Before dawn, Lucius was already awake. While Caius still breathed heavily in his corner of the cell, Lucius took advantage of the solitude to assess his body. The exhaustion from the previous day had transformed into a constant and penetrating pain, but not incapacitating. His muscles protested, but responded.
Methodically, he tested each muscle group with controlled movements, identifying weaknesses and evaluating limitations. His body, despite recent inactivity, seemed to possess a significant muscular base. It wasn't the physique of a simple peasant or craftsman, but of someone trained for considerable physical demands.
Interesting, thought Lucius. My body retains what my mind forgot.
Using the limited space of the cell, he began a series of silent exercises — modified push-ups, deep stretches, isometric contractions. It wasn't just to prepare for the day, but to establish a ritual that would give him continuous marginal advantage over the others.
"Already awake and training," observed Caius, his voice surprisingly alert for someone who seemed deeply asleep moments before. "You really are different."
Lucius didn't interrupt his movements. "Enough information about me. Tell me about this place. Who are the main players, besides Quintus and Marcus?"
Caius slowly rose to a sitting position, his movements revealing joint stiffness and chronic pain that he carefully masked. "Straight to the point, then. Very well." He considered for a moment. "Besides Quintus, the owner, and Marcus, the lanista, there's Servius — the physician who keeps valuable merchandise functioning. Strange man, studied in Alexandria, they say. Knows herbs that can heal or kill."
Lucius nodded, absorbing the information while moving to another exercise. "Continue."
"Cato, the armarius — responsible for weapons and equipment. Unstable temperament, drinks too much, but knows metal like few others. Has special favor with Quintus for some reason nobody knows." Caius paused. "Then there are the guards — mostly disgraced ex-legionaries or criminals who escaped execution by becoming paid muscle. Their chief is Varro — dangerous man, too intelligent for the position he occupies."
"And the gladiators? Hierarchy?"
A bitter smile crossed Caius's face. "At the top is Tiberius, the 'Scourge of Hispania' — undefeated in twenty-two combats, Quintus's favorite. Arrogant, brutal, but legitimately skilled. Below him, perhaps five or six veterans who survived long enough to earn privileges — better quarters, superior food, occasionally women." He let out a dry laugh. "Those are the 'stars' who fight in the main arenas. The rest of us? Disposable."
Lucius completed his exercise series and sat calmly, his face a neutral mask while processing the information. "Who has real influence? Not just formal authority."
Caius studied him with growing interest. "Perceptive question. The cook, Livia — old as the mountains, deaf in one ear, but knows secrets that could ruin half the men here. The gladiators treat her well for obvious reasons, but she also hears conversations that Quintus would pay to know about."
"Anyone else?"
"Antonia, Quintus's personal slave. Everyone assumes she's just his concubine, but the woman has sharp eyes and influences the master's decisions more than anyone suspects." Caius lowered his voice, though they were alone. "And there are rumors about a man called Cassius, who visits irregularly — apparently a senator or someone close to power. When he appears, Quintus behaves like a dog eager to please."
Lucius nodded slightly, filing away each detail. Information was power, and power was the only path to freedom — or at least to some form of control over his destiny.
The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted the conversation. The cell door opened, revealing two guards.
"Get up, worms," ordered one of them, banging his spear against the metal bars. "Special day today. Seems our recruit impressed enough to earn attention."
Lucius rose fluidly and calmly, showing no surprise or anxiety. As the guards led them through the dark corridors, Caius murmured: "Be careful. Attention is rarely a good thing here."
The courtyard was still immersed in shadows, the sun just beginning to tinge the horizon. Unlike the previous day, there was only a small group gathered — Marcus, Quintus, and three veteran gladiators who watched with predatory expressions.
"Ah, our mysterious man," Quintus greeted with false cordiality. "Marcus insists you deserve accelerated evaluation. Says there's potential beyond the usual in you." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Normally, I would wait weeks before allowing a new one to touch real steel, but I'm curious."
Marcus remained impassive, but his eyes conveyed a clear message to Lucius: don't make me look foolish for betting on you.
"This is what we'll do," continued Quintus, gesturing toward the three veterans. "These are Drusus, Macro, and Atticus — gladiators with real arena experience. You'll face each of them in training combat."
A murmur of surprise ran among the present guards. It was practically a death sentence for a recruit to face veterans so early.
Lucius showed no reaction, but his mind calculated rapidly. This wasn't a normal test — it was a deliberate attempt at humiliation, or possibly elimination. The question was: why? Had he offended Quintus somehow, or was Marcus testing him beyond normal limits for his own reasons?
"The rules are simple," explained Marcus, stepping forward. "Wooden swords, no armor. Combat continues until I declare a winner or until one of you cannot continue. There's no shame in submission — this is training, not execution." His gaze contradicted his words.
The first opponent, Drusus, stepped forward. He was a man of average build with scars evidencing years in the arena. His eyes were cold, evaluating, but there was no evident malice — just the professional determination of a man following orders.
"Begin!" ordered Marcus after both received wooden swords of similar weight to real ones.
