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T he sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, casting eerie shadows across the desolate training grounds. Within the barracks, most had retired to the sleeping quarters. A few slaves on late kitchen duty still scurried about, but out in the arena, it was silent save for the faint sounds of night birds and insects. The scent of blood and sweat hung in the air, a reminder of the day's brutal training session.

I had left Marcus and returned to the arena, too angry and frustrated to sleep. I wasn’t going to be deterred from this path. I would train, I would learn to fight and to kill, and I would one day get my revenge on those who had ripped my entire family from me. Now, though, I stood alone, my hands calloused and blistered from the last hour of relentless practice. A wooden practice sword hung loosely from one hand as I fought to catch my breath. My muscles ached from a day of hard labour, but I refused to let exhaustion win.

It wasn't hard to drive all thoughts of sleep from my mind. With each swing of my wooden sword, I envisioned the faces of those who had mercilessly slaughtered my family, fueling my determination. It was what made me rise two hours before the other slaves every day, stretching my body and going through my sword forms over and over again until the sun rose.

Sometimes Septimus would join me, and despite his strong dislike for me, I was a willing partner and we'd spar until my free time was over and I had to make for the kitchens to help serve the morning meal. At night though, I merely had to wait until the place was deserted and I could train as long as my body would let me. After today's work and training, I was ready to rest, but my mind wouldn't give in just yet.

My thoughts drifted back to that fateful day when my world was shattered. The smell of smoke still lingered in my nostrils, as did the sickening scent of blood. They had arrived without warning, torches blazing and swords gleaming under the moonlight - the emperor's legion, ruthless and unyielding. I had watched helplessly as my brother had been cut down in front of me, and when I closed my eyes I could still see the swaying bodies of my parents, ripped and brutalised by those who had sworn to protect us. Their imagined screams haunted my dreams, a constant reminder of the life that had been stolen from me.

I remembered the first time I had witnessed a gladiatorial match, the raw power and grace of the warriors as they fought for their lives. A plan had begun to form in my mind, a plan that would see me standing victorious over those who had taken everything from me. I would become a gladiator, I would learn to fight and to kill, and I would earn my freedom, or find some way to take it for myself. I would go to the imperial city and I would find out who ordered the attack on my village, and who carried it out. And then I would kill them all.

"Through blood and steel, I will forge myself into the instrument of their destruction," I vowed, my resolve solidifying with each word, as it did each morning and night when I spoke those words, my promise to myself.

"Talking to yourself, Aurelius?" a deep voice called out, interrupting my concentration. I sighed as I turned to see Septimus approaching, his muscular frame silhouetted against the remaining oil lamps that gave the barest of light to the arena sands. The moon had risen and the pale light glinted off his dark brown hair and tanned brown skin, sculpted over the years from his training. In the ten years we’d lived at the arena, he’d grown from a skinny boy into an attractive man, though his dislike for me had never wavered, and I hated him just as I always had. Still, he was the one thing left from my past. He leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, observing me.

"Training alone again?" he asked, knowing all too well the answer.

My grip tightened around my sword, my knuckles turning white. Why did even the sound of his voice wind me up so much?

"Sometimes one must train alone where there are none worthy to face even in practice," I replied, fighting a smile.

Septimus grinned.

"I won’t fall for that one. I sparred with you only two days ago, and the hour is late."

I raised my eyebrows, swirling my sword in my hand to loosen the muscles as I goaded the trained killer before me.

"Off to bed already, Septimus? Age must be a terrible burden." In fairness, he was only two storms older than me, and most certainly in the prime of his fighting career, but it was fun to wind him up.

"I may be off to bed, but I have energy for things other than fighting and I am on my way to find a tasty little slave to accompany me."

I dropped into the third sword form, moving through the positions at half strength.

"I remember when you were more devoted to training than you were to your cock, Septimus."

"Ah but I achieved my goal. I am now a gladiator, and more than willing to accept the benefits of that accomplishment. Namely, food, rest and fucking. But, your commitment is adorable, Livia," Septimus said.

