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I f the gods were testing my patience, they’d chosen a cruel way to do it. I’d spent the last week nursing Marcus back from the edge of death, but he was stubborn, even in his fevered delirium, thrashing against unseen enemies in his dreams and muttering commands to men who weren’t there. Most nights, he lay drenched in sweat, his body burning so hot I thought he might burst into flames. I had to fight him just to get him to drink water or keep the damp cloth pressed to his forehead. And yet, I hadn’t left him.

I told myself it was because there was no one else to do it. The other house slaves were occupied with their duties, nursing the four other gladiators who had caught the fever too. Drusus wouldn’t pay for a healer—not for slaves. Two had already died from it, and it was clear that to Drusus, the gladiators were more valuable dead on the sand than alive in bed. It was a sharp reminder of what we were worth, but I refused to let Marcus succumb to this. He was a warrior. He deserved to die in glory on the sand, not in his bed. That was what I told myself, but as I sat at his bedside that morning, carefully spooning broth into his mouth, I couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. This was more than kindness.

His fever had broken two nights ago, and though he was still weak, the color had returned to his face. His breathing was steady now, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had become strangely comforting to me. I should have been relieved, but instead, I found myself lingering in his room longer than I needed to.

Even now, as I pressed the edge of the bowl to his lips, I couldn’t stop my gaze from wandering over him. His dark hair was growing back in patchy stubble on both his head and his face, his cheeks were hollowed, and his eyes still looked a little sunken. He looked younger like this—vulnerable, almost—but I knew better. Marcus was anything but vulnerable. Even in his weakened state, there was a strength to him that was impossible to ignore.

“Eat,” I said firmly, tilting the bowl slightly as he took another sip of the broth.

He gave me a look that was half irritation, half resignation, but he obeyed.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” he muttered, his voice rasping like sandpaper.

“No,” I replied, arching an eyebrow. “You’re a fool. And fools who fight with fever burning through their veins end up dead in the sand.” He glared at me, though it lacked any real heat.

“And here I thought you’d say something kind, like, ‘You’re strong, Marcus, a true hero.’ But no, just insults.”

“If you wanted flattery, you should’ve picked a healer who’s nicer than me,” I shot back, smirking as I set the bowl down on the small wooden table beside his bed.

“Clearly,” he muttered, though his lips twitched with amusement. “Remind me to request someone else next time.” I crossed my arms, leaning back slightly.

“Next time, maybe don’t get yourself nearly killed in the arena while you’re half-dead with fever.” His smile grew wider, and there was a glint of humor in his tired eyes.

“Ah, there it is. The lecture. I was afraid I’d missed it.”

“Someone has to keep you in line,” I quipped. “Clearly, you’re not capable of doing it yourself.”

He chuckled softly, though it turned into a cough that made me instantly regret teasing him. I reached for the cup of water on the table and handed it to him without a word.

He took it, his fingers brushing against mine briefly, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

I nodded, my throat suddenly tight, and busied myself with adjusting the blanket over him. It was a pointless task—he wasn’t cold, and the blanket wasn’t out of place—but it gave me something to do, something to focus on other than the weight of his gaze.

“You’ll need to eat more than broth soon,” I said after a moment, forcing my tone to stay brisk. “I’ll see if I can get something from the kitchen later.”

He sank back against the pillow, sighing as though the effort of conversation had worn him out. “You don’t need to keep doing this,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re alive because I’ve been shoving broth and water into you for the past seven days, and I’m not about to let all that work go to waste.” His lips curved into a faint smile.

“You’re relentless.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied dryly, though my heart skipped at the warmth in his voice. I turned toward the door, ready to leave before I let myself linger too long, but his voice stopped me.

“Livia.”

I glanced back, one hand resting on the doorframe.

“What?”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly as though he were debating whether to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question caught me off guard, though I should have seen it coming.

“Because someone had to,” I said simply, though the words felt hollow even as I said them. He didn’t look convinced.

“You’ve hardly left this room all week. Don’t tell me it’s because you felt obligated. You don’t owe me anything.”

I hesitated, glancing down at the floor.

“Maybe I don’t,” I said softly. “But I wasn’t going to let you die, either.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, I thought he might press the issue further. Instead, he shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position.

“What about before?” he asked suddenly. “Before the ludus . Where were you from?”

I blinked, surprised by the shift in conversation.

“Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged, though the motion was awkward and stiff.

“You spent a week keeping me alive. The least I can do is get to know the person who saved my sorry hide.”

I smiled faintly, though the memories his question stirred weren’t pleasant ones.

