I wake to a dank cell, with blood-stained walls and a dirt floor for my bed. My hands are bound in chains. The only clothing is the subligaculum, which covers my loins. There is still searing pain from my mutilated flesh.
‘Another weak fool soon to die,’ mocks a voice from the darkness.
‘Feeble boy won’t survive to see the arena.’
‘Nor another sunrise unless the gods show favour.’
‘He bears the legion’s mark. Damned deserter.’
‘Coward by my bet.’
‘The boy’s corpse will feed the dogs.’
Their cruel mockery continues until sleep takes hold again.
By morning, I am roused and dragged from my cell, forced into line with boys and men also newly enslaved. Around us, others scorn and jeer, each one appearing strong and marked from conflict. They are warriors: gladiators. In ludus I now stand.
‘Be ready and show honour to your Dominus,’ a voice shouts.
Whips crack to gather our order as our master approaches. His skin is darkened and aged by the sun. He is an elder by any other reckoning.
‘My name is Albinius Hader, but to you, I am Dominus,’ he introduces himself as he walks up and down our line. ‘I purchased each and every one of you. You belong to me. I am your master. Your very existence belongs to me. I gift you the food you eat, the water you drink, the very air you breathe because it is my will.’
‘Damn this,’ mutters one of the youngest in the line, not old enough to grow a beard. Our Dominus does not miss the boy’s sneers and responds swiftly by slamming a fist into his stomach. It is a display of strength that none of us fail to doubt.
‘Speak out of turn or disrespect me again and you will be feed for the dogs – whilst alive!’
Hader turns to the rest of us, calming after his quick show of anger.
‘You stand in my ludus, the training ground for warriors of great renown. Around you stand heroes of the arena, the blood of the gods runs through their veins! They are gladiators of the House of Hader!’
The men roar and cheer, chanting the name Hader in honour of their Dominus.
‘All have shed blood. All have claimed victories and glory for the House of Hader. Train and prove yourselves worthy to be among their number. Join them and as gladiators seize glory upon the sands – and then, one day, maybe you will earn your freedom. Swear your oath to me! Fight for me! Spill blood for me! Claim victory in the name of the House of Hader!’
It is the recruits’ turn to cheer, but I do not. It does not go unnoticed.
‘We have one not swayed by my words,’ Hader proclaims as he faces me. ‘And of course it is the one who cost me the most coin and arrived in the worst condition. This rotting boy of the legions.’
‘Why make purchase then?’ I dare to ask, unconcerned for my fate.
His fist slams into my stomach, and although my knee buckles, I stumble but still stand, unlike the foolish boy who spoke out before who remains on the ground still.
‘So there is some life in the corpse yet,’ he sneers. ‘You see this boy?’ he addresses the rest in line. ‘He is branded a deserter from the legions. He abandoned his brothers.’
‘I am centurion of the…’
My words are ended by lash and fist until I lay on the ground, beaten but not broken. When the attack stops, though bleeding and aching, I rise and revert to the ways of raw recruit of the legion, eyes straight forward, not meeting the Dominus’s gaze. My tongue is still. Success in war is as much about intelligence as it is strength. Timing is everything.
‘This goes for all of you,’ Hader states to every man before him. ‘I do not care what you did in your life before entering the walls of this ludus. Glories or sins, it matters not to me. The men you were no longer exist. You are mine and you will be forged anew. Join my gladiators or die and be feed for the dogs.’
As all around me cheer, eager for blood, eager for glory, I realise I have escaped one life of war and bitter struggle for survival and entered another, where the cheers of the crowd will decide life or coming death.
17
ADAM—The British Museum, London, England
Standing there, sweat covering me, I face Dave. His hardened glare is settled on me, an anger bubbling under the surface.
‘You may have beaten my assault course, barely reaching the needed time,’ he tells me through gritted teeth, ‘but you will not pass what is next. Survive for one minute. That is all you need to do.’
‘What is the test?’ I ask.
