Chapter 7: Like Smoke
Chapter 7: Like Smoke
The bath house was a low stone building tucked against the eastern wall of the ludus, its roof slanted and patched with moss. A single wooden door, warped by steam and age, creaked on iron hinges.
Inside, heat and shadows hit first. The air was thick, wet, smelling of wet stone, old sweat, and something herbal – rosemary, maybe, or thyme – crushed into the water to mask the stench of men.
Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting orange light across a shallow central pool fed by a clay pipe that dribbled cold water from a cistern above. The water was greyish. Ripples spread from the shoulders of men already soaking.
Stone benches lined the walls, worn smooth by years of bare backsides. Wooden buckets sat in corners – some with water, others with sand for scrubbing. Rough linen towels, frayed at the edges, hung on wooden pegs.
The ceiling was low, blackened by smoke. A single high window let in a sliver of grey daylight, but most light came from the torches. Their flames danced, sending shadows crawling up the walls like living things.
And standing by the corners were capsarii, lesser slaves who were in charge of taking soiled clothes and handing out fresh ones.
"Time to get rid of that stench." Spartacus walked toward the pool.
"You’re one to talk." Alex chuckled, following.
Everywhere Alex looked, there were ripped men with stiff butt cheeks and dangling dicks. I don’t even know where to look.
He watched Spartacus take off his loincloth, fold it, and lay it on a bench before slipping into the pool and submerging himself. Alex did the same, sighing in relief as his body touched the water, his bandages drenching in it. "Never been so relieved for a bath."
Spartacus chuckled and swam to a bucket of sand by the poolside. "Come here."
Alex swam over. "What’s that for?" He pointed at the sand in Spartacus’s hand.
"For scrubbing." Spartacus’s gaze held a glimmer of confusion. "Turn around. Let me help you."
---
---
While Alex received his sand bath, far beneath the city, footsteps in a dungeon came to an abrupt stop.
A bald old man in his seventies stood before a cellar, four men behind him. He wore a white silk toga with blue borders, white leather sandals, gold bracelets on each wrist, and matching gold earrings dangling from his saggy ears. The air around him smelled of perfumes and herbs.
"Look at you," his old, raspy voice echoed through the stone. "The great Agrippa, chained like a dog."
Hack pttuu! The prisoner behind the iron bars spat a glob of blood and phlegm, glaring up in rage.
"Ooh, I’m scared." The old man feigned fright. "If only looks could kill, Agrippa." He laughed.
"You’re lucky that’s all I can do, you bastard." The prisoner – Agrippa – snarled.
"I would love to stay and chat, but..." The old man flicked his wrist. "I came bearing gifts."
Two more guards appeared, dragging a man between them. He was younger than Agrippa, maybe mid‑twenties, but looked fifty. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, lips cracked and bloody. A purple bruise bloomed across his jaw, and his left arm hung at a wrong angle, dislocated or broken. His tunic was torn, stained with dried blood and dirt. His bare feet were caked with mud and scabs. The guards carried him, his toes dragging lines across the stone floor.
They opened the cell door and hurled the man at Agrippa.
Agrippa’s face shifted – horror, then concern. "O‑Octavian?" His voice cracked.
Octavian lay still in his arms. Unmoving.
"Don’t worry, he’s not dead." The old man grinned. "...Yet."
"How?" Agrippa whispered. "How did you find him?"
"You mean how did I find him on his way to Egypt?" The old man scoffed. "You’ll find out soon enough."
"I swear, I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth, Brutus!" Agrippa roared, chains rattling as he surged forward.
"Ho ho ho. Why don’t we save the killing for the arena?" The old man, Brutus, chuckled. "That brings me to my second gift."
Agrippa knelt there, Octavian still in his arms, glaring through the bars. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.
Brutus chuckled as he replied, "Out of the abundance of my heart, I’m willing to give you both..." He made a quick glance between Agrippa and Octavian, "a chance at survival." He grinned.
"What the‑" Agrippa cut himself short as the realization dawned on him.
"You twisted bastard." He huffed. "He’s your best friend’s heir. How could you reduce him to a mere plaything?" He roared, gripping Octavian even closer.
"Best friend?" Brutus laughed. "Oh, you mean Julius." He said, before his expression shifted to something unrecognizable. "Loyalty and friendship mean nothing when the future of Rome is at stake."
