The servant takes me down a short hall, and stops in front of a closed door. “In here.”

On the other side, a man groans loudly as a woman cries out, and the sounds of movement and friction are unmistakable.

To the servant, I quietly say, “I think someone is already taking care of her.”

“You’ll wait for her,” he snaps. Then he leaves, and I stand in front of the door like a damned fool listening to another man fuck the woman I’m supposed to entertain.

Her cries are as loud and enthusiastic as the whores in the rooms around hers. I suppose it’s just as well another man is having her first; she sounds insatiable, and I’m in no shape to be the first to take on a woman like that.

The pair inside the room fall quiet. Voices murmur and clothing rustles. Then the door opens, and a half-naked Egyptian woman with smeared makeup and a sheen of perspiration on her skin steps out, shutting the door behind her. She throws me a glance, and then brushes past me on her way down the hall. I wait for the man to emerge, but he doesn’t.

The door opens again.

Finally. Now I can get this over with and return to the—

Jupiter’s balls.

Staring back at me from the other side of the threshold inside the lamp-lit room is neither an amorous noblewoman nor a spent gladiator, but a half-clothed Calvus Laurea himself. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and even in the low light, the red lines on his bare chest and arms are clearly visible.

Instinctively, I snap to attention. “Dominus.”

“Get in here,” he orders, and I obey. He shuts the door behind us and leans on it. I wonder if he’s as aware as I am that he’s blocking the only way into or out of this room. “What have you learned?”

“I haven’t heard anyone speak Ver—”

He lunges forward and swings an arm to backhand me, but I grab his wrist in midair.

We stare at each other, his wrist twitching in my hand and his lip curled into a furious snarl. My fighter reflex dissipates in favor of remembering my place as a slave, and I release his arm.

“My apologies, Dominus.”

He jerks his hand back. “Don’t you dare speak her name here,” he growls. “Do you want someone to start slandering my good name because of your loose lips?”

I grind my teeth, weighing the consequences of snapping the man in half with so many people nearby, and finally settle on repeating, “My apologies, Dominus.”

He looks me in the eye. “Tell me only what you know.”

“I know nothing yet,” I say.

The politician’s eyes narrow. “It’s been weeks.”

Through clenched teeth, I lie, “And until the other men accept me into the familia, they won’t breathe a word of anything where I can hear it. It will take—”

“My wife is being defiled, and my respectable reputation with her,” he says in a hushed voice. “I haven’t the time for the social intricacies of a horde of savage slaves.”

“My apologies, Dominus,” I say quietly. “I know nothing about an affair, but she’s been to the ludus.” I moisten my lips. “With a young boy. They come, they stay in the training yard, and they leave.”

“What is their business there?”

“The boy, he’s fascinated with us. With gladiators.” I swallow. “Likes to watch us spar and hear our stories. Ver—I’ve never seen her so much as look at any of the men.”

No relief appears in his expression. His eyebrows pull together and his lips peel back across his teeth as he steps closer to me. “Listen to me, gladiator.” His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. “She’s fucking a man in that ludus. I know she is. And you will find me his name, or I’ll have no choice but to send in a more competent man to do so.”

I force myself not to shiver at the unspoken threat. No scorned husband will ever relinquish a slave who knows too much about his wife’s crimes. Not with the ability to speak, anyway.

“With respect, Dominus,” I say, “how do you know she’s—”

“Don’t question me, you son of a whore!” He seizes my shoulders and, with his face nearly touching mine, he growls, “Don’t you dare, you—”

“If you tell me how you know,” I say quickly, “then perhaps that will help me find him.”

His grip doesn’t loosen, but the fury in his expression dissipates a little in favor of . . . of something else. Something I didn’t think I’d ever see on the face of Master Calvus. The focus leaves his eyes, and his voice is quieter as he says, “There are days when she returns from her errands and won’t even look at me. Her shame, I swear I can smell it on her.” Renewed fury contorts his lips. “And it’s just the same when she returns from taking the boy”—he spits the word like it’s poison—“to that ludus.”

I hold my breath, unsure if he’s less dangerous now that his temper is under control, or if he’s a heartbeat away from cutting my throat.

“Whoever he is,” Calvus says, and now he looks me in the eyes, “he’s there. And she’s met with him both inside the ludus and out.”

“So he’s a citizen,” I say. “Or a freedman.”

Calvus nods. “I won’t tolerate this insult.” His fingers tighten on my shoulders, and his lip curls into a snarl as he says, “Find his name, gladiator.”

Every muscle in my body is tense, poised to fight if his hands echo the threat in his voice. I quietly say, “I will, Dominus.”

“See that you do.” He shoves me away from him, then stabs a finger at me. “You have seven days. Then you will meet my servant here, and you will tell him if you’ve learned anything at all. If you have, he will tell you when and where you will meet with me. If not . . .” He inclines his head. “Then you’ll meet him again seven days later, but I warn you against trying my patience.”

I sweep my tongue across my parched lips. “Yes, Dominus.”

“Dismissed,” he snaps.

I leave the room as quickly as I can. Behind me, Calvus barks, “Isis, get back in here.”

“Coming, sir.”The Egyptian prostitute who’d been in the room earlier trots past me, and the door closes behind her.

In spite of my aching muscles, I hurry back to the amphitheatre.

Titus and Hasdrubal pass me in the tunnel, half carrying a grimacing Sikandar. No doubt on their way to the medicus to address the deep wound in his side.

Closer to the arena, Lucius helps Quintus put on his manica, and I don’t envy Philosir: he’s sweaty, battered, bloody, and on the receiving end of a seething tirade from our angry lanista. I can’t hear what Drusus is saying, but his furious expression is eerily reminiscent of the one I faced down just moments ago in the brothel.

Philosir is dismissed. Quintus jogs into the arena. Iovita and Lucius wipe blood off a pair of greaves that one of them is probably going to put on before long.

Drusus faces me, and he grins. “Barely out of the arena, and already the women are calling for you. A legend in the making, indeed.”

I force myself to look amused. “Thank you, Dominus.”

He holds out his hand. “I assume she paid well.”

Ice forms around my joints. “I . . .”

The slowly rising eyebrow coincides with his fading grin. He beckons with the outstretched hand. “The money, Saevius.”

“I . . . my apologies, Dominus, I . . .”

“You’re not stealing from me, are you, gladiator?” he asks.

“No, Dominus.” I swallow. “I foolishly did not negotiate terms before we started, and she left before I could collect. My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

He scowls, and I’m about to offer my purse of winnings to compensate, but then Drusus releases a breath. “See that it doesn’t. Any woman beds one of my gladiators, she’ll damn well pay for it, or she’ll only wish the Furies got to her before I did.” He pauses, and the sternness in his expression softens a little. Amusement curls his lip as he looks me up and down. “Particularly certain gladiators in my troupe.”