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had a breastplate, metal rings guarding his sword arm, a heavy shield in his right hand, and a sword in his left to complete his armament. The retiarius , or net men, were more lightly armed, each having just a net, trident, and dagger. They were also the only class of gladiator that did not wear a helmet. All four had light skin, prisoners from the northern territories, perhaps Britain.
    A net flew, and Falco sidestepped, shoving it away with his shield, careful not to get the edge of the shield caught on it. The four men were working in pairs, two approaching, two waiting, trying to wear him down, waiting for him to make a fatal mistake.
    Falco was a large man, as befitted a mymillo towering over the net men. His body was solidly muscled and covered with scars from former engagements. His skin was burned dark from the hours he spent training outdoors. His hair was clipped close to his skull and prematurely gray, a normal thing among those in his occupation. His most intriguing feature were his eyes, deep blue, which spoke of foreign blood.
    As the man who had cast scuttled to recover his net, Falco bellowed and charged forward toward his partner. That man took a step backward, and Falco whirled toward the first man, slashing with his sword. He caught the first retiarius as he was gathering up the net. The man was good, blocking the blow with his trident and trying to rip the sword from Falco’s grip by twisting the haft, pinning the blade with forks. He might as well have been trying to move the arm of the statue of the emperor that gazed down from above the imperial box.
    Falco’s arm not only didn’t move, he slid the sword down until the guard rested on the base of the trident, then thrust upward with his shield, the metal edge catching the retiarius under the chin, smashing into his jaw and lifting the smaller man off his feet. Falco was still going with the flow of the blow, turning, knowing what was coming even before he saw it, that the second retiarius was casting, trying to catch from behind. He still had the first man hanging on the edge of his shield, and as he completed the turn, he heaved with all his strength, tossing the body at the net. The man went down in a tumble.
    The other two retiarii had used the opportunity to fan out, one fighter on each flank of Falco as he faced the third survivor. Falco forced himself to relax, to focus on the three men who were trying to kill him. They were going to double cast; he knew it a second before either on the flank moved. Falco charged the one he sensed was the better fighter of the two, his shield now over his head, his sword held forward. The caster behind him missed, but the man he was charging, settled his net perfectly over Falco, or at least his shield, which Falco let go of a split second before the net completed its drop and caught him. The net fell to the ground, the shield it’s only captive. Falco dove to the ground at the feet of the retiarius , his sword point now extending forward and up, slicing into the man’s upper thigh as he tried to dance away, severing the artery.
    Falco rolled twice to the right, feeling the sand against his exposed skin. The dying retiarius was brave as he stuck with his trident, narrowly missing pinning Falco’s neck to the ground. Falco was on his feet, giving ground, letting the wounded man bleed out as he struggled to approach. Falco could feel the wounded man’s pain, the faintness as his blood pulsed out with each beat of his heart. The other two retiarii were behind, recovering their nets.
    The wounded man raised his trident and screamed something in his native tongue, charging forward. Falco stood his ground and met the trident with his blade, stopping the man’s charge as if he had run into a wall. With his free hand, Falco grabbed the man’s throat. He squeezed, massive muscles in his forearm rippling, and the man’s trachea gave way. Still Falco kept the pressure breaking though the skin, his fingers reaching