Page 1 of Brother at Arms

Chapter 1

May, AD 64

On a rain-soaked morning on the crowded Sacra Via, I saw Xerxes.

He strode with his usual easy gait, never letting the crush slow him as he approached the Forum Romanum.

He laughed at an advocate rushing to reach the Basilica Pauli, the man probably late to argue a case, then gazed up at the massive pillars on the portico as though never having seen such architecture. Once he’d satisfied his curiosity, Xerxes continued past the basilica, disappearing into the crowd.

I shouldered my way past those around me and followed.

Xerxes, my friend, as close as a brother, was dead and gone. He had no business strolling through the busy Forum toward the Capitoline, as though he meant to make an offering at the Temple of Saturn.

Raindrops pattered on the stones, wetting the May air. My sandals slopped through puddles, and the men around me drew cloaks over their heads. I was bareheaded, having left my cloak at home, because the early morning had been fair. By the time I’d finished my errand at the office of Gallus the builder, the sky had clouded over and the storm had begun.

I couldn’t have seen Xerxes. I knew that for truth. I’d beheld his dead body after he’d been slain by a sword thrust, when slaves from the ludus had dragged him past me to where Nonus Marcianus doctored gladiators under the arena. One of the slaves, a man called Agapios, had wept for him.

I’d observed the blood, the shock on Xerxes’s face that someone had slid past his guard, before the medicus had decorously covered him with his own cloak.

Xerxes’s death had broken me. I hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, hadn’t cared. Only when Aemilianus, our trainer, had threatened to sell me if I didn’t leave my cell did I emerge into the practice grounds and begin drilling once more. I fought from then on in honor of Xerxes, though I knew I could never reverse what had happened.

Cassia, the woman who looked after me, would explain that, logically, the man I followed could not be Xerxes. I understood that with my reason.

My gut told me something different. He had Xerxes’s springy dark hair that he’d shave off before the games. The man’s build was the same, as was his loose way of moving. Xerxes had been light on his feet, making his opponents work hard for a hit. He’d also laughed at them, yelling jokes and bad puns while he spun and weaved. I’d always fought in concentrated silence.

Aemil had tried to train Xerxes out of running his mouth during matches, but Xerxes’s fighting style had been effective. He’d been secundus palus of the ludus, a position not easily reached.

A few paces before the man I followed reached the Temple of Saturn, he swung to the left, cutting between the temple and the Basilica Julia, starting along the road to the Forum Bovarium.

I nearly lost him in the crowded artery that followed the base of the Capitoline but managed to keep the dark head in sight as I twisted through the press of people. Skilled fingers reached for the pouch that hung from my belt, disappearing when I snarled at the would-be thieves.

Xerxes joined the throng crossing the Pons Aemilius, leading to the Transtiberim. Of course, I thought. He’d be heading for the ludus. Returning to the only home he’d known in Rome.

The man ambled into the Transtiberim, and I guessed he’d continue along the Via Aurelia to the streets that led to our training compound. Instead, he abruptly turned and tramped to the Pons Cestius, the bridge that spanned the Tiber to the Insula.

I hastened after him, but when I reached the island at the far end of the bridge, Xerxes had vanished.

I wound my way through the press of pedestrians who lived or worked in these cramped streets or were heading for the opposite bridge to take them back into the city.

In the middle of a square, I turned this way and that, scanning the swarms of people in the markets or crowding the shops and taverns. It was nearing midday, which meant most of Rome hurried to complete their errands before the afternoon, when businesses would close. Residents would then retire to bathhouses before returning home for the evening.

For now, the entire city was out, getting in my way.

I darted down a few side streets but soon realized that it was no use. My quarry was gone, dissipating into the warm rain of the May morning.

Had I truly seen Xerxes? The question plagued me as I crossed the Pons Fabricius from the island to the Campus Flaminius, not paying much attention to where I trod.

Xerxes was dead and gone, part of me knew. In the Elysium fields, to fight for the joy of it, where no one lost.

Or he’d returned for some reason, but whether beneficial or evil, I could not say.

Today was the middle day of Lemuria, which took place on the seventh, fifth, and third days before the Ides of May. Why the festival skipped the days in between, I had no idea, and knew no one who did.

During this festival, ghosts were expelled from homes, belligerent spirits banished. We hadn’t yet performed the ritual in our small apartment, and I wondered if Xerxes’s ghost had taken the opportunity to seek me before we could.

Had he wished me to follow him to the Insula? Was there something there I was meant to see? A person to meet?

I balled my fists as I walked. Xerxes should think better of throwing cryptic hints at me. He’d know that I’d never decipher them.