“My—”
“Save your breath,” Drusus snaps. “I’ve lived my life as a lanista because it was the only way I could survive. My mother—your wife—is dead. And now your own grandson is in a cage somewhere on his way to a life of slavery.”
Before his father can speak, Drusus waves a hand at me.
I knock Calvus’s knees out from under him, and he drops onto the floor between me and Drusus. I kneel and bind Calvus’s wrists with a length of cord. Then I stand, and I pull his head back and press the edge of the blade beneath his jaw.
Drusus leans down, and as he looks Calvus in the eyes, his lip peels back from his teeth. “For all the things you’ve done, Father, may the gods give you tenfold the suffering you’ve inflicted on the rest of us.”
“Statia—”
“Statia is dead,” Drusus says. “Just like you should be.”
He looks past his father and nods at me.
Calvus tries to speak, but I shove a wadded rag into his mouth. He gags, fighting against his restraints.
I take the dagger away from his throat and step around him so he’s staring up at me instead of his son. In all my years as a slave and as a fighter, I’ve never before found more satisfaction than I do in the palpable fear in the eyes of Calvus Laurea as I draw back my fist.
I hit him in the face, and he falls to the side, so I grab the front of his toga and haul him back up on his knees. With a fistful of his toga to steady him, I hit him again. Then again. He groans and gags, and blood bubbles and sprays from his nose. Another close-fisted punch, and his head lolls to one side, his eyes rolling. I wait until he reorients himself and lifts his head, and I draw my fist back again.
A hand stops my elbow. “Easy, Saevius,” Drusus says softly.
Calvus stares up at us, dazed and bleeding and so perfectly, beautifully terrified. Just like he deserves to be. The whites of his eyes gleam in the oil lamp’s faint glow. Blood runs down one side of his face and smears of it darken his pristine toga.
I glance at Drusus. “You sure you want to let him live?”
Kneeling at my feet, Calvus whimpers like a scared child.
Drusus nods. “With everything the people of Pompeii are going to hear after the sun comes up? I want him to be alive and well to watch his reputation crumble.”
I chuckle. “Let’s get out of here, then. He won’t be out long.”
And still, the fear in the nobleman’s eyes grows.
Drusus leans down until he’s inches from his father’s bloodied, terrified face. “Never forget this, and never forget my face. Anything happens to my son between now and the day I die, or if he isn’t where you say he is, I will find you, and I will kill you.”
Calvus stares back, as broken and powerless as he so richly deserves to be, and I doubt he’d be able to speak even if he didn’t have the gag in his mouth.
Drusus spits in his father’s face. Calvus screws his eyes shut and struggles against his restraints, but he can neither move nor wipe his face. Then Drusus steps out of the way, and I send Calvus crumpling to the ground with one last blow to the side of his head.
“I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” I say, shaking the pain out of my hand as Calvus lies unconscious at my feet.
“You’re not the only one,” Drusus says with a soft laugh. “Let’s go. That slaver could be leaving Pompeii any moment.”
We leave Calvus to sleep in his own blood, and carefully close the door behind us.
Madam Gelasia looks up as we walk out, but she doesn’t say a word.
“Now,” Drusus says, sliding his hand into the crook of my elbow as we step out into the night, “we find that damned slaver.”
Calvus wisely told us correctly, and the slaver’s camp is just outside Pompeii.
From a small bluff overlooking the camp, Drusus and I watch the flickering fires and patrolling guards.
“Question is, how do we get Kaeso out?” I scowl at the campsite. “He’s got more guards than your father’s villa.”
“We should try negotiating first.” Drusus glances at me. “It’s safer that way.”
“Think it’ll work?”
He nods. “I know slavers. They’re scum, but they’re businessmen. If we bargain with them for Kaeso rather than take him by force, we’re less likely to get him killed.”
“You’re certain we have enough money?”
Drusus laughs dryly. “We have more than enough to get him back and still live well for years.” I couldn’t argue with that. We’d emptied the ludus’s treasury, sparing only enough for each of the men to start their lives along with the emancipation documents Drusus left behind.
I look out at the campsite again. “I think it’s better I go in and you wait out here,” I say.
“No,” Drusus says. “I should—”
“If negotiating doesn’t work, you’re in no condition to fight.”
“Neither are you.”
“But given the choice between the two of us, it’s best for Kaeso that you stay alive.”
Drusus frowns as he looks out at the slaver’s camp.
“Just wait here.” I turn his face toward me and kiss his forehead. “I’ll get him out.”
I start to go, but Drusus grabs my wrist. “Wait.”
I stop, eyebrows up.
He swallows. “Are you sure you’ll know him when you see him?”
“I will.” I kiss Drusus on the mouth this time. “Trust me, I’ll know him.”
“Thank you, Saevius,” he whispers. “You’ve already done far more for me than I’ve had any right to ask, and this is—”
I silence him with another kiss. “We’ll settle up debts later. After we’ve gotten your son away from this cursed city.”
Drusus nods, and as he lets me go, he sweeps his tongue across his lower lip. “I’ll set up a campfire.” He gestures behind us. “Out of sight from the camp. I’ll wait for you there.”
“Good. Hopefully it won’t take long.”
“Hopefully not.” He kisses me lightly. “Gods be with you.”
After one last, brief kiss, we separate, and I approach the slaver’s camp.
“You there!” A guard barks, readying his spear. “Stop right there.”
“I’m here to see Maharbaal,” I say calmly.
“Maharbaal, eh?” He doesn’t lower his weapon. “Then come in the daylight like everyone else.”
“I don’t have time to wait until sunrise. Let me speak to him, and I’ll be on my way.”
He regards me silently for a moment, then gestures sharply with his weapon. “Get in here, then.” He leads me to a heavily guarded tent at the center of the campsite, and shoves me unceremoniously through the flap.
The slaver is a giant of a man, probably at least a head taller than me and definitely dangerously broader in the shoulders. He sits on a pile of furs with two guards looming in the shadows behind him, and as he lowers his cup, his glare suggests I’m not welcome.
“Pol! What do you want?” he snarls. “I don’t do business in the dead of night.”
“I want to buy a slave from you,” I say quickly.
His expression doesn’t change. “I told you. I don’t—”
“A specific slave.”
His eyebrows lower over his dark eyes. “Which slave?”
“You bought a boy in Pompeii,” I say, “from a nobleman. Calvus Laurea.”
The slaver furrows his brow, but then shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t keep records?” I glare down at him. “What slaver doesn’t keep records of what he buys and from whom?”
“Oh, I keep records.” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “But they’re none of your concern.”
“I’m not here to play games. I want the boy.”
“What boy?”
“The boy you bought from Calvus Laurea. I know you have him, so let’s not—”
“Oh, I have him,” the slaver says, but he doesn’t budge. “It’s just that part of the arrangement is that I don’t sell the boy until I’ve taken him far from Pompeii.” He smirks. “And I’m not one to break deals with men who frequently put money into my coin purse.”