It was night before the food arrived, and Decimus wasn’t surprised to see a bowl of something that looked like soup that had been left for days to congeal. Gladius nearly wept when the bowl was thrown down in front of him, especially as their cell was at the end of the corridor and they had been served last.
“Sorry to see your friend doesn’t like the food,” said a voice as the jailer departed.
Decimus looked up sharply, quickly trying to determine who had spoken.
However, finding the culprit wasn’t a difficult task; the Gaul was staring at them with a sarcastic smirk on his face.
“What’s it to you?” Decimus barked as Gladius lowered himself onto the hay sacks and tried to make himself disappear.
“Nothing,” said the Gaul. “I just don’t think he’s going to last very long, that’s all.”
Decimus shrugged. “And you think you will?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no point starting trouble,” said the Etrurian, his voice carrying from the far end of the cell corridor. “There will be enough of that in the arena tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t starting trouble,” said Decimus defensively. “He made a comment about my friend, and I was just replying to it.”
“I don’t mind,” said Gladius quickly, his eyes imploring Decimus not to make things worse. “REALLY. I get teased for my size all the time.”
“Look,” the Etrurian continued. “We’re all in the same section, so the least we can do is put up with one another. If we can’t manage that, it will be horrible in here . . . and worse in the arena.”
Decimus nodded.
“Agreed,” he said, clearly impressed by the Etrurian slave. “I am Decimus Rex. This is my friend, Gladius. As you can see, we’re in the same situation as you.”
Gladius peered around and nodded a careful greeting at the four inmates who were staring in their direction.
“I am Ruma,” said the Etrurian. He pointed at his cellmate. “This is Olu.”
The Gaul kicked a hay sack aside and sat down on the wooden bed frame. “I’m Argon, this is Teo, but it’s the only thing he’s told me so far. He’s not much of a talker.”
Decimus flashed a brief smile at the Oriental boy, then sat down on the floor and began to spoon generous portions of the foul-smelling soup into his mouth.
“These cells aren’t so bad,” Argon said loudly, packing his hay sacks inside the wooden frame until he’d fashioned a workable mattress. “Do you think—”
“No, they aren’t,” Ruma interrupted as if reading the Gaul’s mind.
Argon looked up, startled. “You didn’t even wait—”
“I didn’t need to. You were going to say you wondered whether these cells are the ones we end up in if we fail the trials—and the answer is no. These are holding cells. The permanent ones will be underground, probably dark, dank, and a lot worse than this.”
Gladius paused with the soup spoon halfway to his mouth.
“How do you know all this?” he asked. Ruma shrugged. “I listen.”
“You listen well,” said Decimus, tipping the last of the soup into his mouth. “For an Etrurian, at least.” He finished with a smile that he hoped wasn’t unfriendly. Ruma didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, he settled down to sleep.
“I don’t suppose you managed to listen to any details of tomorrow’s trial, did you?”
Ruma leaned his head slightly, and finally returned the smile.
“I wish,” he said.
CHAPTER III
THE TRIALS BEGIN
Decimus was surprised when he woke up naturally. He had expected to be shaken awake at some ungodly hour and thrown out in the early darkness to face an onslaught of rampaging lions or worse. Instead, his eyes flickered open and he yawned loudly, taking several moments to peer around blearily and force himself off the hay sacks he was lying on.
On the other side of the cell, he saw that Gladius was still spread out on his own makeshift bed, snoring loudly. In the neighboring cell, Argon and Teo were also sound asleep.
Forcing himself onto his feet, Decimus was surprised to see that the third cell was a hive of activity. Olu was practicing some sort of headstand against the back wall while Ruma, the gangly Etrurian, was proceeding through a seemingly endless assortment of exercises. Decimus swore under his breath, cursing his own lack of activity. He didn’t doubt that the two slaves’ lively morning workouts would prepare them well for the day ahead.
During the next half hour, the remaining three slaves all began to stir, but Decimus took no notice. He had moved over to the front of the cell and was trying to see farther along the corridor. He could just make out a table and the distant shape of the jailer who seemed to be in charge of their section. Eventually, he realized that the shape was getting bigger, and that the man was progressing toward him, stopping at every cell to dish out what was presumably yet another bowl of the wretched broth. Ruma and Olu stopped exercising to collect theirs, and Argon and Teo both struggled over to the bars. As the jailer approached, Decimus noticed that a ragged little dog ran beside him, trying to lick up any droplets of soup that missed the bowl and getting kicked several times for its trouble. The dog’s yelping was evidently helping to wake Gladius, who rolled over and flopped onto the floor.
“Argh! Where am I? What’s that noise?”
Decimus ignored his friend and stepped back from the cell door as the jailer moved to stand in front of it.
