The Undercover Gladiator

by Amory Sparkly Bat

When the FBI needs someone to go undercover at a crime boss' gladiator competition, Peter is chosen as the man for the job. But when Peter runs into a man from his past, a case long gone cold, he soon finds himself facing a difficult choice. Will he risk his cover to help save this 'James Bonds' or will he let the Spartacus Games run their course and deal with his problem?

Title: The Undercover Gladiator
Author: Amory Puck (pucktheplayer on LJ)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language, mild non-con, violence, slavery, slash, pre-Peter/Neal, abused!Neal

Author's Notes: Written for the 'combat' square on my H/C Bingo Card on LJ! There will be a sequel to cover the the 'slave' square! I swear, I am not ripping off The Hunger Games *or* Battle Royale... I am totally ripping off the Flavian Dynasty! Titus has been dead a long time, though, so I don't think he'll care. ;P (Also, I know there are a lot of differing opinions on whether psychological trauma can cause induced stuttering or whether it is entirely neurological-I am a special ed teacher-but for this fic, we're going to say it can, okay?)

o o o

The Undercover Gladiator

o o o

"You're positive that there won't be lions."

Hughes let out a sigh. "There won't be lions, Peter. Julius has a lot of connections, but even a man like him is afraid of PETA."

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, frowning deeply. "I'm serious, Reese. I like lions. 'The Lion King' is one of my favorite movies. Hakuna matata, you know?"

"I get it, Peter," Hughes said with a roll of the eyes. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get big game like that into the country? Julius does not have lions! It's an underground gladiator fight, not the actual Colosseum. You'll probably be duking it out in a boxing ring, for God's sake! I'm pretty sure that the spectators don't wear togas, either."

"How do you know?" Peter countered, mostly just to annoy Hughes. He'd become a lot more contrary since he lost his better half. "Nobody's ever been to one of the Ggmes. They could wear togas. My frat house wore togas."

"Peter, please," Hughes said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. "Look, I've hardly slept for three weeks, working with the Vice division to set this up. Our window of opportunity is closing, and I need you to make a decision on this. According to our source, this year's games start on Friday and if we don't have an application in by then, we'll have to wait another year to get a foot in the door. If you're not going to do it, we need to work on getting somebody else prepped. They probably won't have the training you do, so we'll need all the time we can gat."

Peter gave a soft snort. Nobody short of the Army Rangers had the kind of training he did. Five years ago his life had been utterly destroyed because he wasn't prepared enough, and he wasn't ever going to let it happen again.

These days, Peter spent almost as much time at West Side Dojo as he did at work, and his hours at Big Apple Gun and Archery weren't shabby, either. Every year he used his vacation days to go through an intensive, week long boot camp reminiscent of Seal training, and on the weekends he taught self defense classes at the Y.

"I took up mixed martial arts for self defense," Peter said, his well muscled arms bulging against his suit as he crossed them over his chest. "In case of home invasion. Not to play Alexander the Great."

Peter didn't miss the flash of pity in Hughes' eyes at the mention of why, exactly, Peter had taken it upon himself to become the Hulk.

"Well, this is a form of self defense, right?" Hughes said with a shrug. "I mean, you either fight for your life or you become a rich bastard's personal GI Joe and spend the rest of your days winning him big bucks in the arena. That's self defense, right?"

Peter shook his head, giving a soft snort. "It's like a twisted version of Fight Club, that's what it is."

"That's why we need you, Peter," Hughes said. "Mixed martial arts, boxing, fencing, blades, even goddamn numchucks… You've done it all. We need to send in an agent who can *win*, or this is all worth nothing. Word on the street is that there are only two ways into Julius' circle: Being so rich you consider a Lamborghini to be a cheap ride or impressing the man with your skills in the ring. Julius runs the biggest human trafficking operation in the country, and the guys he runs with are, literally, the richest men in the world. The top one percent of the top one percent."

"Yeah, and if I lose three fights in one season, I become one of those guys' toy soldiers," Peter countered. "This is high stakes. Even you can't guarantee that, if I lost, I wouldn't disappear only to show up three years later in a catalog selling retired gladiators for small bucks."

Hughes sighed. "Peter, all we're asking is for you to go in and get some intel on the place, okay? When it comes to the Roman Brotherhood, all we have are rumors and tall tales, most of which are pretty blown out of proportion. Julius is like water, slipping through our goddamn fingers at every turn, and the only substantial thing we have on him are the little human dogfights he puts together. We don't even know what the man looks like! We need to know more about the guys in this so called Brotherhood so we can bust them and, hopefully, get them to flip on Julius. If you listen to gossip on the streets, every dirty CEO and his mother is a part of it, which is no help to us. We need to know, for certain, who's in Julius' little clique if we're going to have even the slightest chance of getting warrants."

Peter sighed. "I get it. You want me to go in, figure out who's part of the club, and get out. But all it takes is three lost fights, and they're hauling me off in chains. Plus, we may not know specifically what goes down in the ring, but we know people have died. We have bodies. Lots of bodies." He grimaced. "And they aren't pretty ones."

"Small women and old men," Hughes countered. "Not gladiators, just stock from Julius' business that were forced to fight."

"My point exactly," Peter said. "This isn't a goddamn boxing match. These guys don't want to see fair fights between matched pairs, they just want to see bloodshed! Who knows what they might want me to do?"

"Look, Peter," Hughes said seriously. "I know that going undercover like this may put you in some really bad situations, but if we don't get somebody in there, more of those bodies are going to be popping up. Women and children, forced to go up against guys with your strength and your training for some rich bastard's entertainment."

"Can't we just take them all in for their little fight club?" Peter asked. "I mean, once we get the local, why not just screw figuring out which bastard is Julius and haul all their rich asses in?"

Hughes shook his head. "Come on, Peter, be realistic. You know as well as I do that even if we catch these bastards in the act of fulfilling their little Roman dream, everyone would swear they were there on their own will and they'd be out on bail, on the next flight to an island with no extradition. We need to find out who their precious leader is and then get something on him that sticks so hard, he never sets a foot outside the bars again. We can only do that if we get inside the organization."

Peter shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Reese," he said in a hoarse voice, "but if I go in, I might end up having no choice but to kill someone, and I can't do that. I'm not that kind of man. I know what it feels like to lose the person you love, and I can't be the person who does that to someone else." He sniffed, pretending to scratch his forehead in order to hide the tears rising up in his eyes.

