assured you’ll leave this ludus alive and intact only if the gods are feeling far more charitable than I.”

He turns and starts away from us, across the courtyard.

All five of us have nearly released our breaths when Drusus pauses and turns to us again.

“I nearly forgot.” The smirk says he most certainly did not. “The man who brings me the name and motive of the traitor among you will be most generously rewarded.” The smirk widens. “That will be all.”

“Hey, Saevius.”

At the sound of my name, Hasdrubal and I stop sparring. I turn toward the voice that called me, and my throat tightens at the sight of Arabo, one of Drusus’s bodyguards.

He gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “The master’ll see you. Now.”

“Gettin’ popular with the master,” Hasdrubal quips as he takes my weapon and shield.

“Popular?” I laugh dryly. “We’ll see about that.”

“Come on,” Arabo says. “The master doesn’t tolerate being kept waiting.”

My heart beats faster as I follow the lanista’s bodyguard from the training yard. Men look. Some murmur among themselves. I can only imagine what they suspect, but for the moment, my concern is what Drusus suspects. After he confronted all the auctorati this morning, this could be anything. Has one of the other men accused me?

Moments later, I’m standing before Drusus in that familiar room. I’m certain this place will always give me chills. The afternoon blazes outside, but it’s dark and cool in here. Only the single oil lamp on the small table illuminates the shadowy room, along with a few faint sunbeams that make it in through the shuttered windows.

“Leave us,” Drusus says, and the scribe and bodyguards immediately obey. After the door closes behind them, Drusus looks up at me from his chair, and gestures at another on the opposite side of the table. “Sit, Saevius.”

Of course I obey. I’m as guarded now as I am in the arena, taking note of every move he makes and every move he doesn’t. I hold his gaze and he holds mine. Does he see anything in my eyes? Any reason to suspect why I’m in his ludus?

Lamplight flickers across his smooth skin and along the sharp edges of his jaw and his cheekbone. Something about his eyes—or maybe it’s my uncertain conscience?—unsettles me, like I’m more and more certain that if he looks at me long enough, he’ll draw out of me any truth he chooses.

I lower my gaze, and instead watch his finger running idly around the rim of his cup. And a moment too late, I realize I’m staring. And Drusus is watching me.

I clear my throat. “You wanted to see me, Dominus?”

“Drusus,” he says in a slightly amused tone. “In here, call me Drusus.”

His request of familiarity doesn’t worry me like Calvus’s had, but it doesn’t sit comfortably either.

“Right. Drusus.” I clear my throat. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did.” He leans down and picks up a small jug from beside his chair. As he pours wine into his cup, he glances at me. “Wine, Saevius?”

Every time he says my name, he unnerves me a little more. Maybe that’s why he does it. A cat toying with a mouse who’s well aware of how many dead mice precede him.

He raises the jug and lifts his eyebrows. “Wine?”

“I . . . um . . . all right. Thank you.”

He pours wine into a second cup, then leans forward to hand it to me.

“Thank you, Domi—Drusus.”

He offers a slight smile, thin lips tightening as the corners just curl upward, but says nothing.

I take a sip, and much like the wine I drank with Master Calvus, I can’t say how it compares to the taste of Venus, but it is luxury on the tongue. Sweet and tart, perfectly fermented. Even if I don’t know why I’m drinking it at all.

Drusus watches me. “Good, isn’t it?”

I nod. “Yes. Quite.”

“Falernian wine.” He raises his cup. “Nothing compares.” I’m certain he’s expecting me to say something, but then he speaks again. “I think I’d like to hear some poetry. Do you like poetry, Saevius?”

“I do,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say.

Drusus hands me a partially unrolled scroll. “Read this one, then.”

My heart stops and my mouth dries. Read? Oh, gods . . .

I set down my cup and hold the scroll in both hands. “I . . .”

“Go on.” He gestures at the scroll and leans on the armrest, cradling his wine between his slender fingers. “Read it.”

Stomach twisting with panic, I pull my gaze from him and look at the rows of symbols in front of me. So this is poetry? Somewhere in there is poetry?

“I’m waiting.” Drusus’s tone teeters precariously between amused taunting and dangerous impatience.

I release my breath. “I’m sorry, Dominus.” I slowly roll the scroll, careful as I can not to wrinkle it. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I sweep my tongue across my lips and hold the scroll out to him. “I can’t read.”

