Rufius Fulgentius belly-ached over the major quad fights for no reason.

I shield-walled the first one, Laurentius' thigh healed by the second—that barbarian constitution at work, though nothing like Victor's miraculous recovery. I entered as his sword-master in that and the two consequent fights, rotating Junius, Didius, Probius and Valentine as my partners. Quintus and Valentine alternated as our tricksters. Maybe, I should have put Quintus in every time to take the edge off his newfound aggression, but that was minor.

Alas, a major complication wasn't long in coming, and it hit from an unexpected quarter. I admitted as much to Rufius Fulgentius in his office, where I didn't end up there by choice. I was trying to sneak past it to the dormitory and sleep the above-mentioned complication off, when he bolted out and crooked his finger at me. "Maximus, get your sorry butt in here."

'Sorry butt' was an understatement, and my rear end was getting unhappier by the moment. I stretched out my right leg at a weird angle to soothe the throbbing. I coached my ribs with both of my arms, though it only hurt on the right. I squirmed, trying to find a position where I could breathe without a phantom dagger stabbing me with each attempt to draw air in or out. It was all a waste of time.

My owner dabbed his sweating, reddening bald spot. "What happened?"

"I didn't expect the private duels to be an issue," I said through gritted teeth.

"That's so?" he whined, then dipped his hand into a small money-chest on his desk. He brought up a handful of silver coins, then let them spill back between his fingers. The sestertii made a lovely jingling sound as they fell onto the pile.

I gritted my teeth louder. "Normally, the one-on-ones are just for show, you know that! Nobody gets hurt, let alone die... Fortuna dropped a cow patty under our feet, but I'm sure I can walk it off."

"Fortuna," Rufius Fulgentius repeated after me in a flat tone.

I licked my lips and leaned to the right. Pain jolted through me like a scream of 'bad idea! Abort, abort, abort!' Blinking sunbursts out of my vision, I conceded his point. "Maybe... maybe it wasn't simply bad luck."

He dropped the lid on his money-chest with a thud. Fine, fine... I'd think this through.

Primo: our were being booked by the most powerful families among the political elite.

Secundo: they feasted Messalina Augusta every time I was confirmed.

Now, Fortuna's whims are epic, but every damn time? Not a chance. On top of it, the patrons paid huge bonuses to fight in rare styles, each one more inventive than the next—and we basically eliminated a coincidence. I was this season's fad, as the aristocracy competed to please their Empress.

"I wouldn't have been banged up, if it was the usual thing." I curled my left leg under the chair, because I could. "Naked fisticuffs, you know? Been there, done that, and returned with a shiner. But fighting naked, with a shield of six talons along its rim and a hooked dagger? What in Mithras's name was that?"

Rufius Fulgentius sighed. "Old dogs, new tricks... a terrible mix."

"The dagger wasn't bad. It was the cursed shield that got me in the ribs." And that was why I was spending my afternoon with Rufius Fulgentius instead of Victor. My ribs hated me. If the freaky talons had rusted, even a glancing cut could inflame, and then I really had something to look forward to. But were I too senile to learn on my feet, I'd have been gutted like a trout. "The bottom line is, I won. "

"He won.... Viva, Maximus!" This was the grouchiest 'viva' I'd heard in my life. He grumbled 'he won' a few times, then lifted the lid on his chest to slam it down again. "We're still screwed."

"Thanks for that boost to my spirits!" Yeah, he made me forget at once that my stars were against climbing the Healers' Hill tonight. Not even climbing to the fourth floor to my apartment to sleep in my bed was workable. "Viva Rufius Fulgentius!"

We glared at one-another. I 'admired' my boss so much at this moment, it would be untoward to reveal it. I had to bury my feelings deep. Really, really deep. He fondled his third (and seemingly favorite) chin. "We can't afford to withdraw the challenge against pox-ridden Arsenius tomorrow."

"We can't," I agreed. This Arsenius' match was a part of the school against school series, a match and a rematch minimum was needed to advance, three matches to break a tie, all the rage this season. One strike, and we would be out. I sucked on my teeth. "Probius is getting there, but Laurentius will have to do it."

"Laurentius had three fights in a row!"

"Did he? I must have missed it."

Rufius Fulgentius even started raising from his chair in a fit of pique, but reconsidered and slumped back, huffing. "You... you were supposed to shield-wall the next one. Then you went and got yourself all banged up."

"Yes, yes, it all went down according to my plan," I said.

"Oh, go to Hades." He caressed his chins again. "Mmgh... Financially, we might pull it off. I'll place bets on Arsenius' quad through trusted men. But not too much, to avoid spoiling the odds or accusations of fixing the fight. That should offset our losses at least."

His trusted men all looked like that weasel who had fixed the problem Senator had with my father. I could already see them sniggering while betting against their own in my mind. I hated it in advance. "You don't have to do it. Laurentius is solid."

"Arsenius brags about his new shield-wall at every Forum's corner. Apparently, he found this ferocious slayer of newts from Campagna."

"A champion of a provincial vintage! Ah! Ah! Ah! I'm shaking in my boots. I take my suggestion back. Run and place you bets right fucking now."

