“Good to—”

“And he’s coming this way.” Titus puts his cup back on the rack. “Back to sparring.”

We’ve just put blade to blade when Drusus stops outside our circle, and I can barely concentrate now. I’ve fought in front of the Emperor himself without concern, but the scrutiny of my new lanista brings cool sweat to the skin beneath my tunic.

But then, why shouldn’t it? He’s legendary for being ruthless, but he also hasn’t signed me on as an auctoratus yet. Not until I’ve proven myself. And if he doesn’t accept me into the ludus, then what? Then I face Master Calvus again, and there aren’t many options for a slave who knows the secrets of a politician’s wife. Whether or not I want to fight for Drusus, I need to. I have no choice.

When we’ve finished the bout, Titus and I give Drusus a respectful nod. He returns it.

“So,” he says to Titus while gesturing at me. “What say you? Is he a worthwhile addition to the familia?”

“He is, Dominus.” Titus wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Left-handed and skilled.”

Drusus’s lips twist into an odd—and oddly familiar—smile, and he watches me silently for a moment. Then, “Spar with me, Saevius.” Drusus holds out his hand, and Titus lays a training sword in his palm. “I’ve always wanted to fight a left-handed man.”

As he enters the circle, I quickly size him up as a fighter. He’s small, of course, both in breadth and height, but if he’s ever fought a man before and survived, that means only one thing: he’s fast. And a lanista doesn’t last long unless he’s cunning. To fight him, I decide as I face him in the circle, is to take on a legionary with the mind of a general. One who I need to impress if I want to stay in the ludus, but not harm if I want to stay alive.

Gods, watch over me.

Drusus doesn’t attack immediately. We circle each other, every step calculated and precise, and he watches my eyes. Not my weapons, not my feet, my eyes. Just as I’m watching his.

Subtle movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention as his fingers loosen, tighten, loosen on the hilt of his weapon, and his posture tenses just slightly.

I lunge forward, shoving his shield out of the way with mine and thrusting my sword toward his midsection. He parries the sword and attacks, but I move to the side and knock his sword off its course with my own. Before he has a chance to recover, I lunge at him again. He isn’t accustomed to defending his right side with his weapon, but he’s light enough on his feet to get out of the way. And fast enough, even as he avoids my sword, to send the fist holding his own sword into my chest.

He drives a grunt out of me, but I stay on my feet and slam my shield into him. We both falter. Stumble. Recover. With our feet back under us, we face each other again. Lunge. Clash. Recover.

He’s a solid fighter, a fast and intelligent one, and as dust swirls around our feet and our weapons clank and clatter, a thought crosses my mind that nearly makes me forget how to fight at all.

Do I beat him? Or do I let him win?

I need to impress him enough that he’ll let me stay in the ludus, but beating him in front of the other men? That could as easily put me in the pit as keep me in the familia.

Drusus catches my thigh with the flat of the blade, but not before I shove my own blade into the leather plate covering his side. With a grunt, Drusus falters. Instinct takes over and I seize advantage of his loss of balance to deliver the “fatal” blow to his midsection.

The men around us freeze as our lanista drops to the dust.

Oh gods, what have I done?

Not sure if I’ve just earned a bit of respect or a trip to the pit, I tuck my sword under my arm and extend my other hand. We clasp each other’s forearms, and I help him to his feet.

“Well done, gladiator.” He grins and releases my arm, and the panic eases in my chest. “Very well done.” He dusts himself off, then claps my shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you in the arena.” The grin widens. “And reaping the benefits, no doubt.”

I bow my head slightly, hoping my relief isn’t obvious. “Gods willing, Dominus.”

Titus and I spar until both of us are drenched in sweat and coated in dust. The afternoon’s a hot one, so I’m more than a little thankful to visit the water trough once again.

As we drink in silence, my muscles aching and various bruises throbbing in that all too familiar way, the reality of my situation sets in.

I’m a part of this familia now. A part of the ludus, anyway. It’ll take time before I know my place—before I have a place—in the hierarchy. Nevertheless, the lanista has accepted me, and now this will be my home.

As I drink from the ladle, I let my gaze sweep around the training yard and take in the men of the familia. I swear it, when I find the man—the men, perhaps—fucking the Lady Verina of Laurea, I’ll be sure to put a few of his teeth down his throat before I give him over to Calvus. It’d be justice for him, considering his rutting with the wife of a politician is the reason I’m condemned to this place.

“Didn’t expect anyone new,” someone behind me says with a smirk in his voice. “New shipment of slaves don’t come into the market for another three days yet.”

With my back turned, I roll my eyes. And so it begins.

“Left-handed,” another gladiator says. “Already puts him in the master’s favor, don’t it?”

Someone grunts an affirmative.

“A favorite before he’s even seen the arena,” another man says with no shortage of venom. “He might as well go all the way and suck the mast—”

“Hold your tongue,” someone else snaps, then adds in a sharp, hushed whisper, “I’ll have no part of you disrespecting Drusus.”

The other man quickly shuts up.

“Fucking idiot,” one of the men mutters.

I take another drink, then set the ladle beside the trough. As I walk away, someone behind me shouts, “Hey. Novice.”

I grind my teeth but don’t stop and don’t turn around. They’ll haze me, of that I’ve no doubt, but they won’t turn me into the bitch of the ludus. They won’t break me, though they will try.

I’m halfway back to the sparring circle when someone grabs my arm. I wrench it away and spin around, and suddenly I’m eye to eye with the Parthian fighter I scarred two summers ago.

“I’m talking to you, novice,” he snarls.

I step toward him. To my satisfaction, he takes a startled step back, and when a murmur of surprise ripples through the gathering crowd, the Parthian bastard’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.

“You want to talk to a novice?” I say. “There are plenty of them in this yard. You and I both know I ain’t one of ’em.”

I start to go, but he grabs my arm again and then shoves me back a step. Gesturing past me with his chin, he says, “Go to the trough and get us some water.”

“You know where the trough is. Have at it yourself.”

Another startled murmur rises within the crowd around us, this one more urgent, and now I don’t dare take my eyes off the man who’s challenged me.

He gets so close he’s nearly touching me. “You’ve got until I—”

“Why don’t I take you to the trough?” I snarl back. “I’ll put your head in it for you, and you can get as much water as you want. Would that suit you, gladiator?”

Cautious laughter around us brings a pulsing vein to the surface above the Parthian’s thick eyebrows.

“You need to know your place,” he says. “You may be an auctoratus, but in here? You’re shit on my boot.” He spits at my feet. “Watch your back, gladiator. In my familia, you’re nothing but a novice. And novices sometimes have unfortunate accidents.”

I step closer until I’m almost touching him. “Is that how men in this familia gain rank and respect? Huh? By being here so long?” Grinning, I add, “Where I come from, it’s not how long you fight, it’s how well. Not just surviving a fight”—I jab a finger into the scar on his chest—“but winning it.”