“A village,” I said after a moment. “A few hours’ ride from here. It feels like another life.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“You told me your parents and brother were killed.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice quieter now. “There was a raid. I was just a child.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, and somehow, the sincerity in his voice made the words sting more than they should have.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Was Septimus from the same village?”

I stiffened slightly, though I kept my voice even.

“He was.”

Marcus’s expression darkened, and I could see the soldier in him rising to the surface.

“The Talfen have caused so much destruction and anguish in our lands. One day they will pay, Livia."

I nodded, though I didn’t speak. Let him assume what he wanted. He sat back slightly, his jaw tightening.

“I’ve fought them before. Raided their camps. They’re ruthless, but their sorcerers are worse.”

I frowned, curious despite myself.

“Sorcerers?”

He nodded grimly.

“They manipulate shadows. Dark magic. I’ve seen men held by invisible hands, unable to move, while the Talfen warriors cut them down.”

A shiver ran down my spine, though I wasn’t sure if it was from his words or the memory of shadows that felt far too close to home.

“And you fought them?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“Many times,” he said, his tone heavy. “The Empire doesn’t forgive defiance.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing, letting the silence stretch between us.

Finally, he broke it with a faint smile.

“You’ve been here all night, haven’t you?”

I shrugged, brushing off the question.

“You’re not the easiest patient to leave alone.”

He chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with weariness.

“Go,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Get some rest before you collapse, too.”

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Fine. But I’ll be back with more broth later.”

He smirked faintly.

“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”

I rolled my eyes and stepped out of the room, but my heart felt lighter than it had in days. At least for now. Once Marcus found out what I was planning to do, I didn't think he'd be quite so nice to me.

"Livia."

The voice stopped me cold.

I turned to see Septimus leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Despite the early hour, sweat already gleamed on his skin – he'd been training alone again, as he often did before dawn.

"Spending a lot of time with Marcus lately," he said, his voice deceptively casual. "Too busy playing nurse to practice?"

I lifted my chin. "He was sick. Someone had to take care of him."

"And here I thought you were serious about learning to fight." He pushed off the wall, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. "Three nights you've missed training. Getting soft already?"

"I didn't realize you counted the days," I said, watching the muscle tick in his jaw. "Missing me that much?"

His eyes darkened. "Missing the chance to knock you into the dirt, maybe." But there was something else in his voice, something that made my skin prickle with awareness.

"Well, I'm here now," I said, gesturing to the training yard. "Unless you're too tired from your morning routine?"

"You've got a sharp tongue for someone who still can't block a basic thrust," he said, but I caught the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Our nightly sparring sessions had become something of a ritual, though neither of us would admit to looking forward to them.

"I blocked you well enough last week," I shot back. "Or have you forgotten who ended up in the dirt?"

"One lucky move doesn't make you a warrior." He stepped closer, and I caught the familiar scent of leather and sweat that always clung to him. "Speaking of luck – that little stunt in the arena. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking Marcus was about to die."

Something flashed in his eyes – anger, definitely, but there was something else too. Something that looked almost like pain.

"And you thought throwing yourself between him and a blade was the answer?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"It was stupid," he growled, closing the distance between us. "Reckless. You could have—" He caught himself, jaw clenching. "Your brother would have—"

"Don't," I warned. "Don't you dare use him against me."

Septimus ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking tired.

"You think Marcus sees you clearly? Sees what you're really after?"

"You don't know anything about Marcus and me."

"Don't I?" His laugh was harsh. "I've seen how he looks at you. How he—" He broke off, turning away. "Tonight. After supper. Don't be late."

"Why do you still train with me, Septimus?" I asked quietly. "Really?"

He was silent for a long moment, his back to me.

"Because you're going to get yourself killed if someone doesn't teach you properly." He glanced over his shoulder. "The arena isn't a game, Livia. It's not glory or honor or whatever fantasy Marcus has put in your head. It's death. Simple as that."

"My path is my own to choose," I said firmly.

"Then choose it," he said, his voice rough. "But do it with your eyes open. Tonight, I'll show you what real fighting looks like. No holding back."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You've been holding back?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar smirk that always made my blood heat.

"Wouldn't want to bruise that pretty face Marcus seems so fond of."

"Jealous?" The word slipped out before I could stop it.

His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackled with something dangerous and electric. Then he smiled, sharp as a blade.

"Of Marcus? Please. I just hate to see talent wasted on someone who can't appreciate it."

"Tonight then," I said, trying to ignore the way my heart was racing. "Try to keep up."

"Just remember," he called as I turned to leave, "the dead don't care about revenge, Livia. But the living?" He paused, and I could feel his eyes on me. "The living care about more than they should."

