Chapter 91: The Invitation
Chapter 91: The Invitation
The office smelled of old parchment and wax, the same as it always had.
But there was something else in the air tonight—a tension that hadn’t been there before, a weight that pressed against the walls and made the lamplight seem dimmer than it should.
Ignatius sat behind his desk, his tunic immaculate despite the long day. His hands were folded in front of him, his expression carefully neutral.
The office was as he’d left it—the heavy oak desk, the stacks of scrolls, the single oil lamp casting its amber glow across the room. But it felt different now. Smaller, somehow. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything that had changed since he’d last sat here.
Akosa stood across from him, his arms folded, his whip coiled at his hip. The trainer’s face was as unreadable as ever, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
"I see you’ve found use for him," Ignatius said.
Akosa blinked. "Who?"
"The new slave." A faint smile touched the corner of Ignatius’s mouth. "I saw him defy your expectations."
Akosa let out a knowing sigh.
"Yes," Akosa said finally. "He’s a skilled fighter... A really skilled one." The fight was still playing in his mind—the fluid movements, the effortless dodge, the way Brennus had hit the ground with the wind knocked out of him.
Akosa had seen countless fights in his life. He knew that no ordinary man moved like that. "How did you say you came across him again?"
Ignatius leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "At a roadside market, on the way back from Macedonia. A merchant was about to put an axe in him for refusing to be stripped by a buyer. I intervened." He paused, his eyes distant. "Stubborn as a goat, he seems."
"I couldn’t agree more."
"But he seems like a good investment."
"Or a dangerous one."
The silence settled between them like smoke. The lamp flickered, and the shadows shifted.
Then Ignatius cleared his throat. He reached into the drawer of his desk and produced a letter. The parchment was worn at the edges, the seal already broken. The head of a bull stared up from the dark wax—the mark of House Porcius.
"I sent for you to discuss this," Ignatius said quietly.
Akosa’s eyes flicked to the letter, then back to Ignatius. His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. He knew what that letter was. He’d been the one to send word to Macedonia about it, the one to warn Ignatius that the old patriarch was reaching out.
"Porcius is hosting a gala," Ignatius said. "He wants our fighters to attend. To ’entertain’ his guests." He let the word hang in the air, heavy with implication. "He’s offered generous terms. Food, wine, a proper villa for the night, a hefty sum for lending them. And the men would be treated like honored guests."
Akosa considered this. "That’s not unusual. The nobles often use fighters as entertainment at their gatherings. It could be good for the ludus."
"I know."
"Potential buyers. Networking. The men would enjoy it. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a night outside these walls."
"I know that too." Ignatius picked up the letter, turned it over in his hands, and set it down again. "I’ve thought of all of it. The buyers, the connections, the goodwill." He paused. "And yet something about it doesn’t sit right with me."
Akosa tilted his head. "And what could that be?"
"Porcius doesn’t throw parties. Not like this. He’s been quiet for years, hoarding his coins and his influence, and now suddenly he wants to host a gala for gladiators?" Ignatius shook his head. "Something feels off."
"Or he’s just trying to regain some standing. His house is fading. A gala is a way to remind Rome that Porcius still matters."
Ignatius leaned forward, his voice dropping. "The old man doesn’t care about reminding Rome of anything. He cares about staying alive. And staying out of Brutus’s eye. A gala is not staying out of Brutus’s eye."
Akosa was silent for a moment. The lamp flickered. The shadows moved.
"You’re overthinking this," Akosa said finally. "The men need a night to relax. The ludus needs the coin. And if Porcius is planning something, better to be in the room than outside it."
Ignatius stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he let out a breath.
"Fine," he said. "Send the men. Let them eat and drink and play the part." He set the letter down, his fingers pressing against the broken seal. "But Albius stays here."
Akosa’s brow furrowed. "The champion should be there. If Porcius is trying to court us, sending our best fighter sends a message."
"Albius stays." Ignatius’s voice was final. "I don’t know what Porcius is planning, but I know he’s been trying to get his hands on the boy since his first fight in the arena. I won’t hand him over at a party."
The silence stretched. Akosa wanted to argue—Ignatius could see it in the set of his jaw. But the trainer knew better than to push when the Lanista’s mind was made up.
"Very well," Akosa said at last. "The men go. Albius stays."
"Send a letter." Igntius ordered
Akosa nodded, then turned and walked toward the door. His hand was on the handle when Ignatius spoke again.
"And Akosa?"
The trainer paused.
"Keep an eye on the new slave. If he’s as dangerous as you say, I want to know exactly what he does when he thinks no one is watching."
Akosa nodded once, then stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Ignatius sat alone in his office, the bull’s head staring up at him from the broken seal.
The lamplight flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. He had agreed to Porcius’s invitation, but he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust the old patriarch, didn’t trust the gala, didn’t trust the easy coin and the promised wine.
Something was coming. And Ignatius was determined to keep his champion out of it.
For now.