I scoffed, refusing to let his words get under my skin.

"Adorable? Your commitment to mediocrity is what's adorable, Septimus. I'm sure the crowds will be thrilled to watch you die in the arena because you were too busy chasing skirts to train properly."

Septimus let out a deep laugh, pushing off from the pillar and sauntering towards me.

"Big words from such a little girl. Tell me, how many matches have you won so far? Oh, that's right - none."

My jaw clenched as I fought to keep my composure.

"I've only just begun. Give it time, Septimus. You'll be eating those words soon enough. The day will come sooner than you think when I fight alongside you as an equal. Maybe I will be able to relax a little more and indulge in physical pleasure. Until then..." I finished form three with a flourish.

Septimus gave a sigh, and straightened up, reaching out to grab another training sword from the rack near where he stood.

"I suppose my cock can wait another hour or so. I’d hate to leave you out here alone. It’s just so sad."

"Oh, how generous of you," I sneered, but my heart raced with anticipation. Despite our mutual dislike, sparring with Septimus always pushed me to my limits.

He twirled the wooden sword with practiced ease, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

"Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. Wouldn't want to bruise that delicate skin of yours."

I scoffed, dropping into a fighting stance.

"Save your concern for yourself, you arrogant prick."

Without warning, Septimus lunged forward, his sword whistling through the air. I barely managed to parry the blow, the impact jarring my already tired arms. We circled each other, trading strikes and insults in equal measure.

"Is that all you've got?" I taunted, ducking under a vicious swing. "I've seen kitchen slaves with more skill."

"Big talk from someone who can barely hold a sword. Though of course, if you do not find me a worthy sparring partner, I can always go and find a more pleasurable partner."

I grinned.

"Not worthy, no. But sadly, my only option."

Septimus grinned back at me.

"Strength and skill," he said, echoing our arena's motto. I cocked my head.

"Strength and skill." And with that, he came at me.

For the next hour, we sparred under the moonlight, our wooden swords clashing like claps of thunder over the desert. My limbs trembled with exhaustion, and bruises bloomed across my skin, yet I refused to yield. The knowledge that every strike brought me closer to avenging my family fuelled my determination.

"You're improving," Septimus acknowledged during a brief break, concern etched upon his face. "But you need to pace yourself. You won't last long in the arena if you burn out before the fight even begins."

I ignored him. I didn't have the long hours of training he had, or the trainers or the multiple opponents so I could improve my technique. I had a limited amount of time in which to hone my skills, and rarely a sparring partner. I wasn't about to let the opportunity slip past without giving it my all.

Sweat dripped from my brow and mingled with the blood that trickled from a recent clout from Septimus's blade when I had failed to block cleanly. I ignored the stinging sensation and focused on Septimus.

"Again!" I demanded, tightening my grip on my sword. My muscles screamed in protest, but I pushed through the pain.

Septimus lunged forward, his movements swift and precise. The oppressive night air was thick with the scent of sweat as we exchanged blows, our grunts and the clash of our weapons echoing through the arena.

"Your footwork is improving," Septimus said between breaths. "But you're still dropping your shoulder when you strike."

I nodded, pausing for a moment to catch my breath. I had suspected as much myself.

"You alright, Livia?" he asked, lowering his sword.

I brought mine up, the blade at his throat before he could raise his to block me. He grinned.

"I'll take that as a yes."

He stepped back, forming a defensive stance and I went for him again, more conscious this time of my shoulder. We crossed blades once, then twice. Septimus swung at me, and I ducked, rewarding his slopping aim with a clout to the side of his head. If we'd been going at full force, I could have stunned him. As it was he merely shook his head and glared at me.

"Lucky shot," Septimus growled, rubbing the side of his head.

I smirked, twirling my sword.

"Luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe you're the one who needs more practice."

His eyes narrowed dangerously and he grinned.

"Oh, you're asking for it now."

He lunged forward with renewed vigor, his strikes coming faster and harder. I struggled to keep up, my arms trembling as I blocked blow after blow. Sweat stung my eyes, but I refused to back down.

