Chapter 44: The Send-off
Chapter 44: The Send-off
The courtyard of Ludus Ignatius was alive with the quiet bustle of departure. Supply carts stood ready near the gates, their wheels creaking under the weight of provisions for the journey ahead.
Guards in polished armor checked straps and adjusted packs, their voices low and businesslike.
The morning sun was just beginning to burn off the grey chill of dawn, casting long shadows across the training yard.
Alex stood near the center of the yard, a small leather satchel at his feet. He had packed light—there wasn’t much to pack anyway. A spare tunic, the gold pouch Ignatius had given him, still heavy with coins he hadn’t spent. The system had already pinged his daily tasks complete, the familiar burn of pull-ups and squats still warm in his muscles. He rolled his shoulders and felt the thin scar across his ribs, pull slightly beneath his tunic.
Oseka appeared beside him, a large sack slung over one shoulder and a cooking pot dangling from the other. He looked like a man prepared for a siege rather than a journey.
"Where did you even get those?" Alex asked, bewildered.
"The kitchen," Oseka answered, like it was the most normal thing in the world, "they let me borrow it." He grinned.
"You know there’s food on the road," Alex said.
"There’s food, but not good food." Oseka adjusted the pot. "I’m not eating dried meat and hard bread for weeks. You want to fight champions, you need real meals."
"I fought five giants on porridge."
"And imagine how many you could have fought on stew."
The men of the ludus were gathering in the courtyard, forming a loose semicircle around the supply carts. Brennus stood near the front, his broken arm still bound but his posture straight.
The lean man from the infirmary—the one Gaius had insulted—was beside him, arms folded, watching Alex with something that looked almost like pride.
Behind them, the rest of the survivors of the Battle of Houses stood in quiet formation. The men who had followed the Ghost into a slaughter and walked out alive.
Spartacus was at the front.
He stood apart from the others, his right arm still bound against his chest but no longer cradled. The bruises on his ribs had faded to pale ghosts. His eyes were clear, sharp, fixed on Alex with the steady calm of a man who had already said the hardest thing he had to say.
Alex walked over to him. Oseka hung back, giving them space.
"There’s no changing your mind, is there?" Alex asked.
"No." Spartacus shook his head. His voice was quiet.
"What’s your job, then?"
Spartacus looked at him for a long moment. Then he reached out with his good hand and clasped Alex’s shoulder.
"Waiting," he said. "For you to come back."
The word hung between them. Alex nodded once.
Spartacus released his shoulder and stepped back. His expression didn’t change—the steady mask he always wore—but something in his eyes had softened just slightly.
"Try not to die," he said. "Oseka’s cooking isn’t worth dying for."
"Debatable," Oseka called from behind them.
Alex let out a short laugh. The tension in his chest eased, just a fraction.
The sound of hooves on stone echoed through the courtyard. The gates creaked open, and a carriage rolled through—polished wood, iron fittings, drawn by two horses with coats that gleamed in the morning light. Soldiers flanked it on either side, their armor immaculate, the sigil of Ludus Ignatius on their shields.
The carriage stopped in the center of the courtyard, and the door swung open.
Ignatius sat inside, dressed in a dark tunic with gold trim, his expression as unreadable as ever.
He looked at Alex. "Get in."
Alex glanced back at Oseka. "What about—"
"I’ll ride in the supplies," Oseka said, already hoisting his sack higher. "Don’t worry about me. Someone has to make sure the wine doesn’t break."
Alex hesitated. Oseka waved him off. "Go. I’ll be right behind you."
Alex climbed into the carriage. The interior was cushioned, the seats upholstered in dark leather, a small lantern swinging from a hook near the roof. It smelled of old wood and something faintly like incense. Ignatius sat across from him, his hands folded, his eyes already on the road ahead.
Akosa appeared at the carriage window. His whip coiled at his hip, his face as stoic as ever, but there was something different in the way he looked at Ignatius. Something quieter.
"Take care of the place," Ignatius said. "While I’m gone."
Akosa nodded once. "I will."
The driver gathered the reins. The horses shifted, impatient. The carriage began to move.
"Wait."
Ignatius’s voice cut through the courtyard. The driver stopped.
"Where’s Gaius?"
The men exchanged glances, Brennus frowned, the lean man shrugged, Akosa looked toward the ward.
"Right here."
Gaius emerged from the archway near the infirmary, his bag slung over one shoulder, his cloak billowing behind him. He was moving faster than usual—not quite running, but close. His hair was more disheveled than normal, and there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
The men of the ludus reacted immediately. Someone snorted. Someone else muttered something under his breath that sounded like "old bat." Brennus shook his head, a reluctant grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Gaius ignored all of them. He reached the carriage, pulled open the door, and climbed inside without waiting for an invitation. He settled onto the seat beside Alex, his bag clutched in his lap, with an expression daring anyone to comment.
No one did.
The carriage rolled forward, the gates of the ludus swung open, and the sound hit them like a wave.
The streets of Rome were packed. Men, women, children—all of them pressed against the soldiers’ shields, their voices rising in a roar that made the carriage vibrate. Flowers rained down from the upper windows. Shawls and scarves fluttered in the morning breeze, thrown by women who screamed his name like a prayer.
"ALBIUS!"
"THE WHITE GHOST!"
"PRETTY WHITE GHOST, LOOK AT ME!"
Alex looked out the window and immediately regretted it. A woman on a second-floor balcony had pulled down the front of her stola, her breasts bared to the morning sun, her eyes locked on him with wild adoration.
Another woman, pressed against the soldiers’ shields, reached toward the carriage with one hand while the other ripped at her own tunic, exposing herself to the champion of Rome as he passed.
"PRETTY WHITE GHOST! A GLANCE! JUST ONE GLANCE!"
Alex jerked back from the window. His face was burning.
Ignatius watched him with the faintest trace of amusement. "It seems," he said. "the people of Rome have chosen their champion."
Outside, the guards flanked the carriage in tight formation, their shields creating a moving wall against the press of bodies. Behind them, the men of Ludus Ignatius marched in a column—Spartacus at the front, his eyes fixed on the carriage as it rolled away, Brennus beside him.
They walked as far as the city gates, until the road stretched ahead and the crowd began to thin, until the carriage was alone on the road to Macedonia, with the morning sun climbing higher and the weight of an empire pressing down on the Ghost’s shoulders.
Alex sat back in his seat. Gaius was silent beside him, his bag clutched tight. Ignatius stared out the window, his expression unreadable.
The road stretched ahead.
Macedonia was waiting.