“Go on.” He gestures at the scroll and leans on the armrest, cradling his wine between his slender fingers. “Read it.”

Stomach twisting with panic, I pull my gaze from him and look at the rows of symbols in front of me. So this is poetry? Somewhere in there is poetry?

“I’m waiting.” Drusus’s tone teeters precariously between amused taunting and dangerous impatience.

I release my breath. “I’m sorry, Dominus.” I slowly roll the scroll, careful as I can not to wrinkle it. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I sweep my tongue across my lips and hold the scroll out to him. “I can’t read.”

There’s no surprise in his expression. No reaction at all, really, nor can I be certain what he’s thinking when he says, “Can’t you?”

My heart pounds. “No. I can’t.” Can all citizens read? Gods, I have no idea. Have I just revealed I’m not an auctoratus?

Drusus sets his cup down and takes the scroll from me. He puts it aside and then folds his hands loosely across his lap. “If you can’t read, Saevius”—my name again, curse him—“then why were you so nervous when I asked about the message this morning?”

I try not to choke on my own breath as I say, “I’m still new to the ludus.” I gnaw my lip. “My place in the familia isn’t yet certain. If a man who’d been here longer than me had decided to save his own skin, I haven’t yet proven my loyalty to you or to the rest of the familia enough to defend my name over that of a man who’s been here a while.”

“These are the same men, you realize,” he says, his even tone betraying nothing, “who beat you in the yard the night you arrived.”

My chest tightens. I’m not sure how to respond without admitting I lied to him. Of course he knows, but to admit it outright would be foolhardy.

“You took a beating for them.” He inclines his head. “In fact, one from them and one for them. You believe they’d accuse you of their own crimes to cover themselves. And yet, you won’t tell me their names.”

Still, I’m silent.

Drusus releases an impatient sigh. “I’ve been a lanista for a long time, Saevius, and I’ve done my share of fighting.” The unsettling arch of his eyebrow rises just enough to make me shiver. “I know what marks a man’s fist can leave, and I know what marks a training sword can leave.”

I swallow, certain I can still taste the salt of my own blood from the other night, and reach for my wine again.

Drusus goes on. “There were four men in my training yard the other morning with very fresh marks that could only come from hand-to-hand combat.” He tilts his head slightly, and leather creaks as he folds his arms across the ever-present breastplate. “So I’m not certain if I should be furious that my newest auctoratus lied to me so soon after his arrival in my ludus, or if I should be duly impressed that he was still walking and fighting after taking on several of my men and the flagellum.”

“My apologies for the disturbance, Dominus,” is all I can say. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” His eyes narrow and he picks up his wine again. “But I admit, I’m both intrigued and perhaps a little alarmed by what I may have brought into my familia.”

Once again, I have no idea what to say.

“Tell me something, Saevius.” He doesn’t lift his gaze from the wine he’s swirling in his cup. “Why are you here?”

My throat tightens, and my own wine cup nearly tumbles from my hands. “I’m sorry?”

“I believe I spoke clearly,” he says. “Why are you here?” When I don’t immediately answer, he says, “I’m certainly not objecting to your presence in my ludus.” He offers a wry grin over the rim of his cup. “After all, I’m sure you realize you could make me a great deal of money.”

I lower my chin, unsure where this conversation is going. “Yes, Dominus, I do.”

“Drusus,” he says. “Just call me Drusus.”

I don’t like these masters demanding familiarity. Permission to call a man above my station by his name has, so far, come with very unsavory prices.

“Very well,” I say quietly. “Drusus.”

“Much better. As I was saying, you could make me a great deal of money.” He pauses, watching his fingers turn his wine cup around and around as his brow furrows with some unspoken thought before he finally says, “But I’m curious, Saevius, why are you here?”

I take a deep swallow from my wine cup. “I have been a gladiator for years,” I reply. “I have no skill that isn’t fighting. Freedom is well and good, but if I have no way to eat, then . . .”

“Yes, but what brought you to my ludus?”

“Where else . . .” I pause, swallowing hard. “Where would you have me go?”

He shrugs. “There are State-run ludi here, in Rome, in every city. Why not them?” Leaning back in his chair, he brings his cup to his lips. “Why here?” He waves the hand holding his wine. “Not that I’d prefer the State obtaining a lucrative left-handed fighter. After all, now that they’re trying to regulate ludi within an inch of every lanista’s life”—he rolls his eyes—“a man in my position needs every advantage he can get to stay competitive. To make enough money to stay alive as a lanista.” Another pause, and he shrugs with one shoulder. “To stay alive at all, really.”

“I’ve heard the gossip,” I say, “about the State running every ludus and all the games.”

“Indeed,” Drusus mutters. “Which brings me back to you.” He sets his cup down, and the breastplate creaks as he leans forward. He rests his elbows on his knees and looks me in the eyes. “A fighter like you will give me a lucrative advantage. Men will pay to book my troupe for you alone, and your name will be an attractive one on the billboards. This is good for me.”

I nod, but say nothing.

“Question is,” he says quietly, “what’s in it for you?”

I take another sip of wine. “I came to you because your name is known throughout the Empire. You’re . . . a very well-respected lanista.”

His eyebrows jump. “Am I, now?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” He raises his wine cup and smiles. “Here I was afraid they all cursed my name.” A smirk plays at his lips, and then he takes a drink, and I don’t know if he’s joking or being arrogant. Perhaps both.

I keep it to myself that most of the men who speak his name do curse it.

“So you came to my ludus,” he says. “Of your own free will, as an obviously experienced fighter. And then, not only do my men attack you in the middle of the night, beating you well beyond the hazing most new recruits endure, but when they do, you take the fall for them. Ten lashes in the pit, and still you didn’t give up a single name.” He leans closer. “You haven’t been here long enough to have any loyalty to those men, so I can only assume your silence was self-preservation. Am I correct?”

There’s no further point in lying. He knows, and I have no other explanation to offer in place of the one he’s presented. “Yes, Dominus.”

“I like that,” he declares. “I do. I value loyalty, but a man who’s wise enough to take another man’s punishment for himself instead of giving the rest of the familia a chance to turn on or distrust you? I respect that. And you have every reason to be concerned about the men turning on you. My ludus is peaceful compared to others—I’ll kill any man here who threatens that—but there are men in this familia who’d gut their own mothers if it would benefit them.”

My skin crawls.

“I know you’re not the auctoratus who is sending messages out of my ludus,” he says suddenly. “Even before I knew you couldn’t read, I knew.”

I blink. “You did?”

“Of course,” he says.

I sip my wine, but have no idea what to say. It’s not my place to demand an explanation, and Drusus has me far enough off guard, I’m afraid to even ask for one.

“There’s a reason I brought you in here.” He’s deadly serious now, and I can no longer taste the wine on my tongue. “In addition to being a lucrative fighter for my ludus, it occurs to me you might be of even greater value if I put you to . . . other uses.”