“You should bind that knee of yours, my friend. The others will have noted it,” the northerner said softly, gesturing to where the rest of the finalists watched from the shadowed awnings of their enclosure.

Domitius shrugged. He tested the joint and winced, stifling a cry.

Understanding, the northerner shook his head as they saluted the crowd and the consuls. Domitius tried not to show the sudden fear that had come to him. The joint felt strange and he prayed it was only a sprain or a partial dislocation that could be shoved back into place. The alternative was unbearable for a man who had nothing else in his life but his sword and the Tenth. As the two men walked back across the baking sand, Domitius struggled not to limp, gritting his teeth against the pain. Another pair in silver armor came out into the sun for the next bout, and Domitius could feel their confidence as they looked at him and smiled.

Julius watched his friend disappear into the shade and winced in sympathy.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like to go down and see their wounds are well treated,” he said.

Pompey clapped him on the back in response, too hoarse from shouting to reply. Crassus called for cooling drinks for all of them and the mood was infectiously light as they settled back in their seats for the next contest. Food would be brought to them in their seats as they watched, and each man there felt the thrill of blood and talent. Suetonius was demonstrating a feint to his father, and the older man smiled with him, joining in the excitement.

Renius stood as Julius reached his seat at the edge of the box. He fell in behind and they walked from the heat into the cool of the path under the seating without exchanging a word.

It was a different world below the crowds, the roaring muted and somehow distant. The sunlight came through chinks in the great timbers and lay on the ground in mottled bars, shifting as people moved above.

The ground there was the soft earth of the Campus Martius, without the layer of sand that had been brought from the coast.

“Will he fight again?” Julius asked.

Renius shrugged. “Cabera will help him. The old man has power.”

Julius did not reply, remembering how Cabera had touched his hands to Tubruk as he lay, his body pierced over and over in the attack on the estate that had killed Cornelia. Cabera refused to talk about his healing, but Julius remembered that he had once told him it was a matter of paths. If the path was ended, there was nothing he could do, but with some, like Renius, he had stolen back a little time.

Julius cast a sideways glance at the old gladiator. As the years passed, the brief energy of youth was giving way to age. The face was again showing the craggy, bitter features of an old man, and Julius still didn’t know why he had been saved from death. Cabera believed the gods watched them all with jealous love, and Julius envied him his conviction. When he prayed, it was like shouting into a void with no response, until he despaired.

Above, the crowd stood to cheer a blow, changing the pattern of light on the dusty ground. Julius passed between the last two pillars of wood into the open area beyond and gasped at the heated air that seemed too thick to breathe.

He looked out onto the sand, squinting against the glare to see two figures rushing at each other as if it were a dance. Their swords caught the light in bright flashes and the crowd stayed on their feet stamping in time. Julius blinked as a trickle of dust touched his skin from above. He glanced up at the heavy bolts that held the seating, feeling the tremble in the wood as he pressed his hand against it. He hoped it would hold.

Cabera was wrapping a thin cloth around Domitius’s knee, and Brutus was kneeling by them with Octavian, oblivious to the fight on the sand. They looked up as Julius joined them, and Domitius waved a hand, smiling feebly.

“I can feel the rest of them watching me. Vultures, every one of them,” he said, gasping as Cabera pulled the cloth tighter.

“How bad is it?” Julius asked.

Domitius didn’t answer, but there was a fear in his eyes that shook them all.

“I don’t know,” Cabera snapped at the silent pressure. “The kneecap is cracked and I don’t know how it held him this long. He should not have been able to walk and the joint may be… who knows. I will do my best.”

“He needs it, Cabera,” Julius said softly.

The old healer snorted under his breath. “What does it matter if he fights once more out there. It is not-”

“No, not for that. He’s one of us. He has a path to follow,” Julius said more urgently. If he had to, he would beg the old man.

Cabera stiffened and sat back on his heels. “You don’t know what you are asking, my friend. Whatever I have is not to be used on every scrape or broken bone.” He looked up at Julius and seemed to slump with weariness. “Would you have me lose it for a whim? The trance is… agony, I cannot tell you. And each time, I do not know if the pain is wasted or whether there are gods who move my hands.”

They were all silent as Julius held his gaze, willing him to try. Another of the Thirty-twos cleared his throat as he approached them, and Julius turned to the man, recognizing him as one of those he had noted for skill. His face was the color of old teak and, of all of them, he did not wear the armor he had been given, preferring the freedom of a simple robe. The man bowed.

“My name is Salomin,” he said, pausing as if the name might be recognized. When it was not, he shrugged. “You fought well,” he said. “Are you able to continue?”

Domitius forced a smile. “I will rest it for a while, then I’ll see.”

“You must use cold cloths against the swelling, my friend. As cold as you can find in this heat. I hope you will be ready if we should be called together. I would not like to fight an injured man.”

“I would,” Domitius replied.

Salomin blinked in confusion as Brutus chuckled, wondering what joke was being made. He bowed to them and walked away and Domitius looked down at his knee stretched out in front of him.

“I’m finished if I can’t march,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Cabera used his fingers to massage fluids away from the joint, his expression hard. The silence stretched interminably and a bead of sweat ran down from the old man’s hairline to the tip of his nose, where it shivered, ignored.

None of them heard Brutus called the first time. The man who was to fight him strode past them out into the sun without a backward glance, but Salomin came close and nudged the Roman out of his concentration.

“It is your turn,” Salomin said, his large eyes dark even against his skin.

“I’ll finish this one quickly,” Brutus replied, unsheathing his sword and stalking out after his opponent.

Salomin shook his head in amazement, shielding his eyes as he edged to the shadow line to watch the bout.

Julius sensed Cabera would not be moved while he stood there staring at him, and took the opportunity to leave Domitius alone with him.

“Give them room, Octavian,” he said, motioning to Renius to follow.

Octavian took the hint, moving away, his face creased with worry. He too shaded his face to squint out to where Brutus was waiting impatiently for the horns to sound.

Under the seats, Julius heard the sharp wail of the cornicens and broke into a run. Before he and Renius had moved more than a few paces, the crowd’s cheering was suddenly cut off into an eerie silence.

Julius broke into a sprint, arriving panting back at the consular box.

They too were frozen in surprise as Julius entered. Brutus was already walking stiffly back to the fighters’ area, leaving a figure sprawled on the sand behind him.

“What happened?” Julius demanded.

Pompey shook his head in amazement. “So fast, Julius. I’ve never seen anything like it.”