Chapter II
II
SHIFTING A CLANKING BUNDLE under his arm, Felix slipped into the line snaking inside the corner eatery’s open-front shop and leaned to peer around the shoulder of the man in front of him.
The line was surprisingly long for a late-week special of “goat” stew that perfumed the air with something pungent and spicy but didn’t quite cover the hint of rancidity. But he wasn’t here for the food.
Thankfully.
Nothing out of place on the cross street. No men resembling Atlas or a bear, at any rate. He let out a breath. All clear.
Felix wasn’t a coward. Everyone had things they wanted to avoid now and then.
But for him, the now and then had begun happening at an everyday rate.
And he didn’t have the time or money for it.
He eased out of line and into the street once more.
He was growing as paranoid as the creditors were frustrated.
He tucked the bundle tighter under his arm and set off at a jog, grateful the trek from the blade sharpener on Caelian Hill to the entertainment district was nearly all downhill.
The street narrowed, crowded on his right by the Ludus Matutinus where the bestiarii and venatore gladiators trained to fight wild beasts—or beasts taught to appear wild.
At this time of evening, the animals were quiet, but carts lined the streets, some hauling in straw and crates of chickens, and others waiting to be filled with animal waste.
No use holding his breath—the odors of the Ludus Matutinus polluted the air for blocks.
On his left, in odd juxtaposition—or perhaps compensation—the Temple of the Divine Claudius towered atop a marble-encased platform fifteen meters high, deeply shadowing the street and buildings opposite.
In the spring, the top of the platform burst with trees and flowering bushes that miraculously overpowered even the stench of the Ludus Matutinus.
Not so on the cusp of winter. A pool ran up the street along the entire base of the platform wall, interspersed with carved fountains.
In the summer they offered a welcome respite from the heat and in the fall were clogged with rotting leaves.
Nearly there.
Ahead, in the gaping mouth of the street, the stacked arches of the Flavian Amphitheatre shone golden in the setting sun.
Gilded statues, shining travertine, and marble disguised a theatre of death as a gleaming spectacle of beauty.
But that was the hallmark of Rome. Never calling things what they truly were.
Theatre of Marcellus, Circus Maximus, Flavian Amphitheatre—all long, flowery names for places that offered the ability to witness murder, and cheer it on.
The Baths of Decius, a respectable name for a place that offered foot fungus as well as a shave.
And then there was the Minotaur’s Table, an ancient establishment providing both meat and hair in the same pie.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. Well, perhaps the last one was aptly named.
Pressing a hand to his burning side, Felix neared his destination. A windowless cube sitting opposite the piazza from the amphitheatre whose name was carved in proud angular letters above the marble-flanked door.
Ludus Gallicus. The Gallic School for Gladiators.
A fancy name . . . for a prison.
He thumped a fist against the door and waited for it to open, tilting his head back to take in the building. Windowless it may be, but plain it was not. The walls were covered in paintings advertising the fighters housed within.
Come see Wulfula, Visigoth general, battle Ruso the Provocator.
Tilla the Hun faces the Queen of the Iceni—who will prevail?
Beside the door, painted in life-sized form, a green-clad woman stood with a defiant tilt to her chin. Hair streamed from beneath her helmet, and the way her sword poised overhead, she seemed ready to strike him down. The Undefeated was emblazoned across the wall above her.
Chains clinked inside and a bolt groaned as it slid back to reveal a stocky guard in leather armor.
“Atticus,” Felix greeted with a nod.
“There you are. We’ve been looking for you.” The guard stepped back to let Felix enter and slammed the door at his heels. “Almost had to call in the medicus from the Dacian School.”
Felix blinked at the interior hall, lit only with the weak light coming in from the end that opened toward the central courtyard. “What happened?”
“The took a hit. Gave Sergius one too, and he’s refusing to treat her. They carried her to the clinic.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re waiting for you.”
Felix set off at a run through the hall, the walls pockmarked with niches.
Some of the larger gladiator schools contained burial sites for their fallen favorites, but here the wall niches were crammed with jars of glass and clay, each representing a fallen gladiator of the Ludus Gallicus. Each containing the heart of a hero.
He’d grown up in this godforsaken place.
Had known every room, each darkened corner, and how to measure his strides exactly to avoid the cracks in the flagstones when running through the colonnade around the courtyard.
Then his father had left managing gladiators to pursue plumbing.
And then, six months ago, had left both plumbing and his family behind for .
. . Felix had yet to discover what it was.
Felix cut through the center of the training courtyard, abandoned this time of evening as the gladiators took shifts in the dining hall and baths.
Each of the four gladiator schools in Rome specialized in different classes of gladiators.
The Ludus Matutinus next door specialized in animal fighters.
The Ludus Magnus, the largest school in Rome, with an arena only slightly smaller than the Flavian Amphitheatre, trained gladiators that required the most space: the eques on horseback, essedarii in war chariots, laquerarii who fought with lasso and sword, retiarii with tridents and nets, and velites who fought in groups with spears.
Near the Great School was the Ludus Dacicus with their curved-sword-wielding Thracians and ambidextrous dimachaeri who fought with double blades.
The Dacian School was the greatest rival to the Ludus Gallicus.
