In the arena, two men are circling one another. The net man is easy to spot, bare-headed and bare-chested, only his trident keeping the heavily armed chaser at bay. The chaser barely looks human, his face obscured, his torso shining metal. He lifts his shield to fend off jabs from the trident, trying to come close enough to strike a blow on his opponent’s unprotected flesh. The net man responds by flinging out his fishing net, flicking it at the chaser’s legs to make him stumble. There are screams from the crowd as the chaser only just manages to leap out of the way of the lethal, jabbing prongs.

“Too heavy,” Britannica says. “He will tire.”

Amara does not need to ask which man she means. Inside his armor, the chaser must be sweltering, his entire head encased in a metal ball which blazes silver in the sun. The net man, in contrast, is light on his feet, his tanned skin shining with sweat. There is something familiar about the way he moves, taunting the chaser, body rippling with muscle. Amara thinks of the Palaestra, of the time she went to find Felix, the way he outpaced the other men sprinting round the circuit. She steals a glance at Victoria who is gazing at the net man with a rapturous expression. “Do you know what his name is?” Amara asks.

“Crescens,” Victoria breathes, not even turning to look at her.

Amara turns back to Britannica whose attention is no less rapt than Victoria’s, the two women united in their interest. The same cannot be said for all the other spectators. Many women are chatting, enjoying the chance to gossip while they watch the two men fight to the death. Gladiator duels don’t have the unpredictability of beast hunts—there’s more skill and less savagery, and so perhaps less excitement. Amara herself feels nothing but dread as she watches the chaser tire, the net man constantly baiting him, exhausting him, until he is finally too slow to evade the jabs of the trident and has the shield knocked from his grasp.

“Now, net man will finish him,” Britannica says, with satisfaction.

The kill when it comes is neither glorious nor swift, but Victoria and Britannica still leap to their feet, screaming. Amara rises with them, watching as Crescens lifts his arms, shaking them in victory, while his opponent—and perhaps former friend—lies dying at his feet. The sound is deafening, the roaring of the arena pounding in her skull, but Amara can still hear Britannica shouting, close to her ear.

“I do this when you free me! One day, I am gladiator!”

Amara turns to look at her in surprise, even amusement, but Britannica’s eyes are fixed on Crescens. The look of ferocity on her face is frightening.

25

“Oh, if only I could hold your sweet arms around my neck in an embrace and place kisses on your tender lips”

—Pompeii graffiti