Arius hurled a toneless obscenity and swung out.

“You’d better be going to practice!” Gallus’s voice followed him down the hall: “You’re not so young anymore, you know. You can’t afford to get complacent!”

In the new training courtyard that had been built with his prize money, Arius fought four practice bouts. By the end he was winded and panting. No, he wasn’t so young anymore. Thirty-three? Thirty-five? Old enough to wake up every morning feeling so exhausted, so crippled and abused to the core of his bones, that he could barely hobble out of bed. Thirty-five years or so, eight of those years spent in the arena. A long career; three times the length of most gladiators. His fights were scheduled months in advance, his fortune—Gallus’s—had been made several times over. He was feted and cheered wherever he went, he dined at all the great patrician houses, his name was a household word among fighters and spectators alike. They said he was the greatest gladiator Rome had ever known.

Eight years, he thought dully. Eight years.

“Another bout?” the trainer asked, respectful.

“No.”

“You wouldn’t last another bout, you flabby savage,” came a hoarse little voice from the sidelines. “You’re getting old, Barbarian.”

“Not too old to heave you over the wall, dwarf.”

“Better a dwarf than a numbskull.” Hercules made a rude gesture. Blue-eyed, bearded, audacious, and three feet tall, he fought comic preludes in the arena to Arius’s fights.

Arius snagged a towel and swiped his forehead. Hercules eyed him disapprovingly. “You’re breathing much too hard.”

“I’m drunk.”

“You’re always drunk. You’re a sieve. Here, have some more. Thin as piss, but it’s got a good kick.”

They drank sour wine in amiable silence: Arius slouched against the wall, eyes closed to the sun; Hercules with an absurd sunshade over his head and his feet dangling high off the ground. An odd sight, but too familiar to attract second glances. Everyone knew that the Barbarian and the dwarf were inseparable.

“Hello there,” Hercules had introduced himself a year ago in his odd hoarse voice. “I’m new. You must be the meat.”

Arius had blinked. “The what?”

“The meat. The crowd’s main meal. Me, I’m an appetizer.”

A mutter of warning drifted over from the next table: “Better watch who you’re callin’ meat, little man.”

“That’s what he is,” Hercules said coolly.

“You’ve got a mouth,” Arius growled.

“I’ve worked freak shows, arenas, and provincial fairs,” said the dwarf. “The gigs are all the same: make people laugh, and try not to get your teeth kicked in. I’m good enough at the first, but not the second. As you say, I’ve got a mouth. So if a dwarf is going to get beaten up”—an elaborate bow toward Arius—“why not get beaten up by the best?”

Arius had found himself smiling. Rustily, but still smiling. He pushed his wine jug across the table at the dwarf. “Want to get drunk?” And they’d gotten drunk.

Hercules peered out from under his sunshade. “So what’s this I hear about a sea battle? I suppose you’ll be cast as Neptune the Almighty and I’ll be cast as you. They always cast me as you, now. I’m much prettier, but I’ve got that sour scowl down pat. Plus,” he added, “my cock is bigger than yours.”