23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

M arcus Fabius Varro

The stench of fish assaults my nose as we approach the docks of Ostia. Sulla, our ludus master, barks orders at us to move faster, the bite of his curses escalating with each passing minute. My fellow gladiators and I shuffle forward, chains clinking with each step.

“Move it, you worthless dogs!” Sulla shouts, cracking his whip for emphasis.

Gritting my teeth, my fingers itch to wrap around his throat. But escape is impossible with these shackles and the guards surrounding us. Besides, where would I go? Rome is all I’ve known for years now.

As we near the Fortuna , our ship to Britannia, a commotion near the gangplank catches my eye. A small woman in flowing golden robes stands there, her arms raised dramatically.

“Travelers!” she calls out, her voice carrying over the din of the busy port. “Seek the blessing of Goddess Fortuna before your journey!”

Sulla scoffs, but curiosity flickers in his eyes. “What blessing, woman? We’ve no time for superstitious nonsense. ”

The woman—a priestess, by the looks of her—smiles serenely. “A simple libation, good sir. To ensure safe passage across treacherous waters.”

My stomach churns at the thought of the long journey ahead. Crossing the vast sea to Britannia… it’s more terrifying than facing three opponents at once in the arena.

Sulla strokes his chin, considering. “How much?”

“A modest fee,” the priestess replies, “for the safety of your… cargo.” Her eyes flick over us gladiators, and something in her gaze feels as though she carries the secrets of the ages.

To my surprise, Sulla nods. “Very well. A round for my men, then. Can’t have them dying before they make me a profit in Britannia, can we?” He laughs at his own joke—a most irritating, braying sound.

The priestess produces a thick, terra cotta amphora and cup from a woven basket that had been at her feet. As she pours, the liquid sparkles strangely in the sunlight. It’s not like any wine I’ve ever seen.

“What is that stuff?” Rurik, the giant red-haired gladiator next to me, whispers.

I shrug, watching as the priestess hands the cup first to Sulla.

He swallows the contents of the small cup, grimaces, shakes his head, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Drink up if you want, men, but it tastes like horse piss”

As she steps down the line of men, I take the time to study her. She may well be the last woman I’ll ever see. I might as well commit her to memory while I still can.

She’s tall and willowy, towering above most of the other women on the dockside and even some of the men. Slender arms emerge from the flowing golden robe, cut in the style of the Egyptians, that is slipping from one thin shoulder. I can just make out runic tattoos that collar her neck like jewelry. Her hair, a mass of chestnut and black curls, is piled on top of her head and pinned with ivory bones, with one braid artfully falling down her back till it swings against her shapely backside.

I’m not superstitious—I quit believing in much other than misery a long time ago—but I accept the cup she hands to me. Our eyes lock for a moment. Her hazel eyes seem to change color in the hot sun, to green, then amber. There’s something in her gaze—knowledge, maybe? Or pity?—that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Drink deeply,” she murmurs, pressing the cup into my hands. “And may the gods watch over you. Safe travels from the Goddess Fortuna.”

The liquid is cool on my parched throat, with a taste I can’t quite place. I don’t find it distasteful, as Sulla did. It’s sweet, but with an underlying bitterness that lingers on the tongue. As I drain the cup, a warmth spreads through my body, chasing away the chill of fear that’s been my constant companion since learning of this journey.

As I hand the cup to Thrax, the large Thracian at my side, a cart arrives with three men—two guards and a sinewy gladiator in chains.

“Just in time,” Sulla calls to them, then walks closer to collect the slave and a purse, money for the man’s passage I suppose. “This is Cassius? Join the others, dog. Hurry. It’s going to be a long trip.”

The man has attitude, needing to be prodded and ordered, fighting every step of the way. When Sulla roughly pushes him, the slave gets mouthy, calling him irrumator and catamita . What type of slave is this who has the stupidity to call his new ludus master an asshole and a faggot?

I’m surprised Sulla doesn’t do more than whip the slave hard enough to leave stripes across his back.

“Drink up, slave. It will be a long trip.” Sulla fills the cup from the amphora and thrusts it at the man.

Cassius takes a sip, then grunts and spits it in Sulla’s face .

The ludus master howls indignantly and, patience gone, grabs the heavy clay jar and slams it over the man’s head.

A direct blow to the head like that could kill a man, and I watch as he falls heavily to the ground, his head narrowly missing a jagged stone.

“Quintus, Flavius, carry this irrumabo to the ship. We’ll throw him overboard if he dies, but I’m not going to coax a slave to follow orders.”

“Right, that’s enough dawdling,” Sulla snaps as my two comrades carry the newcomer to the boat we’ll be leaving on, optimistically named the Fortuna . Sulla tosses a coin to the priestess as she gets the cup back from the last man in line. “On board, all of you!”

As we file onto the ship, I glance back at the priestess. She’s watching us, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I could swear I see her lips move, forming words I can’t hear over the noise of the docks.

Then she’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd. The warmth of the strange drink lingers, and for a moment I feel calm. Just as quickly as I felt a ray of hope, I step onto the ship, feel a small roll under my feet as I see a rat scurry by, and know I’m entering a new level of infernum .