The cockerel crowed a third time.

Julia put her hands to her cheeks. What was the matter with her? Standing here in the courtyard, half-naked. Had she taken leave of her senses? Despite the early hour, she could have been spotted. She could hear Sabina's squawks for hot water, and knew if someone had seen her, the betrothal to Mettalius would have happened before a toga had time to dry.

The next time they met, she'd have to make sure that Valens knew and understood that she was not one of those bored women of Baiae, the notorious beach resort near Naples where the wealthy went to play and party, ripe for the picking. Her reputation was of paramount importance. She was a sober, well-adjusted Roman divorcee, not some sex-crazed gladiator supporter. She tried saying the words aloud, but, somehow, her mind kept returning to the kiss as her tongue traced the imprint of his mouth on her lips.


When Valens reached the Julian compound in the centre of Subura, the Roman sky was filled with streaks from the rose-gold dawn. Already, the narrow maze of streets teemed with men making their morning rounds to their patrons. The suffocating atmosphere of waiting men and high-rise tenements gave way to space as he entered the Julian compound with its tinkling fountains, gardens and range of ancestral statues.

The sound of wood clashing and bodies hitting the ground resounded in Valens's ears as he bent down to untie his sandals in the main courtyard.

Practice had already started.

He swore under his breath. He should have made the journey quicker, but had wanted to savour the feeling Julia's lips against his and the way her body had moulded to him and the honey-scented taste of her mouth—sweet and clear like a cool drink of spring water as her tongue teased his. A breath more and he'd have found an excuse to miss the practice. The thought shook him and he concentrated on untying the knot in his sandal.

'You're late.' The gravelly tones of his usual sparring partner were unmistakable. 'We've been at this for a full hour already.'

The other gladiator wiped the sweat from his battered face with a linen towel as he approached where Valens knelt. His fair hair was plastered against his head. Valens moved his sandals to prevent them from being dripped on by Tigris's dark blue tunic.

'Nobody informed me of the change of time.'

'I find that hard to believe.' Tigris gave Valens's shoulder a playful swat with his towel. 'You always know everything in this school, before it happens!'

'Enough of that! I am not a god.'

'You should try telling that to your legion of supporters. Would that I had as many people sighing for me! Everywhere I go in this city, that disreputable figure of yours is on sale. I have the sales of my own figure to consider.'

Valens reached out and grabbed the towel before Tigris could swat him a second time.

Tigris and he had entered Strabo's school together. Ever since they had fought each other to a standstill on the second day, Tigris had become the closest thing Valens had to a true friend. Thankfully, although Tigris wore a slightly different style of armour, it was only a friendly rivalry. They would never meet in the ring, would never be locked in mortal combat with each other.

'Tell me—what is the reason you are late?'

'As far as I knew when I left yesterday afternoon, everything was set to begin on the first hour,' Valens explained.

'Strabo sent one of the second halls with a message for me.' Tigris's face looked puzzled and he scratched a scab on his arm. 'Perhaps Strabo felt he didn't have to tell you. You are always the first one to practice.'

'But not today,' Valens said without elaborating, hoping that Tigris would drop it.

'And why not?' Tigris asked and raised an eyebrow. 'Have you found some Roman bird to feather your nest?'

Valens looked at Tigris, wondering if he should respond to the jibe. His friend's grin widened under his gaze and Tigris held up his hands before he continued.

'No, I forgot your creed: nothing is allowed to interfere with your work—not servants, animals and certainly not women.'

'I see no reason to leave behind a grieving wife and two fatherless children.'

Valens watched Tigris's face sober and knew he had hit a raw nerve—something they refused to agree about. Valens tightened his jaw. He would not apologise.

Straightening, he handed his cloak and sandals to a waiting servant. He would practise as he always fought—barefoot When the time came, it was easier to stay upright. He'd seen too many meet their death wearing sandals as they slipped on the blood and dust in the arena.

'There is more to life than death,' Tigris said quietly, his eyes accusing Valens.

