The Left Hand of Calvus

by L. A. Witt

  “I don’t think so,” I reply as he continues trying to fight for an advantage. I tighten my arm around his neck. Iovita chokes and sputters, struggling under me.

  Then he shifts to one side, freeing one of his arms, and I realize too late he’s gotten hold of the weapon again. He swings it back at me, the blade glinting as it narrowly misses my elbow.

  Quickly, I wrap my arm around his head and jerk it to the side. With a sickening crunch, Iovita stills, and then goes limp.

  Panting, heart pounding, I scramble up off him. There’s no one around, no one who might have seen or heard, so I get as far from his body as I can, hurrying out of the other end of the alley, then make my way through the streets until I’m a safe distance from Iovita’s body and hidden behind a row of crumbling apartments.

  Once I’m certain I’m alone, I stop to catch my breath.

  What was Iovita’s intent? Kill Verina? Kill both Verina and Drusus? And did Calvus send him in? For that matter, if there are others, am I the only one tasked with collecting information? Who else has orders to kill? And why don’t I have those orders? Or perhaps I just don’t have them yet?

  And how long, I wonder with a shudder, before word gets back to Calvus that one of his men within the ludus—assuming Iovita was one of Calvus’s men—is dead? Then what?

  What happens to Verina? To Drusus? To me?

  If there’s one man within the familia interested in doing harm to Verina, then there are likely more. Perhaps others who were ordered only to gather information, as well as those ordered to kill. Presumably they’re working for Calvus just as I am. Who else would have any interest in Verina or her affairs? I have to warn Drusus, even if I’ll rouse suspicion when I see him alone again. I have to warn Drusus, even though any move I make now, especially with Iovita dead, will only deepen the familia’s suspicions.

  I have no choice. None of the other men in the familia can be trusted. Drusus and Verina are in danger. Threats be damned, I have to warn him.

  “Saevius, what’s the matter with you?” Titus picks up my sword off the ground and hands it to me hilt-first. “This is why you don’t stop your training for days at a time, you fool. You’re going to wind up in the pit if Drusus sees you fight like that.”

  “If I live long enough to go to the pit,” I mutter. I returned shortly after my encounter with Iovita this morning, and it’s now well past noon. Drusus hasn’t yet returned. To avoid rousing suspicions, I rejoined the men in the training yard as soon as I came back, but I’m worried now. I need to speak to Drusus and soon.

  Titus taps his sword against his shield. “Come on, now. Let’s try this again, maybe without fighting like a woman?”

  “Like a woman?” I scoff and assume my defensive stance. “You’re asking to lose a limb, lad.”

  He takes his stance as well and gestures at me with his shield. “I’d like to see you try.”

  We begin another match, but we’ve barely put blade to blade when the squeak of the gates on their hinges turns both our heads.

  A stranger strolls in. From behind him, one of the guards gestures at a novice gladiator. “Get the master at once. Go!”

  The novice sprints across the yard and disappears around a corner. Moments later, he returns, barely keeping up with Drusus and his pair of massive bodyguards.

  My heart jumps. Gods, he’s here? When did he come back?

  “You Drusus?” the stranger asks.

  “I am,” Drusus replies, folding his arms across his breastplate. “Who wants to know?”

  “Just dropping off something that belongs to you.” He turns toward the gate and whistles. Immediately, a slave jogs into the yard, pulling a cart, and my throat tightens around my breath.

  Heads turn and bouts stop, and as weapons fall silent, the only sound is the creaking of the wagon’s wheels.

  And the buzzing of the flies swarming above the wagon.

  The slave lifts the cart’s shafts, and the body tumbles out along with some filthy straw, head lolling on its broken neck as it hits the ground in a cloud of dust.

  “Tag says it’s yours,” the undertaker says. The slave unceremoniously shoves the body all the way off the cart with his foot, then rights the cart. As they turn to go, the undertaker says, “Good day, sir.”

  “What?” Drusus gestures at the body. “You’re just going to dump a corpse in my training yard?”

