These Romans know how to party. I was never one for going out. Even during my college years, I wasn't much of a partier. But if it was anything like this—which I doubt—I either missed out on a lot, or it's the only reason I'm still alive.

The first half of the night was respectable enough, the conversation mostly political in nature. The wine was watered and all we were expected to do was make sure plates were never emptied and glasses kept sufficiently full. Gifts were given and eventually the children were put to bed. The tables were cleared of dinner and laden with grapes and cheese and a dozen other small things for the guests to snack on.

Then the real party began. Musicians and entertainers filtered through the room, giving the guests plenty to gawk at. The wine became steadily richer and the guests steadily more inebriated. 

I did my best to keep my back to the wall as often as possible, head down and unassuming as I could possibly be. When I was forced to make my way through the laughing, shouting crowds of highborn men and women, I could only grit my teeth against the freely wandering hands.

As midnight approached, music echoed through the halls, a quick trill that brought a hush in its wake. Then the guests burst into excited chatter, everyone moving toward the atrium.

I heaved a sigh through my nose and followed after them, picking my way carefully through the spilled wine and whatever else the guests had lost control of. I didn't envy the slaves expected to clean up after everyone.

The atrium blazed in the light of more than a dozen torches and under the baleful glare of a full moon. The guests all filed in and again quieted, an excited energy buzzing around the space. I wedged myself in beside one of the columns, staring at the tiles I had spent a good portion of yesterday polishing.

The master had taken a leaf out of Julius Caesar's book to politics.

We all watched as a portly man with wavy dark hair stepped into the middle of the atrium and began extolling the virtues of their host. I quickly lost interest and instead began to watch the man in question. His face was red with drink and he wavered unsteadily on his feet, grinning like a fool. A full glass of wine sloshed in his hand, making me sigh in relief. I'd made a point to stay nearby, ignoring his wandering hands in order to keep him drinking. 

Then suddenly there was a great cheer and a gladiator stepped into the cleared space. I sucked in a surprised breath. The master really had spared no expense.

The first gladiator was a brawny man with a thick, barrel chest and arms as big around as an oak branch. He saluted the crowd, his face hidden by the bronze grill of his helmet. He made a show of twirling the gladius he carried in his right hand, slinging the large, rectangular shield he carried on the other arm with ease. The armor protecting his right shoulder glittered in the torchlight. The crowd whistled and cheered its appreciation.

Then the announcer roared something else I couldn't make out above the crowd. The cheers rose into a crescendo that rattled my teeth as a second gladiator strode into the middle of the atrium.

They were in for a treat tonight. A rare display of skill.

This gladiator was thinner than his opponent, more rangy, and the only armor he had was a simple helmet, greaves and metal vambraces that protected his forearms. Across his back were sheathed two swords, a hilt rising above each shoulder.

A dimachaerus. Even I knew they were one of the rarest classes of gladiator. Survival in the arena took a great degree of skill when one went that lightly armored. Not many of them could attain such skill, and those who were given the double swords rarely lived long enough to earn their freedom.

Judging by the scars twining over his arms and torso, this man was exceedingly lucky along with being fairly skilled.

The man drew the short, curved swords he carried in a breathlessly smooth motion and twirled them deftly. Many of the patrons hissed at the sight of the weapons. Unlike the simple design of the murmillo's gladius, the curving, elegant swords were considered a sneaky sort of weapon.

An assassin's weapon.

It soon became clear that the murmillo was highly favored as the crowd cheered at every move of his, and hissed at every counter the dimachaerus gave. That didn't seem to bother him, though. In fact, given the flash of teeth I caught glittering behind his helmet's cheek-plates, I suspected he rather enjoyed playing the villain.

The announcer allowed them to strut about and show off for several long seconds before he bellowed, "To first blood!"

There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd, but something inside me relaxed. I had not wanted to watch either of these men die tonight. They were slaves as I was, subjected to their own brand of suffering. 

Besides, I doubted even Master could afford the price of their death. Gladiators of this caliber were worth far more to their lanista alive than dead.

The crowd went deathly silent as the gladiators saluted Master, acknowledging him as the editor of this match. Then they turned to face each other, weapons held ready, the entire room motionless with suspense. The dimachaerus stood across from me, staring at his opponent. The torchlight flickered in his eyes. Within the shadows of his helmet, the light gave him the appearance of a demon sent by Orcus.

At a signal from the announcer, the murmillo leapt into action, beating his gladius against his shield and starting to shuffle forward. The guests roared their approval, egging him on.

The dimachaerus stayed completely still, lean muscles tensed and ready, like a snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Light flashed along the blades of his swords, held low and ready in front of him. The murmillo continued his careful approach, gladius now held poised to strike. Still, the other man remained rooted in place. I fisted my hands into the soft material of my tunic, my mouth dry and my heart beating rapidly in my throat.

I jumped nearly out of my skin when the murmillo let out a roar and rushed forward the last few steps, intending to bash his shield into his opponent. If the blow had landed, it would have sent the other man flying.

The dimachaerus whirled away, swords flashing as one hooked around the side of the shield, the other carving a path toward the murmillo's helmet. Metal crashed and the dimachaerus sprang backwards, ducking a return swipe from his opponent's gladius. He whirled, swift as the wind, bashing both swords into the sleeve of armor protecting the murmillo's shoulder.

The cheering grew louder as they continued to battle back and forth, neither seeming to make any progress. The dimachaerus all but danced around his heavier, slower counterpart. But the murmillo's armor provided an advantage. Their weapons clashed over and over, each man showing his skill with tricky maneuvers and flourishes that pleased the crowd immensely.

I could barely blink. I had never seen a gladiator match before. Not in real life anyway.

The dimachaerus twisted to the side, hooking one sword over the top of his opponent's shield. The crowd groaned when his other sword flashed out. My hands shot to my mouth as the deadly edge swept toward the murmillo's unprotected shoulder.

The crowd screamed its dismay.

But the blow drew no blood. My hands dropped, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. Again, I saw a flash of a grin from beneath the dimachaerus' helmet. 

The murmillo suddenly lunged forward. His shield boss caught the other man full in the chest. His breath left him in an audible huff and he stumbled backwards into the crowd. They caught him, just to shove him back toward the center. A spot in the middle of his chest was already starting to turn red. 

His smile was gone.

He shook his head to clear it and staggered forward a step, his chest heaving, his swords dangling at his sides as he tried to get his breath back. The spectators screamed their approval as the murmillo lifted his sword.

Light flashed off the gladius as it stabbed forward over the top of the murmillo's shield. It swept toward the dimachaerus' heart in a deadly flash of metal.

"No!" I gasped.

I covered my ears at the cacophonous crash of metal as the gladiator's double swords flashed up, trapping the gladius and stopping it with barely an inch to spare. Muscles straining, the gladiators pushed against one another, the murmillo gaining first one step, then another. I could see the dimachaerus' lips moving, but couldn't hear over the din.

The murmillo responded by trying to bash his shield into the other man's shoulder. The dimachaerus shoved their swords high into the air, twisting away at the same time. The murmillo stumbled as his shield hit empty air.

The dimachaerus' swords flashed out in twin arcs and the murmillo bellowed as two lines were opened across his back. Blood dripped from both swords as the dimachaerus whirled and kicked his opponent between the shoulder blades, knocking him to the ground.

He flicked both wrists, sending droplets of blood scattering across the floor, then turned to where my master stood in the now silent crowd. He saluted my master, keeping one wary eye on the murmillo as the heavier man labored to his feet. But all he did was salute as well.

Blood seeped down his back, bright as a flag in the torchlight.

There was no choice but to declare the dimachaerus the winner.