His words followed me across the courtyard, and I had to resist the urge to look back – to see if he was still watching. Gods, but he was insufferable. That smug smile, the way he looked down at me like I was still the same foolish girl from our village. As if he hadn't spent the last ten years teaching me to fight in hidden corners of the ludus.

I rubbed my arm where a bruise from our last session was finally fading. Septimus never truly held back, despite what he claimed. Each night ended with new aches, new bruises, and that familiar mix of frustration and grudging respect. He was good – I'd give him that much. Years in the arena had honed him into something deadly, all controlled power and fluid grace. But he didn't need to be such an ass about it.

I kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the packed dirt. The way he'd talked about Marcus made my blood boil. As if he had any right to judge, to question my choices. As if he knew anything about Marcus.

Still... I needed him. At least for now. Marcus might have been my original plan for getting into the arena, but I had a backup. I just really didn't want to use it. It certainly wasn't a guarantee, but on the chance it did work, I wouldn't need to train with Septimus anymore. Not on our own, anyway. The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it left an odd hollow feeling in my chest that I refused to examine too closely. Pushing the thought away, I headed into the main quarters and towards the kitchen. I might have sat up all night with Marcus, but now I needed to show up for my duties the same as every other day. Then I'd make sure Marcus was fed and comfortable before training with Septimus tonight, and after that, I could sleep.

I was back up and out on the sand before the sun rose. My body ached from training the night before and to be honest, it had been pretty difficult to haul myself off my blankets. Everything was stiff and in pain and I'd had to go through an extra round of stretching before I even considered picking up a sword.

I began running through the nine sword forms, starting with the easiest one and moving through each form until I reached the hardest ones. From an untrained spectator's eye, it might seem as though the sword forms were a kind of dance. To move with your blade, attacking, blocking, giving and regaining ground against imaginary opponents, but at full strength and against opponents, each form, or section of it could prove deadly. I'd often wondered if the legionaries used them in actual battle, or if there were more appropriate tactics, but no one would tell me. As far as I was concerned, the forms were a series of sword and body movements that had been used for generations, and they were not to be questioned.

I very quickly fell into the rhythm of the forms, my body remembering every step. As I moved, I began to lose track of time. No other gladiators were up and about yet, and as the sun rose higher in the sky and I moved through my forms, my pain forgotten and replaced by an almost trance-like state. It was a pleasant feeling, being in the moment, moving with the blade, feeling the sweat drip down my face. My clothes were soaked with it, and as I began to run through the more difficult forms, I really felt as though it was just me and the sand, and the air.

I lost myself in the movements, just as I had been taught to. In a way, I suppose I did feel as though I was truly free. I was sweating and aching and my muscles were screaming, but there was a part of me that was happy. I knew I was a slave, that my life was not my own and that I was totally owned by Drusus, but when I picked up a sword, I didn't see myself as an object, or the property of Drusus. I was just me, Livia.

Today though, there was a tremor of nervousness that even the sword forms couldn't shake from my body. Today I was going to face one of the other gladiators in the arena. Today I was going to prove I belonged with them. Sadly, I needed one of the trainers to agree to take me on. Marcus had repeatedly refused me, so that left me Cato, and I really wasn't looking forward to being in his debt.

Cato was cruel and sadistic, and he hated me. When he’d arrived at the arena a couple of years ago, he’d taken Octavia after a fight one night, bending her over the table in the dining hall. We were used to a few of the guys being rough, but he’d choked her so hard she’d blacked out, and had just kept going. I had yelled at him, and then slapped him round the face to make him stop. His returning blow had sent me flying, but thankfully he’d let go of her throat, and able to breathe again, Octavia had come around. My intervention had earned me a flogging and reduced rations at meal times for a month. Cato had been the one to administer the punishment and he’d definitely got off on seeing the blood running down my back at his hand. Since then I had avoided him, but our hatred was mutual.

I had watched him in the arena and the younger gladiators were terrified of him. He was an out and out bully. He liked having power over others and took advantage of it. He was a sadist, no doubt about it. He loved to watch the gladiators sweat and he would get off on their pain. He liked to see them hurt and would often punish them for no reason other than his own amusement. I had seen him beat a gladiator for no better reason than because the man had dared to look at him. This was the man I had to convince I was worth training. I just hoped I lived through it.

I ran through the last form, my body was aching and my muscles were tired, but there was also a strange sense of joy. I'd done it. I'd done all nine of them. I took a deep breath, trying to get some air into my lungs. I was sweating and breathing hard and my legs felt as though they were going to crumple under me. I leaned against the wooden fence, slowing my breathing. I had maybe a few minutes before I'd be needed inside, and I wiped at my face with a clean rag. If I could hurry through my morning chores and be out here after midmeal, I could make it back before the rest of the gladiators made it into the arena for training.