  The man shrugs. “Doing my job. Tag says he belongs to you, so he’s your problem now.” To his slave, he says, “Come.”

  The wagon wheels creak and groan, and the undertaker and his slave leave as flies swarm around the body.

  Drusus curses at the man’s back. Then he looks at the body and gestures sharply at one of his bodyguards. “Put him on his back so I can see who this fool is.”

  The bodyguard rolls the man over, and I’m sure I’m the only man in the yard not surprised to see Iovita staring sightlessly at the sky.

  My heart is in my throat. My knees are on the verge of shaking from panic. Drusus knows. The men know. Time is short, too short, and there’s no way to know how much danger Drusus is in. No time to wait. He has to be warned.

  Unaware of the danger, Drusus nudges the body with his foot. “Must it be an auctoratus?” he grumbles. “Expensive fuckers . . .” He snaps his finger at one of the trainers. “Get three of your men to take him outside the walls and burn him somewhere downwind.” He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face. “Quickly. Before the fucking flies get any worse.”

  As ordered, three of the men pick up Iovita’s corpse and take him out of the training yard.

  Drusus looks over the gathered crowd. “What? You’ve all seen dead men before. Back to your training before you join him.”

  We all immediately return to our sparring. Curse it, what do I do now? Any move to speak with Drusus in private will draw attention and ultimately get me killed. Now that the men know of Iovita’s death, there may be even less time, depending on how many others are involved.

  Worse, Drusus remains in the training yard, strolling from one pair of men to the next with his bodyguards behind him. There’s no discreetly approaching him. Not out here. And the gods only know how much time I have before someone else makes a move.

  He’s coming this way, and he’ll be near Titus and me soon, and damn it, I can’t concentrate. Not with the things I know. And, for that matter, the things I don’t know.

  Iovita is dealt with, but he might not have been working alone. My gaze shifts around the yard. Philosir leans on the water trough, watching two of the novices practice with wooden shields. A few paces from him, Quintus and Lucius spar furiously, their sandaled feet kicking up a swarm of yellow dust. Do I have any reason to suspect them in particular? Drusus once pulled us all aside because we’re auctorati, but is there a reason to be suspicious of them over the other men? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  All I do know is that Iovita tried to kill Verina and quite possibly Drusus. Like an insect bite, the information itches. I need to tell him.

  There are too many men nearby now. If I ask to see him when Iovita’s body hasn’t even been burned yet, they will know. Or they’ll suspect enough to slit my throat just to be sure whatever dealings I have with Drusus are no threat to the familia.

  My match with Titus ends. He bows out to rest, and I look down at the weapon in my hand. Then at the lanista wandering the yard and watching men spar. My stomach twists with nerves, my heart pounds with uncertainty, but my options—and time—are far too limited to try anything else.

  “Sikandar,” I call to the massive Parthian as he waits for his own sparring partner to return from the water trough. I gesture with the wooden sword. “Spar with me.”

  “You’re on.” He picks up his weapon and shield, and joins me in the circle.

  I’m not paying attention to Sikandar, though. Training puts my sword and shield where they need to be to protect myself, but I only attack enough to keep him at bay, not take him down. My concen
tration is on Drusus and the narrowing distance between us as he wanders the training yard. He’s coming closer, probably heading over to speak to one of the other trainers or to check on the men burning Iovita.

  I count Drusus’s steps. Time slows.

  I curl my right fist at my side.

  Drusus is near. Nearer. Nearer still.

  Now!

  Without warning or hesitation, I drop my sword, lunge forward, and swing my fist into Sikandar’s face.

  “What the—” Sikandar stumbles back, but he recovers quickly and retaliates. He takes me to the ground, and we grapple in the sand, fists and curses flying. He hits my jaw, and the pain briefly blurs my vision, but I keep fighting. All around us, feet scramble on dirt, and shouting men close in on us from all directions. I roll Sikandar onto his back and ready my fist to hit him again, but huge hands drag me to my feet.

  From beside me, Drusus shouts, “What is going on here? What in the name of—”

  I wrench free from the man holding me, spin toward the sound of his voice, and swing my fist.

