Chapter 1 #2
“It’s good to see you too, Lea.” He was only a few years older than Jason and Lea, but for a gladiator, reaching the age of thirty made him practically ancient.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t miss the twitch of her lips—a hastily suppressed smile. “Your room has some new graffiti, I’m afraid.” She beckoned to the wall next to his bed.
Ferox raised his eyebrows as he caught sight of the graffiti. The paint appeared suspiciously fresh, and the writing looked like Lea’s clumsy hand.
It took him a few moments to parse the uneven letters. Ferox the gladiator has the smallest cock in the city empire. Beneath was an artful sketch of a burly, armored gladiator expertly fellating a monstrous disembodied penis.
“Your portfolio is expanding, I see,” Ferox said to Jason, who enjoyed sketching in his spare time.
Jason gave a self-satisfied grin. “It’s my finest work, no doubt.”
“Good luck getting a woman into your bed now,” Lea added with a smug head-tilt at the graffiti.
The most effort Ferox had previously expended to get a woman into his bed involved an exchange of coin, and somehow he didn’t think the average courtesan would be put off by some rude graffiti.
Before he could tell Lea as much, a throat cleared behind them. Lucullus stood in the doorway.
“I see you’ve found your chamber.” Lucullus glanced at the graffiti with an unamused frown.
Ferox stepped out to join Lucullus in the hallway, as the room was not big enough for four.
As he did so, he noticed an unfamiliar young woman at Lucullus’s shoulder.
Women were an uncommon sight within the walls of the ludus, except for servants, the occasional courtesan, and Penthesilea.
This newcomer certainly wasn’t Lea, and he’d never known Lucullus to bring a woman to the ludus.
But nor did she have the bearing of a servant.
In the dimness of the corridor, it was hard to see her face clearly, but Ferox could make out a messy braid of curly, wheat-colored hair that laid over her shoulder.
A linen dress swathed her from shoulder to ankle, and her figure beneath it was small and delicate.
He guessed she was in her early twenties, perhaps eight or ten years younger than himself.
Lucullus handed over a piece of papyrus, recalling Ferox’s attention from the woman he couldn’t place. “This records our agreement, and the terms of your three payments.”
Ferox took the paper and nodded. “Thank you.” He didn’t bother trying to read the clusters of words. If Lucullus said the paper recorded those things, Ferox believed him.
The woman’s eyes ran over him with brazen interest. Usually, female attention was couched behind a veneer of coyness. This woman, however, examined him so thoroughly he felt as if her sharp gaze was burning straight through the worn fabric of his tunic.
He caught her gaze, expecting her to flinch in embarrassment at having been caught staring. Instead, she just smiled at him, her manner assured and utterly unabashed.
Lucullus noticed his focus and placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Ah, I forgot you won’t have met Velia, my niece. She joined me here a year ago. She’s become a trusted assistant.”
Ferox nodded to her. He couldn’t help wondering how in Hades Lucullus’s niece had ended up working for him here, of all places. How does a young woman find herself working at a ludus?
Velia returned his acknowledgement, then glanced at the graffiti, just visible through the open door. “I can have someone whitewash that for you,” she offered. Then her eyebrows arched. “Unless you prefer to, well, under-promise and over-deliver?”
Behind Ferox, Jason snorted.
The pert insinuation in her words made a discomfiting heat rise to his face.
Thankfully, the light was dim. “Leave it,” he grunted, affecting carelessness.
“A bit of graffiti doesn’t bother me.” His name was scrawled all over the city in various contexts—usually flattering, but not always—and he’d long ago learned to ignore that sort of notoriety.
“Very well,” Velia said, a smile still playing around her lips.
“Training starts tomorrow morning,” Lucullus said. “I trust you remember the schedule?”
Ferox nodded. He’d be woefully out of practice, no doubt, so the first few days would be grueling, but he had to put in the work if he didn’t want to dishonor himself in his first match.
Lucullus left, and Velia followed after casting Ferox one last curious glance. Lea and Jason also returned to their own rooms with a promise to see him tomorrow for breakfast, leaving Ferox alone.
He sat heavily on his bed, staring at the blank wall opposite him.
This was always where he used to feel Hector’s ghost the strongest, when he was in this room by himself at night.
Ferox closed his eyes, extending his senses.
He hoped that the time elapsed since his departure might have released the shade’s tether on him.
But as he sat in the darkness, a vision hit him, burning itself into the space behind his eyes: the last moments of Hector’s life, a sword driving down, the deafening cheers of the crowd. Ferox’s desperate helplessness as he watched.
His eyes flew open, fixating on the flame of the lamp even though the brightness hurt.
Yes, Hector was still here. Still haunting him. Still wanting to make Ferox suffer.
He’d heard of such things before, ghosts who lingered near their living relations or friends. Some were benevolent, there to watch over those they’d cared for in life. Others, not so much.
In life, Hector had been the best of men: warmhearted, generous with his jokes and smiles, somehow maintaining his goodness despite the brutal and bloody business they were all entangled in.
On its face, it wasn’t so surprising that one of them had died in the arena, even though a losing gladiator was likely to be spared if he yielded.
Gladiators were valuable, and though the decision depended on the whims of the audience and ultimately rested with the host of the games, the host had to pay a hefty fine to the manager of a slain gladiator.
Death, however, was still an ever-present risk. Each fight could be one’s last, and Ferox had always known that sooner or later, he would mourn one of his friends or they him.
But it was different with Hector, because Ferox himself had been slated to fight that day. He’d been laid up with a minor injury, so Hector had taken his place. That was why, two years later, guilt still had its claws in him. Hector would be alive if not for him.
Even worse, Hector’s opponent hadn’t granted him the professional courtesy of a quick, clean end. Instead, it had been bloody, torturous, one of the most stomach-turning things Ferox had ever seen. And the crowd loved every moment.
This was the life he’d elected to return to—one where the entire city cheered to watch a man be slaughtered.
That could very well be his fate if he lost any of his three fights, which was more likely than ever after so long away.
He was out of shape, out of practice. Maybe he’d lost whatever spark had given him such an illustrious career.
No one could fight forever. Eventually, both luck and skill ran dry.
Would he even make it through his three fights?
Well, he’d find out soon enough.