Since the riot that had reached the gates of the palati, Lesley hadn't taken any more breaks than his body absolutely demanded. He'd given his monthly report to Circenia in the form of a brief and somewhat vague note that was nonetheless scrupulously accurate with regards to anything that could be verified through other sources, plus a few tidbits that didn't exactly paint an accurate picture of Emilia's current affairs but wasn't too far off the mark, either. Pretty much par for the course where his reports were concerned, but he hadn't trusted himself to deliver it in person. Not because he didn't think he could lie convincingly enough, but because he didn't trust his temper around anyone once away from Emilia's doe-eyed innocence. How he'd developed a legitimate protective streak for the dumb little klutz he wasn't sure, but something about her naive trust had made him put forth a herculean effort to keep a lid on his emotions and his behaviour at least vaguely in the area of appropriate. She hadn't taken offense at his his acerbic bluntness, his need to pace, or his inability to refrain from baiting people he really shouldn't, but she had eventually told him to go home and take his missed days off.

Good thing, too. As much as he tried, Lesley's self-control had never been stellar, and he was strained to the breaking point. His mother had recognized his mood instantly, and not made a complaint about the brusque way he had assured himself she was safe and well, and stormed out again. They would talk later.

Arriving at the arcus, he had thrown his equipment onto his bed in the gladiator's barracks, stripped, and headed to the training yard in just a perizoma, wrapping protective strips of linen around his knuckles as he walked. The brisk walk down from the palati was enough that he didn't feel stiff, and he didn't bother with a preliminary jog before taking his boiling aggression out on a large sandbag hanging from the colonnade for just that purpose. He ignored the other slaves training, didn't even seem to notice their presence. As his knuckles slammed into the comfortingly solid target, he gradually relaxed. It didn't feel exactly like laying into a human, he didn't get quite the same release, and certainly none of the thrill of a fight, but it was a start. The quiet thud, the moment of shock traveling up his arm, the warmth slowly creeping through his muscles, soothed him the way others found comfort in shedding their armour in favour of a hot bath. Lesley, by contrast, needed to already be relaxed before he could appreciate any sort of luxury.

Eventually, his scowl relaxed into a frown of concentration, and he began to focus on form rather than power. When he'd achieved something he considered perfect, he stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and finally turned to look around the yard. "Oy. Who wants to go a round with me?"

Nobody immediately volunteered.

"Hypatos, great. What weapons you want?"

The slave's face showed clearly the conflicting feelings of despairing that he'd been the one called out and relief that Lesley was going to let him play to his own strengths - and that he was going to be able to use a shield. Armour was probably too much to ask for. Lesley sent him to fetch equipment for both of them and settled down to stretch properly. He would never admit he was getting old, but he was well aware he wasn't young any more. As he did, he turned his head, acknowledging with his eyes, though not yet with his voice, the arrival of someone capable of interrupting his plans for the day. He'd get his fight - several, preferably - later if he needed to, but he really hoped she'd be content to wait for him to get at least one before whatever she was here for.