"Peter," Hughes said in a soft voice, "I know what you're feeling. I understand. I've been undercover, Peter. I know what it feels like to have to sacrifice your morals in order to save lives down the road. If I didn't know what that felt like, I would have no right to ask you to do this. But I do know, and I am asking. Please, Peter, get us the intel to take these bastards down. Julius trafficks over a hundred thousand men and women every year. We haven't been able to touch his actual operation, but if we could use his twisted little hobby to flush him out, we might be able to put him away. Think about that, Peter. Over a hundred thousand people a year."

Peter swallowed hard. "You don't have anybody else?"

Hughes let out a sigh. "Well, there are a few other candidates, but they…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"They have families," Peter finished in a dull voice. "It's okay, Reese, you can say it. They have families. People who would miss them if they didn't come back. I don't. Not anymore."

"Peter, it really is your decision," Hughes said. "If you really don't think you can do it—"

"No," Peter interrupted. "You're right. I'm the man for the job. Where's my toga?"

* * *

Considering that Peter was there to interview for a spot as a gladiator, the place was pretty damn modern looking. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, exactly, but a shiny skyscraper piercing the smoggy skies of Manhattan wasn't it. If course, where would a modern day Caesar do his business? Probably not in a back room at the Renaissance Faire.

"So, Mr. Peter Johnson, tell me how I can help you today."

The man, who'd introduced himself as Jacob Taylorsen, was at least six foot four and, once upon a time, Peter bet he had been as intimidating as hell. Now, though, all his muscle had turned to pudge and he looked almost as wide as he was tall. His face was as round as a cherub's with greedy eyes poking out, and there were only whisps of hair left on his head. Tattooed on his hand, however, on the webbing of his finger and thumb, was a small image of a short sword. The mark of a gladiator, according to the streets.

So Taylorsen had once been in the ring himself. Interesting.

"I'm here to apply for a spot in this year's Spartacus Games."

Taylorsen raised an eyebrow as he lifted a pastry to his fat mouth, taking a large bite. "The Spartacus Games, you say? I think my niece is reading that… Something about a hungry cat who is hunting a mockingbird? I have to admit, I sort of tune that one out. All she does is chatter, chatter, chatter."

Peter leaned forward in his chair, looking Taylorsen directly in the eye. "Ancipiti plus ferit ense gula," he said in a low voice, holding his breath. Dear God, let this one piece of intel be right…

Taylorsen's eyes narrowed, his mouth curling up at the edges in a wicked sort of way. "Audaces fortuna iuvat."

"Mens regdum bona possidat."

Taylorsen let out a laugh. "Welcome to the Spartacus Games, Peter. You may call me Mr. Napoleon."

* * *

"Welcome, kings of tomorrow!" The word would have been a little more powerful had the microphone not chosen that moment to squeal. The robed, hooded man on the stage who, from his enormous breadth Peter figured was probably Mr. Napoleon, tapped at the mic for a moment, making everyone in the room wince as it squealed again.

"Ah, there we go. Sorry about that."

Peter held back a snort, schooling his features as best he could. They weren't wearing togas, but there were plenty of other similarities between this bit of theatricality and his old frat house, not the least being the secret message slipped under Peter Johnson's apartment door with the address to an old manor house out in the woods written on it in flowing script. It was like being a pledge all over again, except instead of beer in red Solo cups there was fine wine in gold goblets.

The manor house was lovely, Peter couldn't deny that, a modern architectural beauty with a Roman-esque flair. Fitting with the ancient style, the house was made up of large open spaces done up in marble with pillars acting as supports. Ancient artifacts hung from the walls and there was a full suit of centurion armor at every doorway. The ceilings were high and arched, and the sunlight shining is the massive windows made the marble sparkle beautifully.

Peter had been given a short tour when he arrived, just a quick glance around the main rooms of the lower level, before being ushered into the small theatre where he now sat along with about forty other men on sculpted marble benches. Oriental carpets in shades of red and purple covered the marble floor and thick red curtains over the windows dimmed the room, rows of candles making shadows dance across the walls.

It was all very dramatic but, hey, Peter enjoyed a good show.

The man, who Peter was pretty sure now was Napoleon, cleared his throat. "Welcome, warriors, to the headquarters of the Spartacus Games! Our motto is 'Nemo regere potest nisi qui et regi.,' or, 'He who has not served, cannot command.' As members of the Roman Brotherhood, we embrace this proverb, and so shall you." He paused dramatically. "Outside these walls lies a world of correctness and politess, but here we prove to ourselves that we are not mere businessmen or politicians, we are kings to our throne!"

Apparently Peter had missed some sort of cue, because the men in the room let out a shout in chorus, raising fists in the air.

"The Roman Brotherhood is vast, but every member of the great and mighty Senate has done as you wish to do: Taken up their sword and fought to defend their title in the ring!"

Peter's brow furrowed. Hold up… The Senate? They hadn't heard of any Senate. What was it, some kind of elite circle inside their elite circle? If so, Peter's job had just gotten a lot harder. And what had Napoleon meant, everyone on the Senate had fought in the ring? He'd been under the impression that the volunteer gladiators fought for a chance at the huge purses offered to the winners, but Julius surrounded himself with the richest men in the world—they would have no need for prize money, no matter how much it was.

"As I am sure you all know, the gladiators of old were but slaves, forced to fight for the pleasure of the crowds. They were condemned by the people and, even if freed, were disdained for their acts in the ring, looked down upon by world. In truth, however, they were the free! Free to unleash the power and savagery necessary to be a true king! Because of this, we of the Roman Brotherhood declare you the Gladiators, free in body and spirit to show your true strength, not burdened by the laws of the people or the hand of the government."

Wow. That was starting to sound a little libertarian there. Or maybe 'anarchist' was a better word for it.

"Gladiators, you have earned your place here in the opening games through your impressive connections, but that will not be enough to keep you here. For every game after the first, there will be an entry fee of seventy-five thousand dollars. If you can pay this fee, you can fight as long as you wish, or until you lose your third fight. For those of you who cannot afford such a fee, which I do believe is most of you, your only chance to continue in the Spartacus Games is by acquiring a scholarship."

Seventy-five thousand dollars? Ouch. Peter had damn well better find a way to get the intel he needed during the opening games, because there was no way the Bureau could afford that kind of fee.

"The members of the Brotherhood are forever looking for good men to sponsor, so if you impress them tonight, you may very well earn yourself such a privilege. There are small purses for every fight, and larger purses for the top Gladiators of the night. You can make a fortune in a very short time as a Gladiator, but that is not the true prize. At the end of the year, a select few of you will have earned yourself a place in the Brotherhood and, on the very rare occasion, a Gladiator who has truly impressed will be offered a seat on the Senate. There is no higher honor than being part of the Brotherhood, and the title of Senator comes with more power than you can even imagine. Once you are part of the Senate, you dream it and it will come true."

