Even from a distance, even after a few jars of red wine shared in the boisterous company of scarred gladiators, I knew that the toga-wrapped Roman sprawled on a pile of rubble and mortar chunks was stone dead. I had seen enough of battles before I came here as a Nubian prisoner, and of armed combats as a gladiator, to get the message by smell and sight. The stench of loose bowels, stronger than the usual alley smells, the awkward position of the pale limbs, so unlike a drunkard curled down like a cat to sleep off his Saturnalia excesses.
Solstice Sigil
