Darkness still covered Rome when passed through gates of Ludus Cassius.
Courtyard, lit dimly by torches scattered, already buzzed with activity.
Not work organized of camp military.
But chaos controlled of slaughterhouse preparing for day another of blood.
Across yard, leaning against column, Numidius spat on ground at sight of me.
African massive did not bother to hide contempt.
"Well, look who decided to show," he shouted, loud enough for all to hear. "Whore of domina has graced us with presence."
Laughter harsh spread across yard.
Gladiators several stopped what were doing to watch.
Sensing scent of humiliation potential in air like dogs catching smell of blood.
"Would have preferred sister yours, but was busy with garrison entire," I replied casually.
Smile of Numidius vanished instantly.
Silence tense fell over yard.
Followed by wave new of laughter.
This time directed at African.
"Will rip tongue out and shove up ass, provincial," Numidius growled, taking step forward.
"After clean shit arena," voice cut through tension.
Tacitus emerged from corridor side.
Eyes cold assessing situation.
"Numidius, if want to make threats, make them with sword in hand. For now, have work."
African shot me look last of hatred pure before walking away.
Muttering promises of violence future.
Tacitus turned attention to me.
Was no welcome in gaze.
Only evaluation cold.
"Gear, over there," he pointed toward bench. "Have minute one."
Gear was minimal and worn.
Leather cracked subligar.
Strips of cloth stained with blood dried.
Guards wooden splintered.
Pieces had likely belonged to gladiator some recently dead.
Reminder silent of fate that awaited most.
As dressed, could feel stares.
Were not just curiosity or assessment professional.
There was hunger in them.
Desire to see "favorite" broken and humiliated.
For men whose lives were defined by brutality and deprivation, newcomer with privileges special was insult personal.
"FORMATION!" Roar of Tacitus was followed by snap of whip against ground stone. "Anyone not in position within heartbeats three will feel kiss of whip this on backs!"
Movement was chaotic but efficient.
Men dozens rushing to form lines.
Shoving.
Muttering curses.
Some deliberately shoulder-checking as passed.
Still adjusting armor, found space in row back.
Immediately, men beside stepped away conspicuously.
Leaving gap around me.
"Want not to catch disease of whore," one muttered, earning snickers muffled.
Tacitus walked slowly before lines.
Whip swinging casually in hand.
Gaze stopped on me.
Smile humorless crossed face.
"Today have honor of welcoming guest special," he announced, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Gladiator so talented that after killing barbarians three drunken, gets to fuck daughter of Senator."
Laughter erupted.
"But in Ludus Cassius, there are no guests. There is only meat—meat to train, meat to fight, meat to die when time comes."
He stepped right up to me.
Stopping inches from face.
"Here, matters not who fuck at night. What matters is who kill in arena. And so far, for us, have killed no one."
"Understanding is held, Doctore," I replied simply.
"Doctore?" Tacitus laughed, looking to others. "Hear that? Calls me Doctore as if already one of us!"
He turned back to me.
"Have not earned right to call me that, provincial. To you, am Dominus until prove worth."
Without waiting for reply, Tacitus stepped away.
"Briseus! Show brother new how warm up here!"
Giant tattooed stepped forward.
Grin cruel distorting features.
Without warning, drove punch brutal into stomach.
Blow folded me in half.
Air bursting from lungs.
"First warm muscles," Briseus announced, as gladiators other formed circle around. "Then test endurance."
Knee slammed into side.
Sending pain radiating through body.
Instinctively, raised arms to defend.
Only to take shot another to ribs.
"Already defending self, provincial?" Briseus mocked. "This is not fight. Is welcome."
Gladiators other started shouting.
Egging on violence more.
Tacitus watched impassively.
Doing nothing to stop "ritual."
I knew had options three:
Submit completely and be marked as weak.
Fight with force full and make enemies immediate.
Or find ground middle.
Show resilience without challenging openly hierarchy established.
When Briseus came for blow another, I partially dodged.
Lessening impact without avoiding entirely.
Move seemed to surprise attacker.
"Got reflexes, huh?" Briseus grunted, increasing force of strikes.
Minutes next few were test of endurance.
I took punishment enough to satisfy ritual.
Without looking helpless completely.
When finally dropped to knee one, blood running from nose and cut above eye, Tacitus signaled for Briseus to stop.
"Enough. Still has to train today."
Tacitus looked at me with something like approval reluctant.
"At least did not cry like last one."
"Warm-up" real followed.
Laps ten running around yard carrying sandbags.
Followed by training at palus.
Each gladiator stood before post wooden set in ground.
Striking with weapons training twice as heavy as real ones.
"More power!" Tacitus shouted as passed among. "Imagine is man who fucked wife! Imagine is Roman who killed family! HATRED! Want to see HATRED in blow every!"
Unlike conditioning military methodical knew from world modern, training gladiator was visceral.
Appealing to emotions raw.
Rage, fear, hatred.
Men grunted and snarled as struck posts unyielding.
Some shouting insults as if facing enemies real.
I kept self in middle of pack.
Not so impressive as to draw envy extra.
Not so weak as to be marked for abuse constant.
Was balance delicate.
Especially with eyes of Tacitus tracking move every.
When phase initial ended, was time for evaluation weapons.