Okay, so this so-called Senate was definitely the inner circle. The question was, how to tell the Senators from the rest of the Brotherhood? Also, the fact that there was an inner circle within the Brotherhood meant that the Brotherhood had to be larger than they had imagined. According to Hughes, they had expected twelve to fifteen fat cats running the program. There had to be more than that to also have a "Senate," but how many more?

"Beware, however, the Gladiator's journey is a dangerous one. The purses are immense: money, gold, jewels, art, property, titles, even political contacts and mafia connections. But lose three fights and you become the property of the Brotherhood or, if you are sponsored, the property of the Roman who sponsored you. All that you have won, all that you call your own, goes to them, and your future is theirs to decide. Some men die. Some men become desperate slaves. Others become slave fighters, like the true gladiators of our ancient motherland. We call these slaves the Centurions, for what are soldiers but the slaves of a king?"

Yeah, Peter had a sneaking feeling this guy slept with 'The Anarchist's Cookbook' under his pillow.

"Like soldiers, they must serve their master in battle. However, if you are made a Centurion, then you are in luck. It is possible to fight your way back to freedom. The last game of the year is held on the Roman holiday of Saturnalia, December 17th, and is called the Game of Slaves. At these games, one Gladiator will win his spot within the Brotherhood and one Centurion will win his freedom."

Okay, so there were Gladiators, Romans, Senators, and Centurions. Oh, and also 'desperate slaves,' the category that the bodies they'd found almost certainly fell into. Did they have a secret handshake, too? God, these guys were worse than Freemasons.

"Now stand, Gladiators, for tonight the Spartacus Games shall begin!

* * *

Peter frowned as he walked down the long hallway, glancing about as he tried to get a scope on how this compound, or whatever it was, was laid out.

After Napoleon's dramatic little send off, all the Gladiators had been escorted to a bus whose window were conveniently blacked out. Then they'd driven and driven for at least an hour. When they'd finally come to a stop, they were deep in the woods at what looked like a military base. Seriously, if Peter hadn't known better, he would have sworn it was a military base.

People walked around in camouflage toting M-16s, and there was a fence topped with razor wire around the whole complex, which was made up of three bland looking concrete buildings.

The Gladiators had been rushed inside one of the buildings and then separated into four groups of ten. Then onto the freight elevator they'd gone, and either the elevator was really slow or they'd descended a *long* way beneath the ground. Far enough that Peter was pretty sure the GPS tracker implanted under his arm would be out of range.

"Okay, gentlemen, we're almost there," said the woman leading them down the hall. She was dressed in camo and had a firearm at her side, but she didn't have the eyes of a soldier. Peter was pretty sure she wouldn't know how to use that gun to save her life.

"Okay," she said, holding up a clipboard. "Along this hallway are ten dressing rooms. Inside, you will find your armor. It has been designed just for you. You will also find an information card. Please fill out said card, circling a weapon of choice."

Weapon of choice, huh? Why did Peter have a feeling that the Glock 22 wasn't on the list? Putting a forty caliber bullet in your opponent's knee would make for a short fight.

"Weaponry is scattered across the ring, but you are allowed to enter with one weapon on your person. If your weapon of choice is not listed, you may circle a secondary choice and write in your first choice. If the first choice is available, you will receive it at entry. If not, you will receive your secondary choice. Note that the sling shot, the spear and the traditional longbow—not the recurve or compound—are the only projectile weapons allowed, and if you choose the bow, you will have only three arrows. Also, if your projectile weapon goes off course into the crowd, you will be disqualified and the fight will count as a loss."

Not bad thinking on the rules. Projectile weapons were, after all, the most effective weapon, but they were also the least precise. It made sense to up the stakes on using them, especially if what you were looking for was a nice, long, bloody fight.

"Finally, please make an effort not to kill your fellow Gladiators in the early games. Please attempt instead to knock them unconscious or otherwise inhibit them to the point where they can no longer fight rather than killing them outright. If you do kill a fellow Gladiator during the first six games, it will be declared a win, but you will not receive the purse. After the first six games, you may kill at will."

Peter had to bite his tongue to keep himself from making a disgusted face. How could she stand there, talking about killing people as if she was reading the safety procedures for a non-stop flight to Dallas? Ha. A non-stop flight to insanity was more like it.

"Note that Centurions, slaves, and animals may be killed during any game without consequences. The win and the purse will be yours."

And animals? Peter gritted his teeth. If he had to fight Simba, Hughes was in big fucking trouble.

"In your dressing room you will find a schedule for the opening games, also known as the Game of Kings. In that schedule you will find when and who you will fight. At the end of the night, Julius and the Senate will choose the top two Gladiators to fight one another for the ultimate prize. The Gladiator who wins will receive not only a spectacular purse, but also a title granted by Julius himself."

God, what was this, the sixth grade? The ultimate prize was a fucking *title*?

"During the twelve games of the year, a title will be granted to each virgin winner—a Gladiator who has never won a game before—and, at the end of the year, those titleholders will be inducted into the Roman Brotherhood. Unless, of course, they have become Centurions. Though a Gladiator's title lives on when he becomes a Centurion, he is now a slave and is no longer eligible to become a Roman unless he wins his freedom during the Game of Slaves on Saturnalia. On average, no more than three Gladiators are inducted into the Roman Brotherhood per year."

"What about becoming a Senator?" one of the other guys piped up, a full of himself smirk on his face. "The guy in the robe said something about a select few…"

"On occasion, when a Gladiator has shown themselves to be spectacularly adept at the traits the Senate holds dear," the girl said, "he will be offered a seat on the Senate—but don't count on it. No one has been offered a seat on the Senate in almost ten years."

Okay, that helped narrow Peter's pool of Senate suspects down a tiny bit. He could disregard anyone under thirty, at least.

"Yeah, well, I think the dry spell's about to be over," the guy retorted smartly, a smug look on his face. Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Peter wasn't sure who the greasy bastard was, but he knew he could take him out in about a minute. Yeah, he was well toned, but it was the kind of toning you got running on a treadmill and lifting weights with a personal trainer breathing down your neck, not the sort you got by being out in the wild, scaling cliffs and carrying men on your back. The guy was a pencil pusher deep down, the tiny scar on his right wrist from carpal tunnel surgery was evidence enough of that. Somehow, Peter didn't think this mysterious Senate would be impressed.

"Okay," the girl said, "James Thomson, room 21. Perry Murdock, room 22…"

* * *

Oh dear Lord almighty. He was fucking Neptune.

