older

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"Well, you're certainly big enough for it."
"Two years in the Circus Maximus. I'm school trained, a veteran champion. Publius Bericus wants to breed me."
Interest warred with disbelief at the grandiose claim. "Really? We'll see . . . Verecundus! Come here!"
An older, grizzled man whose neck bore the unmistakable scars of a man who had spent years as a collared slave approached the wagon.
"Yes, Pharnaces?"
"Ever see this man?"
Verecundus studied Charlie's face for only a moment.
"Yeah. I seen him, lots of times. Rufus the Murderer. Got close a few times, the night before a bout, when they gave the public gladiator banquets."
Memory slammed down across Charlie: the so-called gladiator feasts, where men with only a few hours to live swilled wine in front of gawking crowds of slaves, freedmen, even thrill-seeking patricians—including wives of the school's owners, who would come and touch him for luck. . . .
Verecundus was speaking again. "They used to chain him for the banquets, goad him from the crowd. Should'a seen him

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