There’s no surprise in his expression. No reaction at all, really, nor can I be certain what he’s thinking when he says, “Can’t you?”

My heart pounds. “No. I can’t.” Can all citizens read? Gods, I have no idea. Have I just revealed I’m not an auctoratus?

Drusus sets his cup down and takes the scroll from me. He puts it aside and then folds his hands loosely across his lap. “If you can’t read, Saevius”—my name again, curse him—“then why were you so nervous when I asked about the message this morning?”

I try not to choke on my own breath as I say, “I’m still new to the ludus.” I gnaw my lip. “My place in the familia isn’t yet certain. If a man who’d been here longer than me had decided to save his own skin, I haven’t yet proven my loyalty to you or to the rest of the familia enough to defend my name over that of a man who’s been here a while.”

“These are the same men, you realize,” he says, his even tone betraying nothing, “who beat you in the yard the night you arrived.”

My chest tightens. I’m not sure how to respond without admitting I lied to him. Of course he knows, but to admit it outright would be foolhardy.

“You took a beating for them.” He inclines his head. “In fact, one from them and one for them. You believe they’d accuse you of their own crimes to cover themselves. And yet, you won’t tell me their names.”

Still, I’m silent.

Drusus releases an impatient sigh. “I’ve been a lanista for a long time, Saevius, and I’ve done my share of fighting.” The unsettling arch of his eyebrow rises just enough to make me shiver. “I know what marks a man’s fist can leave, and I know what marks a training sword can leave.”

I swallow, certain I can still taste the salt of my own blood from the other night, and reach for my wine again.

Drusus goes on. “There were four men in my training yard the other morning with very fresh marks that could only come from hand-to-hand combat.” He tilts his head slightly, and leather creaks as he folds his arms across the ever-present breastplate. “So I’m not certain if I should be furious that my newest auctoratus lied to me so soon after his arrival in my ludus, or if I should be duly impressed that he was still walking and fighting after taking on several of my men and the flagellum.”

“My apologies for the disturbance, Dominus,” is all I can say. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” His eyes narrow and he picks up his wine again. “But I admit, I’m both intrigued and perhaps a little alarmed by what I may have brought into my familia.”

Once again, I have no idea what to say.

“Tell me something, Saevius.” He doesn’t lift his gaze from the wine he’s swirling in his cup. “Why are you here?”

My throat tightens, and my own wine cup nearly tumbles from my hands. “I’m sorry?”

“I believe I spoke clearly,” he says. “Why are you here?” When I don’t immediately answer, he says, “I’m certainly not objecting to your presence in my ludus.” He offers a wry grin over the rim of his cup. “After all, I’m sure you realize you could make me a great deal of money.”

I lower my chin, unsure where this conversation is going. “Yes, Dominus, I do.”

“Drusus,” he says. “Just call me Drusus.”

I don’t like these masters demanding familiarity. Permission to call a man above my station by his name has, so far, come with very unsavory prices.

“Very well,” I say quietly. “Drusus.”

“Much better. As I was saying, you could make me a great deal of money.” He pauses, watching his fingers turn his wine cup around and around as his brow furrows with some unspoken thought before he finally says, “But I’m curious, Saevius, why are you here?”

I take a deep swallow from my wine cup. “I have been a gladiator for years,” I reply. “I have no skill that isn’t fighting. Freedom is well and good, but if I have no way to eat, then . . .”

“Yes, but what brought you to my ludus?”

“Where else . . .” I pause, swallowing hard. “Where would you have me go?”

He shrugs. “There are State-run ludi here, in Rome, in every city. Why not them?” Leaning back in his chair, he brings his cup to his lips. “Why here?” He waves the hand holding his wine. “Not that I’d prefer the State obtaining a lucrative left-handed fighter. After all, now that they’re trying to regulate ludi within an inch of every lanista’s life”—he rolls his eyes—“a man in my position needs every advantage he can get to stay competitive. To make enough money to stay alive as a lanista.” Another pause, and he shrugs with one shoulder. “To stay alive at all, really.”

“I’ve heard the gossip,” I say, “about the State running every ludus and all the games.”

“Indeed,” Drusus mutters. “Which brings me back to you.” He sets his cup down, and the breastplate creaks as he leans forward. He rests his elbows on his knees and looks me in the eyes. “A fighter like you will give me a lucrative advantage. Men will pay to book my troupe for you alone, and your name will be an attractive one on the billboards. This is good for me.”