Chapter 4

Two weeks to the pit.

Not the Colosseum. Not yet. That stone beast still waited, like a patient god demanding blood tithes from lesser temples.

Our bout would be held in the Arena Minora, an older amphitheatre south of the Aventine Hill—wooden stands, no shade, a piss trench for a latrine. It hosted executions, petty duels, and the slow deaths of men no one paid to remember.

But still—Rome would be watching.

And so I trained. Not to win. To survive long enough to matter.

We were given privileges, if you could call them that.

Pulcher barked them out the morning after our names were called.

"The three of you—first cut of meat. First in line for weapons. Double drills. Less sleep."

I almost laughed at that last part.

The other two were already known in the yard. The first was the Egyptian, though no one spoke his true name. They called him Kesseph—Silver. Not for any wealth or armor, but for the thin, bone-colored scar that ran from temple to jaw like a blade etched into flesh.

He trained in silence, fought in silence, and when he prayed, it was to gods that predated pyramids.

The second was a brute of a Gaul named Brannos—broad-chested, flame-haired, face a map of old warpaint scars that no Roman could quite scrub away. He wasn't quick, but he didn't need to be. His strikes were simple: overhead, crushing, final.

We didn't speak.

There was no need. All three of us had heard the same sentence. And in two weeks, one of us might still be alive to recall it.

The days blurred.

They bled together in sweat and repetition.

We rose before the sun. We ran. We sparred with lead-weighted swords, trained our bodies not for beauty, but endurance.

Pulcher's Doctrine was simple: Burn the weakness out. Beat the fear out. Bury the man, raise the weapon.

For Novus, whose body still felt like borrowed meat, this meant rebuilding from ash. I pushed harder. Longer.

Push-up drills on knuckles over gravel—to harden the wrists, shoulders, and mind.

Squat holds with shields raised—to build endurance in the thighs, calves, back.

Rope climbs with sandbags tied to the waist—to awaken muscles dulled by lifetimes of walking but never training.

Pole drills—not striking, but rotating a wooden pole endlessly between hands to develop grip and forearm strength.

And after all that—sparring. Always sparring.

They didn't treat us like men anymore.

They were shaping blades.

One evening, after a brutal four-man gauntlet drill, I collapsed near the edge of the training pit. My fingers trembled, too sore to hold even the wooden rudis.

Brannos lumbered past, covered in dust, chest heaving. He looked at me, spat, and muttered:

"You break like anyone else."

I didn't reply. Not because I couldn't.

But because he was right.

That night, Kesseph and I sat near the coals again. I could see the firelight glint in his eyes—no fear, just recognition. Two men made of old sins.

"He'll die first," Kesseph said, nodding toward Brannos.

"Why?"

"He believes this place is a battlefield. It isn't."

"What is it?"

He looked at me like I was still stupid.

"A theatre."

A Room in the Curia Hostilia

Senator Lucius Caelius

The Curia was unusually full for a post-harvest session. The scent of sandalwood drifted faintly under the open beams. Rome had been restless. Rumours of unrest in Sicily. Carthaginian galleys spotted near Lipara.

Lucius Caelius, seated in the third row among the senior patricians, leaned toward his friend and whispered:

"Do you believe these war drums?"

"I believe Rome believes them," came the reply.

Another senator rose, robes immaculate, hands spread in practiced appeal.

"If we do not act now, the Greeks in Messana will fall under Carthage's sway! Dentatus himself has reported rebel activity—Etruscan mercenaries, Sabine deserters. Are we to let Punic hands rest on our doorstep?"

Murmurs. Nods. One shouted:

"The Republic will not bow to merchants!"

Lucius Caelius said nothing. He was not yet one of the men who moved legions. But he listened well.

And he marked the names of those who shouted loudest.

Back in the ludus, I lay awake.

Not from pain—though there was plenty of that.

But from a question: What version of Rome am I now in?

Because if war was coming—and I could feel it rumble like a distant avalanche—it would need more than senators and soldiers.

It would need symbols.

And blood makes excellent theatre.

Especially in an arena.

The two nights before the mock games, I dreamed again.

Not of gods. Not of the curse.

But of Eleusis, smoke curling above its altars. A name on my tongue. A lover's hand—olive-skinned, callused from weaving—pulling me down into silence as Athenian soldiers marched past our home. I remembered Greek words. The precise heft of a kopis blade. The taste of ash from a burned scroll.

I remembered being a scribe.

Not a soldier. Not a killer.

But a man who read dead languages and whispered secrets into the ears of kings who wore laurel wreaths like masks.

And I remembered how they died.

Every one of them.

Power never saved them. But knowing when to speak—or not—sometimes did.

I woke before dawn. The barracks still slept, save for Kesseph, who sat upright, meditating. Or praying. Or remembering.

My muscles ached, but the pain had become familiar. Not comforting, but predictable. A dull hum I could thread into rhythm.

I moved. Quietly.

Bodyweight drills in the half-dark. Slow. Controlled. Pushes, planks, bridge holds. I focused on form, not fire. A body, after all, could not survive forever on pain. It needed discipline.

Brannos stirred at some point. Snorted, rolled over.

But Kesseph nodded once. Not approval. Just recognition.

That morning, they let us choose our weapons.

A real privilege.

Most were handed whatever was left hanging on the racks. Rusted spathas, bent shields, cracked helms. But Pulcher brought us to a locked shed.

Inside: true steel. Balanced. Maintained. Blades that had ended legacies.

Kesseph took a curved sica, sharpened to a black shine. Brannos grabbed a two-handed Celtic falx, too heavy for most, but perfect for cleaving.

I chose a simple gladius. Not because it suited me—but because it suited the time. And I needed to learn this Rome's rhythm before I began rewriting its verse.

Pulcher squinted at me.

"You've held steel before."

I met his gaze.

"In another life."

 The Home of Caecilia Metella

Caecilia Metella, Priestess of Vesta

The fire had flickered low.

Caecilia rose before her attendants, bare feet brushing cool marble. She walked the length of the Atrium Vestae, pausing before the sacred flame. Still alive. Still hungry.

She lit incense and knelt. Smoke curled around her wrists.

"May Rome endure," she whispered. "And may her enemies feed the flame."

But her prayer caught.

She had dreamed last night of a man with no face, standing in the sands of a great stone arena, blood dripping from hands that should not still be whole.

Not yet a vision. But not a lie, either.

She would tell no one.

But she would remember.

Back at the ludus, the final day was silent.

No drills. No beatings. No lessons.

Only sharpening.

They let us eat olives, lentils, soft bread. Oiled our gear. Wrapped the worst bruises. Checked our limbs. Cleaned the arena garb—short tunics, colored sashes, bronze helms.

Kesseph's eyes closed as his fingers traced his sica's curve.

Brannos muttered war chants in a language Rome hadn't yet learned to fear.

I sat apart, watching them.

Two killers.

Not enemies. Not allies.

And me—something else entirely.

That night, I tried again to remember more.

Not wars. Not weapons.

But names. Kings. Senators. Tribunes.

Some had used me. Some had killed me.

But one memory returned clearer than the rest: a merchant prince of Tyre, fat and cruel, who paid me to forge war scrolls blaming Rome for a massacre in Sardinia. I had bled out in his courtyard.

But I remembered how his bodyguards fought.

And more importantly—how Rome had responded.

Not with logic. Not with justice.

But with fire.

As I lay on the mat, hours from the Arena Minora, I whispered to the dark:

"I remember who I was."

And maybe, finally, I meant it.