Sands of Fate: The Wrong Side of History

Chapter 35: Men Like Us

The open air smelled like iron and wet earth.

Alex was not himself. His hands were larger, scarred, gripping a sword that was not his own. Rain fell in cold sheets, mixing with the blood that ran in rivers across the mud. Bodies lay everywhere.

A horse screamed somewhere to his left. The sky was grey and low, pressing down like a bruise.

And then, it happened... again.

A blade punched through his chest.

He felt it. The cold steel sliding between his ribs. The sharp, burning pain as it pierced his lung. The warmth of his own blood spilling down his chest. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. His lungs filled with something thick and wet. Copper on his tongue.

He fell, the mud cold against his face. The rain kept falling, as his heartbeat slowed and the darkness crept in.

And then—

Alex’s eyes snapped open.

He was not on a battlefield anymore. He was in a bed. His chest heaved, his heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. Cold sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering the thin fabric to his skin. His hands were shaking.

He pressed a palm to his chest where the blade had gone through.

Nothing.

No wound, no blood, just the phantom ache of a pain that should have killed him.

The room was dim. A single torch flickered in it’s bracket, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air smelled of herbs and old linen and the faint, lingering ghost of rain. He was back at the ludus. Gaius’s ward.

He turned his head.

Spartacus lay on the straw bed beside him, still unconscious, his right arm bound tight against his chest, his breathing deep and even. The swelling in his shoulder had gone down. The bruises on his ribs had faded to pale yellow. He looked peaceful.

Against the far wall, Oseka was slumped on a wooden stool, his back pressed against the stone, his chin resting on his chest. His arms were crossed, and his breath came in the slow, steady rhythm of exhausted sleep. The gash above his eye had been cleaned and closed with a neat line of stitches.

Alex looked past them, toward the high window.

Night had fallen. The moon was a pale sliver behind thin clouds, and the rain had stopped. The world was quiet.

He let out a long, slow breath. The dream was still clinging to him—the smell of the battlefield, the weight of the sword, the cold steel sliding into his chest. He could still taste the copper on his tongue.

"Not again." Alex sighed. "What the hell was even that?" he asked the silent night. "And who was that?" The words barely audible. "That didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like..." A pause. "...like a memory?"

He shook his head and focused on the corner of his vision. The system UI pulsed softly, waiting for him to acknowledge it. He was about to open the full display when the door burst open.

"You will wait until he wakes, Akosa. I’ve told you twice now. The boy nearly died in that arena, and I won’t have you dragging him off to Ignatius before he’s had a proper rest. If the Lanista has a problem with that, he can take it up with—"

Gaius stopped mid-sentence.

Akosa, a step behind him, stopped too.

They both stared at the straw bed where Alex was sitting upright, his white hair a disheveled mess, his tunic still damp with sweat, his eyes tired but very much open.

The silence stretched.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "You were saying?"

Gaius recovered first. He snorted, a rough, dismissive sound that didn’t quite hide the relief flickering behind his eyes. "I was saying you’re a stubborn pain in the ass who doesn’t know when to stay unconscious."

"That’s rich, coming from you."

"Watch your mouth, boy. I still have ointments that sting."

Akosa stepped forward, his whip coiled at his hip, his face unreadable as always. But something in his posture had shifted—the usual tension was there, the coiled readiness of a man who had spent his life around killers, but there was something else underneath. Something that almost looked like respect.

"You’re awake." His deep voice rumbled in the small room.

"Just got up."

"Good. Ignatius wants to see you."

Alex glanced out the window, at the moon, att the quiet dark. "Now?"

"Now."

Gaius stepped between them, his arms crossed, his jaw set. "He just woke up. Whatever Ignatius wants can wait until morning."

"It cannot." Akosa’s voice was flat, but not unkind. "The Lanista was specific. The moment Albius wakes, I am to bring him. No delays."

Gaius opened his mouth to argue, but Alex swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"It’s fine, Gaius."