He was a large man with a few scrubby patches of beard and several missing teeth. Up close, the dog appeared to be full of mange and undoubtedly hosted an entire community of fleas.
“’Ere,” the jailer spat, shoving a bowl through the bars with such force that half the contents slopped out over the sides. Sensing the wasted soup, the little dog charged the bars, almost forcing its scruffy head between them in a desperate attempt to lick up the drops. Another sharp kick sent the dog skidding along the corridor, moaning and whining as it went.
Decimus accepted the bowl that was offered to him and returned to his bed.
The jailer turned and shuffled off up the corridor, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder.
“Skrag! Get ’ere now!”
The little dog finished licking its back leg and hurried to catch up with its master.
An hour passed without event, and Decimus guessed it was approaching midmorning. He was just about to say as much to Gladius when the toothless jailer reappeared at the head of the corridor.
“Listen up, rags! I’m not goin’ through this any more ’an I ‘ave to! My name is Jailer Truli, or jus’ Truli if yer feelin’ brave! Every mornin’, ’bout this time, I’ll come down an’ let you all out o’ yer cells. When I open the door, you will all walk to the end o’ the corridor an’ turn righ’ and walk t’ward the light—you turn left an’ you’ll soon regret it! When yer all assembled out on the arena floor, the trial-masters take over and give ya yer orders. Now, let’s get you all movin’!”
Truli unlocked the first door and Decimus could see two slaves emerge into the corridor. His stomach was beginning to bunch up: The trials were about to start.
As Decimus and Gladius emerged onto the hot sand of the arena floor, they both realized two things very quickly. First, sixty-four slaves really didn’t look like many in the gaping space they now occupied, and second, the trials were going to be grim. The latter thought occurred when a group of men emerged carrying wire baskets full of burning coals, which they proceeded to pour onto the sand, moving around the perimeter of the arena floor while the jailers quickly ushered the slaves into the center.
A short distance away, three men jumped down from the lowest row of stalls and began to march across the sand. They were all very different in appearance: One was short and chubby, one was tall and practically stick thin, and the other was considerably older than his companions and covered in a network of ugly scars.
“I am Master Mori!” screamed the chubby man, cupping his hands to his mouth. The she
er strength of his voice seemed to drive the slaves back, and several of the boys walked into one another.
Mori held up a hand and gestured toward the beanpole. “This is Master Hrin and, on my other side, Master Falni. We will be setting your trials until you leave Arena Primus. As you can see from the stalls, your trials will be unobserved. You are not worthy of an audience . . . yet. Form a line here NOW!”
Master Mori waddled a little way from his companions and held out his right hand. The slaves quickly formed a line, while Hrin and Falni wandered up and down, roughly spinning the boys around so that they were all facing the same way.
“This first test is one of endurance!” Mori continued. “You will run around the edge of the arena. BAREFOOT.”
Decimus immediately reached down to unclasp his sandals, trying to ignore the worried whimpers Gladius was making as he performed the same task.
“You currently number sixty-four boys,” Mori yelled again. “You will run until fifty remain. Those that fall will be eliminated from the trials.”
A series of gasps and mutterings erupted from the line. All were ignored by the trial-masters. Hrin and Falni retreated to the lower stalls, while Mori moved into the middle of the arena.
“Psst!” Decimus reached out and took hold of Gladius’s arm, dragging him close. “Listen to me, and make sure you listen well. Work your way to the back, let one person overtake you at a time, and slow yourself right down. Do NOT run too fast. If they hit you, or whip you, or do anything to move you on, pretend to pick up the pace . . . but do NOT run fast, no matter WHAT happens. Understand?”
“But—”
“You’ll run out of energy too soon. The heat and the effort will bring you down faster than a hail of spears. Trust me. Save your strength.”
Gladius gasped at the sudden and terrible ferocity in his new friend’s eyes. All he could do was nod in agreement.
Mori screamed a command, and the line of slaves began to move, slowly at first . . . and then with increasing speed.
Decimus was among the last thirty boys. As he jogged along, trying to maintain a steady rhythm by repeating a rhyme over and over in his head, he tried to spot familiar faces in the curving line of boys. He concentrated hard, especially when his foot landed on the first coal and he almost fell. The burning of his flesh felt like an explosion of pure agony . . . but he still jogged on.
Concentrate, he told himself. Block out the pain.
Then he saw Teo, close to the front, hopping back and forth in a failed attempt to avoid the coals while setting the pace for those slaves racing up behind him. His gaze was still fixed on Teo when the first slave fell.
A scream pierced the air, and a boy two places back from the front of the line collapsed into the dirt, his body twitching and writhing as the coals began to burn him. As Decimus looked on, his eyes widening as he ran, two muscular servants snatched the slave up and carried him away.
