Sextus
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Sirius Black could still feel the echo of the Emperor’s voice as he strapped on his training greaves. Freedom. A word dangled before them like a ripe fig, so tantalizingly close yet undoubtedly out of reach. The wooden sword—the rudis—meant freedom. It was a promise made over roasted dormice and sweet wine, a gilded whisper of possibility. But Sirius had heard enough promises to know their worth. He glanced across the training yard, his eyes landing on James Potter, who was laughing with Dorcas Meadows over something she’d said. James had seemed to believe it. But James always believed the best in people. Sirius wished he could borrow that kind of faith, just for a day.
The training yard was a chaos of sound: the clang of wooden practice swords against shields, the barked commands of the doctores, the grunts of exertion from gladiators who, like Sirius, were endlessly preparing for the arena. The sun was already baking the sand beneath their feet, and the air smelled of sweat, iron, and the faint sour tang of vinegar from the cleaning buckets.
“Do you think he meant it?” James asked as Sirius approached. His tone was light, but Sirius could see the question weighed heavily on him.
“No,” Sirius replied bluntly. He picked up his wooden sword and tested its weight, twisting it in his grip. “The Emperor tells us what we want to hear. It’s politics. Keeps us fighting harder, looking more desperate to please the crowd.”
James frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. “You’re cynical.”
“I’m alive,” Sirius countered. “There’s no freedom for men like us, James. If they give us the rudis, it’s because they’ve squeezed every last ounce of entertainment from us. And even then, what would we do with it? Where would we go?”
“I’d find a farm,” James said. “Grow figs or olives. Something simple. You’d be welcome to come along, of course.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Me? A farmer?” He mimed plucking fruit from a tree with exaggerated delicacy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen dirt under my nails, mate.”
Dorcas grinned as she passed by, holding a shield nearly as large as she was. “That’s because you’re too pretty, Black. Farmers need ugly faces to scare off the birds.”
“Thank you, Meadows. Always the confidence boost.” Sirius smirked, though he liked Dorcas well enough. She was sharp-tongued but fierce in the arena, someone he’d rather have beside him than against him.
As they spoke, Mary Macdonald approached with a clay jug of watered wine. She passed it around, watching Sirius and James with her usual air of bemused skepticism. “If you two aren’t careful, people are going to think you actually like each other.”
James took the jug with a flourish and poured a small amount into his hand to splash on Sirius’ head. “There. Cleansed of your cynicism.”
Sirius shoved him, hard enough to send James stumbling, though he was grinning. “I hope Rosier breaks your nose in training.”
At the mention of Evan Rosier, James’ grin disappeared entirely.
“Speaking of Rosier,” Dorcas said, nodding toward the far side of the yard, “he and Barty are looking particularly smug today.”
Sirius turned to follow her gaze. Sure enough, Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. were sparring near the shaded edge of the yard, where the doctores tended to linger. Both men moved with the kind of ease that came from years of training, their strikes precise and calculated. Rosier in particular was all smooth arrogance, a golden boy with a cruel streak.
Sirius knew men like them from his childhood, when he was still the golden heir. They would fit perfectly in a pretty castle, drinking whine every evening to forget the faces of their family and then die of some horrible illness that they had caught from the whores in the city.
Or worse even, they would get along with Regulus. Laugh at dumb jokes together, while having Gladiators fight in their bedroom for entertainment, not ever having lifted a single finger their entire life.
He suddenly thought of the Emperor’s son, who had been sitting opposite him at dinner. He certainly looked like as if he hadn’t lifted a finger his entire life, couldn’t even bring the cup of whine to his mouth without making a mess. His smug eyes and smart comment still sizzled some anger inside Sirius.
“What do you think they’re so pleased about?” Mary asked him. Sirius blinked out of his thoughts and followed her gaze, that still lingered on Rosier and Crouch.
“Probably nothing,” Sirius said. But he kept watching them. Rosier caught his eye and smirked, a sharp, predatory expression that made Sirius’ fingers itch to reach for his sword.
“Don’t rise to it,” James said quietly.
“I’m not,” Sirius lied. He turned back to the group.
Mary handed him the jug. “So, what’s on the meal plan for tonight? More bread and lentils?”
Dorcas made a face. “If we’re lucky. Yesterday’s barley was practically stone.”
“It’ll build your teeth,” Sirius said, taking a long drink from the jug. The wine was sour and barely better than water, but it was something.
By the time training ended, Sirius’ muscles were burning, and his stomach was growling loudly enough to draw mockery from James. They filed into the small dining hall, a low-ceilinged room packed with trestle tables and benches. The smell of bread, lentils, and stewed greens filled the space, and Sirius’ mouth watered despite himself.
They sat together as usual—Sirius, James, Dorcas, and Mary—close enough to the center of the room to avoid the cold drafts near the walls but far from Rosier and his lot.