  It connects with his face.

  Every man in the yard sucks in a collective breath, and time slows as Drusus flies backward.

  Before he’s even hit the dusty ground, I’m tackled by men the size of bulls. Their combined weight forces the air from my lungs as we land on the ground, and a cool, sharp edge bites into my throat.

  “Stop!” Drusus commands. The men on top of me freeze. The blade is at my throat, I’m pinned, but no one moves. I swear all of Pompeii is deathly still.

  Sikandar offers Drusus a hand to help him to his feet. Ignoring him, Drusus wipes blood from his nose. Spits more into the dust. Looks at me with cold death in his eyes.

  “Are you all right, Dominus?” Sikandar asks.

  “I’m fine,” Drusus snaps. Arabo also offers him a hand, but the lanista rises on his own. As he dusts himself off, he glares at me. Then he spits in the sand and says, “Hasdrubal, Sikandar. Take him to the pit. Now. Before I kill him right here in the yard.” Without a word, Sikandar and Hasdrubal haul me to my feet and lead me out of the training yard. I don’t have to look to know every gladiator and trainer is staring, probably wondering if I’ve lost my damned mind. Or if I’ve just gotten every last one of us killed.

  As soon as we’re out of the training yard, Sikandar digs his fingers into my arm. “Are you mad?” he whispers harshly. “You’re lucky he doesn’t crucify you right in the training yard.”

  “You’re lucky we don’t,” Hasdrubal growls. “You fucking fool, you’re—”

  “The responsibility is mine,” I say flatly.

  “That won’t stop Drusus from killing all of us.” Sikandar tightens his grip on my arm. “If the master doesn’t kill you for this, you would be wise to watch your back.”

  “I’ve watched my back since the day I came here.” I keep my words terse and flat, praying they don’t betray my pounding heart.

  Hasdrubal sniffs. “Then you’ll be well practiced, won’t you?”

  None of us speak now. They continue half-leading, half-dragging me toward the pit. Just before we start down the stairs that’ll take us into the cellar, Sikandar lights a torch. They lead me down the stone stairs into the mostly dark corridor, and with every step we take, the torch throws a little bit more warm light on the huge wooden door up ahead.

  The cellar’s dank coolness prickles the back of my neck and the length of my spine. It’s even worse when they push open the door.

  I stand in the middle of the room and hold out my arms. “Just be done with it.”

  Without speaking, Sikandar puts the torch on the wall while Hasdrubal yanks off my tunic. Then they both close the shackles around my wrists. They’re attached to heavy chains suspended from high on the walls on either side of me, and they hold my arms up and out.

  “Nice knowing you, brother.” Sikandar claps my arm.

  “Give our regards to Hades,” Hasdrubal says.

  I say nothing. The men leave the pit, and I’m alone in the cool, mostly dark silence. Standing in the center of the room, bound by the unforgiving chains, I wait.

  Footsteps approach. I close my eyes and breathe slowly.

  The door opens. Arabo enters first. He tugs at my bindings and checks my hands for anything I could use to pick the shackles.

  Then he leans out the door. “He’s secure, Dominus.”

  Drusus steps into the room with his other bodyguard behind him. The lanista’s icy blue eyes look right into mine, but mine drift to the flagellum in his hand. It isn’t the one Arabo used my first night here. The lashes are longer. Stiffer. Knotted. There may even be metal or stones tied to the ends, unless it’s just the leather catching the dim, flickering torchlight.

  Whatever I’ve seen in his eyes during a few strange, silent moments, it’s gone now, and the man facing me is the one who’s earned the fearsome reputation I’d heard about as far away as Rome.

  Barely turning his head, Drusus says, “Leave us.”

  The bodyguards don’t hesitate. They leave the room, and as soon as they’re gone, Drusus locks the door behind them.

  He faces me again. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you, gladiator.” He touches his lip, then turns his hand to show me the smear of blood darkening the ends of his fine fingers. “For this, I could crucify—”

  “I had to get you alone,” I say quietly. “You’re in danger, Drusus. I—”

  “What?” He steps closer, his eyes boring into mine. “Speak, gladiator. What danger?”

