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“Take a lap. Run to the stables and back, and there and back again. That is one lap.” She started. “Wait. Grab that log.”
    He pointed to the Hell Log, a thick wooden pole banded with iron. It probably weighed half as much as she did. Skinny thing. The total amount of time Lucius had suffered under it probably amounted to close to six months of his life.
    She struggled with pulling it up, but eventually got it in front of her chest. She carried it like a sack of bread. Useless. Perhaps later she would figure out to put it on her shoulders.
    He turned back to the line and continued with the instruction. “Thrust! Back foot planted. The blow comes from your legs, not your arms. Snap your hips.”
    Somewhere, he understood there was better instruction he could give. But his mind was addled from booze and he honestly did not care all that much about their progress. There was an entire wealth of knowledge he possessed, and even if they progressed as rapidly as he had when he arrived at the ludus, they would never catch up with him.
    He had made his mind up to teach the women, at least, how to thrust and hold a shield. Anything beyond that would be a miracle.
    But as the morning stretched on, the women showed promise. They obeyed as he snapped out his commands. For every minor slip-up, he sent them on laps as he had Ros. She did not ask any more questions. The tall walking stick was in his hand, and occasionally he cracked it upon the stones, but there was no part of him that was about to hit a woman.
    He did not think they were worth very much, but that did not mean they were worth beating. Lucius was disdainful of them, but not a monster.
    Gwenn showed progress quicker than the rest. Her thrusts at the pole were dead-on almost from the beginning. Twice he’d had to make her fetch a new sword when she broke hers from the force of her blows.
    She thought this was doing well. Her face, all day, was etched with a terrific smile.
    It was a far cry from the stern, angry cloud her face had been when he bought her. It was as if she enjoyed this training—enjoyed even the thought of being a gladiatrix.
    Lucius, if he cared, could have explained that striking dead center into the pole wasn’t the whole point. The only reason the sword broke was because she was out of position with her footing. He would have guessed that her wrist and forearm hurt terribly after breaking the training swords. That would be much the same as what happened when a sword hid dead on in an opponent’s rib cage and you didn’t have the strength to follow through.
    But Lucius didn’t care. He didn’t care about her fire, so clear on her face. He didn’t care about her efforts. He didn’t care about the glistening sweat tending to her skin or the firm turn to her body as she moved.
    He didn’t care about any of that, no matter how he watched her with his heart aching for more to see.

Chapter 10
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    A t the end of the day of training, Gwenn felt her confidence shaken but not broken. Her arm was sore and twinged with pain. It was the sort of pain that let her know that unless she rested her arm tomorrow, it would only get worse.
    But she lived the life of a gladiatrix now, and there would be no rest.
    They sat down to dinner in their corner once again. The mess hall, which yesterday had appeared far too small with too many eyes from the men, felt much larger now somehow after working for as long as all the men. It was a comfort.
    There were a great many benches and tables in the hall. The walls were made from stone. Torches hung in the corners and small metal bowls full of embers hung from the ceilings, pushing more light out between the rows of tables. It seemed like once the ludus could have hosted hundreds of fighters.
    It was down now to perhaps fifty people, not counting the women. The men gathered in the far corner, occasionally staring long at the women. Some called out in their native tongues, no doubt full of ludicrous