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today, behind his trainer’s back—he’s got too many contacts, and this new man’s a ringer. The senator bought him in from Pompeii or somewhere; name’s Cestinius. Betting’s already started. Anybody in the know will clean up—”
    “How much is in it for us?”
    “A lot,” Lucius said, desperately hoping that this was true. “The guy’s rated as a tyro, but he’s not. I saw him warming up this morning…”
    Mancipuer thought for a moment. “All right. After that ‘beating’ you’re no good for anything today. And Catharis needs to learn how much work I expect from my senior slave.” His smile was nasty: Lucius was glad it wasn’t directed at him. “But I want half of whatever’s going.”
    “Oh, all of it, sir!”
    “No lies, just half.” Mancipuer raised his voice again. “Next time it’ll be worse!” he roared. “Get out of my sight!” Then, quietly, “And get fixing.”
    Lucius got, trailed by a chorus of jeering laughter. He remembered to groan and hobble until he was out of sight, but was already starting to work at how to get Cestinius onto the lists for this afternoon. Everything hung on that. There were other problems, too. The bath had been easy, but his man needed food, drink, and somewhere to rest until fight time… 
    But as he went from snack bar to lounge to equipment area and back again, Lucius realized something: the system could be beaten, and it wasn’t hard to do. The sheer size of it was an advantage. Five hundred beast-handlers in this place, two thousand gladiatorial support staff, a thousand ground crew—rakers, cleaners, wheel-greasers, gods knew what else—dressers, trainers, all the rest: the Colosseum was a small city within the City. And as in any city, people constantly got fired, got hired, got married, got sick, sometimes got killed. The population was always changing. All that mattered was to avoid people who knew him too well to be taken in by his cover story. Nor did it matter that Lucius was poorly dressed. Plenty of rich owners left their slaves dressed badly because it never occurred to them to think about their clothes. Lucius’s rags didn’t make much difference.
    But though food and baths and armor-polishing weren’t so much of a problem for Lucius to arrange, what he still couldn’t work out was how to get Cestinius onto the freestyle lists. Those came down from arena management, from the Master’s office. Lucius briefly considered sneaking up there, stealing in, grabbing a list and… Then what? He could read a bit, but couldn’t write a word.
    Cestinius remained cheerfully unconcerned. Lucius stopped in on him any number of times between morning and noon-meal to find he’d been adopted as the bathmen’s pet celebrity: they weren’t used to gladiators who so enjoyed listening to everything they had to say. Yet another masseur was rubbing him down and chatting with Lucius when somebody yelled, “Hey you, get over here!”
    Lucius turned around. Catharis was standing in the doorway. “What?”
    “Master wants you!”
    Lucius stared at Catharis in a way that made it plain he was in no hurry. The bathmen noticed it and started to chuckle. “We’re talking business here,” he said. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
    The laughter got louder. Catharis stood it as long as he could. “He’s in Arno’s!” he shouted, then fled. Lucius smiled.
    “And the lists…?” asked Cestinius.
    “It’s getting handled,” Lucius said, and strolled out like someone far more confident than he felt.
    There was a sports bar on the second level; another under-the-stands space, but airier than some due to the air-shafts that vented through gratings behind the third-level seats. There were benches and tables, and a central island where the amphorae of wine and the ice and water and pottery mugs were kept. The back wall was whitewashed for weekly advertisements, like the gable-end of a house: on one side, somewhat faded because there was no need to