Dear readers, tonight with us is nominally the bodyguard of the protagonist — proving once again that everyone is the hero of their own story. He’s here to talk about gladiatorial games, about childhood in the forest vs life in the big city.

Tell us a little about where you grew up. What was it like there?

I grew up in the forests of Arbarica, under evergreen trees. We lived in a remote village, only a few families, and my father and brothers hunted for furs and meat. At festivals, we went to the oppidium to trade the furs for tools, jewellery, and other things, and then stayed the nights for celebrations. The bards sang, and the druids dispensed law and lore, enthralling everyone with feats of magic.

Did you have any favourite toys as a child? Any cherished memories?

All the memories I have are cherished because there are so few of them. I was barely thirteen when the legions came. I took up a sword and stood with everyone I ever knew and more besides against the invaders.
It didn’t help. I have no idea how I survived. I don’t even recall the actual battle. Then I was chained and marched day after day to Egretia. I was a big one, even as a child, so a lanista from a gladiator school bought me. That was the end of my childhood.

What do you do now?

My dominus is a kind master, and I owe him my life. Gladiators don’t always die on the sands and the retirement options are limited, often reduced to begging. What else is there for someone who only knows how to fight, but can no longer do it once he’s too scarred and disfigured? Even those who survive the six years or thirty bouts to earn their freedom, find it hard to get a job.
Felix took me in when I had no prospects, gave me this metal hand you see, and now I protect his life. I go wherever he goes, to make sure he comes back.

What can you tell us about your latest adventure?

You’d have to ask the master about that. My dominus is very strict about client confidentiality. Without betraying any names… well, I got to mix with gladiators again, and got a much better view of the chariot races. There were things going on — with secrets and gods, and sacrifices and religion, and rich people tampering with things they shouldn’t — and I have no idea what they meant. I wasn’t privy to those conversations. I was just there for when the going got rough.

When it did! Now, that is something that gets the blood roaring in your ears. Not like the adulation of the crowds in the arena, but real fights in dark corners with real stakes. Makes you appreciate being alive.

What did you first think when you lost your hand?

I wasn’t thinking much. We’ve been drugged, and woke up in chains. They beat us up, broke the master’s leg. Then that crazy incantator smears a foul cream on my hand and starts chanting. I didn’t get what was going on, I was still groggy from being punched. It didn’t hurt, but it ached like my granddad used to complain in cold winters. I saw the wrinkles, the brown spots, I just didn’t understand what was happening.
Then he reversed the effects, and it all felt normal, like. My fingers moved fine, same as always. Then the bastard did it again, but didn’t stop until my hand shrivelled, crumbled into dust. It wasn’t painful, not like a slash from a sword, but I was running hot and cold flashes worse than any fever. My stomach churned, and I broke out in a sweat.

When he put the cream on my other hand, well, then it was down to blinding, burning rage. I grabbed his finger and snapped it, that being the only thing I could do chained as a I was. I wanted to rip it off, even if it wouldn’t change anything, but then the master jumped him from behind, and… well, we’re here and he ain’t.

What was the scariest thing in your adventures?

Besides facing crazy incantatores wielding flaming whips or making my hand rot to dust? Actually, by the time we face them, or any other sort of violence for that matter, there is no time to feel fear. Fear for a gladiator happens when nothing else is going on — when it’s quiet and you have time to think about what might happen to you in the future. What your fate could be when you can’t fight no more… when you ain’t useful. The prospects, they are scary.

What is the worst thing about working for Felix as a bodyguard?

The sewers. You won’t believe the number of times we had to go down there this year alone. I grew up in green forests! On the scent of pine needles, of blooming wildflowers, of crisp snow and fresh water. Here, in this great city, we wade in the most horrible muck imaginable a few times a year. If you ever thought the air in the Forum is bad, what with the masses of unwashed bodies eating boiled cabbage and pissing in corners — well, you ain’t smelled what it’s like when it all trickles through and concentrates down there.

I swear, it’s as if the gods want to punish the dominus for hubris, and land him in it every time he gets cocky and needs a reminder to show piety.

What is the best thing about it?

I know my master will take care of me, and won’t abandon me even when — if — I grow old. I’ve seen my fellow gladiators live past their peak. If they’re lucky, they’re sold as door slaves, but often it’s a quiet word and a pouch of coins, and the next time they step on the arena sands, the blood-thirsty crowds get a real fight to the death.

Felix’s life may be fraught with danger, but he won’t discard me. No matter the scrapes, we’ll go home together.

Tell us a little about your friends.

I socialise more than you might think. Sure, I follow in the master’s steps and must keep an eye out for trouble when he’s working. But, and don’t tell him I said it, there are plenty of times when he ain’t working for no one, not for serious pay at least, and sometimes he likes to read instead of going out seeking clients. During those times, he doesn’t want me looming over him so, I get to be my own man.

At home there’s Dascha, his housekeeper. When I first saw her, I thought she was an evil spirit, some imp, but she’s just old, and nice once you get over her squint and toothless leers. We live together, and I help her with the shopping, but it’s not like we have lots to talk about.

When out on a case, while the master talks to important people, there’s plenty of down time for me to meet nice new people. House slaves take any opportunity to gossip with outsiders, there’s always other punters at taverns, or anyone looking for a break from the tedium. Just bring up the latest games, and people will carry on talking. When the dominus allows it, or when he goes out himself, we often visit my old master Crassitius. Him and Felix are old buddies, and while they drink I catch up with the other gladiators I know, to trade gossip and relax.

Any romantic involvement?

I was hoping that Hippolyta might take notice of me, but I guess that wasn’t meant to be.

Look, I’m a slave, in a small household. Even if I met a woman who might be interested in me, we wouldn’t have the time to carry on. The dominus is kind enough to give me an allowance, but that ain’t to buy love. Hippolyta… well, she was something else.

Whom (or what) do you really hate?

Fish sauce. Seriously. How can civilised people sprinkle the ooze of rotting fish on anything, let alone food, I just don’t know. It’s barbaric. My master always orders it for us when he buys us snacks on the go, and it’s not my place to criticise the man who provides for me, but for once I’d like to have some food that tastes of actual meat.

What does the future hold for you?

Blood and violence.

Like I said, retirement options for gladiators ain’t much, and what with only one hand it’s usually begging. I thought, if I’m lucky, I’ll be sold as a door slave. My future would be a stool in the shade of some gate where I’ll be responsible for greeting strangers — and scaring unwanted guests — and nothing much else.

But, really, if you know my master, blood and violence are a safer bet.

Can you share a secret with us, which you’ve never told anyone else?

You see these tattoos on my chest? It’s a sign of manhood with my people. Was. I’m not even sure if anyone from my village is still alive. But when I grew up, I sought the people who knew the traditional designs and got myself the woad marks.

My master, he thinks none of them are magical, and he’s right… probably. One of ’em, this one here, was supposed to have power in it. Now I don’t know, but I’d like to think it really does. Time will tell.

Assaph has had his nose in a book since he was five, so it wasn’t surprising that he turned to writing. All those years reading on ancient Rome, sci-fi, fantasy, and mysteries while practicing various martial arts, travelling the world, and working odd jobs lead to some interesting combinations in his stories.

You can find Borax on the pages of In Victrix, and the rest of the Togas, Daggers, and Magic series.
You can also find past interviews with the other characters Borax mentions!

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