‘Unarmed combat,’ he tells me. ‘Leon Bransby, Jack Bishop, even Vladimir Makov, they are but three of many rivals you may face out there and they will stop at nothing to claim power and riches beyond understanding. It’s our job to stop them and I need to know that you can protect yourself.’
There are no weapons or objects with which to make use of in our fight, just our bodies and the clock.
‘This should be fun,’ Emma says from her perch above us on a climbing wall. I don’t know if I should be pleased or nervous that she is watching.
‘There will be no cheap shots this time,’ Dave warns. ‘Abbey, start the clock on my order. NOW!’
He charges at me, fists flying, and though I dodge the first punches, I don’t see his boot rising, kicking me in the chest and driving me to the floor,
‘Reset the clock,’ Dave says, barely short of breath from his sudden attack.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Abbey says from the control tower as Emma giggles.
I stand but he gives me no time to recover.
‘Again!’ Dave yells. The clock is restarted and his assault renewed.
I last longer this time but he makes use of my wounds, grabbing my arm where the spear had cut. I weaken but fight on until his shoulder catches me, then an elbow to the ribs and finally a sweep of the legs that sends me tumbling.
‘This is not good enough, Adam!’ Dave yells at me as I struggle to stand. ‘When we fought in the containment & storage floor you showed something close to skill and determination. Now I see nothing. What has happened? Don’t you want to find your brother? Don’t you want to prove your worth?’
With those last words, I snap. I charge at him, barging him over. He’s like a wall – and now he’s angry – properly angry.
‘Clock restarted!’ Abbey cries over the loudspeaker, but I ignore her. My only focus is on Dave.
‘Here we go,’ Emma says, but I ignore her too.
His punches and strikes come thick and fast, but mine do as well. I twist and turn around him, landing a few of my own upon him with little effect. Ducking beneath a coming fist, I kick down on the back of his knee and strike him across the head. It dazes him for a precious few seconds before he attacks again.
‘Thirty seconds!’ Abbey declares over the loudspeakers.
I draw him in, hands raised like a boxer’s guard, before ducking down and rising with his fist under his jaw. It connects, but his only reaction is to wrap both arms around me, trapping my body against his.
‘Now what, kid?’ he taunts, before the temple of my head connects with his, reopening the stitches at my forehead, but releasing Dave’s grasp.
We both stagger back, seeing stars but still standing, and we charge again, exchanging blows relentlessly.
‘Enough!’ Abbey orders.
We part, and I know I have passed but not without injury.
‘Very good, kid,’ Dave says, glare breaking down briefly into a smile before disappearing. ‘Where was that fire before?’
‘I just needed the right encouragement,’ I say, panting for breath as I lean on one of the rocks of the assault course.
‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Emma asks, swinging down and approaching me, inspecting the reopened wound at my head.
‘Why? Are you impressed?’
‘Hardly,’ she replies.
‘Loundwell High School,’ I tell her. ‘There were a fair number of bullies around. Guys who would keep pushing you until you learned to stand up for
yourself. My brother taught me that. They quickly learned it’s much harder to bully people with a broken nose.’
18
SLAVE—Capua
My new brothers’ words are unending.
‘He still won’t last to see the arena.’
‘He’s survived this far.’
‘I hear our centurion has a wife.’
‘Liar. Bet he’s never touched...’
‘Swear to the gods, he has a wife.’
‘Bet she’s a lovely little thing, if you know what I mean.’
‘Better than you’ve ever been with, you fool.’
‘He won’t see her again. He’s going to die here!’
‘He won’t speak. Hasn’t since Dominus’s introduction.’
‘A boy and a coward. He wasn’t centurion. He won’t be a gladiator.’
‘He will die, and his woman…well, his woman…’
I remain silent despite all the curses and taunts of those within the ludis. It is thoughts of Lucilla that will ensure I survive.