"Come on, little girl," Septimus taunted. "Show me what you've got."

Gritting my teeth, I feinted left before pivoting right, aiming for his exposed flank. But Septimus was too quick. He sidestepped my attack and brought his sword down hard on my shoulder.

Pain exploded through my arm, and I stumbled back with a cry. My wooden sword clattered to the ground as I clutched my throbbing shoulder.

"Your progress has been remarkable," he said. "But there is still much to learn. Remember, the arena is not just about physical prowess; it's also a game of wits. And yours have always been just that little bit slow." He grinned down at me and I glared at him.

"Then I must sharpen my mind as well as my body," I said. "I need to get into the arena, Septimus. I don’t care what it takes. Maybe I should start a fight in the dining room?"

Septimus grinned. It had been how he had been noticed. He’d been a slave too for nine storms after we’d been bought by Drusus, and although he couldn’t stand me, he’d taken offence when one of the gladiators got very drunk and a bit too rough with me. It wasn't like I didn't know my place. I was there to be used by them as and when they liked, but they all knew that we were owned by Drusus and if we were recovering from harsh treatment, we couldn't work efficiently. This particular gladiator had been new, and hadn't known. He'd smacked me about a bit hard while fucking me over one of the dining tables, and Septimus had stepped in.

A fight had broken out between them, the slave and the gladiator, and the latter had ended up unconscious with two black eyes, a broken nose and shattered ribs. Septimus had been flogged for daring to attack a gladiator. Down six gladiators from the wasting sickness, Drusus had calculated his odds and a week later, when Septimus had recovered from his punishment, he'd been summoned to the arena and had begun his training.

"I wouldn't advise that. I don’t know why you still pursue this ridiculous dream, Livia. It’s going to get you killed. Stay where you are and stay safe.”

I laughed, as I followed him to return my weapon to the stand at the edge of the building, but it was hollow.

“Safe? I’ve been flogged twice this month already.”

“Because you can’t keep your smart mouth shut,” he snapped.

“And three weeks ago, Vizia died after one of Drusus’ investors decided to hit her so hard she blacked out and never woke up,” I retorted. I hadn’t liked the woman, but no one had deserved that.

“Every life has its risks,” muttered Septimus. “We’re slaves at the end of the day. But its still safer than going out into the arena and fighting for your life, Livia.”

“At least you get to fight for your life,” I argued. “You don’t have to just lie down and accept it.”

Septimus's face darkened.

"You think we have a choice out there? We're still slaves, Livia. We just die more spectacularly."

I shook my head, frustration boiling in my veins.

"At least you die on your feet, with a weapon in your hand. That's more than most of us get."

"Livia, listen to me. The arena isn't some grand adventure. It's brutal, it's merciless, and it breaks you down piece by piece. You don't understand what you're asking for."

I met his gaze, unflinching.

"I understand perfectly. It's you who doesn't get it, Septimus. I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees. And one day, I'll prove to you and everyone else that I belong in that arena."

Septimus ran a hand through his hair, exasperation clear on his face.

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told," I replied dryly. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t,” he said shortly. “Now go to bed. If Drusus sees you out here and not in your bed or someone else’s, you’ll have a third flogging to add to your monthly tally. Unless you’d like to accompany me to my bed? You’re probably the only slave still awake at the stupid hour.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes at Septimus' invitation.

"In your dreams, you arrogant arse. I'd sooner bed a rabid jackal."

He grinned, unfazed by my insult.

"Suit yourself. Your loss, really. I've been told I'm quite skilled in the bedchamber."

"By who? The sheep you practice on?" I shot back, unable to resist the urge to get in one last jab.

Septimus laughed, a warm, deep rumble that echoed through the empty arena.

“Good night, Livia.”

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that crashed over me as the gates to the arena creaked open. I gripped the rough wooden barrier in front of me, and my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. The sun hung low in the sky, casting the arena in a crimson haze. The sand below was dark with blood, churned into a mess by the fights that had come before this one. The air reeked of sweat and iron, thick and cloying, like it was trying to suffocate me.

