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house.”
    “Then I suppose you had better train them well.”
    “You can’t train women to fight. The best you can hope for is...a less-active slaughter.”
    “I expect you’ve seen many men walk into this ludus without any hope of survival who nonetheless were molded from clay to marble under the watchful eye of a doctore.”
    “That’s different. Those men came ready to fight. These women are all scared. Terrified.”
    “Then reassure them, doctore. Must I tell you your every duty?”
    “I am not some wet nurse to milk the starving younglings bleating for help. I am a gladiator, and I am—”
    “You were a gladiator, Lucius.” Porcia sat up now. Her elbows rested on the table. “Now, you are whatever I say you are. And I say you are a doctore. And I say you will train these women. Do a poor job or a good one. I don’t care if they live or die. What suffices for me is that you are shamed by it.”
    “I don’t understand. If you don’t care whether they live or die, then why buy them?”
    Porcia had made plenty of poor, impulse purchases over the years. When a good lanista would have been spending most of his money investing in his fighters—buying new equipment, new fighters, and renovating facilities—Porcia had instead spent her money on the domus where she lived. The many decorations and extensions of the house looked beautiful, of course, but behind all that beauty was the great emptiness of a woman who wanted to beautify all her surroundings at the expense of her own well-being.
    Most of her purchases were done on credit. Even though her gladiators kept winning—thanks mostly to her expert staff of doctores—Porcia could not stop gambling. She won enough to pay down some of her debts at every new set of arena games, but she spent far more time losing money at the chariot races.
    Now, the fighters trained with weapons that needed constant upkeep. Part of Lucius's duty as a doctore was, theoretically, helping Murus, Septus, and the other doctores with polishing and sanding down the wooden tools. When they fought in the arena, their armor was dinged and nicked, and their weapons invariably in need of good sharpening. Many times gladiators leaving a fight had to hand off their weapon to the next in line.
    “Senator Otho, a good man, is arranging Puteoli’s next series of games. The anniversary shows are incumbent upon us. He wishes to make such a spectacle that even Emperor Severus will come to see them.” She made a face. “I doubt that last part, truly. Part of his marketing. Severus seems more a Roman creature these days, you know.”
    Lucius did not know, and Porcia knew it.
    Lucius did know, however, that Romans loved their anniversaries. The games she spoke of were in honor of a series of temples opened quite near one another on the calendar. Lucius forget which temples, and which gods.
    In truth, religion held little interest for him except for the purpose of swearing. It was rather satisfying to exclaim “Jupiter's cock!” once in a while.
    But in sum, there was little point, he had thought, in imagining that this God or Goddess watched him. He wanted to be left alone to drink, most of the time. If someone was watching, judging, guiding, then he would never truly be on his own as he wanted.
    “At any rate,” Porcia continued, “Otho wanted some special attractions. I suggested a show of gladiatrices. He fell in love with the idea. Women in combat seemed to strike a very...virile chord with him.”
    Lucius grimaced. “It is strangely generous of you to indulge your Senator in this way, Domina.”
    “He thinks it exciting. Who am I to second-guess a senator?” She shrugged. “It's this or nothing, Lucius. What say you?”
    It was not much of a choice, and he had to assent.

Chapter 9
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    L ucius woke with a start, his head aching from the night. He had settled in with Ajax and Perseus once again. Between them, they knocked off at least four amphoras of wine.
    He