The air within the dungeon felt heavy after that statement.
"Now that I’ve been so kind enough to deliver these gifts..." Brutus said as he turned to leave. "May the gods favor you this coming weekend." He smirked, then began to walk away.
---
Back at the ludus’s bath house, Alex and Spartacus were still dipping in the grey murky pool. The bath house was starting to empty out, as most of the men who came to wash had already left.
"I think we better go and grab breakfast before there’s nothing left for us." Spartacus said, standing up from the water.
"More like lunch." Alex said.
Spartacus chuckled before responding. "Either way we should hurry, or we’ll end up having only supper."
They both walked out of the pool and grabbed fresh clothes from one of the capsarii.
Alex got a fresh loincloth, which he wrapped around his nether region. On top of that, he put on a red, short tunic.
He turned and glanced at Spartacus, who was now donning a similar outfit, only his was blue.
Feels weird not having to wear pants anymore. Alex thought.
"Let’s go." Spartacus said, taking the lead.
Alex followed as they both walked out the door of the bath house and headed toward the ludus’s West Wing.
---
---
The dining area was a long room with a low ceiling and stone walls on all sides. Narrow windows sat near the top, letting in thin strips of light but no breeze. The heat hit first – thick and stuffy, the kind that builds up when too many bodies are crammed into too little space. Then the smell followed: boiled grain, old grease, and what seemed like years’ worth of cooked food soaked into the walls.
Two long wooden tables ran down the length of the room. The surfaces were worn smooth from years of use. Benches lined both sides – no backs, no cushions, nothing that said anyone was meant to sit for long. The floor was packed dirt, dark in some spots from old spills that were never properly cleaned.
It was noisy, but not the fun kind of noisy. Just the sound of hungry men eating fast. Bowls scraping against the tables. Short conversations. The odd laugh that came out more like a grunt. Most of the men kept their heads down, but their eyes flicked up every time someone new walked through the door.
Alex walked in behind Spartacus and felt those eyes land on him immediately.
He could see a row of large clay pots at the far end of the room, attended by kitchen slaves who moved with the kind of efficiency that came from doing the same thing every single day. Gladiators shuffled past them in a loose line, bowls in hand, heads down.
Spartacus grabbed two wooden bowls from a stack by the wall and handed one to Alex. "Come."
Alex followed him to the back of the line. He craned his neck trying to see what was in the pots. Whatever it was, it was steaming. That was about the only positive thing he could say about it from a distance.
The line moved fast. Nobody lingered. Nobody chatted with the kitchen slaves. You held out your bowl, it got filled, you moved on.
When Alex got to the front, a slave with one dead eye, and the other stitched shut, had a large ladle scoop in hand. With it, he scooped something thick and grey into Alex’s bowl without even looking at him. Another dropped a chunk of dark bread on the side. A third handed him a cup and moved on to the next person before Alex could even process what had just happened.
He walked back to the bench and sat down next to Spartacus.
He looked at the bowl.
The porridge stared back at him. Grey. Thick. Lumpy. Something dark swirled slowly near the bottom like it was alive.
Is that... Burnt wood?
He wondered.
He looked at the bread. It had the color and texture of old stone.
He looked at the cup. A thin, cloudy liquid sat inside it, smelling faintly like sweat mixed with something he couldn’t figure out.
He looked back at the bowl.
He had written a thesis on average gladiator diets, and thought they were awful. But had no idea, they were THIS awful.
"What the hell is this?" He blurted out before he could even think.
A few gladiators nearby glanced over. Spartacus didn’t even look up from his own bowl.
"Breakfast." He said simply, and kept eating.
Alex stared at the bowl one more time. Then he picked up the spoon and took his first bite.
It tasted like wet sand mixed with old socks. The texture was worse than the taste. Thick and gluey, it stuck to the roof of his mouth like paste. Something gritty scraped against his teeth. The ash, probably. He tried not to think about it.
He forced himself to swallow.
Then he picked up the bread. It was dark, dense, and felt like a small brick in his hand. He bit into it. Or tried to. It barely gave way. He had to tear at it like a dog with a bone, and when he finally got a piece off, it tasted like burnt flour and regret.
He put the bread down and reached for the cup.
He took a sip of the posca, a sour mix of vinegar and water that Romans drank like it was normal, and immediately pulled the cup away from his face.
