“So? I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”
“Caesar’s perceived arrogance has caused a great deal of resentment among his peers in the senate. But the plebs—the common people—adore him.” He looked at me. “They love him for just such things as, well, you. Or, rather, what you might become in time. Caesar’s games are the best. His fighters, the best. His upcoming Quadruple Triumphs are his gift to the people of Rome, a massive celebration such as this city has never seen. They are meant to cement his popularity in such a way that the senate will never be able to cast him down—not without risking the wrath of the mob. That’s how important Caesar’s gladiators are to him. Now do you understand?”
I did. Or, at least, I thought I did.
Someone called Caius’s name, and he glanced over his shoulder to where another legionnaire approached, leading a pair of horses. “I have to go,” he said.
“Before you do,” I said, “tell me this: You could have just asked Charon about the sword mark the next time you saw him. Why did you seek me out instead?”
He was silent for a long moment, staring at me, and I wondered if he would give me an answer. Then he said, “I was curious about you.”
“Why?”
“On the ship, I saw something in you.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “And that was?”
“The absolute need to fight. To be free. That’s something I can understand.”
I wasn’t so sure he could.
“Some years ago,” he continued, “there was a revolt. A gang of slaves—gladiators, in fact—rose up and challenged the might of the Republic. They fought the legions for a very long time, and they very nearly won. But it took one man—a man named Spartacus—to ignite the spark that turned to flame. I’ve always admired him, even though he went against everything I’m supposed to fight for as a soldier of Rome. I thought, on the ship, that I saw that same kind of ember glowing in your eyes. I suppose I wanted to see if it was still there.”
I felt a sudden prickling behind my eyes. How could I even hope to keep such a spark alive when it seemed my life was destined to play out behind the high walls of an arena?
I blinked the tears away quickly, but not before the Decurion saw. His expression softened.
“A gladiatrix, if she’s good enough, may one day earn enough in the arena to buy her freedom, you know.” He reached into the basket and pulled out one of the wooden blanks I’d hewed to kindling. He tossed it to me and grinned. “Just be good enough.”
My mind reeled with the implications of actually, one day, being able to make enough money to buy my freedom back. No one at the ludus had told us that yet. Then I remembered just how very much money I’d been sold for. Good enough would have to be very good indeed.
The Decurion laughed at my stunned expression. “I’ll be back soon, on Caesar’s business,” he said. “Perhaps I might look in on your progress.”
“If it pleases you, Decurion,” I said, distracted.
“It would.” He hitched his cloak higher on his shoulder. “My curious mind and all. Also . . . another thing that would please me is if—when it’s just the two of us together—I’d like it very much if you would call me Caius instead of Decurion. Or better yet, Cai.”
I thought about how very unlikely it was that we’d find ourselves in such circumstances again. “As you wish . . . Cai.”
A moment of silence stretched between us, and then he sighed heavily.
“What?” I blinked at him.
“That’s the part where you’re supposed to say: ‘And you can call me . . .’”
I hesitated for a moment.
“Fallon.”
Cai smiled. A slow, inward-turning smile, like he’d just learned a secret. “Be well, Fallon,” he said. “Be careful. And tomorrow . . . try tucking in your chin and imagine breathing all the way down your arms, right out the ends of your fingertips and into your swords. Let go. Relax into the work instead of fighting through it.”
Shaking my head, I watched him mount his horse and ride off in a haze of dust. Sound advice, maybe, but it seemed to me that there was far too much fighting ahead for me to ever think about letting go.
XVII