Page 29 of Brother at Arms

It might be anyone, I reflected in some despair. Possibly Marcella herself, though I couldn’t envision her threatening to betray Arsakes and his friends unless they paid her five thousand aurei. I didn’t think such an idea would even occur to her.

If Xerxes had brought someone else in on his lucrative scheme, it must have been someone in Rome, who’d be in place to accept the shipments. I turned my steps westward, toward the Tiber and the Pons Aemilius.

Maybe Xerxes hadn’t taken me into his confidence, because he’d known I’d only make a mess of such a business. I’d open my mouth at the wrong time—I’d been drunk often when I was with Xerxes. He’d probably been wise to keep me in the dark.

At the same time, the knowledge that he hadn’t trusted me burned like a hot ball in my gut. I’d known Xerxes better than anyone, had drunk with him, joked with him, fought with him, enjoyed women with him until he’d met Marcella. He’d been the brother I’d never had, and I’d assumed I’d been the same to him.

In the last few days, I’d learned he’d had a brother in truth, was dealing in goods that could have meant his execution, and had been slain before he could warn me of what trouble might be coming.

It took great skill to kill a gladiator, but, as I’d mused when facing Arsakes and Gotarz, it could be done by treachery.

I halted in the middle of the bridge, annoying those trying to push past me, the thought taking root.

Xerxes had been the best fighter in the ludus until I’d surpassed him. He hadn’t minded when I’d become primus palus, telling me it took pressure from him to drop to secundus. He could spend more time with Marcella and be out from under Aemil’s thumb.

Only I should have been able to best Xerxes. I’d always wondered how Perseus—the gladiator who’d opposed him that afternoon—had slipped past his guard and taken him by surprise. Xerxes had taunted and mocked his opponents, laughing at them, but he’d been very, very careful.

I couldn’t ask Perseus what had happened, because I’d killed him in the next bout. He’d seemed surprised to have made it past Xerxes to take me on, and he’d also been terrified.

I’d done it quickly, with a sword straight into his neck.

What if Perseus had felled Xerxes not with skill or great luck, but with trickery? Or what if someone else had weakened Xerxes beforehand, making his death inevitable?

A woman balancing a full water jug on her shoulder shoved past me, snarling invective. I made myself rejoin the stream of humanity crossing the bridge to the Transtiberim, my thoughts spinning.

Septimius was in place as guard when I tramped to the ludus’s gate. I wanted to talk to him about Lucius, but later. He quickly opened the gate for me, and I stormed inside.

The practice ground was empty, the portico that surrounded it quiet. The gladiators would have finished training by now and be eating a meal or headed for the baths. Aemil used the relatively peaceful interlude to retreat to his tablinium and go through his accounts, which could be a painful process for him.

I entered the cool vault that held the cells. The few gladiators there studied me in curiosity but did not bother to stop me.

I stepped up into Aemil’s sanctuary without requesting permission and came to a towering halt in front of his desk. Aemil glanced up with a start.

“What do you want, Leonidas? I’m busy.”

I leaned over the desk, planting my fists on it.

“How did Xerxes die?” I demanded. “He should not have, not against a second-rate fighter like Perseus. Who truly killed him, and why?”

Chapter 9

Aemil regarded me in amazement then resumed his glare. “What do you mean who truly killed him? Xerxes died because he wasn’t paying attention. His arrogance finally got the better of him.”

“No.” I leaned more heavily on my fists, my heart pounding. “He never would have let Perseus get in that blow. Perseus was a middling fighter, who shouldn’t have been paired against him anyway.”

“I know.” Aemil shouted the words at me then threw down his stylus and slumped back on his stool. “I know. It was supposed to be a comic bout. Xerxes chasing Perseus everywhere, stepping on him when he went down, winning but letting him live. The next thing I knew, Perseus’s gladius was in Xerxes’s stomach, and Xerxes was bleeding, dying …” Aemil covered his face with a shaking hand.

I did not relent. “Why didn’t you stop the match when you saw Perseus was gaining ground? Why didn’t the referees? And why did you not have me in there against Xerxes if you wanted the round to be funny?”

Aemil slid his hand down, some of his sorrow fleeing. “Because you have no sense of humor, Leonidas. None that you’ve exhibited, anyway. Xerxes was a showman. He knew how to play the audience. Everyone in the arena was stunned when he died, no one more than I.”

No, I’d been far more gutted than Aemil, unable to move once I’d left the Circus Gai that afternoon. I’d lain on my bunk in my cell for days, staring up at the crude drawings Xerxes had left there as a joke. Except for relieving myself, I’d remained in that cell until Aemil’s threat to sell me.

I’d lived by rote for months afterward—training, eating, sleeping—and feeling nothing.

“Who would have known about this fight?” I asked. “That you put them together as a farce, I mean.”

Aemil shrugged. “Everyone. It wasn’t a secret.”