Drusus didn't hesitate, immediately advancing with a diagonal strike calculated to test Lucius's defenses. The movement was controlled, telegraphed — an assessment attack, not a finishing one.
Lucius blocked the strike with surprising precision, his body responding with reflexes that contradicted his supposed inexperience. A quick exchange of basic strikes followed, where Drusus clearly increased intensity and complexity to evaluate his opponent's capabilities.
To his own amazement, Lucius not only defended adequately but responded with technically sound counter-attacks. His muscles seemed to remember training that his mind had forgotten, moving with intuitive efficiency.
Interesting, he thought while dodging a horizontal strike. My body was extensively trained at some point. This knowledge can be exploited.
Drusus, perceiving that his opponent wasn't the typical recruit, increased the pressure. His attacks became faster, his feints more elaborate. Lucius found himself genuinely challenged, forced to retreat several times while adapting to the superior combat style.
It was during one of these defensive sequences that Lucius noticed something crucial — a subtle pattern in Drusus's movements. The veteran slightly favored his right side, probably compensating for some old injury in his left hip. Every third offensive sequence was followed by a repositioning that briefly exposed his flank.
Lucius absorbed this information without altering his expression, continuing to defend competently, occasionally launching counter-attacks that kept Drusus engaged without revealing his observation.
After approximately five minutes of intense combat, when Drusus initiated another offensive sequence, Lucius deliberately waited for the third set of movements. When the veteran began his subtle repositioning, Lucius attacked — not the exposed flank, which would be too obvious, but simulated an attack in that direction only to change at the last instant, executing a feint that ended with the tip of his wooden sword pressed against Drusus's throat.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Drusus froze, genuinely surprised. Then, slowly, a smile of professional appreciation formed on his face. "Well executed," he murmured, only for Lucius to hear.
"Enough!" declared Marcus, his voice neutral, but his eyes revealing intense curiosity. "Next!"
Macro stepped forward as Drusus retreated. Unlike his predecessor, Macro was a mountain of muscle, wielding his training sword as if it were a twig. His face bore the flattened nose and deformed ears characteristic of someone who had absorbed countless blows over the years.
"I won't have the same gentleness as Drusus," announced Macro with a cruel smile. "Time to show the recruit his place."
When Marcus gave the signal, Macro attacked with brutal force. There was no subtlety in his strikes — just pure power, intended to subjugate through crushing force. The first impact against Lucius's sword sent painful vibrations through his arms, almost disarming him.
Superior physical strength, Lucius assessed clinically, retreating to avoid the next devastating blow. Direct confrontation would be unwise.
Macro advanced relentlessly, each powerful strike strong enough to cause serious damage even with a training weapon. Lucius was forced into a purely evasive strategy, dodging and retreating constantly, which provoked laughter among some of the observers.
"Run, rabbit!" taunted one of the guards. "You can't run forever!"
Lucius ignored the provocations, concentrating entirely on observing his opponent. Macro was strong, yes, but also predictable and, more importantly, arrogant. Each attack was telegraphed seconds before by his posture and expression. His breathing, after just two minutes of pursuit, already showed signs of strain — bulky muscles demanded more oxygen.
Vulnerability identified, concluded Lucius. Limited endurance, compulsive circular movement after descending strikes, slow recovery after maximum force attacks.
Instead of continuing to retreat indefinitely, Lucius began moving in circular patterns, forcing Macro to turn constantly to follow him. Occasionally, he provoked his opponent with small attacks he knew would be easily blocked, but which forced the larger man to change direction repeatedly.
The first signs of frustration appeared on Macro's face after four minutes. His breathing became increasingly labored, his attacks slightly less coordinated. When he finally launched a particularly powerful descending strike that Lucius avoided by inches, the decisive moment arrived.
The impact of the wooden sword against the ground momentarily unbalanced Macro. Following his usual pattern, he executed a turn to recover his posture — exactly what Lucius had anticipated. Instead of attacking directly, Lucius slid to the blind side created by the circular movement, strategically positioning his foot.
Macro, already committed to his recovery movement, stumbled. It wasn't a complete fall, but the instant of imbalance was all Lucius needed. With surgical precision, he struck the back of Macro's knee with his sword, simultaneously applying pressure to the larger man's shoulder.
The result was that Macro fell heavily to his knees, and before he could fully process what had happened, he felt the tip of the wooden sword pressed firmly against the back of his neck.
"Impossible," murmured someone in the small audience.
Macro's expression transformed from surprise to fury. For a moment, it seemed he would ignore the exercise rules and attack Lucius directly, but a severe look from Marcus contained his anger.
"Enough!" declared the lanista. "Last opponent."
As Macro moved away, casting murderous looks at Lucius, Atticus stepped forward calmly. Unlike the other two, Atticus was thin, almost skeletal, with deeply sunken eyes that observed everything with disturbing intensity. He moved with absolute economy, each gesture precisely calculated.
"Interesting," he commented in a low voice, only for Lucius to hear. "Very interesting."