I chose first gladius and shield.
Then spear.
And finally—in decision knew would be controversial—swords dual.
"Sica?" Varius, specialist acknowledged in style, stepped forward with disbelief. "Can barely stand after beating of Briseus, and think can handle blades two?"
"Let him try," Tacitus said with smile malicious. "Want to see if has skill real or if only knows how to make domina moan."
Were laughs more.
Shouts obscene some from back.
I accepted weapons.
Feeling balance different of blades training.
"Alexios! Show him how fight in Rome."
Greek aristocratic stepped forward.
Movements fluid as water.
Was no grin cruel like Briseus.
No disdain open like Numidius.
Only focus cold that was, in way, even more dangerous.
"Begin!" Tacitus ordered.
This was no demonstration technical.
Was fight real.
Alexios attacked without hesitation.
Techniques refined masking brutality calculated.
Was no intent to teach or assess.
Only to dominate and humiliate.
I blocked strike first.
But impact made arms sore protest.
Alexios gave no time to recover.
Following with flurry of blows that forced into defense desperate.
"This is what Rome offers?" Alexios taunted in Greek. "Bed-servant who can barely hold sword?"
Provocation was deliberate.
Part of strategy to destabilize opponent emotionally.
I recognized tactic.
But even so, anger was building.
Beating initial.
Insults constant.
Contempt open.
All piled up.
When Alexios lunged again, I did not just defend.
Countered.
Move quick, instinctive caught Greek off guard.
Blade wooden struck side of Alexios hard enough to draw grunt of surprise.
Silence momentary fell over arena improvised.
"Kitten has claws," someone murmured.
Alexios stepped back.
Reassessing opponent with eyes sharper.
"Luck beginner," he said, though voice had lost confidence some earlier.
Fight intensified.
I now returned blow for blow.
Technique gradually revealing self.
Did not show everything knew.
That would be suicide.
But enough to earn, if not respect, at least pause in insults more direct.
"Enough!" Tacitus cut when was clear match was more balanced than expected. "Mors! Show brother new what means to face gladiator true of Rome."
Silence that followed was different.
Tighter, almost fearful.
Gladiator masked stepped forward without word or movement unnecessary.
Even veterans toughest seemed uneasy in presence.
"Mors does not spar," Varius murmured to none particular. "He just kills."
Without warning or ceremony, Mors attacked.
Was no technique flashy or showmanship.
Only efficiency lethal.
Blow first nearly broke through guard.
Only reflexes honed saved from defeat immediate.
What followed was not fight in sense conventional.
But lesson brutal in humility.
Mors seemed to predict movement every.
Every attempt at defense or counterattack.
Mask hid face.
But body spoke of years devoted solely to art of killing.
I fought with everything could reveal without raising questions too many.
For moments few, even managed to keep things even.
Strike particularly well-timed drew murmurs of surprise from onlookers.
"Lasted longer than last one," someone said.
"Wait."
Warning proved right.
Mors, apparently bored with exchange, increased intensity to level could not match without exposing too much.
Move calculated.
Exploiting imperfection small in ground had not noticed.
Created opening.
Defeat was swift and decisive.
In seconds, was on ground.
Blade wooden pressed to throat with force enough to make breathing difficult.
"Death," Tacitus declared casually, as if announcing weather. "Brother new has just experienced future in arena."
Laughter and jeers filled air as Mors stepped away silently.
Showing neither satisfaction nor contempt.
Like craftsman who had simply completed task routine another.
I rose slowly.
Feeling bruise every and cut.
Taste of blood was strong in mouth.
Had bitten tongue during strikes final one.
"Not bad," Tacitus said, surprising all with what almost sounded like praise. "Most do not last seconds ten against Mors. Lasted almost minute."
Expression hardened again.
"But make no mistake—in arena real, would be dead. And no one would shed tear, except maybe domina... for night one, until found toy another."
Varius approached as others dispersed to continue training.
"Have something," he said, assessing with eye clinical. "Technique raw, unrefined, but there is potential."
Voice carried no friendship.
Only evaluation professional.
"Will train in sica. Not because like—do not—but because would be waste to see promise such destroyed by lack of instruction proper."
"Why care?" I tested.
"Care not about you," Varius said coldly. "Care about art. And would rather see man hate master it than see art die with men incompetent."
As gladiators returned to drills, few glanced at me.
Not with respect.
But perhaps with reevaluation.
Had survived ritual initiation.
Shown skill some.
Lasted longer than expected against Mors.
Was not acceptance.
But maybe step first toward being seen as something more than toy bed of Livia.
Priscus, eldest of Primi, passed by on way to training own.
"Defeat is teacher better than victory," he said, without stopping or looking directly. "Learn from it while still have chance."
Rest of day blurred into pain, exhaustion, and drills more.
When finally given permission to return to house main, could barely walk without showing.
Body was covered in bruises and cuts small.
Eye left nearly closed from swelling.
As crossed gate ludus, heard voice of Briseus behind:
"Tomorrow will be worse, whore of domina! This was just beginning!"
I did not turn.
Did not respond.
Had learned lesson first and most important of Ludus Cassius:
Here, there were no allies.
Only enemies declared and potential ones.
Survival would require more than knowledge modern or skills superior.