Chapter 42: Ghosts from the past
Chapter 42: Ghosts from the past
The infirmary was quiet in the grey morning light, the only sound, the distant clatter of the training yard and the soft rustle of Gaius’s hands moving through his bag. He had been meaning to reorganize for days now—the journey to Macedonia would require supplies, and he needed to know exactly what he had and what he needed to restock.
Thread, bandages, he ticked through the inventory in his head, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency.
As he raised his bag over his head, something slipped.
The scroll landed on the stone floor with a soft, dry whisper; papyrus against stone, the sound of something old and fragile hitting the ground. Gaius stopped, his hands hovered over the open bag.
He bent down slowly, his knees protesting as they always did, and picked it up.
"Ah." He said in realization.
He sat down slowly on the edge of his workbench. The scroll unrolled in his hands, stiff and fragile, threatening to crack with every movement.
The words were still there; the wounds that healed faster than normal, the speed like wind, the armies that fell one man.
Gaius’s eyes traced the familiar lines, his lips moving silently over the archaic spellings. He had read this before, had almost spoken the name before. But now, in the cold light of morning, with the journey to Macedonia looming, a single word caught his attention.
Macedonia.
He stopped. His thumb rested on the word, the ink faded but unmistakable.
He stared at the word for a long moment.
Then he closed the scroll carefully. He slipped it back into his bag.
Outside, the training yard was coming alive—the clatter of wooden swords, the bark of Akosa’s commands, the laughter of men who didn’t yet know what was waiting for them across the sea. The Ghost was out there somewhere, preparing for a journey that would take him to the one place on earth that might hold the answers to who he really was.
And Gaius, alone in the quiet ward, carried the truth in his bag, but didn’t fully understand what it said.
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The latrunculi board sat between Spartacus and Oseka on the wooden table, black and white pieces scattered across the grid in a game that was slowly tipping in Spartacus’s favor.
Oseka was hunched over his side of the board, fingers drumming, eyes darting from piece to piece like a man searching for a miracle that wasn’t coming.
"You better have that copper coins ready," Spartacus said, his voice dry as old parchment.
"We’ll see about that." Oseka moved a piece. Spartacus countered immediately. Oseka’s face fell. "We’ll see about that... loser."
"You already said that before, and lost."
"Second time’s the charm."
Alex sat on a stool beside them, his back against the cool stone wall, watching the slaughter unfold. Oseka was aggressive, impulsive, throwing pieces forward with the confidence of a man who believed luck would save him. Spartacus was patient, methodical, closing traps Oseka didn’t see until it was too late.
"So, about why Ignatius sent for me," Alex said.
Oseka’s hand stopped mid-reach. Spartacus didn’t look up from the board, but his fingers paused over his next piece.
"He got a letter from Brutus." Alex kept his voice even. "The next games won’t be in Rome. They’ll be in Macedonia. Every province is sending their best fighters. "A Battle of Champions" he called it. I’m the only one representing the city."
The silence stretched. Oseka withdrew his hand from the board entirely. Spartacus set his piece down with a soft click.
Alex told them everything; Ignatius’s carefully masked worry, the suspicion about Aurellia, the two-day deadline. When he finished, the latrunculi board sat forgotten between them, the pieces frozen mid-battle.
"Ignatius said I could bring anyone," Alex said looking at Oseka, then at Spartacus. "Will you come?"
"Heck yea." Oseka didn’t hesitate. "Who’s gonna cook your meals along the way?"
Alex and Spartacus blinked.
Oseka looked between them, his expression caught somewhere between indignation and amusement. "What? You thought I only had my good looks working for me?"
"You can cook?" Alex asked.
"I’ve been cooking since before I could hold a sword."
Spartacus stared at him. "You’ve been hiding this."
"I wasn’t hiding it. You just never asked." Oseka leaned back, folding his arms with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d just revealed a winning hand. "So yes, I’m coming. Someone has to make sure the pretty white ghost doesn’t starve on the road."
Alex shook his head, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he turned to Spartacus. "What about you?"
Spartacus didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on the board, but he wasn’t seeing the pieces anymore. His jaw was tight. His hand rested on the edge of the table, still.
"Spartacus." Alex called.
"No." Spartacus finally answered.
"Why not?" Alex asked through kneaded brows.
A beat of silence stretched once again. The air, heavy with something unexplainable.
"I have my reasons."
Spartacus’s voice was steady. But there was something in his eyes—something old, something buried. A sorrow that hadn’t been there a moment ago, hidden beneath the surface like a stone in still water.
The silence that followed was heavier than any words.
Alex nodded once. He didn’t push, he didn’t argue. He understood—maybe better than anyone—what it meant to carry a ghost.
"Okay. So, when do we leave?" Oseka asked quietly.
"Two days." Alex replied.
Oseka nodded.
Spartacus looked back down at the board. The pieces were still frozen mid-battle, the game unfinished. After a long moment, Spartacus reached out and moved a piece—a quiet, deliberate motion that had nothing to do with winning anymore.
"Two days," he repeated. "Then you’d better come back."
Alex met his eyes. "I’ll try to."
Spartacus didn’t smile. But the tension in his shoulders eased, just enough.