Chapter 2
Velia stood beneath the shaded portico as she watched the new gladiator, Ferox, train.
To be fair, he wasn’t exactly new—in fact, he was the most experienced in the ludus.
He must be at least thirty, and his body bore the marks of a long fighting career.
As he sparred with Jason, sunlight glanced off an array of scars over his bare chest and arms, and Velia bet his nose had been broken at least three times.
But his rugged appearance still drew her eye. Muscles bulged and rippled as he thrust the blunt practice sword at Jason, who nimbly caught the blow against his shield.
“What do you think of him?” her uncle Lucullus asked from where he watched beside her.
She turned her scrutiny from appreciative to assessing.
“He’s out of practice, but I can tell he’s experienced.
I see how he anticipates each move from Jason.
But his footwork is clumsy, and it seems like he’s finding this taxing.
” For all his evident strength, sweat gleamed on Ferox’s forehead and shoulders, and he was breathing hard, while Jason looked as effortless as if enjoying an afternoon stroll.
“I agree.” Lucullus gave an approving nod. “He’s talented—there’s a reason the emperor asked for him specifically—but he needs to put in the work to get back to where he once was.”
Her uncle’s confirmation of her opinion sent a warm flare of pride through her. If she was going to achieve her dream of managing her own troupe of gladiators one day, learning to assess their strengths and weaknesses was an essential skill.
After a year of living with her uncle at his ludus, she’d gained many skills she never knew existed.
She might not be able to weave or cook to save her life, but she knew how to negotiate a gladiator’s fees, maintain their weapons and equipment, and manage their diets to keep them in top fighting shape.
Lucullus left to go supervise another training match, but Velia stayed, watching Jason and Ferox spar.
Jason was an animated fighter, whooping and grunting, a smile on his face with each successful hit.
Ferox, on the other hand, fought with a look of grim, unwavering blankness.
It didn’t change, no matter if he managed a hit on Jason or took one himself.
So far, the little she had seen of him had suggested that he was perpetually in a bad mood.
He seemed to communicate mostly in grunts, though he was polite to Lucullus, and she had heard him speak a full sentence to Jason and Lea as they warmed up earlier that morning.
She’d caught enough of his speech to detect a slight accent, a harshness to certain consonants and an alteration to the vowels.
He must be from the provinces, but she couldn’t decipher his exact origin.
His manner made Velia wonder how he’d become such a revered gladiator. Gladiators weren’t just fighters; they were performers. They had to win the crowd’s interest, put on a show. And Ferox…well, so far, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of theatrical sensibility in that huge body.
When the match ended, Ferox sat heavily on a bench at the perimeter of the training ground, wiping the sweat from his brow. His short, dark hair was plastered to his forehead.
Velia ambled over, curious to discover if she could elicit more than a grunt from him.
He ignored her as she approached the bench.
“You’ll feel that tomorrow, no doubt,” she said with a sympathetic smile.
His gaze flicked toward her, but he said nothing.
Maybe some flattery would soften him up. That worked on most gladiators, in her experience. “My uncle told me of your record. Twenty wins, eight draws, and three losses, right?”
“Four losses,” he corrected her. Again, her ear picked up that hint of an accent.
“Four losses,” she conceded. “Still, that’s quite the career. Better than anyone else here.” His career was most impressive in terms of sheer volume: often, gladiators didn’t survive more than five or ten matches. “I’m sure it’ll be twenty-three wins by the time these games are over.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic at the thought of further embellishing his record. “I get paid either way.”
His nonchalance irritated her. He was supposed to be one of the greatest gladiators the city had ever seen, and he didn’t even care about winning?
Sharp words rose to her tongue before she could bite them back. “Or maybe it’ll be seven losses. You’re huffing and puffing after one practice match as if you’ve climbed Mount Olympus.”
Ferox’s head swiveled toward her, and their gazes met. His eyes were dark, narrowed in displeasure. His brows lowered, giving the sharp planes of his face an even more forbidding appearance. Up close, she noticed a jagged scar that cut through one eyebrow.
Despite the fact that he was glaring at her as if she’d put ants in his food, a bolt of heat shot through her.
A year at the ludus had shaped her into a connoisseur of the male physique, and though she would probably rate Jason the most objectively handsome of all the men, with the face and body of a temple statue, there was something about Ferox that drew her eye to linger, to savor.
His size alone was impressive, but there were plenty of giants to whom she wouldn’t give a second look.
No, he was handsome—despite the scars. Despite the broken nose. Despite the glowering.
Or maybe because of all that.
“Velia!” Her uncle’s voice.
She broke away from Ferox’s gaze and turned to see her uncle beckoning from the other side of the training ground.
“Don’t forget to stretch,” she said to Ferox, then hurried away to join Lucullus.
Her uncle gestured her toward the entrance to the ludus. “There’s a potential recruit I thought you might want to see.”
Her interest piqued. “Really? A volunteer?”
Lucullus nodded. “Take a look. See if you think he has potential.”
Since the new emperor had announced eight weeks of games to celebrate his accession, Lucullus had been hard at work recruiting or purchasing new gladiators.
They needed to swell their numbers if they were going to supply enough fighters for such an extravagant display.
Lucullus’s agents prowled the slave markets every day in search of suitable men, and they accepted volunteers as well.
Lucullus knew of Velia’s desire to manage her own troupe of gladiators, and had suggested that these games might be a good chance for her to take on her first fighter, if the right candidate presented himself.
It would have to be a volunteer, rather than a slave; Velia had some money saved up from the modest wage Lucullus paid her, but not enough to finance the outright purchase of a man in addition to all the other expenses entailed in the training and upkeep of a gladiator.
