Page 17 of House of Serpents and Slaves

But Marcus didn’t stop to revel in the victory. He moved on, his focus already shifting to the next threat.

Next to him, Septimus fought with a ferocity that belied his lean frame. He was fast—faster than anyone else in the ludus. His gladius blurred as he darted in and out of the fray, striking and retreating before his opponents could retaliate. Antonius and Vaius fought back-to-back, their movements perfectly coordinated, each one covering the other’s blind spots.

Tarsus was a towering force, his massive war hammer swinging through the air with devastating strength. He caught one of the opposing gladiators in the chest, the sound of the impact audible even over the roar of the crowd. The man was flung back, landing in a heap in the sand.

Maro held his ground surprisingly well for someone so young, though I could see the strain in his movements. He was holding his shield up too high, and his strikes were hesitant, but he kept moving, kept fighting.

Cato cut through his opponents like a scythe. I hated how good he was. He fought with an ease that made it clear he enjoyed this, his smirk never leaving his face as he toyed with his opponent. He dodged and parried like it was nothing, his strikes cruelly precise. When his opponent faltered for a moment, Cato didn’t deliver a clean killing blow like Marcus or Septimus would have.Instead, he dragged it out, slicing the man repeatedly, letting him bleed out slowly while the crowd roared for more.

My stomach churned, but I forced myself to keep watching.

The fight was brutal, both sides evenly matched. For every opponent one of Marcus’s team brought down, another stepped forward. The sand became slippery with blood, and bodies began to litter the arena floor.

I watched, smiling as Marcus had disarmed one of the opposing gladiators, his gladius slicing the man’s weapon from his hand and sending it spinning into the sand. But before Marcus could finish him, another fighter came at him from the side, swinging a heavy mace. Marcus raised his shield, the mace colliding with it in a deafening crash. The force of the blow sent him staggering back, his shield arm hanging limp for a moment.

I gripped the wall tighter, my heart in my throat. Marcus recovered quickly, sidestepping another strike from the mace, but the gladius in his hand was knocked loose in the chaos. It hit the sand with a dull thud, just out of reach. He was disarmed.

My breath caught as I watched him step back, his eyes scanning the arena. He was calculating, looking for an opening, for a weapon, for anything that could turn the tide. But the two fighters closing in on him weren’t going to give him time to think.

I looked around desperately, my pulse racing. Antonius and Vaius were too far away, locked in their own battle. Septimus had just brought down another opponent, but he was surrounded, fighting off two more. Tarsus was shielding Maro, the younger man’s inexperience leaving him vulnerable. And Cato—Cato was standing back, watching Marcus with that same damn smirk on his face, making no move to help.

That bastard.

The crowd was roaring louder now, sensing blood. The two fighters stalking Marcus circled him like wolves, their weaponspoised to strike. Marcus’s gaze flicked to his gladius, but it was too far away.

He was going to die, and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. My body moved on its own, driven by something I couldn’t explain.

I vaulted over the wall, my feet hitting the sand hard, the impact jolting through my legs. For a moment, the roar of the crowd faltered, replaced by a collective gasp as they noticed me - a slave girl in a plain tunic, standing in the middle of the blood-soaked arena.

Marcus’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with shock.

“Livia, no!”

5

This was it.

I’d faced death more times than I could count, but this time was different. My body was slowing, and my mind, usually sharp in these moments, was too focused on the pain, too distracted by the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The fever burned through my skin, weakening me and I stumbled. The crowd roared, sensing blood.

The fighter circled me, his blade gleaming as he shifted his weight from side to side, testing me like a predator stalking wounded prey. He was big—bigger than most—and every heavystep he took sent vibrations through the blood-soaked sand. His armor was battered but sturdy, his face hidden behind a dented helmet that left only his eyes exposed. Those eyes gleamed with savage delight.

I had no weapon, no shield, no advantage. My gladius lay several feet away, glinting mockingly in the low sunlight. My shield arm hung limp at my side, useless after the mace’s crushing blow. My breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, and my legs felt like they were made of stone.

The crowd roared louder, sensing the end.

The fighter’s lips curled into a grin as he raised his sword, the blade catching the light. He was savoring this moment. I knew that look—the confidence of knowing the kill was yours. I’d worn it myself countless times.

If I was going to die, I thought bitterly, I’d at least make him bleed first.

Dying wasn’t something I feared—death had been my shadow for years, close enough to feel its breath on the back of my neck. I’d faced it countless times in the arena, and every time I’d walked away, I’d wondered if it would have been easier to let it take me.

But now, with the sand shifting beneath my bare feet and the weight of the crowd’s bloodlust pressing down on me, I felt something I hadn’t expected: regret.

Not for the life I’d lived. Not for the men I’d killed or the blood I’d spilled.

For not taking Livia to my bed that night she’d come to me. I’d thought of it every night since, knowing it had been the right thing to do to turn her away, but at the same time, unable to banish the feel of her soft body against mine. The gentleness in her wide brown eyes as she’d looked up at me. It would have been a memory I could have taken with me to the Eternal Fields,a memory that could have kept me warm until the gods woke us once more.

I would still go down fighting. I couldn’t reach my gladius, but I didn’t need it. A weapon was only as good as the man who wielded it. If I could get close enough, I could take him down with my bare hands.

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