'Maia is already spoken for.' Valens gave Tigris a clap on the shoulder. 'Why should I settle for anyone but the best?'

A bit of mild flattery should divert the conversation away from his private life and towards Tigris's favourite subject— his wife and twin boys.

'Ah, now Maia is a grand woman.' Tigris gave a huge smile. 'I'm the lucky one. Only the Fates know what lies ahead for each of us, and when I die, I know my time on earth has been a little better because her and our children. You should try to find someone like her, Valens, someone who cares about you as a man.'

Tigris had married Maia a year ago just after he became a gladiator of the first hall and took every opportunity he could to advocate the joys of sharing your life with someone. Normally, Valens let him prattle on, but today his words bothered him, revealed an emptiness in his life that he thought he'd dealt with. He found he envied Tigris his joy in Maia.

What would it be like to wake every morning to a woman like Julia? To have her sleep-kissed eyes be the first thing to greet him each morning and the last thing he saw each night? To sleep with his limbs intertwined with hers? Valens shook his head and tried to get his thoughts away from the girl. There was something in the air in this city and his preoccupation with Julia was a symptom.

His past was sending tenacious ropes as surely as his usual type of opponent, the rentarius who casts his net in the arena, seeking to ensnare him in its coils. He should never have come, avoided the promises of a large fortune and perhaps a wooden sword before one of the largest crowds the world had ever seen.

Valens gave a wry smile and glanced at the lion tattoo on his forearm. The choice had been taken from him. Strabo had wanted him to go. He was a slave, a slave who had considerable property of his own, but he belonged to Strabo. He bore Strabo's mark.

"That may be so, my friend, but why take the chance?' Valens gave a bitter laugh. 'I could end up with someone like Hylas's wife whose legs open on command to any man with a bit of sand on his feet and a sword in his hand.'

His words came out more forcefully than he intended. Who was he trying to convince—Tigris or his own heart?

"There is time enough for living after I have won back my wooden sword, my rudius.'

'You sound positive you are going to win one,' Tigris replied. 'I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of gladiators who have won their rudius in the last seven years.

The tight-fisted patrons have no desire to part with their cash for such things. Although they are quick enough to condemn a man to death and pay that fee if the crowd bays for it.'

'I am a gladiator of the first hall. My record is beyond compare. If not me, who else?' Valens said with a wry smile that hid his inner determination. He had to win one. He'd go on fighting until he won. He wanted to leave the profession honourably—and that meant either the rudius or death. To retire or purchase his way out was not an option.

Tigris gave a cough. 'Speaking of wooden swords, they are one of the reasons Strabo started early. He wants the testing ceremony for tiros over and done with by three hours, so that Caesar can inspect his troupe at four hours.'

Valens stared at Tigris. He was joking, surely. Valens had been there when the contracts were drawn up. Strabo had been quite insistent on when inspections were to be allowed. He did not want the training interfered with by well-meaning amateurs. And Valens agreed whole-heartedly with the assessment. The morning was for training, the afternoon was for exhibitions, ceremonies and presentations.

'But it was in the contract—no inspections before five hours,' he said, ignoring Tigris's jerk of his head.

'Caesar wanted to make a special presentation to the troupe. I've made an exception,' a gravelly voice behind him rumbled. 'You are late, Valens.'

Valens turned to see Strabo, his squint more pronounced than usual and his scarred face like thunder. Before starting his school ten years ago, Strabo had been a gladiator, and was rumoured to have defeated Spartacus, the rebel gladiator, in the arena, to win his wooden sword. Now instead of his shield and short sword, Strabo carried a scroll in one hand and a beaker of Flavian wine in the other.

Valens clenched his jaw. He refused to apologise for being late. Had practice started when it was supposed to, he'd have been on time or at the very latest he'd have just missed the start of the warm-up session. Strabo should have sent word.

They stared at each other, neither giving way. Strabo waved Tigris away.

'You're late, Valens,' Strabo repeated. 'It will be a thirty denarü fine for you unless you have a reasonable excuse.'

'I understood the starting time to be about now.'

'Did you get the note I sent you last evening?'