19
ADAM—The British Museum, London, England
‘Tristram Hill,’ the tech advisor greets me, shaking my hand enthusiastically with a broad grin. ‘Congratulations on passing the first levels of the trials. It was good to see Dave face a real opponent for once.’
‘You were watching?’ I ask, placing a hand lightly to the re-sewn stitches at my head.
‘Yep. Keeping Abbey company in the control tower,’ he tells me, his tone happy and cheerful.
‘I’m sure you were,’ I say quietly to myself, already having suspicions of the pair after Abbey’s blushing at the mere mention of his name earlier.
Tristram is a few years older than me; thick stubble across his jaw, an eyebrow pierced. He wears glasses, a short beanie hat covering his hair, and a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt marked with oil stains. The smell of cigarettes is about him like an aftershave. I can hazard a pretty good guess at why he failed the trials.
‘I’m here to talk you through your equipment,’ he tells me, still smiling as he sweeps his arms across the table before him and all the kit laid out.
Water canteen, knife, versatile waterproof jacket, a one-man tent, torches, rations, lighter, flares, a large first aid kit, all manner of climbing gear, a compass, maps and journals, and a rucksack to carry it all in, flashlights connected to the shoulder straps. Above it all, my eyes are drawn to what I can only call a uniform or jumpsuit, dark grey trousers and long sleeved top with light blue lining cross both.
‘You go out in these?’ I ask.
‘Lightweight but sturdy, similar to Kevlar but not as strong,’ Tristram explains as I step behind a screen and pull on the clothes. ‘It won’t stop a bullet but it’s tough, waterproof, and will keep you warm in colder climates and cool in the warmer places you may find yourself.’
‘I look like I’m out of Tron,’ I say, stepping back out.
‘Don’t knock it, it could save your life.’
‘Yet no parachute or fancy gadgets?’ I joke.
‘You’ve been watching too many films,’ Tristram replies with a smirk. ‘But we have a few items that may be of interest to you. Abbey, can you bring up the electronics and countermeasures?’
‘Sure thing, Tri,’ she says via the loudspeakers; her voice is notably softer when speaking to Tristram.
A section of the flooring near to us parts and cabinets rise from below. Tristram inputs combinations into a keypad and then a palm and eye scan before the doors swing open. Within the cabinets are dozens of items, none of which I have any idea about what they are or what they can possibly do.
‘Flash bangs, smoke grenades, bolas, infra-red cameras and visors, thermo clothing and equipment for the arctic or the depths of a volcano, EMP devices, knock-out gas…’
He goes on and on, using words I have never heard before let alone understand. As he speaks, he enthusiastically shows me the use of a few, the smoke and flash bangs in particular, hurling them across the room to show their effects. The bolas interest me more; wire cords weighted at both ends that, when thrown, wrap around a person, trapping and incapacitating them. I practice a few times with these on dummies raised into the room by Abbey.
‘We do have one more neat toy,’ Tristram tells me, taking a small case from the cabinet.
Inputting a combination into the case, he takes out a set of glasses; thin with clear lenses and silver frames. The tips hook around the ears, earpieces at their ends. Tristram places them onto me, extending and shortening so that they fit and the earpieces are secure.
‘I’ve seen these before,’ I say, recognising the design.
‘You recovered Matt’s pair from the crypt,’ Tristram agrees. ‘Thank you for returning them. We should be able to repair that set, for a small-fortune.’
‘Silver?’ I ask, unsure of the colour of the frames.
‘I call it gun-metal grey,’ Tristram replies quickly.
‘And this is for…’ I begin to ask before an all too familiar Irish voice speaks to me through the earpieces.
‘The cameras in the frames feed directly back to us,’ Abbey explains. ‘I see whatever you see. This way we can stay in touch and I can advise you.’
‘Creep me out and nag me you mean?’
‘Exactly.’ She chuckles. ‘With this headset, I can upload any information and display it directly to you.’
As she says this, images and information appears across the lenses of the glasses before my eyes.
‘And the range of these?’