It tasted like someone had wrung out a wet rag into a cup and added a splash of something that had gone bad a long time ago.
He set the cup down very carefully, like it had personally offended him.
Spartacus looked up from his bowl and burst out laughing. "You eat like someone who’s never gone a day hungry."
"I’ve gone hungry." Alex muttered, still recovering. "Just never been punished for it." He glared at the food in front of him.
Spartacus laughed harder. "Were you royalty, where you came from?"
"Far from it." Alex shook his head. "Just... the meals were better."
Spartacus raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly are you from?"
Alex paused for a beat. "Very far from here."
Spartacus stared at him for a moment. His ashen eyes scanning Alex’s face like he was trying to read something written in a language he didn’t fully understand. Then he just shrugged and went back to his food.
Alex looked back at his bowl and thought to himself, You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.
He took another reluctant spoonful.
Then his mind started drifting the way it always did when things got quiet.
Wait. If this is actually Spartacus’s era, then who’s the first senator right now? Or the consul? What’s the political situation? He frowned at the grey porridge. I should’ve paid more attention in class.
He turned to Spartacus, mouth already half open to ask.
"Albius."
Akosa’s voice cut through the noise of the dining room like a blade. Alex looked up. The tall dark-skinned man was standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyes fixed on Alex with that familiar look of mild contempt.
"The lanista has sent for you." Akosa said flatly. "Get up. Now."
---
Alex followed Akosa out of the dining area and across the courtyard. The sun was high now, beating down on the sand. A few gladiators were still at the palus, hitting the wooden stakes with a rhythm that sounded almost mechanical. Nobody looked up as they passed.
Akosa didn’t say a word the whole way. Just walked. Alex kept pace behind him, trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.
They went up a short flight of stone steps and through a narrow doorway into the building that overlooked the courtyard. A guard outside the door straightened as they approached.
Akosa stopped and gestured with his head. "In."
Alex stepped inside.
The office smelled of frankincense and old parchment. It was the same room from before, the curule chair, the cluttered desk, the bronze oil lamp hanging from the ceiling casting warm light over everything. Ignatius was already seated, fingers laced together on the desk, watching Alex walk in like he’d been waiting for exactly this moment.
Akosa closed the door behind them and stood to the side.
"Sit." Ignatius said.
Alex sat.
For a moment, Ignatius said nothing. He just looked at Alex the way a man looks at something he hasn’t quite figured out yet but fully intends to.
"Your spar today." He began, his deep voice unhurried. "I watched it from the balcony."
Alex kept his face as neutral as he could manage. "I’m glad I didn’t disappoint."
"You didn’t." Ignatius said. "That’s what interests me." He leaned forward slightly. "One moment you were there. The next you weren’t. Like smoke." A pause. "How?"
Alex met his gaze. He could feel cold sweat build up behind his neck. "I just... Moved."
"Men twice your size don’t move like that." Ignatius said flatly.
"I got lucky." Alex shrugged. "I’ve always been quick on my feet."
Ignatius stared at him for a long moment. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look unconvinced either. He just looked like a man filing something away for later.
"Hm." He leaned back. "You fight this weekend."
Alex blinked. "This weekend?"
"You heard me." Ignatius said. "The arena. Saturday." His eyes didn’t move from Alex’s face. "I suggest you do your best not to die." The words came out calm and flat, which somehow made them worse than if he’d shouted them. "There are people watching you now. Important people. And important people do not like to be disappointed." He let that sit in the air for a second. "Neither do I."
Alex swallowed. "Understood."
Ignatius held his gaze for one more beat, then waved his hand toward the door. "Get out of my sight."
Alex stood, nodded once, and walked out, Akosa closing the door behind him.
Alex exhaled slowly, leaning against the wall outside for just a second.
’Glad he didn’t notice much.’ He thought. ’That could’ve gone a lot worse.’
He pushed off the wall and started walking back toward the courtyard.
Inside the office, Ignatius remained still. His eyes drifted down to the desk, to a slightly folded parchment sitting beneath his quill. The wax seal caught the light. Two bull heads. House Porcius.
He picked it up slowly.
"There’s something about him." He said to no one in particular.
He stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then he set it back down. And picked up his quill.
"Send word to Aurellia Magna." He ordered, turning to Akosa. "There’s a new bidder."
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