Peter stared at himself in the mirror, shaking his head in disbelief. When the girl had said 'armor,' she hadn't been talking about bullet proof vests.

His helmet not only covered his head but dipped down over his nose and curved in from the sides to guard his cheek bones. The lines were smooth and curved, coming to points before dipping back out, reminiscent of waves. Attached to the top of helmet was the upper part of a trident, making him look like he had a spiky, gold mohawk.

His breast plate was fitted to his body, and the center was engraved with an image of Neptune riding a horse out of the waves, stabbing downward with his trident. The details were exquisite, but Peter got a strange sense of deja vu when he looked at it, like he'd seen it somewhere before. The rearing horse's head was twisted back, its eyes locking soulfully with the viewer as it rose up out of the ocean waves. Peter had to admit it was amazingly beautiful, with swirling designs in the hammered gold.

Well, not really hammered gold, since the stuff was definitely some lighter metal that only weighed maybe twenty pounds, but it *looked* like hammered gold, and that was what counted, right? Peter was actually glad the stuff wasn't actual, period-style armor—he worked out a lot but he'd never practiced fighting with a hundred pounds of steel strapped to his body. It might not ward off blows the way real armor would, but it would protect him from stray hits and light punches without weighing him down.

Peter guessed he should count himself lucky that, instead of the classic centurion look of an armored skirt, they'd given him a pair of tan pants. They were kind of like the ones worn by football players, tight, stretchy, and heavily padded on the legs, knees, and ass. His thick, brown leather combat boots came up almost to the knees, helping to protect the shins, and his tight brown shirt had padding around the ribcage. Overall, not the worst setup in the world.

Now all he had to do was choose his weapon.

Peter picked up the little card he'd found lying on top of his armor, running down the list of available weapons. There were about twelve different kinds of knives listed, along with short sword, broadsword, longbow, war hammer, axe, mace, sling shot, trident, spear, chain, club… the list went on and on. The Glock 22 was *not* listed, surprise, surprise.

Peter bit his lip. He definitely didn't want to actually kill anyone, but he shouldn't let that affect his weapon of choice. He needed to be at his best, after all. Hm… He really didn't have a lot of practice with any of those weapons. He'd used a bow before, but only a compound, and he knew that without the cams to distribute weight, he'd be lucky if he pull it back at all. He'd chopped wood with an axe, obviously, but he didn't know how effectively he could use it as a weapon. His baseball years had taught him to swing well, but a wooden club would be at a serious disadvantage against a broadsword.

There was one weapon he'd had practice using, though only by himself in the dojo. All of the weapons listed on the card were Western, but maybe…

Peter circled broadsword then, down at the blank listed 'Other', scribbled in the word 'katana.'

Finished, he opened the door and dropped the card in the box outside before returning to the bench, picking up the second paper they'd left him, the game schedule.

'Spartacus Games: Game of Kings, 2014 Opener' was printed on the front in grand looking letters with 'Gladiator's Guide' underneath it.

Okay, so this schedule was specifically for him.

He flipped it open, scanning the text.

'Welcome to the Game of Kings, 2014 opener of the Spartacus Games. This game has been divided into five events. Ten Gladiators will fight in each of the first four events, then the two highest scoring Gladiators will fight in the Final Face Off. Events will be divided by Gladiator number, listed on your dressing room door.'

'Gladiators 1-10: You will fight in the Beware the Beast event, where you will take up arms against a wild animal, such as a wolf, bear, or lion. You will be smeared with scent to aggravate the animal. To win you must kill or otherwise critically disable the animal.'

"Oh, Reese, you are so dead," Peter muttered, silently thanking the heavens that he was number 27.

'Gladiators 11-20: You will participate in The Riot Act, an event where ten Gladiators, ten Centurions, and ten slaves face off against one another. You win by active fighting for thirty minutes with no periods of unconsciousness and no lull in attack. Hiding is not considered an appropriate tactic and will result in a loss. The purse will go to whoever has taken out the most enemies when time is up. If there is a tie, the Senators will judge who dispersed of their enemies in the most brutal fashion and the purse will go to said fighter.'

Peter wiped at the sweat beading up on his forehead. Jesus, that was going to be a fucking massacre. He took a deep, calming breath, letting it out in a whoosh. He was next.

'Gladiators 21-30: As a Gladiator, you have been given armor, however, as a participant in the 'Meet Your Maker' event, your armor contains a booby trap intentionally implemented by the slave who designed it. You will face off against this slave, as well as two Centurions who once fought under the same Gladiator number as you, both of whom will be wearing armor with the same critical flaw as yours. You win by killing or otherwise disabling all other men in the ring, however, the Centurions may win by killing or disabling only you and the slave, and the slave may win by killing or disabling only you.'

Peter looked down at the armor he'd just been admiring with a whole new eye. A *booby trap*? You had to be kidding him. How the *hell* did you booby trap armor?

Peter didn't bother reading the rest of the schedule, he just tossed it to the ground and began to poke at his armor, mind racing as he tried to figure out how you could possibly booby trap a breastplate and a helmet. Peter paused. Booby trap a breastplate. Ha, that was kind of funny. But so not the point.

Time to live up to his name as FBI and do a full body inspection.

o o o

Peter swallowed hard as he was led toward a little, round metal platform.

"Okay, up you go," the gruff sounding man who'd escorted him from his dressing room said, giving him a brotherly punch on the shoulder. "Stacy, you got his weapon?" He glanced around, frowning. "Stacy?"

"Yes, sir," came a feminine voice from down the hall. The girl in camo that Peter had seen earlier came rushing up, her cheeks pink and her breath coming fast. In her hands was a katana, its sheathe ocean blue and its handle wrapped in seafoam green and that same, intense blue.

Not only had they found him a katana, they'd found him one that matched his booby trapped armor. Impressive.

"Here you go, Gladiator," the girl said, sweat trickling down her face as she handed him the blade. What, had she run back to the City to buy it? Dear Lord. "Good luck."

The platform lurched to life and Peter held his breath as he began to ascend upward, wondering idly if he fell off and broke his neck whether or not that would be considered a loss. Probably so.

Oh, well. Peter wasn't looking to break his neck anytime soon, anyway.

He squatted down to give himself a lower center of balance as the platform ascended through the ceiling and up up up… It came to a squeaking halt and Peter had to cover his eyes with his hand for a moment to keep from being totally blinded by the bright lights shining down on him. It only took a second for his vision to adjust and, when it did…

"Oh, my God," Peter whispered, his face going pale as he took in the massive arena—almost as big as a football field—and the hundreds, maybe thousands of men surrounding it, cheering madly.

This operation was bigger than they had ever imagined….and every single man was dressed in a toga.