It had been a month since I’d tried to convince Marcus to train me, and despite another two attempts, he was holding strong on his refusal. I’d continued to train on my own, sparring sometimes with Septimus, but Marcus wouldn’t even spar with me to test my abilities, and Septimus wouldn’t speak up for me either, still dead set on keeping me out of the arena. I hated both of them, but despite the hours I spent obsessing about my predicament while doing my chores, I still hadn’t come up with a better idea to convince Marcus to train me.

I was getting desperate, and had even considered trying to seduce Cato, the other trainer. The thought of going willingly to his bed was repulsive, but I would have done it if I’d believed for one second he’d actually keep his word. Cato couldn't be trusted though, everyone in the ludus knew that. At least bedding Marcus would have been enjoyable, even if it had led to nothing.

That was the other thing that was frustrating me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Ever since the idea of seducing him had occurred to me, it was like I’d become more aware of his presence. I noticed stupid details, like how he laced his sandals in a slightly different style, or when he’d shaved his head recently. I noticed whenever he spoke to any of the female slaves, and I hated that. Tonight, when Marcus stepped into the arena with the others, my breath caught.

They entered together, a line of seven, each one a towering presence—Marcus in the center, his broad shoulders set and his expression unreadable as always. The bronze gladius in his hand gleamed in the dying light, and his bare chest, crisscrossed with scars, made him look like something carved from stone. He walked like the battle had already been won, like the carnage he was about to face was nothing more than another task to endure, and yet there was a greyish cast to his skin and a brightness to his eyes that worried me. Two other gladiators were down with a high fever that had concerned Drusus so much, he’d actually paid for a healer. I sent a quick prayer to the gods that Marcus had not been struck down by it. To Marcus’s left was Septimus, tall and wiry, his movements always sharp and precise, like a blade being drawn. Antonius and Vaius flanked him, their camaraderie plain even in the way they moved together, their steps in sync. Tarsus, the largest of them, carried a massive war hammer over his shoulder, his sheer size enough to make the crowd cheer as if they could already see him smashing his enemies to the ground.

Then came Maro, a slave from the northern territories, his skin paler than ours. He was as much of a bully as Cato, but he didn’t have the strength or rank to back him up. You didn't turn your back on him, if he had it in for you. And then there was Cato.

I tightened my grip on the wall as my eyes flicked to him, my stomach twisting. He strode toward the center of the arena with an arrogance that set him apart from the others, his lips curled in a faint smirk like he was already imagining the blood he’d spill. His gladius swung lazily at his side, his posture too loose, too casual.

I didn’t trust Cato. I never had. He was cruel, even by gladiator standards, and I’d seen him push others—smaller, weaker men—beyond what was necessary during training. I’d seen the way he looked at the slaves, the way his smile sharpened when someone flinched. He liked inflicting pain, and the slaves that went to his bed rarely came back without injury. He was a bully, plain and simple, and I hated how easily he hid it behind his charm when Drusus or the trainers were around.

But none of that mattered now. In the arena, they had to work as one if they wanted to survive.

Marcus stood at the center of them all, his gaze flicking to the far gate. He was already sizing up their opponents before they even stepped into the sunlight. Marcus always knew what was coming. The far gate creaked open, and the opposing gladiators emerged, one by one. My stomach turned to lead.

They weren’t like the others I’d seen — the ones who’d been little more than fodder, clumsy and ill-prepared. These men moved with purpose. Their armor was scraped and battered, but it was high quality, and there was no mistaking the way they carried themselves. These weren’t slaves thrown into the arena for punishment. These were killers, trained and disciplined.

I felt the air shift around me, the tension in the crowd rising as the two groups faced off. Marcus’s team fanned out, forming a loose line in the sand, their weapons gleaming even in the low light. Marcus stood steady in the center, his stance composed, his gladius ready but relaxed.