"It’s not fine. You can barely sit upright."

"I can sit upright just fine." Alex pushed himself to his feet. His legs held... barely. A tremor ran through his thighs, the echo of exhaustion that sleep hadn’t fully healed. But he stood. "See?"

Gaius stared at him for a long moment. His eyes flicked to Alex’s ribs, where the cut from the Palacius blade was already a thin pink line beneath the bandages. Then back to his face. The old medic’s jaw tightened, and Alex could see the questions burning behind his eyes.

But Gaius said nothing.

"Fine," he muttered. "Go. See what the Lanista wants. But if you collapse in the corridor, don’t expect me to carry you."

"I wouldn’t dream of it."

Gaius shook his head and turned away, busying himself with the contents of his bag. But just as Alex reached the door, the old man’s voice stopped him.

"Albius."

Alex turned.

Gaius didn’t look up from his work. "Come back in one piece. I’m running low on bandages."

It was a lie. Alex could see the shelf from where he stood, and it was fully stocked. But the meaning underneath was clear enough.

"I’ll try," Alex said in a smile

He followed Akosa out into the corridor, leaving the warmth of the ward behind.

The door closed with a soft click.

---

The corridors of the ludus were empty at this hour, the torches burning low in their brackets, the stone walls slick with condensation from the earlier rain. Alex followed Akosa through the familiar path—past the training yard, past the armory, past the cells where new recruits slept in fitful silence. His legs still felt weak beneath him, the echo of exhaustion he couldn’t quite shake, but he walked upright. He’d be damned if he’d let Akosa see him stumble.

They reached the door to Ignatius’s office. Akosa pushed it open without knocking and stepped aside, gesturing for Alex to enter.

The office was exactly as Alex remembered it. The heavy oak desk. The stacks of parchment. The single oil lamp casting its amber glow across the room. And behind the desk, still writing, still working as if the hour meant nothing, sat Ignatius.

’Does this man ever go home?’ Alex wondered. ’Does he even have a home? A family? Someone waiting for him?’ The thought felt strange—imagining Ignatius as anything other than the Lanista, the man who decided who lived and who died with a stroke of his pen.

Ignatius looked up.

And for a single, fleeting moment, Alex could have sworn he saw it. A flicker at the corner of the Lanista’s mouth. The faintest upward curve. Pride, or something close to it. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar stoic mask, the unreadable expression that had greeted Alex the first time he’d been dragged into this office, bleeding and half-dead.

"Sit." Ignatius gestured to the chair across from his desk.

Alex sat. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, designed to keep visitors alert. Behind him, he heard Akosa step into the room and take his position near the door. Close enough to hear everything. Far enough to be ignored.

Ignatius set down his quill. For a long moment, he simply studied Alex the way a merchant might study a rare artifact—calculating its worth, noting its flaws, estimating what it might fetch at market.

"What you did in the arena today," Ignatius said finally, "was remarkable."

Alex shifted in his chair. "I did what I had to."

"No." Ignatius leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. "You did what no one expected. The three houses banded together against us. They gave you faulty steel. They threw everything they had at our formation, and you—" He paused, as if still processing the memory. "You turned a slaughter into a victory. Alone."

Alex let out an awkward chuckle. "I wasn’t alone. The others—"

"The others were dying." Ignatius cut him off, not unkindly. "They were dying until you picked up a dead man’s sword and started killing in the other direction. Don’t diminish what you did. It doesn’t become you."

Alex didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for a small nod.

Ignatius watched him for a moment longer, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "The swords," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "The faulty steel. I believe it was not an accident."

Alex’s head snapped up. The exhaustion that had been fogging his thoughts burned away in an instant. "You know who was behind it?"

"I have my suspicions." Ignatius’s expression didn’t change. "I’m still investigating. Whoever arranged it went through considerable effort to ensure it couldn’t be traced back to them. But I will find out. Soon enough."