Eat that, Hughes.

Peter's mind began to race as he scanned the ring, analyzing it as quickly as he could. The arena was oblong, about, oh, maybe eighty yards in length and forty yards in width. Damn big, that was for sure. The ground was covered in red dirt and the arched ceiling above was solid concrete.

Was this thing underground? It had to be, because it was enormous. Someone would have noticed it if it was above ground. Man, it must have been a nightmare to build.

Around the ring itself was very traditional looking stadium seating, with long marble bleachers and decorative columns reaching upward. There were stone carvings of what looked like the faces of Roman leaders embedded in the columns and a decorative pattern of olive leaves that wrapped around the entire edge of the ring. But Peter could admire the fine craftsmanship and architectural ingenuity later, when he wasn't fighting for his life.

The ring was already filthy with blood and body parts and things Peter didn't even want to think about. Various weapons were scattered about, but Peter just clutched his katana tight as he searched the ring for his enemies. Because that was how he needed to think of them. Not as poor, helpless people enslaved by rich bastards, but as his enemies. They *had* to be his enemies, if he was going to do this.

There. At the opposite end of the ring, a man dressed in Centurion garb and a dark haired man wearing only a pair of cotton pants rose out of the floor into the arena, one at each corner. Which meant…

Peter looked over to his right, eyes widening as the Centurion in the corner next to him sprang in his direction.

Peter raised an arm, blocking the Centurion's first punch, then brought his leg up, slamming the guy in the crotch under his little flappy skirt/kilt thing. The man cried out in pain, but didn't stop fighting, slamming Peter in the face with his fist.

The Centurion was definitely strong, but Peter had a height advantage, so he stepped back, out of the man's reach, and brought his leg up in a swift kick that hit the Centurion right in the face. The man cried out again, then flashed bloody teeth Peter's way.

Peter responded with a low kick to the man's gut, then another slam to the head, sending the Centurion falling to his knees. He unsheathed his katana, brought it up and…

The Centurion gasped for breath, his red plummage bobbing as he doubled over in an attempt to suck in air.

Dammit!

Peter sheathed his katana and kicked the man hard in the face, sending him sprawling backward. He then dropped down to his knees in the dirt and wrapped his arm's around the Centurion's neck, pressing down hard on his windpipe.

The Centurion began to flail madly, his helmet slamming Peter in the face, but Peter didn't let go. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the man's body slumped and went still.

Peter dropped the unconscious man to the ground with a sigh of relief, retrieving his sword. One down, two more to go. That is, if his booby trapped armor didn't choke him to death or electrocute him or whatever the hell it was set up to do first.

He searched the arena for his last two opponents. There. At the far end of the ring the slave was screaming his head off as the Centurion grabbed him by the hair then kicked his legs out from under him, sending the slave toppling face first to the ground.

Peter marched forward, heart pounding in his chest. This Centurion was a lot bigger than the other one, but that wasn't what was making Peter's stomach turn. No, it was the knowledge that he was, at the very least, going to have to beat the slim, screaming, desperate man into unconsciousness in order to win this fight. At least the Centurion had entered the games willingly at one point. Hell, at least he had a chance of winning. The slave, on the other hand, was there for the slaughter.

Fucking rich bastards and their sick fucking entertainment.

Apparently this particular Centurion was pretty fond of sick entertainment as well, because as Peter watched with wide eyes, he dropped down on top of the slave, yanking down the smaller man's cotton pants as he pulled his dick out from under his weird armor skirt thing.

The slave let out another scream, clawing madly at the dirt as the Centurion spat on his hand then rubbed it over his dick before shoving in. Hard.

Oh, hell to the no.

Peter could handle severed arms, he could handle dirty fights, but he couldn't handle watching some skinny kid get raped right in front of him. Fuck that shit.

Peter took off at a run, heading straight for the pair. The dark haired kid was writhing around desperately, face covered in dirt, his screams transformed into an animalistic sort of yowl as the Centurion continued to shove up his dick up his ass.

Sick fucking bastard, Peter would show him what happened when you fucking tortured people like that!

Before he even knew what he was doing, Peter's blade was buried deep in the Centurion's neck, blood splashing everywhere. He gritted his teeth, twisting the blade and—

Oh, God.

Peter took a stumbling step back as he stared, white faced, at the man he had just killed.

No. No, he hadn't… He couldn't have…

Peter swallowed hard. Okay, now was not the time to freak out. He had to stay collected. This game wasn't over.

The Centurion's body collapsed down on top of the skinny slave, making him scream even louder. Without even thinking about it, Peter dropped down to his knees next to the man, shoving the Centurion's body enough to free him.

Peter wasn't sure what he had expected—gratitude, maybe?—but the slave was up in an instant, running madly across the ring and collapsing to his knees in the corner, digging haphazardly through the dirt.

Peter's brow furrowed slightly, then the kid shot back up to his feet, an animalistic look on his face as he held something up in his hand.

The crowd began to scream and stomp and roar.

What the hell? Oh, God… The booby trap.

Peter swallowed hard as he heard a beeping sound. There was a vibration near his ankle, and what he'd thought had been some sort of buckle on his boot flashed, the number '30' appearing. A second later and it was gone, replaced by 29, then 28, then 27…

A bomb. There was a fucking bomb in his armor!

Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Peter had two choices: Either he could start undressing in the hopes that he'd be able to rip off all this shit and get out of blast range in less than thirty seconds, or he could try and get to the detonator.

Peter sprang motion, racing toward the slave in huge, bounding strides. The man's eyes widened and, foolishly, he tried to turn and run at the same time. The movement made him stumble and Peter was on him in an instant, tackling him hard to the ground, face down.

The slave let out a scream, though whether it was from the pain of the ribs Peter had probably just cracked or the knowledge that the man on top of him was about to blow up, Peter wasn't sure. Not that it mattered.

"Better stop it, or we both go up!" Peter shouted.

"I c-c-can't! I can't!" the slave screamed back, craning his neck enough to look at Peter. The utter panic on his face was enough for Peter to know he was telling the truth.

"Tell me where it is!"

"It's in the r-r-r-r—oh God!—the right leg padding! At the t-top! G-g-get it off! Get it off!"

Peter sat up, gritting his teeth. There was no way he'd be able to get his boots and pants off fast enough. Only one thing to do. Peter grabbed his blade and began to saw at the pad on his right leg. Thank God, the katana was sharp, and, as the countdown hit '3', the pad came free and Peter flung it as far away as he could. He dropped back down on of the slave, covering his head with his arms as he waited for the blast.

BOOM!