Smallest of the ludi and boasting the fewest fighters, the Gallic School specialized in heavily armored gladiators.
Sand slipped into Felix’s sandals, biting between the straps and the tops of his feet.
No wonder the fighters preferred to go shoeless.
The sight of the clinic door hanging ajar pushed him to run the last dozen yards despite the sting of sand.
He burst through the door, the smells of herbs, tinctures, and highly fermented wine greeting him like old friends.
Sergius Aulus stood inside, the guard beside him with a green-clad gladiatrix drooping over his arms.
“Felix.” Sergius gave an incredulous huff that even two paces away reeked of his usual medicinal wine. A bruise bloomed on his swelling jaw. “Where have you been? Perhaps I was not clear when I hired you, but you are expected to remain at your post while on duty.”
Irritation flared. Clearly, the elder medicus had forgotten the blade-sharpening errand he’d sent him on.
“ took a hit?” Felix dumped the bundle of scalpels onto the stand next to the operating table and gestured the guard toward the table. “What happened?”
Sergius angled toward the shelves of supplies and curled his lip. “A spectator decided to feel her backside and she couldn’t just ignore it.” He shook his head in irritation. “Now she’s injured, and it’s all her fault.”
“Is it fatal?”
“Who but a seer can tell?” Sergius poured a bit of liquid onto a cloth and pressed it against his swelling jaw, regarding Felix with derision. “I don’t know why Jovan bothered hiring a medicus who refuses to attend the matches. Waste of time if you ask me.”
The real question was why Jovan had bothered to keep on a senior medicus who spent half his days drunk.
Felix refused the invitation to a verbal spar and stepped closer to the gladiatrix, cataloging her condition.
Scraped knees, blood on her costume, a soiled bandage on her arm.
Nothing else he could see. Her head lolled to one side.
“What have you done to—” He winced. “Done for her?”
“A dose of painkiller she vomited up, and a second that”—he gestured toward the woman’s still form—“is finally working, thank the gods.” Sergius squinted into a cup, swiped a finger across the bottom, frowned at his fingertip then filled the cup with wine anyway.
“Little more than a wild beast, this one.” His tone denoted a special bitterness reserved for the Visigoth fighters, planted after the death of his only son at Pollentia, and carefully tended since.
Felix moved to the shelves of supplies and tucked jars of salve and several bottles of dark tinctures into one arm. “I can take it from here, Sergius. You should rest.” He deposited the supplies on the table beside the one containing his tools—scalpels, clamps, and needles.
“I don’t need to rest.” Sergius spat. “Don’t act superior to me just because you have a few shiny medallions and Alexandrian learning.
The real knowledge is experience—which I have.
” He jerked a thumb to his chest and stumbled back a step and then another.
He fixed Felix in a steady glower as he swayed and lurched across the room, angling for the door.
Felix let out a breath when the door closed on Sergius’s back and tried to summon compassion for the man.
Wine had only preserved his grief, not assuaged it.
When he wasn’t drunk, Sergius was a brilliant master medicus who somehow kept a codex of remedies and procedures locked in his brain.
They’d make a great team if they could work together in harmony rather than elbows and snarls.
He turned back to the gladiatrix. God, give me wisdom.
If Sergius had made a dosing mistake on a prized gladiatrix and something happened to her under Felix’s care, he would most certainly find himself without a job.
Perhaps it was selfish to worry about finances when a woman lay injured before him.
But outside the windowless outer walls of this ludus, angry creditors were breathing down his neck, and he couldn’t afford the time it took to establish himself as a physician and begin earning a steady income.
He’d crawled to the ludus six months ago in desperation and reluctance, and Uncle Jovan had welcomed him “home” with open arms and a demand for Felix to develop enhancing potions for his fighters.
So far, Felix’s excuses for his failure in the latter had held.
But how much longer could he resist the detestable demand?
“Want me to shackle her down before I go?” The guard shifted beside the table.
Felix looked at the woman on the table, her mouth hanging open in slumber, and shook his head. “No need for that now.”
The guard hesitated. “Better just in case. She’s not called the for nothing. Lucky she didn’t knock Sergius to sleep earlier. Have you seen this one fight?”
“A time or two.” Possibly every day. It wasn’t his fault the window near his worktable offered full view of the gladiatrix training ring.
Though that window might also have been the reason he’d not yet completed the task Jovan had hired him for.
This gladiatrix fought with a fire and determination he’d never seen in all his years at the ludus.
She shouldn’t draw him the way she did, and yet, he sensed a kinship in her somehow.
The guard reached for the iron shackles at the foot of the table and locked them around her ankles.
Felix moved to the end of the table near her head. “Lift her shoulders a bit for me.”
The guard tugged her to a sitting position as Felix shifted several stained cushions behind her to elevate her head and shoulders. She flopped back.
“Anything else?”
Felix shook his head. “I’ll call if I need you.”
The guard left and Felix turned toward his worktable, gathering bandages and a crock of cobwebs for stanching blood.
He set them on the stand next to the operating table and bent over the injury.
It had bled through Sergius’s hurried bandages, stuck with long strands of her light-brown hair.
He reached to brush the hair aside and stiffened as something sharp nicked his neck.
“Touch me and it will be the last thing you do.” The voice at his ear was feminine, low, and deadly.