Quintus' hair bounced over his eyes, curling from rain and sweat. He blew it out of the way and, in the same breath, shouted, "My Fidelis name is Quintus—meaning the fifth—you know why?"

"Shut up, or you'll be re-stacking the obstacle course tonight," I said.

He squared his shoulders.

"Alone," I added.

His curled-in lip and a glare gave off a sullen defiance. "I'm 'the fifth' because Maximus insisted that the slave trader gave away the 'useless mongrel' as a freebie with a purchase of a full quad," he said.

I hated being reminded of that day. Since then, I had left dealing in human flesh to Rufius Fulgentius. He was good at it, and the slave traders... I held back the desire to spit under my feet.

The state in which I found Quintus had shocked me. The batch of slaves we went to see that day weren't criminals destined for extermination in the mines. This was supposed to be prime stock, the best of the best, and they were, except the boy in the cage's corner—Quintus.

More bones than flesh and skin, he was crouched in the dirtiest corner of the cage. His shoulder blades stuck out like wings and one arm hung, twisted out of joint. His dirty cheeks should have had a rut eaten away by tears, but he was past pain, so the mud layer was just cracking.

I didn't think Quintus was searching for anything beyond approaching Thanatos, when his gaze stopped at me. There were so many flies gathered on him, I didn't expect him to be alive. Yet he was, and his eyes were sane, with a flicker of the same defiance that shone in them now. So, I did what I did, and it was hard for me to remember that day.

For Quintus to be so determined to drag out this old story into the open... something about Victor must have riled him up beyond reason. He ignored my warning grunt, just like he ignored my orders, tilted his head forward and went on in a breathless, breaking, high-pitched voice. "Since I was born, it was clear from my colors that I was a mongrel. I wasn't useless though." 

Mithras' bulls, I hoped he understood the name-calling was a negotiation tactic. I couldn't exactly call for the vigils or kick in the merchant's teeth, no matter how much my hands itched. I was a slave myself and the slaver was a law-abiding citizen of the Empire.

Quintus sucked in a shuddering breath, to replace some of the air he'd used up. "Nah, a boy like me had one job on the borderlands of the Fidelis, to be a beating boy for a local lord. Whenever the Empire displeased my master, he took his boot to me, to do what he couldn't do to a Fidelis or to one of his own. And his guests..."

I didn't think he realized that everyone in the yard could hear him. I glared at the men who wasted curious glances on our side-show, and they swiveled them away, returning to their drills. Alas, I couldn't plug their ears the same way when Quintus resumed his rant.

"His guests! The proud chieftains, ever talking about the injustices done to their people and their lost freedoms! Their grievances ran ever deeper, so they beat ever harder on me. I was holding the bag for the Empire's slights to the barbarians for years."

I shook my head, hoping he would stop, but he pointed a finger at me.

"Until he... Until Maximus bought me to give me a chance to strike back. A Fidelis. So... there! Stop biting his head off, when he's trying... he's trying... he's just trying!"

There they were, the tears. Unspilled, eerily bringing me back to the day I met him, but thickening and wetting his voice.

I gripped Quintus' shoulder. It was rigid under my fingers. "I told you to keep quiet."

He swallowed and whipped his head to stare me down—not yet, never, though he always had enough passion to bend lesser men to his will. "I'll re-stack the obstacles if I have to, lanista, but I had to tell him... I had to!"

Victor turned back to the training dummy and hit it so hard, dust erupted from it in a small cloud. Silent, he kept laying into it with the determination of a matron beating the dirt out of her prized floor-rug. And with about as much finesse.

"Are you done?" I asked Quintus.

He nodded wordlessly and let me lead him away from Victor. I dropped him off with his training mates, then returned to my slacking students. They should have consumed all my attention and energy, but my glance kept drifting to Victor, costing me a couple of bruises.

Bruises were a small price to pay for the glimpses of perfect attacks. Sometimes they came in sequence and in gorgeous rhythm.

One great strike could be an accident, Senators, but not these fluid combos! Their result would have devastated a charging bull. In those moments, Victor's other arm crooked instinctively in want of a shield he refused to grab. His body aligned sideways, to minimize the target.

My rookie wasn't just trained. He was trained very, very well.

Every time Victor goofed up and let the drilled-in habits take over, he would startle, look around and slouch, stiffen his knees, swing so wildly I worried he'd break his wrist. Except, he was too good to injure himself.