The words hung in the air. Alex felt his jaw tighten. He thought of Aurellia’s smile in the pulvinar. The way she’d watched the Ignatius fighters die with broken swords in their hands. The way she’d bled from her own clenched fist and shown nothing but cold satisfaction.

He wanted to say her name. To tell Ignatius what he suspected. But something stopped him. Ignatius was already investigating. And if the Lanista knew more than he was letting on—which he almost certainly did—there was a reason he wasn’t sharing it yet.

Alex forced himself to relax. "Good," he said. "I’d very much like to know who arranged it"

"As would I." Ignatius held his gaze for a beat longer, as if weighing whether to say more.

Then the moment passed.

Ignatius reached into his desk and produced a leather pouch. It was small but heavy,and made a distinctive sound when it landed on the wooden table between them. A solid, metallic clink.

Alex stared at it.

"The real reason I called you here," Ignatius said. "Go on. Open it."

Alex reached forward, his fingers closing around the pouch. The leather was soft and worn. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into his palm.

Gold. Real gold coins, more than he’d ever seen in one place. They caught the lamplight and threw it back in warm, amber winks. He counted them without meaning to. Ten, fifteen, twenty.

His hand trembled slightly. He hoped Ignatius didn’t notice.

"I don’t—" Alex started. "What is this?"

"Your cut." Ignatius leaned back in his chair. The faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. "You didn’t forget our deal huh, did you?"

"O– of course not."

Ignatius allowed himself a small chuckle. "You’ve earned this. Every coin. The crowd chanted your name, Albius. Do you understand what that means? They didn’t chant for the ludus. They chanted for you. That kind of fame is worth more than any bout purse." He let that settle. "Now, it’seft for you to keep replicating what earned you that." He said, pointing at the pouch.

Alex stared at the gold. His mind was racing. He’d spent every day in this world fighting for survival—for breath, for blood, for the next sunrise. And now, he’s being paid for it.

"I’ll try," he said quietly.

"You’ll do more than try." Ignatius’s voice was matter-of-fact. "You’ll succeed, or you’ll die. Those are the only two outcomes for men like us."

’Men like us.’ Alex filed that away.

"Don’t spend it all in one place," Ignatius added.

Alex let out a short laugh. He looked up, expecting to see the Lanista’s stoic mask crack into something warmer.

Ignatius wasn’t smiling.

Alex’s laugh died in his throat. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Noted."

Ignatius nodded once and picked up his quill. The audience was over. "Get some rest. You’ll need it. Training resumes tomorrow."

Alex stood, the pouch of gold clutched in his hand. He turned toward the door, where Akosa still stood motionless, his face unreadable.

"Albius."

Alex looked back.

Ignatius didn’t glance up from his parchment. "You did well today. Remember that."

Alex didn’t know what to say. So he just nodded and walked out.

The door closed behind him. The corridor was still empty, still quiet, the torches still burning low. Alex stood there for a moment, the gold heavy in his palm, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

---

Inside the office, Akosa remained by the door.

Ignatius continued writing for a long moment, the scratch of his quill the only sound. Then, without looking up, he spoke.

"Take the men into the city tomorrow after training. They’ve all earned a taste of what lies beyond these walls."

Akosa inclined his head. "As you wish."

Silence stretched between them. Akosa didn’t move toward the door. Ignatius noticed.

"You’ve been unusually quiet tonight," the Lanista said, finally looking up. "Normally you’d have something to say about a decision like this. Question my judgment, remind me that gladiators are tools, not investments."

Akosa met his gaze. His deep voice was steady. "He’s proven me wrong. So why should I doubt what he’s earned?"

Ignatius stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, a laugh escaped him—low and rough, the sound of a man who hadn’t expected to be surprised and found himself surprised anyway.

"He sure has," Ignatius said, shaking his head. "He sure has."

Akosa turned and walked out, leaving the Lanista alone with his parchments and the quiet satisfaction of a gamble that was paying off beyond all expectations.