“So,” Mary said, “do we have a strategy for the next fight? Or are we just going to hope the gods favor us?”
James shrugged. “The gods haven’t gotten us killed yet.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Dorcas muttered.
Sirius leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “Does it matter? Strategy or no, it’s the crowd that decides whether we live or die. The better we fight, the louder they cheer. That’s all that keeps us alive.”
Mary frowned. “You really don’t think we have any control over it?”
“I think,” Sirius said slowly, “we control how well we die. That’s all.”
It was a grim thought, but the others nodded, their expressions solemn. In the arena, hope was a fragile, dangerous thing.
Still, as Sirius looked around the table, at his friends, he thought that maybe, just maybe, they could survive this. Not because of the Emperor’s promises or the gods’ favor, but because they had each other.
And if they couldn’t survive?
Well, then they’d make sure to die well.
-
The first sign that something was wrong came late that evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon and the training yard fell into the deep purples of dusk. Sirius was sitting with James outside the barracks, enjoying the rare stillness, when a commotion broke out near the far end of the sleeping quarters. It wasn’t unusual to hear raised voices—tensions always ran high in the evenings, when fatigue and frustrations mixed—but this was different.
Someone was shouting for help.
“Oi,” James said, nudging Sirius with his elbow. “You hear that?”
Sirius stood, frowning. “Yeah.”
The two of them made their way toward the noise, Dorcas and Mary falling in step with them, concern etched on their faces. Inside the barracks, the air was thick with heat and the sour smell of unwashed bodies. In one of the narrow aisles between the wooden bunks, a small group of Gladiators had gathered.
It was Titus—an older fighter with a gruff demeanor and a quick wit—lying on one of the thin straw mattresses, his face pale and drenched in sweat. He was shaking violently, his breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps.
“Move,” Mary said sharply, pushing through the small crowd to kneel by his side. She placed a hand on his forehead and immediately cursed under her breath. “He’s burning up.”
Sirius crouched beside her, his stomach twisting. Titus’ skin was clammy, his lips cracked, and his eyes darted wildly under half-closed lids. “What happened to him?”
“Those cuts,” said one of the younger Gladiators, pointing to the angry red gashes on Titus’ leg and arm. “From training yesterday. He said they were nothing, but…”
Mary grimaced. “They’re infected. The fever’s bad—really bad. We need to cool him down or—”
“What’s going on in here?”
Sirius turned to see Evan Rosier standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his face a picture of amused disinterest. Behind him, Barty Crouch Jr. loitered, grinning.
“Titus is sick,” James said, his tone tight. “It’s serious.”
Rosier raised an eyebrow. “So? Let nature take its course.”
“Get out, Rosier,” Sirius growled, standing.
Rosier held up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Black. I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He smirked at the room, then sauntered off with Barty trailing behind him.
Sirius turned back to Titus, seething. Mary had been trying to clean the wounds with a rag soaked in water from a nearby bucket, but the infection had clearly spread beyond anything they could manage.
“We need someone,” Mary said, her voice tight with urgency. “A doctor, or—”
“They won’t help,” Dorcas said quietly.
“We have to try,” James insisted, already heading for the door.
Sirius followed him, his jaw clenched. They pushed past the other Gladiators, who had fallen into uneasy silence, and made their way to the main gate, where two guards stood lazily leaning on their spears.
“Our friend is sick,” James said, addressing one of the guards. “He needs help.”
The guard barely looked at him. “What do you expect us to do about it?”
“Get a doctor,” James said, his voice rising. “Or someone—anyone. He’s dying.”
The second guard snorted. “He’s a Gladiator. They die all the time.”
Sirius stepped forward, his hands curling into fists. “If you don’t—”
James grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Don’t,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re not worth it.”
The guards watched them go with bored indifference, their laughter echoing behind them as Sirius and James returned to the barracks.
By the time they got back, it was clear there was nothing more to be done. Titus’ breathing had grown shallow, and his skin had taken on a sickly gray pallor. Mary sat by his side, her hand on his forehead, murmuring soft words of comfort.
He didn’t last long after that. His body went still, and the air in the barracks seemed to grow heavier.
Sirius stared at him, his throat tight. Titus had been a good fighter, one of the few who’d bothered to give advice to the younger Gladiators. Now he was gone, just another casualty of their brutal existence.
“He didn’t deserve this,” James said quietly.
“None of us do,” Dorcas replied.
They would fight, they would bleed, and, one by one, they would fall—some in the arena, some here, in the shadows, where no one cared enough to notice.
Sirius clenched his fists, anger burning in his chest. He thought of the Emperor’s promises, the crowd’s cheers, the wooden sword. What was freedom to a man like Titus? What was freedom to any of them, if their lives meant so little?
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