Cato, of course, couldn’t resist stepping forward slightly, as if to draw attention to himself. My jaw clenched. If anyone was going to break rank, it would be him.

Marcus turned and bowed towards Drusus.

“Glory and long life to the Emperor,” he shouted. The crowd responded enthusiastically, and the horns sounded.

The world seemed to explode as the two sides clashed.

The clang of metal on metal rang through the air as the two sides collided, the sound sharp and violent in contrast to the roar of the crowd. The fighters moved like wolves, circling and striking, their weapons flashing in the low sunlight.

My eyes never left Marcus. He fought with the calm efficiency I had seen so many times in training, every movement precise, every strike deliberate. He blocked a heavy blow from a man twice his size, his gladius flashing up to deflect the sword meant for his neck. A quick step to the side, and his opponent was exposed. Marcus’s blade sliced through him with a single, clean strike.

The man crumpled to the sand, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

But Marcus didn’t stop to revel in the victory. He moved on, his focus already shifting to the next threat.

Next to him, Septimus fought with a ferocity that belied his lean frame. He was fast—faster than anyone else in the ludus. His gladius blurred as he darted in and out of the fray, striking and retreating before his opponents could retaliate. Antonius and Vaius fought back-to-back, their movements perfectly coordinated, each one covering the other’s blind spots.

Tarsus was a towering force, his massive war hammer swinging through the air with devastating strength. He caught one of the opposing gladiators in the chest, the sound of the impact audible even over the roar of the crowd. The man was flung back, landing in a heap in the sand.

Maro held his ground surprisingly well for someone so young, though I could see the strain in his movements. He was holding his shield up too high, and his strikes were hesitant, but he kept moving, kept fighting.

Cato cut through his opponents like a scythe. I hated how good he was. He fought with an ease that made it clear he enjoyed this, his smirk never leaving his face as he toyed with his opponent. He dodged and parried like it was nothing, his strikes cruelly precise. When his opponent faltered for a moment, Cato didn’t deliver a clean killing blow like Marcus or Septimus would have. Instead, he dragged it out, slicing the man repeatedly, letting him bleed out slowly while the crowd roared for more.

My stomach churned, but I forced myself to keep watching.

The fight was brutal, both sides evenly matched. For every opponent one of Marcus’s team brought down, another stepped forward. The sand became slippery with blood, and bodies began to litter the arena floor.

I watched, smiling as Marcus had disarmed one of the opposing gladiators, his gladius slicing the man’s weapon from his hand and sending it spinning into the sand. But before Marcus could finish him, another fighter came at him from the side, swinging a heavy mace. Marcus raised his shield, the mace colliding with it in a deafening crash. The force of the blow sent him staggering back, his shield arm hanging limp for a moment.

I gripped the wall tighter, my heart in my throat. Marcus recovered quickly, sidestepping another strike from the mace, but the gladius in his hand was knocked loose in the chaos. It hit the sand with a dull thud, just out of reach. He was disarmed.

My breath caught as I watched him step back, his eyes scanning the arena. He was calculating, looking for an opening, for a weapon, for anything that could turn the tide. But the two fighters closing in on him weren’t going to give him time to think.

I looked around desperately, my pulse racing. Antonius and Vaius were too far away, locked in their own battle. Septimus had just brought down another opponent, but he was surrounded, fighting off two more. Tarsus was shielding Maro, the younger man’s inexperience leaving him vulnerable. And Cato—Cato was standing back, watching Marcus with that same damn smirk on his face, making no move to help.

That bastard.

The crowd was roaring louder now, sensing blood. The two fighters stalking Marcus circled him like wolves, their weapons poised to strike. Marcus’s gaze flicked to his gladius, but it was too far away.

He was going to die, and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. My body moved on its own, driven by something I couldn’t explain.

I vaulted over the wall, my feet hitting the sand hard, the impact jolting through my legs. For a moment, the roar of the crowd faltered, replaced by a collective gasp as they noticed me - a slave girl in a plain tunic, standing in the middle of the blood-soaked arena.

Marcus’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with shock.

“Livia, no!”