The man shrugs. “Doing my job. Tag says he belongs to you, so he’s your problem now.” To his slave, he says, “Come.”

The wagon wheels creak and groan, and the undertaker and his slave leave as flies swarm around the body.

Drusus curses at the man’s back. Then he looks at the body and gestures sharply at one of his bodyguards. “Put him on his back so I can see who this fool is.”

The bodyguard rolls the man over, and I’m sure I’m the only man in the yard not surprised to see Iovita staring sightlessly at the sky.

My heart is in my throat. My knees are on the verge of shaking from panic. Drusus knows. The men know. Time is short, too short, and there’s no way to know how much danger Drusus is in. No time to wait. He has to be warned.

Unaware of the danger, Drusus nudges the body with his foot. “Must it be an auctoratus?” he grumbles. “Expensive fuckers . . .” He snaps his finger at one of the trainers. “Get three of your men to take him outside the walls and burn him somewhere downwind.” He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face. “Quickly. Before the fucking flies get any worse.”

As ordered, three of the men pick up Iovita’s corpse and take him out of the training yard.

Drusus looks over the gathered crowd. “What? You’ve all seen dead men before. Back to your training before you join him.”

We all immediately return to our sparring. Curse it, what do I do now? Any move to speak with Drusus in private will draw attention and ultimately get me killed. Now that the men know of Iovita’s death, there may be even less time, depending on how many others are involved.

Worse, Drusus remains in the training yard, strolling from one pair of men to the next with his bodyguards behind him. There’s no discreetly approaching him. Not out here. And the gods only know how much time I have before someone else makes a move.

He’s coming this way, and he’ll be near Titus and me soon, and damn it, I can’t concentrate. Not with the things I know. And, for that matter, the things I don’t know.

Iovita is dealt with, but he might not have been working alone. My gaze shifts around the yard. Philosir leans on the water trough, watching two of the novices practice with wooden shields. A few paces from him, Quintus and Lucius spar furiously, their sandaled feet kicking up a swarm of yellow dust. Do I have any reason to suspect them in particular? Drusus once pulled us all aside because we’re auctorati, but is there a reason to be suspicious of them over the other men? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

All I do know is that Iovita tried to kill Verina and quite possibly Drusus. Like an insect bite, the information itches. I need to tell him.

There are too many men nearby now. If I ask to see him when Iovita’s body hasn’t even been burned yet, they will know. Or they’ll suspect enough to slit my throat just to be sure whatever dealings I have with Drusus are no threat to the familia.

My match with Titus ends. He bows out to rest, and I look down at the weapon in my hand. Then at the lanista wandering the yard and watching men spar. My stomach twists with nerves, my heart pounds with uncertainty, but my options—and time—are far too limited to try anything else.

“Sikandar,” I call to the massive Parthian as he waits for his own sparring partner to return from the water trough. I gesture with the wooden sword. “Spar with me.”

“You’re on.” He picks up his weapon and shield, and joins me in the circle.

I’m not paying attention to Sikandar, though. Training puts my sword and shield where they need to be to protect myself, but I only attack enough to keep him at bay, not take him down. My concentration is on Drusus and the narrowing distance between us as he wanders the training yard. He’s coming closer, probably heading over to speak to one of the other trainers or to check on the men burning Iovita.

I count Drusus’s steps. Time slows.

I curl my right fist at my side.

Drusus is near. Nearer. Nearer still.

Now!

Without warning or hesitation, I drop my sword, lunge forward, and swing my fist into Sikandar’s face.

“What the—” Sikandar stumbles back, but he recovers quickly and retaliates. He takes me to the ground, and we grapple in the sand, fists and curses flying. He hits my jaw, and the pain briefly blurs my vision, but I keep fighting. All around us, feet scramble on dirt, and shouting men close in on us from all directions. I roll Sikandar onto his back and ready my fist to hit him again, but huge hands drag me to my feet.

From beside me, Drusus shouts, “What is going on here? What in the name of—”

I wrench free from the man holding me, spin toward the sound of his voice, and swing my fist.

It connects with his face.

Every man in the yard sucks in a collective breath, and time slows as Drusus flies backward.

Before he’s even hit the dusty ground, I’m tackled by men the size of bulls. Their combined weight forces the air from my lungs as we land on the ground, and a cool, sharp edge bites into my throat.

“Stop!” Drusus commands. The men on top of me freeze. The blade is at my throat, I’m pinned, but no one moves. I swear all of Pompeii is deathly still.

Sikandar offers Drusus a hand to help him to his feet. Ignoring him, Drusus wipes blood from his nose. Spits more into the dust. Looks at me with cold death in his eyes.

“Are you all right, Dominus?” Sikandar asks.

“I’m fine,” Drusus snaps. Arabo also offers him a hand, but the lanista rises on his own. As he dusts himself off, he glares at me. Then he spits in the sand and says, “Hasdrubal, Sikandar. Take him to the pit. Now. Before I kill him right here in the yard.” Without a word, Sikandar and Hasdrubal haul me to my feet and lead me out of the training yard. I don’t have to look to know every gladiator and trainer is staring, probably wondering if I’ve lost my damned mind. Or if I’ve just gotten every last one of us killed.

As soon as we’re out of the training yard, Sikandar digs his fingers into my arm. “Are you mad?” he whispers harshly. “You’re lucky he doesn’t crucify you right in the training yard.”

“You’re lucky we don’t,” Hasdrubal growls. “You fucking fool, you’re—”

“The responsibility is mine,” I say flatly.

“That won’t stop Drusus from killing all of us.” Sikandar tightens his grip on my arm. “If the master doesn’t kill you for this, you would be wise to watch your back.”

“I’ve watched my back since the day I came here.” I keep my words terse and flat, praying they don’t betray my pounding heart.

Hasdrubal sniffs. “Then you’ll be well practiced, won’t you?”

None of us speak now. They continue half-leading, half-dragging me toward the pit. Just before we start down the stairs that’ll take us into the cellar, Sikandar lights a torch. They lead me down the stone stairs into the mostly dark corridor, and with every step we take, the torch throws a little bit more warm light on the huge wooden door up ahead.

The cellar’s dank coolness prickles the back of my neck and the length of my spine. It’s even worse when they push open the door.

I stand in the middle of the room and hold out my arms. “Just be done with it.”

Without speaking, Sikandar puts the torch on the wall while Hasdrubal yanks off my tunic. Then they both close the shackles around my wrists. They’re attached to heavy chains suspended from high on the walls on either side of me, and they hold my arms up and out.

“Nice knowing you, brother.” Sikandar claps my arm.

“Give our regards to Hades,” Hasdrubal says.

I say nothing. The men leave the pit, and I’m alone in the cool, mostly dark silence. Standing in the center of the room, bound by the unforgiving chains, I wait.

Footsteps approach. I close my eyes and breathe slowly.

The door opens. Arabo enters first. He tugs at my bindings and checks my hands for anything I could use to pick the shackles.