Renewed fury contorts his face, and his lips peel back from his teeth. “You’re asking for a blade in—”

“That’s enough.” Titus pushes us apart with a hand on each of our chests. “Unless you want Drusus to take you both down to the pit.” He smacks the Parthian in the chest. “And you’ll be there again if you keep this up, you fucking idiot.”

“Hey,” the fucking idiot retorts. “Only trying to make sure the—”

“Save it, Sikandar,” Titus mutters. Louder now, he says, “Back to your training, all of you. And you.” He gestures at me. “Come. I’ll show you to the barracks.”

As they do in every ludus I’ve ever known, each slave in this familia wears a brass tag around his neck in case he attempts to escape.

This slave belongs to Master Drusus, I’m told they say, and if he’s found, he should be kept here until he can be collected.

As far as Drusus knows, I’ve volunteered to be here, but it doesn’t matter. Auctorati are slaves: citizens here of our own free will, but voluntarily enslaved for the duration of our contracts. Enslaved, and tagged.

I barely keep my stomach from coming up my throat as the tag is fastened around my neck. I had fully expected to wear one for Master Calvus, but something about the coolness of the chain as it settles against my flesh makes me shiver. I’ll always be owned by one man or another—have been since I was born—but today I am once again owned by a ludus. By a damned lanista.

The brass tag isn’t heavy, but like the forged scrolls I carried from the house of Laurea, its presence refuses to go unnoticed. Cold against my skin, the chain weighing against the back of my neck, it’s undeniably there. It isn’t enough I had to pledge to him as I pledged to my previous master—“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword”—but I must wear a tag.

Inspected, tagged, and still wishing the Fates might strike me down rather than leave me here, I’m taken to my cell in the barracks.

The barracks are separated, as they always are. Each man has his own cell, and each cluster of cells divides a group of men from another. My cell is among the rest of the auctorati—there are five of us here—and heavy, locked doors divide us from the rest of the barracks. The other men are probably arranged like they were at my previous ludus in larger groups of cramped cells. As long as they don’t fight amongst each other and get us all beaten for being unruly, or make so much noise they keep me from sleeping, they can share cells with beasts for all I care.

I won’t be disturbed tonight, I’m sure of that. For once, I’m comforted by the click of the lock on the outside of my cell’s door as well as the one between this group of cells and the next. Being caged isn’t pleasant, but for new blood in an established familia, it’s safe until the guards unlock the doors at dawn.

Just easing myself onto my hard rack reminds me of my aching, exhausted muscles, and I have no doubt sleep will come easily. Sure enough, darkness quickly takes over.

Suddenly, I’m awake and alert.

Heart pounding. Breath held. Certain something is out of place. The air in the cell is . . . different. The night still echoes with a faint sound that I cannot recall exactly, except that it jarred me awake.

Slowly, I sit up, searching the darkness for something that doesn’t belong.

Movement. Shadows moving through shadows like black fish through dark water.

Just an illusion, Saevius.

I rub my eyes. Nothing more than the paranoia of a marked man in an unfamiliar place. I’ve lost all my sense and—

The door is ajar.

The faintest strip of light, as if from a distant torch, cuts a thin amber line through the darkness, which means the door has been unlocked and opened. Which means—

One of the shadows comes to life and lunges at me, shoving me back onto the rack. The back of my head smacks the wall, brightening my vision with a flash of white, and I’m stunned just long enough for a huge, rough hand to cover my mouth.

The world spins and lurches. Before I can orient myself, my chest hits . . . the wall? The floor? A heartbeat later, my face follows, and then a tremendous weight presses between my shoulder blades. The floor, then. Someone pins me down. I struggle, but my legs are held down by strong hands and my arms are pulled painfully behind me. A rough cord burns my skin as it’s tied around one wrist, then the other.

The hand over my face moves, but before I can shout, a rag is shoved into my mouth. It’s sour with sweat. I try to spit it out without retching, but can’t work it past my teeth and lips, so I settle for keeping it out of my throat.

Someone puts another rag over my eyes. It’s tied tightly around my head. Then I’m hauled to my feet and shoved forward. If they want me somewhere other than here, there’s a reason for it that can only mean an extra advantage for them. I try to dig my heels in, but I can’t gain any purchase on the ground, and I’m too disoriented to fight without risking hitting a wall or losing my balance. And if I go down, they’ll no doubt drag me, and there’s more than enough of them to do it.

I stop fighting and let them lead me. On the way out, I count the steps and turns in hopes I can find my way back to my cell once I get free.

The knot between my wrists is a shoddy one, tied hastily in darkness, and I work at it as I walk. I lose count of my steps—but not turns—and concentrate on loosening the cords.

The ground beneath my feet is cool and solid, stone with a thin layer of grit on top. After two left turns and a right one, plus two sets of stairs, the stone suddenly gives way to sand that’s still warm from the heat of the day. I pull in a deep breath through my nose, and this time the air isn’t made of the thick, pungent warmth of the barracks. It’s cooler. Still warm, but cooler.

We’re outside. Probably in the training yard.

My heart beats faster. If the men can get through the locks and into my cell, they can get into the armory as well. Possibly even to the sharpened weapons reserved for actual games. I work faster at the knot between my wrists.

“Make a sound,” someone hisses, “and you’re a dead man. Understood?”

I nod.

The rag is jerked from my mouth, nearly taking a couple of my teeth with it.

Someone yanks off the blindfold. Before my eyes adjust or I can figure out where we are, a foot knocks my knees out from under me. I drop to the sand. Then another foot between my shoulder blades sends me forward. With my hands still tied, I can’t protect my face, and land hard. Spitting and blinking away sand, I try to get up, but a knee lands in the middle of my back and forces me down again.

A hand claps across my forehead and pulls my head back.

“All right, gladiator,” the Parthian’s voice snarls as hot spittle hits my ear. “It’s time you learn who to respect in this familia.” He slams my face down into the sand. Before I can catch my breath, I’m turned onto my back, and a fist in my gut forces what breath I have right out of my chest.

I bring up my knee, and I’m rewarded with a satisfying grunt when it connects with Sikandar’s crotch. He falters and groans. I jerk one hand free from the cord behind my back, grab a handful of sand, and throw it into the Parthian’s face. While he sputters and chokes, I hit him, my knuckles connecting sharply with his cheekbone. Before he’s even finished swearing in response, I hit him again.

Hands grab my shoulders. More grab my legs. Men wrestle me all the way back to the ground. One arm is pinned. Then the other. I manage to wrench one arm free again, and one leg. My foot connects with someone’s face, my fist with a gut.

Out of nowhere, another man’s fist hits the side of my head, and the world turns red and white. I’m only briefly disoriented, but it’s enough to give them the upper hand, and I’m pinned once again.