When we reached the outskirts of Ravenna, I asked a man on the road for directions to the gladiator camp of the lanista Ahala.

The man eyed the two of us curiously for a moment, then saw the iron citizen's ring on my finger. "On the far side of town you'll come to a big oak tree where the road forks. Take the left branch for another mile. But unless you've come to hire some of his gladiators, I'd stay clear of the place. Unfriendly. Guard dogs. High fences."

"To keep the gladiators in?"

"To keep everybody else out! A while back, a neighbor's slave wandered onto the property. One of those dogs tore his leg off. Fellow bled to death. Ahala refused to make restitution. He doesn't like folks coming 'round."

Leaving Zuleika at a hostel near the town forum, I made my way alone to the oak tree on the far side of town and took the branch to the left. After a mile or so, just as the man had said, a rutted dirt road branched off the stone-paved highway. I followed the road around a bend and came to a gateway that appeared to mark the boundary of Ahala's property. The structure itself was probably enough to keep out most unwanted visitors. Nailed to the two upright posts were various bones bleached white by the sun, and adorning the beam above my head was a collection of human skulls.

I passed through the gate and rode on for another mile or so, through a landscape of thickets and wild brush. At last I arrived at a compound surrounded by a high palisade of sharpened stakes. From within I heard a man's voice shouting commands, and the clatter of wood striking wood-gladiators drilling with practice swords, I presumed. I heard other, more incongruous noises-the bleating of sheep and goats, a smith's hammer, and the sound of men laughing, not in a harsh or mean-spirited way, but quite boisterously. I approached a door in the palisade, but had no chance to knock; on the other side, so close and with such ferocity that I jerked back and my heart skipped a beat, dogs began to bark and jump against the gate, scraping their claws against the wood.

A shouting voice chastised the dogs, who stopped barking. A peephole opened in the gate, so high up that I assumed the man be-yond was standing on a stool. Two bloodshot eyes peered down at me.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"Is this the gladiator camp of Ahala?"

"Who wants to know?" "Are you Ahala?" "Who's asking?"

"My name is Gordianus. I've come all the way from Rome." "Have you, indeed?"

"I saw some of your gladiators perform at Saturnia a while back."

"Did you, now?"

"I was most impressed."

"Were you?"

"More to the point," I said, improvising, "my good friend Marcus Tullius Cicero was impressed."

"Cicero, you say?"

"You've heard of him, I presume? Cicero's a man to be reckoned with, a rising politician and a very famous advocate who handles the legal affairs of some of the most powerful families in Rome."

The man lifted an eyebrow. "Don't think much of politicians and lawyers."

"No? Well, as a rule, Cicero doesn't think much of funeral games. But he thought your men put on quite a show." So far, everything I had said was true; when lying, I have found it best to begin with the truth and embellish only as necessary. "In his line of work, Cicero is frequently called upon to advise the bereaved. On legal matters such as wills, you understand. But they often ask his advice about all sorts of other things-such as who to call upon to produce a truly memo-rable afternoon of funeral games."

"I see. So this Cicero thought my boys put on a memorable show?"

"He did indeed. And as I happened to be coming to Ravenna on business of my own, and as you happen to have your camp here, I promised my good friend Cicero that I would call on you if I had a chance, to see what sort of operation you run-how many gladiators you've got, how long you've been in business, how much you charge, that sort of thing."

The man nodded. The peephole banged shut. The barking re-sumed, but receded into the distance, as if someone were dragging the dogs elsewhere. A bolt was thrown back. The gate swung open.

"Ahala-lanista-at your service." I had assumed the speaker was standing on something to reach the peephole, but I was wrong. Towering over me was a grizzled, hulking giant of a man. He looked like a gladiator himself, though few gladiators live long enough to attain such a magnificent mane of gray hair. Was Ahala the exception? It was not entirely unheard of for a fighter to survive long enough to buy his freedom and become a professional trainer; it was far less common for such a survivor to become the owner of a cadre of gladiators, as Ahala apparently was. Whatever his origins and history, he was obviously smarter than his lumbering physique and terse manner might suggest.

"Come in," he said. "Have a look around."

The compound within the palisade included several barnlike buildings set close together, separated by garden plots and pens for horses, goats, and sheep.

"You raise livestock," I said. "Gladiators eat a lot of meat." "And you grow your own garlic, I see." "Gives the fellows extra strength."

"So I've heard." Whole treatises had been written about the proper care and feeding of gladiators.

At a shouted command, the clatter of wooden weapons resumed. The noise seemed to come from beyond another palisade of sharpened stakes. "This is the outer compound," Ahala explained. "Gladiators are kept in the inner compound. Safer that way, especially for visitors like you. Wouldn't want you to end up with your skull decorating that gate out by the highway."

I smiled uncertainly, not entirely sure the man was joking. "Still, I'd like to have a look at the gladiators."

"In a bit. Show you the armory first. Explain how I do business." He led me into a long, low shed festooned with chains, upon which were hung all manner of helmets, greaves, swords, shields, and tridents. There were also a number of devices I didn't recognize, including some tubes made of metal and wood that looked as if they might fit into a man's mouth. Ahala saw me looking at them, but offered no explanation. Some of the weapons also looked a bit odd to me. I reached out to touch a hanging sword, but Ahala seized my wrist.

"You'll cut yourself," he grumbled, then ushered me to the far end of the shed, where a trio of smiths in leather aprons were hammering a red-hot piece of metal.

"You make your own weapons?" I asked.

"Sometimes. A customized fit can make the difference between a good fighter and a great one. Mostly I keep these fellows busy with repairs and alterations. I like to keep the armory in tip-top shape."

He led me past the smiths, into another shed, where carpenters were whittling wood into pegs. "Amphitheater seeds, I call those," said Ahala with a laugh. "Some of the people who hire me want a temporary arena built especially for the games. Maybe they need to seat a hundred people, maybe a thousand. My carpenters can throw up a decent amphitheater practically overnight, provided there's a good source of local timber. Client pays for the materials, of course. But I've found it saves time and shaves considerable expense if I've got nails and pegs ready to go. All part of a complete package."

I nodded. "I'd never thought of that-the added expense of erecting a place to put on the games."

Ahala shrugged. "Funeral games don't come cheap."

We passed through a small slaughterhouse where the carcass of a sheep had been hung for butchering. Certain parts of slaughtered animals that might normally have been discarded had been saved and hung to dry. I stepped toward the back corner of the room to have a closer look, but Ahala gripped my elbow.

"You wanted to see the fighters. Step this way."

He led me to a gate in the inner palisade, lifted the bar, and opened the narrow door. "That way, to your right, are the barracks, where they eat and sleep. The training area is this way. Visitor coming!" he shouted. We walked through a covered passage and emerged on a sandy square open to the sky, where five pairs of men abruptly pulled apart and raised their wooden practice swords in a salute to their lanista.