Gaius has worked at the ludus for five years, long enough that fifty naked gladiators passing through his massage room daily barely registers as remarkable. His hands know muscle and sinew better than most physicians, can identify tension points blindfolded, and can work knots from flesh with the efficiency of a craftsman perfecting his trade.
The massage room occupies a corner of the bathhouse complex, large enough for two tables and the various oils and unguents Gaius uses in his work. Gladiators come and go throughout the day, some for routine maintenance, others nursing injuries from training or recent bouts. All of them strip completely naked before climbing onto his tables, and all of them submit to his hands without question because the lanista pays him well to keep his fighters in peak condition.
This morning, Gaius works on a veteran named Marcus, his oiled hands moving firmly across the gladiator’s scarred back. The man’s body is a roadmap of violence survived, every mark telling a story that Gaius has heard dozens of times. His fingers find the familiar knots in Marcus’ shoulder, the perpetual tightness in his lower back, the old injury in his right hip that flares up before storms.
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