Her feet sped up as she followed Lucullus.
She was eager to see this volunteer. It could mean the start of everything she wanted.
Her uncle had carved out a very profitable life for himself with his gladiators, and she was determined to do the same.
It would mean that she’d never have to return to her family’s horrible farm ever again.
This was where she belonged, and though she didn’t mind working for her uncle, she didn’t plan to be just an assistant for the rest of her life.
She wanted to have a hand in something great, something bigger than herself—and the games were the biggest thing she could imagine.
Lucullus led her over to a lanky man leaning against the wall just inside the entrance to the ludus. The stranger straightened up when he saw them approaching, crossing lean arms over his chest.
“Dis, that hair,” Velia muttered as she took in the fiery color of his hair. A promising start: hair like that would be memorable, if nothing else.
“You want to be a gladiator?” she asked him, not waiting for her uncle to introduce them. “Why?”
He looked her over with a frown. “Well, who wouldn’t?” he said, as if she’d asked if he believed the sky was blue. “Money, fame, women. Honestly, I’d expect you to have volunteers lining up from here to the Campus Martius.”
They did get a trickle of volunteers, men with crushing debts or no better options to see themselves housed and fed, but the prospect of a grisly public death usually put off anyone with much of a choice.
“You know you could probably make good money selling that hair to a wigmaker.” She’d only ever seen this shade of hair on the heads of patrician ladies, but they must get it from somewhere.
He made a dismissive gesture. “Tried it. Took too long to grow, and I couldn’t stand looking like some sort of barbarian while it was growing out.”
“Fair enough. Do you have any fighting experience? Army?” She tore her gaze from his shocking hair and evaluated the rest of his physique. He was tall but skinny. That was workable. Height couldn’t be changed, but muscle could always be built.
“I’ve won some tavern brawls,” he said, a defensive jut to his chin.
“What sort of work have you done?”
He shrugged. “Been on a few construction crews, that sort of thing.”
That elucidated why he sought to become a gladiator. Despite the risk, it was probably more tolerable than a life of physical drudgery. Of course, training as a gladiator was also grueling, but it offered a chance at fame and fortune that menial jobs couldn’t.
All in all, he seemed promising, which excited her. This scarlet-haired man could be her first step toward her goal.
“I want to see him fight,” she announced to her uncle, who stood off to the side, watching as she questioned the man. “Can I have one of the others spar with him?” Though fighting techniques could be taught, she’d learned the best gladiators had an innate spark of talent even as complete novices.
Lucullus shook his head. “They’re busy. You’ll have to figure out another way to evaluate him.”
“Fine.” She thought for a second, then beckoned the volunteer to follow her to an unoccupied spot on the sunny training ground.
She assumed a stable stance. “Fight me.” Months ago, she had wheedled Penthesilea into teaching her the basics of hand-to-hand combat, in case she should ever need to defend herself.
The man’s coppery eyebrows shot up. “I’m not going to attack a girl.”
“I want to see how you move,” she pressed. “I won’t take on a gladiator without knowing if he can throw a punch, at a bare minimum.” If she was going to assume the risk and expense of training him, she had to believe her investment would pay off.
“What do you mean, you’re going to take on a gladiator?” he demanded.
Velia realized Lucullus may not have explained the situation fully to him, but that could wait. She darted forward and stamped hard on the man’s sandaled foot.
He let out a yelp of pain. She aimed a punch at his face, which he dodged. Before she could do anything else, his fist drove into her stomach, forcing all the air from her lungs.
Wheezing, Velia dropped to the ground, curling in on herself as she struggled for breath.
The volunteer stumbled back, raising both hands. “She made me do it!” he protested to Lucullus, who watched the exchange with his usual cool oversight.
The training gladiators around them had paused to stare at them. As she fought to draw air into her lungs, Velia noticed Ferox had risen to his feet from the bench on the edge of the space, his eyes fixed on them.
She lifted a hand. “It’s—fine,” she croaked. A smile rose to her lips. That punch had been worth it, for it had revealed a very valuable piece of information.
She labored to stand. “You’re left-handed,” she said to the volunteer.
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I am.”
A left-handed gladiator was extremely useful, as he could more easily get behind his right-handed opponent’s defenses.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Calvus,” he replied.
“We’ll be changing that.” She’d have to think of a suitably impressive name for him.
“Here’s how this will work. I’ll cover your food, lodging, equipment, training, and any medical care you require.
If you die, I’ll cover your funeral arrangements.
I’ll keep the fees from your appearances, but any winnings are yours. ”
He narrowed his eyes, glancing between her and Lucullus. “You’re a woman. What do you even know about gladiators?”
“More than you, I’d wager.” Velia had never expended much energy worrying about how unconventional it was for a woman to manage gladiators.
She knew several women who ran businesses, everything from operating market stalls to running workshops to renting out properties throughout the city.
This wasn’t much different—only in that her wares would be gladiators.
The volunteer made an unconvinced noise.
Velia lifted her chin. “The next two months are going to contain the biggest games the city has seen in our lifetime. You could be famous by the end of them.”
He considered for another moment. “If I die, I want twelve mourners at my funeral.”
She pressed her lips together. That would be expensive, but she’d just have to bet on him not dying. “Agreed. So, do we have a deal?”
He nodded. “We have a deal.”
A broad smile spread across her face. “Excellent. Let’s find you a room.”
As she led him toward the barracks, she almost felt as if she could skip with happiness—though she maintained a dignified air in front of her new recruit.
She’d done it. Her first gladiator. Now, if she worked hard to make him a success, the life she wanted would finally be within her reach.