The explosion wasn't nearly as big as he'd expected—certainly not so big it could endanger the crowd—but it would have been big enough to blow one man apart if it had been strapped to his body. Or two, if they were stuck together.

The slave was making a desperate whining noise as he tried to crawl backward away from Peter. It made for a ridiculous scene, the slave's pants still down far enough that his dick was hanging out, covered in dirt from head to toe, blood trickling from his mouth as he stared up at Peter in terror with big blue eyes.

Peter froze as their eyes locked, a feeling of disbelief washing over him. No way. It wasn't possible. It *couldn't* be…

The slave's eyes widened and a look of recognition came over his face.

Shit, he wasn't dreaming. The skinny slave really was James Bonds. Talk about *not* the way he'd wanted to catch the bastard. This was not good. Not good at all.

"P-Peter B-Burke?" the kid—or the man, really, because he would be over thirty by now—whispered in a stunned voice. He turned his head back and forth like he was looking for someone his eyes glassy. "M-m-master? H-he's P-Peter B-Burke!"

Hell, this was beyond 'not good.' It was out of this out of this world bad.

"No," Peter said fiercely, glaring down at Bonds with warning in his eyes. God, what had his real name been? Nick Cathery? Neal Kitty? Something like that. He dropped down on the ground next to the boy, grabbing him by the arms and shaking him violently. The crowd cheered.

"No, that's not who I am," he said in a challenging tone, just daring Bonds to say otherwise.

Apparently Bonds was up for the challenge, because his lip curled up and an almost crazed look came over his face.

"I-It is! I kn-know who you are!" He flashed his teeth at Peter like some kind of wild animal. "I know!"

"No!" Peter shouted at him, slamming him back down on the ground and hovering over him menacingly. "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll—"

"I-I tell them!" James Bonds said, though the look of absolute terror on his face sort of ruined the threat. "Let me g-g-go or I'll tell them!"

"Or maybe I just kill you now and you never say anything again," Peter hissed, bringing his face close to Bonds'.

Bonds paled, but his eyes remained resolute. "You won't, not like this. I-I know you, Burke. You're… You're not a killer."

"I just killed Dick in a Skirt over there," Peter growled back, nodding toward the Centurion's fallen body. "Your theory has been disproved. Scientific Method, works every time."

Bonds paled a little more, turning his head to check out the dead Centurion, looking a little ill. "You k-killed… M-mas-mas… Oh my God! Okay, okay. But you wouldn't kill an unarmed man in cold blood!"

"You tried to blow me up," Peter snapped back, making Bonds wince.

"Look, we'll make a deal! You help me and I'll help you." Ah, there was the James Bonds Peter had spent half a year chasing.

"What could you possibly have to give that I want?" Peter growled, trying his best to ignore the sudden increase in the crowd's screams. Let the bastards scream. Peter would damn well take his time.

"A way to stop the Centurion that's about to chop your head off."

Peter's head snapped around, eyes widening as the Centurion he'd left lying unconscious across the ring came barreling toward him, a broadsword in his hand.

Shit! Peter fumbled for his sword, well aware there was no way he'd get it up in time, and then…

BOOM!

Peter let out a yell as the Centurion exploded in front of him, blood and other things splattering everywhere. Something hard—bone, or armor, maybe?—hit Peter in the shoulder and he grunted with pain. What was left of the Centurion collapsed to the ground in a blaze of flame hot enough that the fabric of Peter's shirt sizzled.

The crowd roared, hands waving in the air.

"Are you insane! If he'd been one step closer, that would have killed us!" Peter shouted, shaking Bonds madly.

"I helped you!" the slave shouted, obviously not interested in discussing what had just gone down. "I helped you, now you help me!"

Okay, it was true, James Bonds had probably just saved Peter's life. But how in God's name could he help him? He was undercover!

"How am I supposed to help you?" he asked in a low voice, wiping what remained of the Centurion off his face with the back of his hand. "This is a last man standing game, and I can't afford to lose."

"Just get me out of the ring!" the man said, pushing himself up on his elbows as he looked at Peter with desperate eyes. "Please, I can't take any more time in the ring!" Tears began to run down his face, creating trails through all the blood and dirt. "Knock me out, then throw me over your shoulder and carry me out of the ring! When they stop you to say something to the crowd, say that you want me as your prize. They'll love it, the whole Tarzan and Jane thing. They'll give me to you, and I won't have to go in the ring anymore! I'll never ask for anything ever again, and I'll never tell anyone who you are! Please, Agent Burke? Please!"

Peter grimaced, staring down at the desperate young man beside him. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. He had a job to do here, and saving James Bonds was not part of it. But what other choice did he have? Kill the man? He still hadn't processed the fact that he'd killed that Centurion. God, he'd heard that undercover ops could be bad for the soul, but this was *insane.*

"You want me to knock you out and carry you from the ring?"

"And tell the crowd I'm your prize," Bonds said urgently. "Please, Burke, please!"

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" Peter looked up sharply, lip curling up in disgust as the words began to spread throughout the entire arena. "KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

"Oh, I am so going to regret this," Peter muttered as he raised a fist and let out what he hoped sounded like a savage roar and not like a five year old girl waking up from a nightmare. He brought it down hard against Bonds' face, wincing as he did so, and the man's eyes flickered into unconsciousness.

Peter took a deep breath then stood, reaching down and hoisting Bonds' body up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour, the kid's long limbs flopping. He started back toward his end of the arena.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

Oh, fuck that. Peter came to a halt, raising his head to glare at the crowd. "MINE!" he shouted, pounding on his chest with his free hand for good measure. "MINE! MINE, MINE, MINE!"

"KILL HIM KILL HI—YOURS! YOURS! YOURS!"

Yeah, Peter had figured this crowd would eat that up. Sick sons of bitches.

It looked like this assignment was going to be a lot more complicated than he had originally thought.

* * *

Peter bent over, coughing madly as the blood dripped down his face. He grimaced in pain as he straightened back up, staring down at the unconscious body at his feet.

Apparently mister 'gonna be the next Senator for sure' wasn't quite as good as he thought he was.

"And the winner of the 2014 Game of Kings Final Face Off is Gladiator Peter Johnson!"

He'd won alright, if his prize was a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, and a big slice in his arm.

A hand grabbed him by the upper arm, leading him, and Peter followed without question, a little too busy trying to see straight to worry about where he was going. Therefore it was kind of a surprise when he found himself climbing a short staircase onto a platform that he was pretty sure hadn't been there before.

Napoleon was there, too, smiling like the fat cat he was, and Peter just sort of flashed his bloody teeth in response.

"And now, if you will all stand for our leader, the great Julius!"

