Sands of Fate: The Wrong Side of History

Chapter 40: Five Seconds

The midday sun was hanging high over the ludus, slanting through the window of Ignatius’s office, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the still air. The ledgers on his desk remained untouched, the quill dry, the inkwell half-empty.

The broken seal—the lion of Brutus—lay in two pieces at the corner of the desk, its severed head staring up at the ceiling with waxen eyes.

Ignatius sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled, his expression blank.

Across from him, Akosa stood with his arms folded, his whip coiled at his hip, his face its usual unreadable mask. But his eyes, sharp, watchful, missing nothing, were fixed on the Lanista with the quiet intensity of a man who had known him long enough to read the weather in his silences.

"How are the men?" Ignatius asked. His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it. Something Akosa couldn’t quite name.

"Recovering well," Akosa replied. "The Thracian’s arm is healing faster than Gaius expected. The others are sore, but they’ll be ready for the next bouts."

Ignatius nodded slowly. His fingers tapped once against the desk. "And Albius?"

Akosa didn’t answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice carried a note that was almost surprise. "Better than all of them. The wound on his ribs is nearly gone."

The silence stretched between them. Outside, the distant bustling of the city filtered in through the windows.

Akosa’s eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

Ignatius didn’t answer. He simply looked at the broken seal on his desk, the lion’s head split clean in two.

"I’ve known you too long," Akosa said. His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now. "You only get that look when something’s wrong. So what is it?"

Ignatius let out a long, slow breath. He reached for the letter; still unfolded, still bearing the weight of whatever words had been written on it, and held it loosely in his weathered hand.

"A letter came last night," he said. "From Brutus."

Akosa’s brow furrowed. "The palace? That’s—"

"Unusual," Ignatius finished. "Yes."

"What does it say?"

Ignatius didn’t answer. He simply stared at the parchment, his thumb tracing the edge of the broken seal. The silence stretched, heavy and cold, until Akosa shifted his weight; a rare display of impatience from a man who had built his life on stillness.

"Ignatius."

The Lanista looked up. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were clouded with something Akosa hadn’t seen in years.

Concern.

"The games," Ignatius said quietly. "The next games, they won’t be in Rome."

---

The dining hall was warm with the smell of barley porridge and salted fish, the long wooden tables crowded with the men of Ludus Ignatius. The morning’s training had left them hungry and loose, their laughter echoing off the stone walls as they shoveled down their brunch.

Alex sat across from Spartacus, a bowl of porridge cooling in front of him. Oseka was beside him, halfway through a chunk of bread, and entirely through whatever filter usually kept his thoughts in check.

"...and then he just laid there," Oseka was saying, gesturing with the bread, "staring at the ceiling like a lovesick calf. I asked him what was wrong, and he said..." He dropped his voice into a poor imitation of Alex’s. "...’I’m thinking about someone.’"

Spartacus raised an eyebrow, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.

"That’s not what I said," Alex cut in. "I said I was thinking about the girl I saw. Not... whatever Oseka’s turning it into."

"The girl you saw," Oseka repeated, grinning. "At the brothel. Where you spent the evening. And then couldn’t sleep because you were thinking about her."

"That’s not—"

"He’s got a crush," Oseka told Spartacus, utterly unrepentant. "The pretty white ghost is in love."

"I am not in love. I saw her for five seconds. She kneed a man in the balls and walked away."

"Five seconds?" Oseka asked with wide eyes. "You only lasted five seconds?" His voice rising to a pitch. "By the gods."

"W– What? No!" Alex blurted out, waving his hands frantically. "That’s not what I meant."

Spartacus took a slow bite of his porridge. "Leave him be, Oseka. We’ve all got our flaws."

"Thank you," Alex said. "Wait... What?" He said in realization.

Oseka burst into laughter.

"That must’ve been what kept you up last night," Spartacus added. "The sheer weight of embarrassment."

Alex dropped his forehead into his hand.

Just then, the dining hall door swung open.

Akosa stepped through, and the laughter died. His eyes swept the room, found Alex, and he began walking.

He stopped by their table. "Ign–"

Oseka leaned back, still holding his bread. "Ignatius sent for him," he said, loud enough for the table to hear. "We know."

A ripple of chuckles spread through the men. The last time Akosa had come to fetch Alex, he’d returned with a pouch of gold. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be bad.

Alex pushed himself up from the bench with a sigh. "Guess I’ll finish my porridge later."

Akosa didn’t laugh. He just turned and walked, expecting Alex to follow.

Alex followed.

As they stepped out of the dining hall and into the cold corridor, the laughter resumed behind them—Oseka already launching into another story, Spartacus eating his porridge in silence.

But Alex felt it. Something in Akosa’s stillness, something in the way Ignatius had called for him so soon after the last summon. He had a feeling whatever was waiting for him in that office wasn’t going to come with a reward.