"Maybe I will."

I clenched the seat of my chair. My teeth gritted because even this minor exertion shot pain throughout me. "I hate it when you bet against us."

"It's business, Maximus. Nothing personal."

"I hate it even more when you do it and lose money. I don't ask you for much—"

He harrumphed, but I insisted. "I only ask you to believe in our men."

"Just that?"

I sighed. "Well, that and let's give up booking the private fights. They're a nuisance. The Colosseum is the real deal. We can advance three, maybe even four fighters into the Great Games this season. I know we can."

"Give up private fights?" His eyes popped out of the puffy insomniac's bags underneath them. "Maximus, Maximus, Maximus... are you raving mad?"

"Mithras' bull! Fine, let's suppose you're right. Messalina Augusta, bless her, is messing with me."

"I am right."

"Then why hadn't she booked me on the sly to avoid sharing me with twenty thousand screaming fans? Why didn't she go for the ultimate in private entertainment?" I pointed at the graffiti wall. My name was conspicuously absent among the lurid propositions. "Nobody's booking me for that. Perhaps, I am getting old."

"Tsk, tsk. I can't decide if you're fishing for a compliment or plain dumb."

"I'm dumb. So enlighten me, O noble Rufius Fulgentius! Why isn't my name right here?"

He steepled his fingers, the gesture that only looks good for those with long, beautiful digits. Like lyre players, for example. I doubted Rufius Fulgentius had ever touched one of those, a lyre or a player.

"You want the reason? I have two reasons for you, Maximus," he said.

I grunted and looked away. He was merciless. "Your first reason is Julia Junilla, and the second one is Sossia Octavia. Think about what happened to them and why, Maximus. Figure it out."

"Thanks, but no! I need to sleep tonight." Why stir the old nightmares when new ones would find me soon enough?

I pushed to my protesting feet and hobbled to the dormitory. The route to the dormitory seemed more tortuous than I remembered it, but the comforting scent of rushes on the floor, beer, leather and sweat didn't change. It was furnished with bunks and clothing chests. We didn't decorate, unless the armor hung on the walls counted as works of art. Also, a bronze lamp spluttered in a corner alcove. It provided light, yet painted walls black with soot, a weird thing if you thought of it. I didn't want to think of it. I didn't even know why I had noticed it.

It was late afternoon, and some guys were playing dice in one corner. The rest would be in the kitchen, chatting Allia up and smelling the pork belly she was cooking. Well, almost all of them would.

Junius didn't join either group. He was reclining all alone, arms folded under his head, eyes tracing the complex play of shadows on the ceiling. Quintus was the second exception. He curled up on the farthest cot from the gamers, blanket drawn to his ears, facing the wall.

In case Quintus was asleep, not sulking, I whispered. "Junius? I need some doctoring."

He groaned, but patted over, barefoot, gathering the medicines along the way and lighting up another lamp, this one of modest clay.

With his help and a thousand cusses, I peeled off my tunic. When I lifted my arms up, hot needles of pain fanned from my side into the hip, so bad, I had to grab the wall to steady myself.

The room smudged out, firmed up, billowed, solidified again, but only until sweat trickled into my eyes. Its sheen washed it out to look like an old fresco. On instinct rather than forethought, I kept clawing the wall. No way, no way I would have lifted my arm on the injured side again to let Junius minister to me, so I must have blacked out.

Next thing I remembered, I was sitting down on a cot. My hand was still clutching the wall, though it slipped lower.

Junius viewed the blue and purple splotch over my rib cage with a studious squint in his eyes.

A rugged breath escaped through my teeth. "The palette is amazing, I'm aware. Now hop to it before I keel over."

Junius clicked his tongue. All healers do, apparently. Even the ones who are only healers for an hour. He did the job the way we all did when we had to: by slathering Fulvia's salve in a layer about twice as thick as Fulvia would have done. It would heal faster that way, if only because it itched at least four times as much as when Fulvia did it. Am I right or am I right, Senators?

My soul was mercifully traveling out-of-body while Junius wrapped a length of bandage around my torso. The burning itch switched to scorching stinging, so the medicine was working as intended. Viva!

"Lie down," he said and sniffed his salve-covered hands in disgust. "I'll warm you some wine with the milk of the poppy for the pain."

I grunted my ascent, because I couldn't even turn in bed. If I did it in my sleep, I would wake myself up. And if I lay awake in the middle of the night, I was guaranteed to think about Julia Junilla and Sossia Octavia... and nothing good would come from refreshing these memories. Damn Rufius Fulgentius for dragging them up from the past, when all I wanted was to sleep.

However, when I saw the quantity of white, sticky substance Junius dumped into the mulled wine, my brows furrowed. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"Drink," he said.

"You're a great guy," I replied, "and the best sword-master I've trained to date, but as a debater you leave much to be desired."

He smiled faintly. "Don't be a big baby, lanista."

Even a terrible debater could be convincing in his own right. I drained the cup, prayed that I wouldn't meet Socrates' fate, and spun down Morpheus'* black void.

***

*Morpheus—the God of Sleep and Dreams