The crowd roared as a man in a purple tied with a gold sash ascended onto the platform, his face totally hidden by the monk-like hood. Whoever he was, Julius definitely liked to play dress up. Too bad he'd chosen rights to the death over live action role play—he could have been dancing around with fairy wings on right now.

The hooded man waved appreciatively, making little motions that should have implied humility but instead made him look like an egotistical bastard.

An egotistical bastard with two heads.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Ah, there. Back to one. Okay, so… medium height, medium weight… He supposed that narrowed the possibilities down a little. That is, if this guy was really Julius at all.

"Gladiator Peter Johnson, you have shown yourself a mighty warrior, impressive in body and mind. It is the pleasure and privilege of the Roman Brotherhood to award you with a title honoring your abilities!"

Oh, goody, it was time for the title. Maybe next time he'd get to learn the secret handshake.

"Bring out the slave!"

What?

Peter's stomach turned as a man appeared, a chain wrapped around his hand. And, on the end of that chain, crawling on all fours behind him, was James Bonds.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This couldn't be good. Had Bonds ratted him out? Peter honestly hadn't thought he'd put on nearly a good enough show to end up as one of the two Gladiators in the Final Face-off. Had they been playing him, stringing him along, so they could execute him in front of everyone?

Peter wanted to glare daggers at Bonds, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, not with the pained way he was crawling along, like his entire body was a big ball of agony, some asshole yanking on the chain around his neck every few seconds. If Bonds *had* ratted Peter out, it hadn't done him much good.

"We bring out this slave as a symbol," Julius said, raising a hand dramatically, and Peter began to subtly search for the best exit. Not that he could really escape an underground monstrosity like this, but it gave him something to do. "A reminder of the what the Brotherhood stands for." He paused, turning his gaze on Peter.

"Gladiator Peter Johnson, if you will kneel," Julius said, taking a broadsword from Napoleon. Not good. Not good at all.

Peter swallowed hard. If he was going to run, now was the time. Not that there was anywhere to go. Besides, he was still seeing double. With his luck, he'd just fall off the stage.

Slowly, Peter dropped to his knees, clutching at the katana in his hands. Maybe if he tried, he could chop Julius' legs off before Julius got his head.

"As a reward for his utter ruthlessness and show of dominance in the ring, we award this Gladiator his prize…" The man holding Bonds, dragged the slim man to Peter's side, dropping the chain beside him, "and we hereby title him, The Slavemaker!"

The crowd went wild as Julius lightly touched either of Peter's shoulders with his blade, and a chant slowly began to rise.

"YOURS! YOURS! YOURS! YOURS!"

Peter held back a grimace. The Slavemaker. Hughes was gonna love this.

* * *

Bonds looked about fifteen years old, standing awkwardly in the middle of the scantily decorated apartment the FBI had set up for Peter Johnson. He was dressed in oversized clothing, his hair a mess and his shoulders hunched. The man hadn't actually spoken to Peter since he'd knocked him unconscious in the ring, which had been a good thing when they were still at the arena. Now, however, it was getting weird.

"Hey, I'm sorry, but I don't remember your real name," Peter said in a conversational tone, a smile plastered on his face. "We'd only figured it out a few days before you vanished. We always called you James Bonds, because the bonds you forged were so damn perfect."

The man didn't respond, just continued to stare at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"So… What is your name? Unless you want me to keep calling you Bonds… James Bonds…" Peter gave a half-hearted chuckle, sighing when the kid didn't even crack a smile. Of course, he probably shouldn't be acting so friendly anyway. He *was* supposed to be Gladiator 'The Slavemaster,' brutal bringer of death in the killing arena.

"Right, so I guess 'Bonds' it is—"

"Neal," the man whispered in a tiny voice. "I'm N-N-N…" He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. "Neal. I'm Neal."

"Right," Peter said, nodding. "Neal… Kitty, right?"

"Caffrey," Neal replied automatically, a surprised look coming over his face as he said it. "Yeah, C-Caffrey…" He gave a short laugh, and it sounded kind of crazed. "I-I can't believe I r-remembered that. I th-thought I'd forgotten my name."

He thought he'd forgotten his *name*? Seriously?

"Shit, Caffrey, how long have you been…" Peter paused, then gestured up and down Neal's body. "Like this?"

The man frowned, chewing on his lower lip. "What year is it?" he asked finally.

Oh, you had to be kidding him.

"It's 2014, Caffrey," Peter said in a soft voice, trying his best to be gentle.

The man sucked in a sharp breath. "Wow… That's… W-wow. I… I guess I lost c-count. T-ten years. Almost t-ten years. Since I was twenty-four. I-I'm th-thirty three now. That's… Wow. I don't… I d-don't feel th-thirty three."

Hm. Apparently James Bonds had a stutter now. Now that he thought about it, the man had been stuttering in the ring, too, at the very beginning. The only time he hadn't stuttered was when he was offering Peter a deal.

"You don't look thirty-three, either," Peter said, deciding now was not the time to bring up Neal's intense need for speech therapy. "You look about ten. Don't they feed you?"

Neal tensed up, then dropped his eyes. "I d-don't like to eat," he said in a guilty voice. "I like being th-thin."

"You're not thin," Peter said, "you're a goddamn skeleton."

"I-I know," Neal said softly. "I'm still too p-pretty, th-though. S-sometimes I th-think about cutting up m-my face, but I'd just get in m-more trouble."

Peter cringed inside, a feeling of sorrow running through him that someone could be so desperate they'd destroy their own face to keep people away. He was careful not to let his feelings show, though. As far as Neal Caffrey knew, he was a ruthless killer and ruler of the ring. He needed to keep his distance and not let too much empathy shine through. After all, he'd supposedly signed up to be a Gladiator of his own free will, and it would be pretty out of character for said Gladiator to be a softy when it came to people being abused. Neal was the kind of person Peter was supposed to kill for fun.

"Are-are you underc-cover?" Neal asked in a small voice, avoiding making eye contact with Peter.

"No," Peter said more harshly than he meant to, the question putting him on the edge. "I'm not. I'm doing this for me, so I suggest you keep your mouth shut and do as you're told, boy. Whoever I was before, that doesn't matter now." Hey, if he was gonna play a part, might as well go all the way. "I worked hard to get here, and I don't want you fucking it up by talking about shit from the past. Got it?"

Neal sort of cowered back, then a moment later a suspicious look bloomed on his face. "Y-you're here 'cause you w-wanna be? Th-that doesn't seem like the Peter B-burke I knew."