I entered the gladiators barracks, my skin still damp with sweat and headed to the kitchens to pick up my rations. It wasn't much, a small bowl of gruel made with goat's milk and dried oats. It was bland and tasteless, but it gave me energy, and I ate it all. I was working in the barracks this morning, and moved as quickly as I could through the tasks. The gladiators’ beds all needed stripping and remaking with clean coarse linen sheets as they ate their morning meal. I piled the dirty ones in the corner, wrinkling my nose at the stench of sweat and other odours that I didn't want to guess at. I was just thankful that I wasn't on laundry duty. That was hot and heavy work, and the day was already heating up. Even here in the barracks the air was humid and a fine sheen of sweat covered my skin.

I swept the floor, shovelling out the dirty grass, and fetching a sack of fresh, strewing it over the dirt floor to keep it smelling a little better in each room. Water in the wash basins needed emptying, and the seats in the latrines needed cleaning down. I was hot, dirty and tired by the time I’d finished, but I was done.

I headed back towards the arena sand. A few of the gladiators had already arrived, but not many. The general chatter faded as I approached and Cato turned around to see what they were looking at.

"What are you doing here, girl?"

I held my head high and returned his hard look. "I've come to train."

The gladiators burst into laughter, and I caught sight of Septimus coming out of the barracks out of the corner of my eye. He wasn’t laughing, but he didn’t look happy either.

Cato gave a harsh laugh. "Fight? You? I appreciate the humour girl, but you're holding up my training session."

"I'm not being humorous," I insisted. "I want to train. I want to fight."

Cato narrowed his eyes, sizing me up. "Fine," he finally said. "You want to train? You'll train with me." He gestured to one of the gladiators. "Give her your sword."

My heart sank. I thought he'd pair me with one of the other gladiators, not take me on himself. I swallowed hard, trying to keep the fear from my face. I took up my wooden sword, feeling the weight of it in my hand and stood opposite Cato. I could feel the eyes of the other gladiators on me, watching to see what would happen. Cato raised his own sword and lunged at me. I barely managed to block in time, the impact jarring my arms.

"You're too slow," Cato sneered. "You'll need to be faster if you want to survive in the arena."

I gritted my teeth and focused on my movements, trying to anticipate Cato's attacks. We circled each other, our swords clashing again and again. I attacked back, but he easily deflected my blows. I was outmatched, outclassed, and out of my depth. Sweat dripped down my face and my arms were starting to ache, but I refused to give up.

Cato's next attack was too fast for me to block, and his wooden sword hit me hard in the chest. I stumbled backwards, gasping for breath. Cato approached, a cruel smile on his face.

"Come on, girl," he taunted. "Is that all you've got?"

I felt a surge of anger, and before I could think, I lunged at him, my sword aimed at his chest. Cato easily dodged, and I stumbled past him, off-balance. He took advantage of my mistake, hitting me hard on the back with the flat of his sword.

I fell to my knees under the weight of the blow, gasping for breath and the gladiators laughed. My hand tightened around my sword grip, and I pushed myself up. Before I could get up, I felt the flat of Cato's blade hit me across the stomach, sending me backwards, flat on my back, my head slamming back against the hard packed sand.

My vision blurred, but my anger rose. He wasn't even fighting me properly, he was just trying to humiliate me. There was a blur as his sword came down, but I rolled to the side and scrambled to my feet. I managed two more blocks, before his blade came down on my arm, sending a sharp pain down it, the blade tumbling useless from my fingers. Cato stepped forward, reaching behind me to grab a handful of my hair. He yanked my head back painfully, bending me backwards, and ran the tip of his blade up from my belly to my ribcage. If he'd been holding a real blade, he would have slid it home through the soft parts, up underneath my ribs to pierce my organs. Instead he held me in place.

Cato leaned in close, but everyone around us could hear his words.

"You are not worthy to walk these sands. You are not worthy to hold even a wooden blade."

I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the pain that spread throughout my body. Cato's hold on my hair was tight, but I refused to let him see me break. I glared up at him, meeting his gaze with a fiery determination.

"You're wrong," I said through gritted teeth. "I am worthy."

He shook his head, and without warning, Cato released me, and I stumbled forward, catching myself on my hands and knees. I heard the gladiators laughing again, but I ignored them. A foot connected hard with my ass and I fell forward onto the sand.

"Get out of my sight," hissed Cato. "And stop wasting my time, before I show you what you are good for in front of everyone. Go."

I scrambled to my feet, my face burning from the humiliation, and without another word, I went.