Septimus ran a hand through his hair, exasperation clear on his face.
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"So I've been told," I replied dryly. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” he said shortly. “Now go to bed. If Drusus sees you out here and not in your bed or someone else’s, you’ll have a third flogging to add to your monthly tally. Unless you’d like to accompany me to my bed? You’re probably the only slave still awake at the stupid hour.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes at Septimus' invitation.
"In your dreams, you arrogant arse. I'd sooner bed a rabid jackal."
He grinned, unfazed by my insult.
"Suit yourself. Your loss, really. I've been told I'm quite skilled in the bedchamber."
"By who? The sheep you practice on?" I shot back, unable to resist the urge to get in one last jab.
Septimus laughed, a warm, deep rumble that echoed through the empty arena.
“Good night, Livia.”
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that crashed over me as the gates to the arena creaked open. I gripped the rough wooden barrier in front of me, and my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the arena in a crimson haze. The sand below was dark with blood, churned into a mess by the fights that had come before this one. The air reeked of sweat and iron, thick and cloying, like it was trying to suffocate me.
It had been a month since I’d tried to convince Marcus to train me, and despite another two attempts, he was holding strong on his refusal. I’d continued to train on my own, sparring sometimes with Septimus, but Marcus wouldn’t even spar with me to test my abilities, and Septimus wouldn’t speak up for me either, still dead set on keeping me out of the arena. I hated both of them, but despite the hours I spent obsessing about my predicament while doing my chores, I still hadn’t come up with a better idea to convince Marcus to train me.
I was getting desperate, and had even considered trying to seduce Cato, the other trainer. The thought of going willingly to his bed was repulsive, but I would have done it if I’d believed for one second he’d actually keep his word. Cato couldn't be trusted though, everyone in the ludus knew that. At least bedding Marcus would have been enjoyable, even if it had led to nothing.
That was the other thing that was frustrating me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Ever since the idea of seducing him had occurred to me, it was like I’d become more aware of his presence. I noticed stupid details, like how he laced his sandals in a slightly different style, or when he’d shaved his head recently. I noticed whenever he spoke to any of the female slaves, and I hated that. Tonight, when Marcus stepped into the arena with the others, my breath caught.
They entered together, a line of seven, each one a towering presence—Marcus in the center, his broad shoulders set andhis expression unreadable as always. The bronze gladius in his hand gleamed in the dying light, and his bare chest, crisscrossed with scars, made him look like something carved from stone. He walked like the battle had already been won, like the carnage he was about to face was nothing more than another task to endure, and yet there was a greyish cast to his skin and a brightness to his eyes that worried me. Two other gladiators were down with a high fever that had concerned Drusus so much, he’d actually paid for a healer. I sent a quick prayer to the gods that Marcus had not been struck down by it. To Marcus’s left was Septimus, tall and wiry, his movements always sharp and precise, like a blade being drawn. Antonius and Vaius flanked him, their camaraderie plain even in the way they moved together, their steps in sync. Tarsus, the largest of them, carried a massive war hammer over his shoulder, his sheer size enough to make the crowd cheer as if they could already see him smashing his enemies to the ground.
Then came Maro, a slave from the northern territories, his skin paler than ours. He was as much of a bully as Cato, but he didn’t have the strength or rank to back him up. You didn't turn your back on him, if he had it in for you. And then there was Cato.
I tightened my grip on the wall as my eyes flicked to him, my stomach twisting. He strode toward the center of the arena with an arrogance that set him apart from the others, his lips curled in a faint smirk like he was already imagining the blood he’d spill. His gladius swung lazily at his side, his posture too loose, too casual.
I didn’t trust Cato. I never had. He was cruel, even by gladiator standards, and I’d seen him push others—smaller, weaker men—beyond what was necessary during training. I’d seen the way he looked at the slaves, the way his smile sharpened when someone flinched. He liked inflicting pain, and the slaves that went to hisbed rarely came back without injury. He was a bully, plain and simple, and I hated how easily he hid it behind his charm when Drusus or the trainers were around.
But none of that mattered now. In the arena, they had to work as one if they wanted to survive.
Marcus stood at the center of them all, his gaze flicking to the far gate. He was already sizing up their opponents before they even stepped into the sunlight. Marcus always knew what was coming. The far gate creaked open, and the opposing gladiators emerged, one by one. My stomach turned to lead.
They weren’t like the others I’d seen — the ones who’d been little more than fodder, clumsy and ill-prepared. These men moved with purpose. Their armor was scraped and battered, but it was high quality, and there was no mistaking the way they carried themselves. These weren’t slaves thrown into the arena for punishment. These were killers, trained and disciplined.
I felt the air shift around me, the tension in the crowd rising as the two groups faced off. Marcus’s team fanned out, forming a loose line in the sand, their weapons gleaming even in the low light. Marcus stood steady in the center, his stance composed, his gladius ready but relaxed.
Cato, of course, couldn’t resist stepping forward slightly, as if to draw attention to himself. My jaw clenched. If anyone was going to break rank, it would be him.
Marcus turned and bowed towards Drusus.
“Glory and long life to the Emperor,” he shouted. The crowd responded enthusiastically, and the horns sounded.
The world seemed to explode as the two sides clashed.
The clang of metal on metal rang through the air as the two sides collided, the sound sharp and violent in contrast to the roar of the crowd. The fighters moved like wolves, circling and striking, their weapons flashing in the low sunlight.
My eyes never left Marcus. He fought with the calm efficiency I had seen so many times in training, every movement precise, every strike deliberate. He blocked a heavy blow from a man twice his size, his gladius flashing up to deflect the sword meant for his neck. A quick step to the side, and his opponent was exposed. Marcus’s blade sliced through him with a single, clean strike.
The man crumpled to the sand, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