This would be different, Lucius immediately perceived. There was no evident arrogance in Atticus, no underestimation. Just cold calculation — a mirror of his own approach.
When the signal was given, neither advanced immediately. Instead, they circled each other slowly, swords in defensive position, evaluating each other. The observers became visibly impatient with the lack of immediate action, but Marcus watched with renewed interest.
The first move came from Atticus — a feint so subtle it would be imperceptible to most opponents. Lucius recognized it only by a slight weight shift that preceded the movement, allowing him to maintain his position without being deceived.
"Exceptional perception," murmured Atticus, almost approvingly. "Let's see your limits."
What followed was radically different from the previous combats. Atticus attacked with mathematical precision, each movement flowing perfectly into the next in complex combinations that demanded total concentration to defend. There was no wasted brute force, just lethal efficiency.
Lucius found himself genuinely challenged for the first time. His advantage wouldn't come from identifying an obvious physical weakness, as Atticus demonstrated none. He needed another approach.
While defending against a particularly elaborate sequence of attacks, Lucius deliberately allowed his expression to show a flash of frustration — a calculated falsity. In the following seconds, he subtly altered his posture to simulate growing exhaustion.
Atticus, perceptive as he was, noticed these changes. A glint of satisfaction briefly crossed his eyes — the first genuine emotion he had shown. Following what he perceived as an advantage, he increased the intensity of his attacks, pressing the apparently weakened opponent.
It was exactly what Lucius expected.
The moment Atticus committed to a particularly aggressive thrust, Lucius completely abandoned his feint of exhaustion. Moving with surprising speed, he dodged laterally while simultaneously striking Atticus's wrist with surgical precision.
The wooden sword flew from the veteran's hand. Before he could react, Lucius completed his movement with a quick strike to the back of Atticus's knees, unbalancing him. The combat ended with Atticus on the ground and the tip of Lucius's sword pressed against his chest.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Atticus stared at Lucius for several seconds before a genuine, though faint, smile formed on his lips. "Deception," he said in classical Greek. "Well executed."
Lucius extended his hand, helping Atticus to his feet — not out of courtesy, but to establish a potentially useful connection with someone who clearly possessed above-average intelligence in this environment.
"Enough!" Quintus's voice cut through the air, his expression a complex mixture of surprise, interest, and something resembling concern. "An... impressive demonstration."
Marcus approached Lucius, studying him with renewed intensity. "You claimed to have no memories," he said in a low voice. "Yet you fight like a man with years of systematic training."
"My body remembers what my mind forgot," Lucius replied simply.
"Hmm." Marcus turned to Quintus. "As we discussed previously — unusual potential."
Quintus seemed to be internally reconsidering something. "Yes... yes, I see that now." He addressed Lucius directly. "You're not material for minor games in provincial arenas. With proper training..." He left the sentence incomplete, lost in calculations of potential profit.
"I want to see him training with the intermediates starting today," he finally ordered Marcus. "And provide appropriate nutrition — we won't waste valuable muscle on recruit rations."
As Quintus moved away, chatting animatedly with one of his assistants about "untapped potential" and "return on investment," Marcus remained beside Lucius.
"You're an enigma, Lucius Mordus," commented the lanista. "Men don't acquire skills like yours accidentally. You were trained — professionally, methodically — at some point in your forgotten life."
Lucius didn't respond directly. "What happens now?"
"Now? You've just guaranteed both opportunities and enemies." Marcus discretely indicated Macro, who watched from afar with evident hostility. "Some men don't easily accept being surpassed, especially by a newcomer."
"And the other two?"
"Drusus is professional — respects skill wherever he finds it. Atticus..." Marcus slightly frowned. "Atticus is complex. More educated than most here, more observant. Be cautious around him — not because of hostility, but because he sees too much."
Lucius nodded slightly, processing the information. He was already calculating how to transform each element of this new situation into an advantage. Macro would be a problem to be managed, Drusus potentially neutral, and Atticus... Atticus could be useful.
"Go with Drusus," instructed Marcus. "He'll show you your new quarters and take you to the physician for evaluation. Starting tomorrow, you train with the intermediate group."
As he followed Drusus out of the courtyard, Lucius felt the eyes of others upon him — some curious, others envious, some openly hostile. Each reaction was valuable information, each person a potential resource or obstacle to be managed.
The pieces begin to move, thought Lucius, his face a mask of neutrality while internally mapping the complex power game he had just ascended into. Each person here is a tool waiting to be used — conscious of it or not.
For someone without previous memories, without established moral bonds, the path was clear. Usefulness, survival, ascension. It didn't matter how many had to fall for him to rise.
As he passed Caius, who watched everything with an indecipherable expression, Lucius noticed a glint of understanding in the old gladiator's eyes — as if Caius recognized something familiar in the calculating coldness of his behavior.
Yes, thought Lucius. You understand. In this world, morality is a luxury reserved for those already in power. For the rest, it's just an obstacle to survival.
And Lucius Mordus had every intention of surviving, no matter the costs... to others.