“Get him on his feet.”

Rough hands haul me upright. Someone pulls my elbows back and laces his arms through them so I can’t move.

“Look at me, you fucking novice,” Sikandar snarls.

I deliberately keep my eyes down.

He grabs my jaw and forces me to look him in the eye. “You need to know your place in this familia, you piece of—”

I spit blood in his face, and while he’s off guard from that, I use the man behind me for stability and sweep Sikandar’s knees out from under him with my leg. He hits the ground with a furious growl.

“Son of a whore!” he roars, and flies to his feet. He punches me hard enough to knock the man holding me up off balance, and we both go down. Someone else drags me up so I can take another punch, but I’ve got an arm free, so I swing at Sikandar.

“Hey! Hey, all of you!” a voice shouts. “Break it up! Break it up!”

“Shit!”

In a heartbeat, the men around me are gone, and I crumple to my knees. My mouth is metallic and salty. My ribs and gut ache furiously with every breath, and the entire training yard whirls around me.

“At attention! All of you!” someone else shouts.

“Hey! Come back here!”

“Get back here and into ranks!”

“I catch you, you’re all going to the pit, I swear it!”

Shouts and footsteps fade behind me. Still disoriented, I spit out some blood and hold myself up on a shaking arm as I keep the other across my gut.

No teeth missing. Nothing so painful it might be broken. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow, but I’ll survive.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” a sharp, icy voice barks.

I pull in a breath through my teeth. So much for surviving.

Gods, let it be anyone but him . . .

But that voice is too distinct, and as I raise my head and blink my eyes into focus, Drusus approaches from the other side of the dark training yard, carrying a flickering torch and flanked by the massive shadows of his bodyguards.

“Get up.” Hands grab my arms and jerk me upright. “Stand at attention, gladiator.”

Despite my wavering balance, I obey.

Drusus stops directly in front of me. The torch heats the air between us, but I barely keep from shivering as the lanista snarls, “What happened out here?”

Blood pools inside my cheek, and I swallow it to avoid spitting it on my master. “My apologies, Dom—”

“Save it,” he snaps. “I assume you weren’t beating yourself senseless.” His eyes narrow in the dim, flickering light. “Who else was involved? Tell me, gladiator. Now.”

I turn my head and spit blood on the sand. “I was responsible, Dominus.”

Drusus says nothing, but an eyebrow arches in an unspoken demand for me to continue.

“The altercation,” I say. “It was between me and another gladiator, but I started it. I was the one responsible.”

“Between you and another gladiator.” He slowly looks me over. “I see.” He folds his arms across the breastplate. “You have a choice, Saevius. There will be a punishment for this. It’s up to you whether you take it yourself or share it with those who bloodied your face.”

But if I give up one name, all the other men in the familia will see to it I don’t survive another night in this ludus. I say nothing.

Drusus taps his fingers on his upper arm and lifts his eyebrows as he says, “Who else was involved, gladiator?”

I swallow blood again, though there’s less this time. “The blame was mine, Dominus.”

“Yours.” He reaches for my face and draws two fingertips across my cheekbone. When he pulls his hand back, he looks at his fingers, then turns them toward me so I can see the smear of blood across them. “You did this yourself.”

“No, Dominus,” I reply. “But the fight, it was my doing.”

He looks me in the eyes, that eyebrow arched once again, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “You men cost me a lot of money, you know. Every one of you.” He wipes his bloody fingers on my tunic. “I hate having my property damaged inside the arena, so you can imagine how I feel about it being damaged when I’m not making a profit.”

“I understand, Dominus,” I say quietly.

“Good. And just to make sure you do understand”—Drusus snaps his fingers—“Arabo, take him down to the pit. Ten lashes.” He shifts his narrowed eyes back toward mine and gets right in my face. “Let it happen again, gladiator, and you’ll see just how merciful I’ve been tonight.”

With that, he stalks away into the shadows.

“C’mon.” Arabo grabs my arm. “To the pit with you.”

By the time the medicus releases me, I’ve vowed to myself a dozen times never to challenge Drusus’s mercy again. My wrists ache and burn from straining against the shackles, and I’m so certain my back and shoulders are on fire I’m surprised I don’t see flames dancing on the walls as I trudge down the corridor to my cell with my sweaty, bloody tunic in my hands.

Arabo shoves me into the tiny room. “No more of that, eh? The master doesn’t like being disturbed in the middle of the night.”

I say nothing. The door slams and the lock clicks into place. At least I’m safe for the night. I hope, anyway. The men got past the locks before, so I suppose they can do it again.

But I hope they aren’t that stupid, and even if they are, I’m too exhausted to care.

I lie facedown on my rack, leaving my scourged back exposed to the air. My eyes are heavy, my body aching, but sleep doesn’t come easily. More than once I wonder if it’ll come at all, but finally, if only thanks to sheer, bone-deep exhaustion, I sleep.

In the morning, I don’t bother with my tunic. Let the sun burn me if it will, but I don’t dare cover the welts still stinging my flesh.

Out in the training yard, I say nothing to any man. They notice me; heads turn more conspicuously than perhaps they realize, and conversations and bouts alike lose their intensity when I pass by. They notice the damage to my back. How could they not?

Some of the men have marks themselves. A cut lip here. A black eye there. A mottled bruise beneath ribs. Not unusual for fighters, of course, but at least some of those, I’m sure, were from my feet and fists.

I don’t speak to anyone. Titus and I spar, and I’m certain he and every man in this yard knows what happened last night. He scowls at the bruises and I catch him eyeing the welts on my back, but he doesn’t say a word. The only sounds in our sparring circle are our weapons clanking and clattering together.

Halfway through my third bout with Titus, every movement aggravating the burning welts on my back, Sikandar goes to the water trough. I put up a hand.

“I could use a drink,” I say, and Titus nods, but when he looks toward the water trough, he stiffens.

“Saevius,” he warns, “you don’t—” He stops when I brush past him. He curses under his breath, but doesn’t get in my way.

Sikandar stills when I join him. All around us, pair by pair, the other men freeze.

Every set of eyes is focused on us, and no one breathes. The only sound in the yard is the soft splash as I dip the ladle into the trough, and the quiet trickle of water dripping off it as I lift it again.

I’m in no hurry. I take my time, and when I bring the ladle up to my lips to drink, I stare Sikandar right in the eyes.

Still, no one else moves, especially not the Parthian standing beside me.

I finish my water and turn away to rack the ladle. Then I slowly face Sikandar again.

He raises his chin and looks down at me. He sets his shoulders back. His eye is black and his lip split, and a deep bruise has darkened just above his hip. I find no small amount of satisfaction in the way he hunches just slightly, probably accommodating a lingering ache below his belt.

Eyes still locked on mine, he turns his head slightly and spits on the ground. “Something you need to say, glad—”