Page 31 of Brother at Arms

“You be Xerxes,” Regulus said. “I’m not letting you stab me in the gut, even with a rudis.”

I nodded, uncaring. I took my usual ready stance, the position coming back to me as easily as breathing.

“Not like that,” Regulus said. “He didn’t fight the way you do. He just stood there, jeering at everyone.”

Regulus held his shield straight down at his side, beckoning me on with his sword, mimicking what Xerxes used to do. I tried to imitate him, but my instincts wouldn’t let me.

Leonidas the Spartan, the young man who’d fought his way to the top of the pack, streamed back inside me as I faced Regulus. I knew exactly how to defend myself against him and exactly how to beat him.

Regulus regarded me with annoyance. “Fine, be Perseus. He used ordinary gladiator tactics, which was why I thought he’d lose. Perseus attacked quickly, thinking Xerxes would be an easy mark.”

I went for Regulus. He instantly brought up his shield, fending me off. My arms and legs moved of their own accord, my sword coming around to jab under Regulus’s guard.

He danced backward, growling. “Do you want to fight a real match or know what happened?”

I halted, my body fighting me as I made myself stand upright.

“I knew you’d never be able to quit being a gladiator,” Regulus said. “You trained yourself to be nothing but. Try this—pretend you’re showing a raw recruit some moves, someone who’s just been dragged in by Aemil, a rope around his neck.”

Aemil would never let a gladiator he’d just purchased into the practice yard until he’d tamed him for a few weeks, but I nodded.

Regulus lowered his shield. “If I’m standing like an idiot, as Xerxes did, how would you show a new gladiator how to take him down?”

I drew a long, slow breath and tried to think like a trainer, not a man about to fight for his life. I’d demonstrated tactics often enough to new gladiators to understand which ones would survive and which would end up beneath the row of grave markers Aemil erected outside the city.

“I’d tell him to watch for a trick,” I said. “And to swing to his opponent’s sword side, striking at his shoulder or elbow. Then, when the opponent tried to block that with the shield, strike where he was exposed.”

I demonstrated, in slow motion, ending up in the obvious, open space of Regulus’s abdomen.

Regulus brought up his shield in a rapid movement, using its edge to cut at my sword arm.

I danced out of the way but made myself stop instead of following through and jamming the rudis at Regulus’s neck.

“That’s just what Perseus did,” Regulus said. “He went for the opening, and Xerxes blocked him. The bout went on like that for a while, everyone screaming from the seats. Xerxes played it up.”

I lowered my sword. “How do you remember so exactly? It was more than two years ago.”

Regulus shrugged. “I watch all the bouts, observe every move, to decide what will work for me. How do you think I got to be primus palus?”

He was primus because Xerxes had died and then I’d been freed. But it was true that Regulus was a formidable and good fighter. When he made mistakes, as he’d done during his last match with me, it was because he let his anger overtake him.

“Xerxes was in good form for most of the bout?” I asked.

“As far as I could see. Then something happened, I don’t know what. He was scanning the stands, not paying attention.”

“That’s when Perseus stabbed him?”

“No, Xerxes snapped back into focus when Perseus came at him.” Regulus resumed a fighting stance. “Fought like he was ready to end things and go home. And then …”

“Then?”

“Then he just stopped.” Regulus stood up straight, his left arm with the shield going slack. “Xerxes stood there as though he’d been dazed by something. He dropped his guard, but not like at first, when he’d been goading Perseus. It was like he couldn’t lift his arms anymore.” Regulus demonstrated, both his sword and shield hanging from limp hands. “Perseus saw his opportunity, and he took it.”

I imagined the scene, the gladiator called Perseus abruptly realizing he could win. He’d have lunged with glee, ramming his sword at Xerxes.

I pictured Xerxes, standing motionless, preoccupied with whatever had caught his attention, not realizing his danger until too late.

I clenched my hand around the wooden sword until my fingers ached. “The referees should have stopped the match—they should have seen that Xerxes couldn’t fight anymore. It should have been a draw.”