***

Afternoon rolled in, remarkable only by the wind from the East. It pushed the clouds back towards the mountains, denying them their chance to spill their full load. There they sat, bloated and cranky. My men started to resemble them, particularly when the smell of cooking stew drifted over the yard. Fearing injuries close to a big fight, I yelled for a halt for the day a touch early.

Everyone brightened up, save for Victor and rushed to divest off their gear. He'd just forgotten himself and landed a series of would-be slashes, then a killing thrust under the dummy's chin. He corrected this beautiful oversight by missing the dummy completely on the next strike. His shoulders stiffened when he heard my footsteps.

"You should have taken me up on my offer," I said. "The victory is so much more satisfying when your opponents fight back."

"You like it, don't you?" His lips folded into a familiar smirk. "When men challenge you?"

A personal question like that deserved being answered with a question. "And you don't? Do you prefer a dummy's obedience? Which one of us is a slaver at heart?"

Victor let his sword-arm drop by his side with a visible effort, blasting me with the blue fire that hid in the depth of his eyes.

"At the arena, when you were a slave, did you fight with the two swords? You're built for it." His lips twisted after he said that, as if he loathed himself for even thinking about me.

A small smile sneaked onto my lips. Victor could try to get under my skin all he wanted, but he was talking business and we were making progress. "We call a man who fights in the two-sword style a 'swordsman' in our trade. The standard quad has a shield-master, two swordsmen and a trickster," I said.

"Well, were you a swordsman when you were a slave?" The teeth-grinding accompanied his question—music to my ears.

"Yes," I replied and put the end of my rudis to the side of his neck. I circled him, peering into his face, holding his gaze. "I was a swordsman in my last three years at the arena. I started fighting as a trickster."

Victor's eyes flashed, the way they had flashed when Quintus talked about gambling and accused the barbarian lords of mistreating him. Victor hid his feelings by looking away, a useless gesture.

I waited.

"A trickster? That's the nuisance with the net." This wasn't a question. He understood how things worked, another step toward where I wanted him.

"Uh-huh. I could tangle men three times my size back then. Knew to poke them till they went mad and doomed themselves."

He sucked on his teeth, fighting back his curiosity. It wouldn't let him rest. "You started as a boy?"

"A little older than Quintus, maybe, but yes, I did." Even Quintus didn't know how old he was, but I was a tad larger when I stepped into the arena for the first time.

"And just as annoying as him?"

Involuntarily, I snorted out a laugh. "Less so." Despite his edginess, Quintus would be fine. I'd teach him how.

Victor walked to the box where we stored training gear.

I followed him. "You'd have been right no matter which fighting style you'd picked. When necessary, I fought as a shield-wall, in heavy armor, with sword and shield."

He pushed his rudis between the other rudii.

"This is something that I would train you for if you tire of being a butt of every stupid joke."

He didn't take the bait. Instead, he folded his freed arms across his chest. His gaze swept me from head to sandals, and from sandals to head. Unhurriedly. Upon this inspection, he scoffed. "You aren't built for it."

"To quote Quintus, brawn isn't the end all in the arena. Spar with me, and I'll teach you to remember that."

"I already know everything you need me to know," Victor replied with a shrug of his wide shoulders. "I can scream louder than Quintus."

"We'll see about that. You have big sandals to fill."

Patience, patience, patience... If I rushed the process, I'd lose my best chance at training a champion. I had to get this right, despite nearly drooling with anticipation of crossing swords with Victor, feeling the weight of his blows on my rudis, assessing and honing his reflexes.

Some of that anticipation must have reflected on my face, because a slow, unfriendly grin spread over Victor's lips. "Maximus, why did your parents sell you? By the Fidelis customs, they had to sell you as a slave for you to fight. So, why would they do something like that to their own son?"

Not going to lie, this attack stomped me for a bit, but not for long.

"I'm not Quintus to wear my heart pinned to my tunic," I told him, lacing my voice with sickly sweet poison. "Some answers have to be earned. So, beat me in a bout—and I'll tell you as your reward."

He only chortled.

Right back at you, rookie!

As I told him already—the harder the fight, the sweeter the victory. His present defiance only added glory to the day the Emperor would anoint him the Champion of Champions, the winner of the Great Games. It would be the day of my ultimate triumph.