are you not yet finished?”
She patted down the last handful of soil. “Yes, Uncle, I’m done.”
Not far away, Marcus waited beside a shallow grave he’d dug with a second, larger shovelhead. She covered the short distance and joined him. “I’ll try to be quicker and be of more help. Perhaps if you dig, I can move the bodies and cover them.”
The jingle of metal and distant voices carried on the morning breeze. She glanced down the road, brushing her dark hair from her eyes to get a better view. Much closer than before, but still at a distance, the rider continued his path toward them. A large caravan followed several paces in his wake.
From her vantage point, she saw the wagons were too close for comfort. Some covered, some exposed, many were rolling cages filled with people or exotic beasts. Near-naked men, most bound in chains, walked listlessly in the glaring sun.
“A slave caravan, Uncle! We must hide until it passes.”
“They won’t pester me. I’m too old to be of value and my tunic verifies my rank. You, on the other hand, are a prize.”
Pelonia blinked in disbelief. Her heart throbbed with fear. She knew slave traders legally bought and sold men, women and children at markets throughout the empire. Ravenous for profit, they often preyed on the weak, prowling the byways in search of free stock.
The morning’s events had made her one of the weak. She was the daughter of a prosperous Roman citizen, but this far from home she held no proof of her status. None of her wealth remained to buy protection. Her household had been destroyed. Even her luxurious clothes had been stolen or burned, leaving her with nothing but the simple linen tunic she’d worn to the river.
The feral gleam in her uncle’s eyes spread a chill across her skin. “You cannot mean to sell me.”
“Why not? You’re cursed. I have no wish to invoke the gods’ displeasure by protecting you. Besides, I’m your guardian now that your father is gone. I have a legal right to do with you as I wish. After the robbery this morning, I need funds to see me home. You’re a comely maiden and will fetch a fair price.”
“You’re mad!” She darted away, panic pumping through her veins.
His fingers curled around her long hair. He yanked her back, almost snapping her neck and ripping out some of the strands.
His thick arm banded about her throat, pressing the back of her head against his shoulder and exerting enough pressure for her to hold still or choke. “The gods have sealed your fate, Pelonia. I knew it the moment I saw the scout riding this way. I only had to keep you here until he came close enough to claim you.”
Terror exploded in her chest. She kicked and twisted, realizing she should have suspected treachery when he agreed to help her bury the dead. Reaching above and behind her, she clawed at his face. Warm blood tainted her fingers. She bit his arm.
Marcus howled and let go. She ran, but he grabbed her elbow and spun her to face him, striking her hard across the side of the head. Her ears rang. Her jaw stung with pain.
Another blow. White specks of light burst behind her eyes. She tasted blood. He backhanded her left cheek. She fell to the ground, jarring her bones. The back of her head bounced against a rock. Agony lanced through her skull. Marcus’s enraged countenance blurred above her. The edges of her vision dimmed, began to turn black.
“Please, Lord, help me,” she whispered, just before the life she’d known ceased to exist.
As the orange glow of early evening settled over Rome, Caros Viriathos stood at the arched second story window of his bedchamber. His battle-scarred fingers stroked the smooth head of his pet tiger.
Torches lit the large walled yard below where a dozen of his best gladiators trained with a variety of weapons, perfecting their skills with each other and several wild animals.
While Caros listened to the clang of clashing metal and the roar of angry lions, his gaze traveled from one pair of opponents to another. He studied each fighter’s footwork, his speed, every sword thrust and jab of a trident. At sunrise, he would speak with each man in private, point out his flaws and demand perfection. Death might be inevitable, but it could be postponed. And sending men into the arena untrained was a waste of life and capital.
He knew from experience. For ten brutal years, he’d fought in the games, a slave ripped from his Iberian home and forced to serve a cruel master. As an unrivaled champion, he’d won the mob’s fickle affections. They rewarded him three years ago by demanding his freedom as the prize of a particularly bloody competition. Since then, he’d begun his own training grounds, the Ludus Maximus, and amassed a fortune. Even his former master acknowledged no one prepared gladiators more suited for combat than he.
He should have been pleased with his life, or at least his comfortable situation, but deep inside, he yearned for peace.
By day, his work kept him occupied, his mind focused on the task of teaching his men the art of battle. But it would soon be dark and the silence of night allowed the Furies to torment him for his past.
Fists clenched, Caros leaned against the marble windowsill. The aroma of roasting meats signaled the dinner hour. His men had finished training for the day. Their teasing gibes and easy laughter replaced the clash of weapons as they disappeared into the cookhouse. After the evening meal, they’d seek out their beds in the barracks, exhausted and ready for slumber.
Wishing his sleep came as easily, Caros had given up hope of ever winning the battle that waged in his head. For years, he’d fought the riot inside him, arguing with his conscience that he’d been forced to kill in the ring or be killed. He’d sampled every diversion Rome offered in an effort to distract him from the guilt gnawing at his soul. Nothing soothed him. Everything he’d tried proved empty until he had more and more difficulty suppressing the cries of all those he’d slain.
The tiger’s tail swished on the mosaic-tiled floor, the only sound in the evening’s stillness. Footsteps approached in the corridor, drawing his attention and a low growl from Cat.
A fist pounded on the door. “Master,” Gaius, his elderly steward, called through the heavy wooden portal, “a slave caravan has arrived. There are a few good prospects. Do you wish to have a look?”
Eager for a distraction from his thoughts, Caros left his post at the window. He’d lost four men in the ring the day before and needed to replace them. “I’ll be down in a moment, Gaius. Tell them to wait.”
Caros pulled on a fresh tunic and reached for a weighty bag of coins on his desk. Moments later, he joined Gaius in one of the long side yards that ran the length of the house. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies made him grimace.
The slave trader, a stout man, paced the straw-covered stones next to a swaying elephant.
In the torchlight, the newcomer came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Caros approaching. He flashed his rotten teeth and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of a probable sale. He stepped forward, sweeping his stubby arms wide to prove he carried no weapons.
“Sir, I am Aulus Menus. You are known as the Bone Grinder, no? It is an honor to meet you.” The slave trader bent at the waist in a flamboyant bow. “I saw you fight once four years ago. You took down five gladiators without a single wound to yourself. I can still hear the crowd chanting your name. It is easy to understand why your reputation as Rome’s
