I watch her eyes. Follow wherever she looks, waiting for that exchanged glance to reveal the name I’m to give to Calvus.

Nothing. She gives me nothing. Her gaze drifts from one man to the next, but her expression only changes whenever she looks at her grandson and smiles. Either she’s incredibly adept at hiding her affections, or the man she’s bedding isn’t here. Or that man doesn’t exist at all, and she’s only here to flaunt the grandson her husband would prefer to deny.

But something tells me Calvus won’t accept any of those answers.

The women and children leave, and we’re back to our intense training as if there were never any disturbance. I can’t forget her, but like the men, I have to concentrate on the upcoming Ludi, and before long my mind is back on the sparring at hand.

The afternoon is growing hot, the sun beating on my back and shoulders. Muscles ache, bruises throb; even the dulled and wooden training weapons are biting in harder and leaving darker marks these days. We’re days away from roaring spectators and sharpened blades, and it shows in every man’s fighting stance and every intense, punishing match.

Hasdrubal jabs his weapon into my side, driving a grunt out of me, and I raise my index finger.

“Ha!” He retreats, waving his sword triumphantly. “Beat the fucking left-handed son of a whore.”

I chuckle and take off my helmet. “Maybe you’ll survive if we ever face each other in the arena, then.”

“Oh, I will.” He gestures menacingly with his weapon. “If I don’t, I’m dragging you with me to Tartarus.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” Then I gesture at the water trough. “Enjoy your victory. I’m getting a drink, and then I’ll put you back in your place.”

He snorts, but says nothing, and I leave my weapons and helmet beside the circle before I go to the trough.

I ladle out some much-needed water. If it’s this hot today, it’ll be even worse during the games, I’m sure of it. Good thing I’ll only be out on the sands for one fight at a time rather than continuous sparring under this heat.

As I drink the warm water, movement catches my eye. I turn just in time to see Drusus.

He steps out of the corridor leading from his house, but he doesn’t cross the training yard. Instead, he stops at the gate leading out the rear of the ludus.

He’s alone. His bodyguards are nowhere to be seen. The leather armor is there as it always is, but in spite of the oppressive heat, he also wears a heavy gray cloak around his shoulders.

He pulls up his hood, slips out the gate, and disappears.

As I stare at the closed gate, something twists in the pit of my stomach. If Drusus is leaving this place unescorted and unguarded, he’s going somewhere he doesn’t want anyone, not even his most trusted men, to know about. But a lanista’s bodyguards aren’t just for show. The streets are arguably more dangerous for lanistae than most of the rest of us. Especially with the Ludi Appollinares just days away; the gods know what the other lanistae—or Drusus himself—might do to gain an advantage over another familia before the games even start.

“Hey, Saevius!” Hasdrubal smacks a shield with a sword. “You gonna drink the whole trough, or we gonna spar?”

“Be right there.” I throw back the last of the water and then glance at the back gate one more time. Drusus won’t walk among his own men without bodyguards, but he’ll go out into the city alone? Shaking my head, I turn to the trough again and hook the empty ladle on the rack above the water.

Perhaps the man’s more of a fool than I thought.

Fucking fools, half the men in my familia.

The Ludi Appollinares begin today. Last night was the feast that’s always held before the beginning of a Ludi, and those lavish banquets are the only times gladiators dine with noblemen. Tradition dictates that today’s entertainment were last night’s guests of honor, and the munerator saw to it we were provided with as much fine food and wine as we could eat.

And of course, the men ate and drank themselves senseless.

“Oh, Bacchus,” Hasdrubal groaned midway through the meal. “Why can’t I drink this every day like a rich citizen?”

“Because you’re a slave, fool,” Quintus said, chuckling into his own cup.

“Besides,” Philosir said, “do rich citizens really enjoy it the way we do?”

“What do you mean?” Hasdrubal asked.

“Think about it.” Philosir took a long drink. “We’re men who only taste wine once a season, and we’re men who might die tomorrow.” He raised his cup with a clumsy, drunken gesture. “And does wine taste any better than it does when it’s both your first and your last?”

A murmur of agreement went up among the men, and we all raised our cups.

We ate, and we drank, and we carried on just like the freedmen and citizens around us. Which means half the men, especially those who’ve not been gladiators long, are ill and lethargic today. Idiots will be lucky if Drusus doesn’t kill them before they even get into the arena. Fortunately, their opponents aren’t doing much better, but the crowd will want fast, lucid fighters who can actually put enough force behind a blade to tear flesh.

In the tunnel beneath the stands, Drusus barks orders and has men scurrying to get weapons into the hands and greaves onto the legs of gladiators getting ready to fight. He’s as sharp and alert as some of the gladiators are sluggish. No one would ever guess Drusus drank as hard as all the others did last night.

He’d wandered by me at one point during the feast and made a clumsy, wavering gesture at me. “Y’know, it ain’t often a gladiator can eat like this.” Slurring badly, he added, “You’ve barely touched a thing. What’s wrong with you?”

I’d shrugged and torn off a piece of a fig with my teeth. “If my opponents wish to gorge themselves tonight to their own disadvantage, then let them. I’d rather live long enough to eat tomorrow night’s gruel.”

Drusus had laughed and smacked my arm. “Well, since I’m not providing the wine, but I will be out money if you get killed tomorrow, carry on with . . .” Another clumsy gesture at the table. “With not carrying on.”

Then he was gone, and this morning, so is any sign that he was ever drunk at all.

And curse me, I can’t help looking at him every chance I get. Before last night, I’d only seen him within the ludus. Among the men over whom he holds the power of life, death, and everything in between. Last night, he was among not only lanistae and fighters, but nobles, politicians, plebeians. Every walk of Pompeiian society had gathered for one giant feast, and all throughout the evening, I couldn’t help watching Drusus.

He stood out, and he blended in. As drunk as the plebs, as dignified as the rich men. As bold and intimidating as the fighters, as refined and elegant as the nobles.

And here, beneath the amphitheatre and surrounded by fighters and lanistae, he still stands out even while he blends in. It’s impossible to ignore or deny that even though he clearly belongs among us, there is also something about Drusus that sets him apart from all the other men down here. His decrepit, decaying brethren serve only to emphasize Drusus’s fine, smooth youth and the way he stands tall and proud even when every man in sight towers over him. Watching him now, I swear that elegance that let him walk boldly among nobles last night is even more conspicuous here. In both worlds—the lavish banquet and the filthy tunnels beneath the amphitheatre—he’s like a god strolling among those who think they’re gods.

Though I regard him with the same respect-bordering-on-fear I’d have for any lanista, I can’t help the way I look at him now and again when I’m sure no one, especially not Drusus himself, is looking at me. Or the way looking at him ignites an odd tingling beneath my skin—and belt—that isn’t just fear.