“Fuck you, Sikandar.”

His eyebrows jump. Several men pull in breaths.

I’m not finished, though. “I may be new to this ludus, gladiator, but I’m no idiot. I won’t rat out my fellow man to the master.” I step closer, and though he stands his ground, Sikandar is tense now, less like a lion and more like a deer ready to run. “But let’s get one thing clear. Last night is the last time I take a blow from you. And with the Furies themselves as my witnesses, it is also the last time I take a blow for you.”

Before he has a chance to react, my fist connects with his jaw. The massive Parthian grunts in surprise and drops to the ground, grabbing for the trough with one hand and clutching his face with the other.

Two of the wounds on my shoulders burn with renewed fury, aggravated all over again by the motion of my arm, and pain shoots up from my knuckles, but it’s mild enough.

At my feet, Sikandar sits up. The dust settles around and between us.

Without a word, I offer my hand.

Sikandar regards my hand with a sneer. His eyes dart to one side, then the other, then back to my hand. Grumbling under his breath, likely cursing me to his Parthian gods, he clasps his hand around my forearm and allows me to help him to his feet.

“So,” I say, letting go of his arm, “do we have an understanding?”

He holds my gaze. For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to punch me and we’re going to brawl again right here in broad daylight.

Instead, though, he extends his hand again. “Yes, gladiator. We do.”

I’ve been at the ludus a few days now. My back is healing slowly, the bruises fading, and the men have left me in peace every night since that first one. Aside from the occasional cheap shot during a sparring match, no one has given me a moment’s trouble since I put Sikandar on the ground. Now that the hierarchy has been addressed, I’ve turned my attention to getting on with the task that landed me in this place to begin with.

That’s my intent, of course, but today we’ve barely begun our morning training when Titus suddenly calls us into ranks. Weapons clatter to the ground, and we fall into line at attention like soldiers.

“What’s going on?” I ask the fighter beside me.

“I don’t know. Can’t imagine it’s good.” He glances at me. “Never is, if the master calls us out of training like this.”

Titus stands in front of us.

“Lucius, Quintus, Iovita, Saevius, and Philosir,” he shouts, and ice water trickles through my veins at the sound of my name. “Come with me. The rest of you are dismissed back to your training.”

My blood turns colder as the men scatter.

The other fighter claps my shoulder. “Good luck, brother.” And then he, too, is gone.

The five of us remaining throw uncertain glances at each other. None of us dare speak. I’m still learning names and faces in the familia, but I realize all four of the other men have cells in the same block of the barracks as mine. Auctorati, all of them. All of us.

“This way.” Titus waves for us to follow, and he leads us down the corridor, past the barracks, and into the empty courtyard. There, he faces us and snaps, “Into line. Quickly, now.”

We immediately fall into a single rank.

“No one moves,” he snarls. “The master wants a word with all of you.”

My gaze shifts toward the door to the room where I met Drusus after my arrival at the ludus, and I have time for one silent prayer before the man himself emerges. He was intimidating the first time, but now, now I see where his legendary reputation comes from.

His gait is slow. Calculated. Every step placed with the precision of a hunting wildcat, and we are the five helpless deer waiting to be struck down. The breastplate doesn’t hide the fact that his shoulders are thrust back, and I’m sure every muscle beneath the thick leather is taut with the same fury that sets his jaw and digs deep crevices between his eyebrows. His blue eyes are narrow and icier than I’ve ever seen them, even compared to the night he sent me to the pit.

Drusus walks down the line, eyeing us one at a time. He looks us up and down before holding each man’s gaze for an unsettlingly long time. When it’s my turn, I’m certain he’s looking right through me. Right into my soul and all the lies I’m hiding beneath the brass tag that sits on my chest like a guilty weight.

But he keeps walking.

He reaches the end of the line, and starts back the other way again.

“Five citizens,” he says now, his voice even and cold. “All joining my ludus as auctorati in very, very rapid succession. I rarely get one in a year, but suddenly, five since the start of spring.” He smiles, and I swear it makes his eyes colder. “I’d almost think Fortune was favoring me, though I can’t imagine why, and perhaps I’m being ungrateful.” The smile falls. The ice doesn’t melt. “Except I can’t help thinking there’s more afoot here than five fools up to their asses in debt.”

The urge to look at one another and search for guilt and explanations in each other’s eyes is palpable, crawling beneath my skin like a terrible itch and radiating from the men on either side of me. But I don’t move. As far as I know, the others don’t either.

Drusus reaches the end of the line once again and starts back the other way. “A message left my ludus this morning. Or, well, it tried to.” He pulls a rolled scroll from his belt and holds it up for all to see. “Do any among you recognize this?”

He halts. His eyes lock on mine. Iovita’s. Quintus’s. Every one of us in turn, his gaze boring into each of us. He doesn’t say a word or lower the scroll.

No one speaks. No one moves or even breathes.

Drusus resumes walking back and forth, scroll still held aloft. “Speak. If one among you recognizes it, or knows the name of the man who sent it, speak now before I forget the meaning of mercy.”

Still, no one speaks. Drusus makes his way from one end of the line to the other, back again, a third time. The only sounds are the distant shouts and noises of men sparring in the training yard that seems miles and miles away.

Abruptly, Drusus halts in front of Philosir and steps closer so their faces nearly touch. “Do you know anything of this, Philosir?”

The massive Carthaginian shakes his head. “No, Dominus. Nothing. I swear it.”

“Nothing?” Drusus asks, almost whispering. “Are you certain?” He raises the scroll and holds it just in front of Philosir’s eyes. “You don’t recognize it?”

Philosir shakes his head.

Drusus stares at him for a long, unnerving moment before he steps to the left, and I swear I feel the shudder that runs through Iovita.

“Iovita,” Drusus says, “not a Ludi goes by where I don’t see you stealing off with the servants of noblemen before you’ve even fought. And again after.” His eyes narrow just slightly. “The servants of politicians in particular. Tell me, Iovita, do the servants of wealthy politicians truly have such noteworthy cunts?”

Iovita doesn’t speak.

Drusus nears him, lowering his voice to a shiver-worthy growl. “Or do you and they have conversations that would perhaps be of interest to me?”

“No, Dominus.” Iovita’s voice shakes like the man facing him down is twice his size rather than half. “We don’t talk. Not about nothing.”

I’m the next in line, and all the while Drusus is interrogating Iovita, I can’t breathe.

Calvus Laurea is a cunning man. He keeps me toeing the line with the threat of letting Drusus believe I’ve stolen from him; what’s to stop him from having other men within the familia? Others to search for signs of Verina’s infidelity, but perhaps also to be certain men like me are faithfully obeying our orders?

Be warned, Saevius, Calvus’s voice echoes in my ears. I do not tolerate treachery or dishonesty.