Neptune’s left tit, you damned fool. I shake my head and turn away from Drusus. For a heartbeat, anyway. I may not have put myself under the spell of Bacchus last night, but my concentration suggests otherwise.
I tear my gaze away from Drusus—again—and focus on the games and chaos going on around me.
The sun pounds the hot sand of the amphitheatre. The corridors beneath the stands, especially the tunnel leading out into the arena, gradually shift from a crowd of agitated, barely contained men to a steady trickle of the wounded and the triumphant who limp two, four, six at a time past those of us who have yet to fight. Lanistae berate those who fought poorly, grumble about the expense of replacing the fighters whose corpses still litter the arena sands, and warn the rest of their gladiators of the consequences of defeat.
With the rising heat in the crowded corridor, the air is thick and putrid. The sand at our feet is dark with the blood of the condemned noxii, who after meeting their sentences in the arena are dragged out on hooks for disposal. One retiarius leaves the arena victorious, but three steps into the tunnel staggers, drops his net and shield, and falls to one knee. He groans as he clumsily removes his helmet. His lanista helps him back to his feet. Two more unsteady steps, and the gladiator heaves into his helmet.
I grimace and look away, thankful he’s not part of my familia, or I might have found myself wearing that damned helmet. He isn’t the first to retch after his fight, and he’ll surely not be the last, but the smell is an unwelcome addition to everything else in the steamy air back here. Thank the gods the two men who had their bowels ripped open were removed quickly, but even now, that foul smell lingers.
Above our heads, the crowd roars and the arena shakes as spectators stomp their feet in the stands, their thunderous approval drowning out the clashing of metal in the fight for which they’re cheering.
No different from Rome, then. Perhaps tighter confines, perhaps a different group of fighters. No chariot races. No emperor. But for all the sand and the blood and the stench and the noise, it’s no different at all.
A female fighter stands beside the gate, armed and armored, ready to fight. The crowd will certainly whistle and catcall when they see her—and, likely, her opponent—but the men back here don’t dare.
The gate opens, and the woman puts on her plumed helmet just before she charges out into the arena.
A burly lanista elbows Drusus. “Surprised you’re not sending any ladies into the ring. Seems like your deal, eh, Drusus?”
Expression unchanging, Drusus turns his head toward the other. “Why? Are your men lacking in opponents who might equal them?”
The humor instantly evaporates from the other’s face. “You want to say that to my men?”
“I can’t imagine it would come as any surprise to them,” Drusus says. “But do let them know that if they want to be trained by men to fight men, there’s always room in my familia.”
“We’re talkin’ ’bout fighters,” the other lanista says with a sneer. “Not the cocks you hire to service you.”
Drusus closes his eyes and releases a sharp breath. The other lanista chuckles triumphantly, exchanging glances with one of the men beside him, both of them snickering over apparently getting the best of—
Drusus punches him in the gut. The other lanista doubles over, and Drusus knees him in the face, then shoves him backward. Everyone scatters, staying well out of the way as the stunned, bleeding lanista tumbles onto his back.
Drusus stands over him, his expression as calm as it ever is, and puts a foot on the man’s throat. He bends, leaning down, and the other lanista squirms and thrashes as Drusus puts more weight on his foot.
“If I ever put a woman in the arena,” Drusus growls, “rest assured, she’d make short work of half the men in your familia.”
The pinned lanista responds with sputters and gagging sounds.
“Hey, get off him!” One of the other lanistae starts toward Drusus, but Drusus just puts more weight on his foot, and the would-be attacker wisely backs off.
Drusus shifts his attention back to the man below him, whose face is quickly turning purple. “Are we clear, Aetius?”
As much as he can with a foot across his throat, the other lanista nods vigorously.
“Sure about that?” Drusus asks.
Another nod and more sputtering.
Drusus lifts his foot. The other two men help the coughing, purple-faced lanista to his feet and quickly lead him away to put some space between him and Drusus.
“What did you think would happen?” one of the others says as they walk away. “You fuck with Drusus, you’re lucky he don’t cut your throat.”
Drusus just smirks and watches the fight in the arena.
Hasdrubal’s fight is coming up, so Titus and I help him put on his equipment. I make sure the bronze greaves are secured over his shins, and Hasdrubal adjusts the thick leather manica on his right arm until it’s as comfortable as the damned things ever are.
Above us, the noise gets even louder; the munerator must have given a losing gladiator his verdict, and apparently the crowd is pleased with his decision.
Titus and I continue armoring up Hasdrubal until the squeak of cartwheels turns our heads. A pair of servants are wheeling out the body of one of the female gladiators. The wagon stops, and the woman is quickly stripped of equipment needed for the next fighter. Her body is battered and bloody, and it’s not just from the fatal wound to her throat. It’s no wonder the crowd is pleased; the fight must have been an impressive one.
Once her equipment is removed, the woman is carted away. The other woman emerges from the arena carrying a palm branch of victory and heavily favoring her left leg. One of her greaves is bloody, and as soon as it’s removed, a servant sets to work wiping it off while a medicus addresses the wounds on the woman’s upper leg. She grimaces, but doesn’t make a sound.
I’ve only seen a few women fight, and they’re as skilled and dangerous as any one of us. Men and women never fight each other in the arena; sometimes I wonder if it’s because the females stand a chance at soundly beating us, and no man’s reputation would ever recover from that.
Fight after fight, bout after bout, men and occasionally women go into the arena and leave bloody, battered, and sometimes dead. One of the men from our ludus leaves on the undertaker’s cart, and Drusus isn’t pleased, but nothing can be done except replace the lost fighter at the next auction.
Hasdrubal comes out of the arena, defeated and bleeding but not gravely injured.
“Good fight,” Drusus says as Quintus and I remove Hasdrubal’s gear. “No shame in a surrender after a fight like that one.”
Hasdrubal exhales, as do the rest of us. “Thank you, Dominus.” He hands off his helmet to Philosir, and then looks at me as he brushes sweat from his forehead. “Hey, Saevius.”
I glance up from untying the leather cords around the manica on his arm. “Yeah?”
He holds an herb-soaked rag to a wound on his side. Keeping his voice as low as he can, he says, “One of the retiarii lost his net. It’s half buried by the east end of the arena. Sand’s half covered it. Watch you don’t get tangled in it.”
“Good to know,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Saevius,” Drusus barks. “Get ready. Your match is coming up.”
“Yes, Dominus.” I leave the other men to help strip off Hasdrubal’s gear, and go outside with Sikandar and a couple of wooden swords to warm up. We spar a few times, with far less effort and violence than usual, and then return to where Drusus and the other men wait.
Hasdrubal fastens the bronze greaves around my legs. Sikandar picks up the manica and starts toward my right arm, but I stop him.
“Other arm.”
He pauses, cocking his head, then nods. “Oh, right.” He wraps the thick leather and linen around my arm, covering from my wrist to my shoulder. The rest of my torso is still exposed, as are my legs from the edge of my loincloth to the tops of the greaves just above my knees.