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fight, though. Never saw a man with so much hatred in him. A champion of the Circus Maximus in Rome, not that pipsqueak little arena down in Herculaneum. What in hell's he doing chained to a wagon out here?"
"Claims Publius Bericus plans to breed him."
"Prob'ly ain't lying. He was worth money. His get ought to be fighters, for sure. I got sold by that bastard owned me before he lost a fight, though. What happened to your leg, Murderer?"
What's it look like, idiot?
He forced his voice to remain low and calm. "I lost a special exhibition bout. Five on one. They hacked my leg out from under me after I killed three. I got the one who did my leg. The last one pinned me with a trident and net when my leg failed. But the crowd was impressed. So was Vespasian."
Charlie was sweating just at the memory of the crowd's roar, the look in the eyes of the man who held his throat pinned to the sand, the agony in his leg and the worse agony of waiting for the signal that would end his life. . . .
"Huh. You're lucky." The former slave spat into the darkness. "He's one mean son of a barbarian, Pharnaces."
Memory faded, leaving Charlie facing a new danger.
"I'm inclined to leave you chained to the wagon," Pharnaces mused. "You sound dangerous."
Charlie laughed bitterly. "Only to the bastards who chained me here. And not really to them. I can barely hobble, Pharnaces." He turned his leg toward the light, showing the scars more clearly.
Even Pharnaces sucked in his breath. "Isis pity you . . ."
Charlie met his gaze again and waited, as he'd waited in the hot sunlight of the Roman arena.
"A man with your experience might be useful," Pharnaces mused. "I lost some good

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