"Peter Burke is dead," Peter replied shortly. "Along with his wife." He gritted his teeth as the words hit a little close to home. He and Reese had worked out a pretty good story in case someone came across his FBI affiliations, but he hadn't expected to actually have to use it.

"Y-you're wife… sh-she's dead?" Neal asked with a stricken look on his face. "I'm s-s-sorry."

"It's the FBI's fault," Peter said harshly. "Some bastards we were about to bust got wind of it and broke into our house. Tied me up and hurt her, hurt her bad, right in front of me, the bastards. Then they killed her, while she begged. If I hadn't been working that damn case, she'd still be here today." Peter's voice caught and he wiped angrily at his eyes with his shoulder. Yeah, definitely a little too close to home. "Now my only goal is to find those bastards and kill them all. If I get in good with Julius, he can made that happen." Peter took a step toward Neal, looking down at him threateningly. "So you watch what you say, Caffrey, because if you get in the way of my revenge, I will make you pay, and pay, and pay, and pay until I bleed you dry."

The look of terror that rose up on the man's face triggered a rush of guilt in Peter, but he choked it down, careful to keep it off his face. Neal was a con artist—he knew all the tricks. If Peter was going to pull off this job, he couldn't let Neal think for an instant that Peter was anything but an angry cop gone rogue, looking for a dish best served cold—even if it meant scaring the shit out of him.

"Y—y-yes, M-m-m-m-mah-m-mah—" Peter grimaced as Neal's stutter grew worse and worse. Finally, he cut off, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, the feeling of guilt increasing with every broken syllable. "Yes, Master," he finally managed, arms wrapping even more tightly around himself, face pale and distraught. "I'll be g-good, s-sir."

"Since when do you stutter, Caffrey?" Peter asked as he plopped down on the couch.

Neal went red. "S-sorry, M-master. I don't do it all the t-t-time. J-just when… J-just wh-when…"

"Just when you're scared," Peter finished, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, then wincing as he brushed a bruise. He had a lot of bruises thanks to today.

"N-no, M-m-master," Neal replied, making Peter look up. "J-just when I-I t-talk to m-my m-master."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You were stuttering in the ring."

"It was M-M-Meet Your M-M-Maker. M-m-my maker w-was there, sort of. Th-the m-man you k-killed. He was my r-r-ringmaster."

Peter's brow furrowed slightly as he patted the couch beside him, beckoning for Neal to sit.

Instead of putting his butt on the couch, Neal knelt down on the floor, depositing his head on the exact spot Peter had patted, staring up at him with big blue eyes.

Okay, that was awkward. But if that was how slaves did it, Peter better go with it. He couldn't let Neal suspect. He already knew way, way too much. If he realized that Peter wasn't the bastard he pretending to be then it wouldn't be a big leap to figuring out Peter actually was undercover. As much as he pitied the kid, sacrifices had to be made if they were going to take down Julius. Peter would just have to do his best not to mess him up too bad. At least with Peter he would't having to fight in the arena anymore. Peter had a feeling that it wasn't Neal's forte.

"So… Ringmaster, huh?"

"Y-yes, m-master. Th-the Centurions t-train slaves f-for the rings. Not that th-there's really a l-lot of t-training. M-mostly just f-f-f-fuh…" Neal let out a sigh. "M-mostly just other s-stuff."

From their little act in the ring, Peter could guess what kind of 'other stuff' Neal was referring to.

"So if your ringmaster was dead, what would have happened to you if I hadn't claimed you?" Peter asked curiously. This was the first info they'd ever gotten straight from the horse's mouth on Julius' twisted little games.

"I-I w-would either be g-given to another C-centurion or one of the B-Brotherhood would take me h-home."

Peter raised an eyebrow, his detective sense going off. "So you've been to the houses of members of the Brotherhood."

"Y-yes, master."

Hm. This whole mess may have been a good thing indeed. If they could tap this source, maybe they could find a way to bring Julius down.

"You can all me Peter."

"Okay," Neal agreed, not sounding like he really gave a damn.

"Have you ever been to Julius' house?" Peter questioned, and Neal twisted his face around, grimacing.

"Y-yes, I've been t-to th-three of them. I was a st-statue for a year at the f-first one."

A statue? What the hell? "What do you mean you were a statue?" Peter asked, wondering if he'd heard him wrong.

"H-he c-caught me st-stealing his p-painting. That's how I ended up a s-slave. He p-put me in his gallery as a st-statue. If I moved or t-talked I got b-beaten. I h-had to hold a fl-flower vase over my h-head for a month once. I can sleep st-standing up now." Neal's eyelashes flickered, a pained expression coming over his face. "H-he says I'm b-beautiful like a Michaelang-angelo. L-like D-David."

"So you know what he looks like. Julius, I mean. Not David."

"N-No. N-nobody knows what J-Julius looks like." Neal's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"But you said you lived in his house—"

"Th-three of them. Why are you asking?"

Peter didn't like the suspicion in his voice so he gave a shrug. "Just wondering."

"Okay."

They fell into silence. Talk about a hell of a day.

* * *

"So get rid of him, Peter," Hughes said in a low voice as he sipped at his coffee. "I'm sure you can find someone to take him. This whole op has just gotten a lot more complex. We need to tie up loose ends, for your own safety. Having Neal Caffrey laying around your house is just too risky."

"He's the best source of intel we have, Reese," Peter said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Apparently Julius had a special affinity for him—he's lived in three of his houses—and I've already learned more about the Brotherhood in the last twenty-four hours than we've learned in eight years."

Hughes stared out the cafe window at the snow covered street, shaking his head. "I don't know, Peter. It's risky. Neal is a con man—you won't be able to half ass it." He turned back to Peter, looking him right in the eyes. "If he stays, you're going to have to treat him like a slave, and we know how these bastards treat those poor people. He has to believe that you're really the sort of man who would kill innocent people to win himself a damn title, and if he's living in your house, you're gonna have to play that man 24/7."

Peter let out a sigh. "I can't just hand him off, Reese—I made too big of a deal about taking him. Besides, I'm not handing him back to some pervert who wants a new statue."

Hughes' brow wrinkled up. "Statue?"

"Never mind," Peter said, shaking his head.

"Maybe we could fake his death, get him into witsec?" Hughes suggested.

"And lose our source of intel?" Peter replied. "This organization is huge, Reese. A thousand times bigger than we thought. It's not just the Brotherhood we have to crack, it's the Senate. Neal is our best hope of honing in those guys and getting some hard evidence against them before they can fly off in their private jets."

Hughes sighed heavily. "Fine. But remember what I said, Peter. No loose ends, okay?"

"Don't worry," Peter replied. "I'll keep him tied up."

The End!