  I lower my voice. “I didn’t come to your ludus of my own free will.”

  Drusus draws back, arms folded across his breastplate, fingers still wrapped tightly around the handle of the flagellum. “Explain.”

  “I’m not a citizen or even a freedman,” I say. “And I didn’t volunteer. I’m a slave, and I was sent here with false documents.” I look Drusus in the eyes. “Forgive me. My master is Calvus Laurea.”

  His lips part.

  “He sent me to your ludus.” I shift as much as the chains will allow. “Forged the papers for my status as a citizen, and my approval from the magistrate to volunteer as an auctoratus. The money? The five hundred sestertii from the magistrate?” I shake my head. “It came from Calvus. If I spoke of him to you or anyone else in the ludus, he threatened to have the magistrate ask if you received the full seven hundred sestertii.”

  Drusus laughs dryly. “That does sound like Calvus Laurea.” Then he furrows his brow. “But why did he send you into my familia?”

  I hesitate, gnawing my lip. “He is certain Verina is carrying on an affair with one of the men here, and he charged me with finding that man and revealing his name.”

  In a heartbeat, the hostility vanishes from the lanista’s face. So does most of the color. The flagellum in his hand slips a little. “What have you told him?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. But I believe the Master Laurea is trying to kill you or Verina. Perhaps both of you.”

  More color drains from Drusus’s face.

  I avoid his eyes. “An attempt has already been made. This morning. In the market.”

  Drusus stiffens. He steps closer, almost touching me. “How do you know this?”

  Still keeping my eyes down, I whisper, “Because I stopped him.”

  “You . . .” He pauses, and I imagine his eyebrow arching upward as it often does. “You stopped him?”

  “Yes, Dominus.”

  He cups my jaw in his calloused hand, though he doesn’t grip it hard, and raises my chin so we’re looking at each other, which does nothing to slow my thundering heart.

  “You stopped him,” he says. It isn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “So you were there.” He releases my face. “In the market.”

  “Yes.” I sweep my tongue across my dry lips. “I followed you.”

  “I see.”

  “It wasn’t the first time,” I say. “I . . . wanted to be sure. That my suspicions were corr
ect.”

  His eyes narrow and his lips tighten. “So that you could report back to your master.”

  “No,” I reply quickly. “No, I . . . perhaps when I first came here, yes, I would have, but I . . .” Gods, it’s impossible to think when he’s this close to me. “I’ve reported nothing back. I swear it. Nor do I intend to.”

  “Even though you have your orders?”

  I nod. “And when I realized someone else intended to do you or Verina harm, I had to stop him.”

  Drusus regards me silently for a long moment. “The man who made the attempt, what of him now? Is he still a threat?”

  “No. He isn’t.” I swallow. “He’s dead.”

  Drusus’s eyes lose focus. “Iovita.”

  “Yes.” I hesitate. “Forgive me, Dominus. I know this isn’t my place. But if you see her again, I have no doubt you’ll be in grave danger. Both of you.”

  Drusus winces. “I know.” He absently touches below his nose, dabbing away some of the blood.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know how else to get you alone without rousing suspicion.”

  “Suspicion?” he asks. “Suspicion of what?”

  “The men. They suspect I am either favored by you or spying. Betraying them. I was warned against meeting you alone again. This was . . .” I exhale hard, flexing my wrists inside the shackles. “I needed to get you alone. Without the men believing it was to give you information.”

  “And you came to my ludus to obtain information.” He looks in my eyes. “Information which you now have.” Neither his face nor his tone betray any emotion at all. “Why are you telling me and not the Master Laurea?”

  I don’t have an answer. Not one I can put into words.

  “Calvus Laurea could kill you for this,” Drusus says. “As could the other men in the familia.” He hesitates. “As could I.”

  “I know.”

  “And yet you did it anyway,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Why?”

  I can barely breathe. “What else would you have me do?”

  “What your master sent you here to do.” His eyes dart to one chained wrist, then the other. “Kill me if he ordered it.”