Marcella watched from her window as more lights went out around the compound. Once all was quiet in the house and the adjoining gladiatorial school, she put on her sandals and tiptoed down the hall to her father’s room. The old man’s chest rose and fell at a steady rate as he snored. He wouldn’t know she was gone. With the full moon lighting her way, she crept through the villa’s courtyard en route to the home’s rear portico. She paused at the door, heard nothing, and continued onward through the gardens and across the soggy training grounds. Her shoes sank a little at each step as she arrived at the barracks of the gladiators. Two guards, comfortable in knowing that the fighters were locked up, napped on each end of the building. Canus, as a volunteer, was different. He had his own private, unlocked cell. She knocked lightly on the door. No response. She slowly pushed it open. “Canus,” she called out as she entered. He didn’t answer, even when the door squeaked closed.