‘We have uplinks to and control of a hundred satellites around the world meaning the range is pretty much limitless,’ she says cheerfully. ‘They work on any bandwidth and are nearly impossible to block, meaning even in the depths of crypts miles beneath the surface, I can reach you.’
‘How much did these cost?’ I ask with disbelief, carrying what is easily the most technologically advanced item I have ever seen in person.
‘There are only five sets of them in Europe,’ Abbey explains. ‘Three are in our hands and we only got them through doing Japan some favours with certain ancient artefacts we recovered. Let’s just say, finding blades of the samurai nobility was very important to them. Even then it was only thanks to a friend of a friend of a millionaire’s son that we have them. Their cost – let’s just say, don’t drop them.’
‘You wanted to go out there?’ I ask. ‘Into the field, as they say.’
‘Yep,’ he replies, looking away in annoyance. ‘You’ve got to pass the trials to go into the field though.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was a complete embarrassment. Anyway, here comes your drill sergeant.’
‘Are you fully equipped?’ Dave asks gruffly as he approaches. A bruise or two and at least one fresh cut grace his face from our combat. I can’t help but feel a little smug about having roughed up his handsome face. ‘Your next trial begins in three minutes.’
‘Yep, I look like an idiot,’ I say, pointing to the uniform and picking up the rucksack and equipment. ‘Why do I need all this for the next level of the trials?’
‘The next level of testing requires you to carry all the equipment you would into the field,’ Dave states. ‘That way, it’s realistic with the endurance required of you. It’s the same way the army trains.’
‘And that’s where you got the assault course from? Your army days?’ I ask, to which he simply nods.
‘Suit up, Mr Hunter,’ Charles says as he enters the vast training complex. Again, as I take it in, I can’t believe that it is all underground and all beneath one of London’s biggest attractions.
‘Come to see him fail?’ Dave mocks me, but I don’t react.
‘I have come to go over Mr Hunter’s file,’ Charles states as he flicks through several pages of a report. ‘I pulled up his records and it makes for interesting reading.’
‘I’d ignore what you see in there,’ I say as I pull on the waterproof jacket.
‘High grades in sports and
modest grades in all other subjects,’ Charles surmises. ‘You complete coursework and assignments in days rather than the weeks and months given. This is not because of intelligence, but simple drive.’
‘Hang on, where does it say that?’ I ask, no answer given.
‘Matches my evaluation so far,’ Dave adds. ‘Brakes are broken but the accelerator works just fine.’
‘Meaning what?’ I ask as I pack the rucksack.
‘I think you put it best with that saying of your family’s,’ replies Charles. ‘Why put off what can be done today. It also says you are quite combative, getting into many fights at school and college.’
‘For the record, I started none of them,’ I say in my defence.
‘Ended them though,’ Charles concludes, to which I simply shrug.
‘Three nights spent in police cells,’ Abbey says over the loudspeakers from the control tower. ‘Multiple counts of breaking and entering.’
‘I never stole anything that I didn’t return to the rightful owners,’ I reply.
‘A regular Robin Hood indeed,’ Abbey says.
‘A thief you mean,’ Dave mutters.
‘He should fit in well here then,’ announces a voice as another man staggers into the facility. He looks dishevelled, in his early thirties, thick stubble, a couple of scars and dark rings under his eyes. His clothes are creased, dirty, and torn. He looks like a beggar.
‘Not all of your record is for honourable deeds,’ Abbey says, ignoring the newcomer.
‘I can explain the one you mean,’ I quickly say.
‘Let me guess,’ the beggar says, rubbing his eyes. ‘It was all for a girl. It’s always a girl.’
‘I stole the headmaster’s car,’ I reply a little too defensively. ‘Okay… it was to impress a girl.’
‘Thought as much,’ the man replies with a smug grin. ‘Recruiting straight out of high school now, are we, Charles? My how desperate your little quest has become.’
Eagle of the Empire Page 12