Decimus almost cried out himself when his feet found yet another crop of burning coals, but he managed to right himself quickly enough to avoid stumbling. Other boys weren’t so lucky, and a veritable cacophony of tortured screams erupted as the coals claimed several new victims.
Decimus didn’t dare look back over his shoulder, but he felt certain that Gladius had fallen already. Most of the runners were in far better shape and even the fittest of the slaves now appeared to be slowing. It seemed that several had had the same idea as Decimus, and were pacing themselves well. However, one or two others were doing just the opposite.
Up ahead, Decimus finally spotted Ruma and Olu, who seemed to be taking turns outrunning each other. It was a good idea, and Decimus didn’t doubt the wily Etrurian had thought of it. A little way back from the sprinting duo, Argon was hobbling slightly from a badly burned heel.
The next slave to fall was a tall boy with dark skin and fair hair. He gave no yell or outward cry of despair, but he collapsed nevertheless, and curled into a ball as the servants hoisted him into their arms.
Decimus returned his attention to Teo, who was now spearheading the race and moving away from his nearest rival. Unfortunately, Teo made the mistake of glancing back over his shoulder, and the coals claimed him. He let out a terrible cry, grabbed for his burning foot, and collapsed. He was hauled away, but not before the next five slaves had all leaped over him. When the last of these stumbled, going face-first into a nasty collection of smoldering embers, Mori held up a hand and signaled that the trial had ended.
Fifty boys were led back to the cells. Miraculously, Gladius was one of them.
CHAPTER IV
COMBAT
The mood in the cells that night was bleak. Argon just slumped on his bed, staring at the wall. He pretty much ignored his soup when the bowls were brought around. Decimus made it clear that he couldn’t understand quite why the Gaul was so upset about the elimination of his cellmate, but Gladius suspected that the two had been brought in together, just like himself and Decimus.
“They’d probably formed a friendship,” he whispered to his stern companion. “I mean, look at us. We’re friends now, right?”
Decimus shrugged.
“Oh, come on,” Gladius persisted. “If we weren’t friends, you’d never have given me that advice before the race . . . and chances are, I wouldn’t have made it, either.”
The fact was, not only had Gladius made it through the first round of the trials, he was also largely unharmed. There seemed to be remarkably few burns on Gladius’s feet. It was almost as if he’d managed to dodge every coal. Decimus couldn’t help but grin as he saw his friend throw a victory punch at the air. Gladius might be unfit and very frightened, but he certainly knew when to take good advice.
Decimus looked down at his own feet, which were scorched in so many places that it even hurt when he twitched his toes. Evidently, you needed more than good tactics to escape a trial unharmed—luck also played a significant part.
In the far cell, Ruma and Olu were locked in conversation. At first, Decimus was suspicious that they might be plotting some sort of escape or creating a combined strategy for the trials ahead. However, he soon dismissed these thoughts. There was no chance of escape from Arena Primus, and the trials were totally unpredictable. The two slaves were probably just talking about Teo’s fate in the underground prisons and didn’t want Argon to overhear them.
A dark and depressing night ensued.
The following morning, Decimus woke early and managed to drag himself out of bed in order to get in some exercise. He was particularly pleased when he saw that Ruma and Olu were both still fast asleep, and this spurred him to try even harder to stretch himself.
By the time Jailer Truli arrived with their breakfast, he had already completed more than one hundred sit-ups and had even tried the bizarre headstand exercise he’d seen Olu doing the morning before. He tried to run on the spot for a time, but the agonizing pain in his feet had become a dull ache that was proving to be even worse. Still, there was no doubt that the early morning exercises had helped to make him feel stronger.
When breakfast was over and Truli returned to collect the slaves for the second day of the trials, Decimus almost felt he could take on the world . . . and win.
However, nothing could have prepared him for the test that was to follow . . .
The fifty remaining slaves entered the arena to a very different scene. Decimus noticed that a large circle had been marked in the middle of the arena floor, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was made of. When he said as much to Gladius, the big slave edged a little closer to try to make out more details.
“Spikes, I’m guessing,” Ruma said, appearing beside Gladius with a concerned look on his face. “A chain full of spikes, laid down in a ring. These trial-masters really have it in for our feet, don’t they?”
“It seems so,” Decimus agreed, eyeing the Etrurian with respect. “What do you think this trial will be?”
Ruma shrugged. “Some sort of combat, I’m guessing. Looks like we’re about to
find out . . .”
The three trial-masters emerged from the eastern portcullis, but this time it was Mori and Falni who took to the stalls.
Hrin, the tall and impossibly thin master, stepped forward and raised his bony hands. He was holding a large, black sack.
“Today’s trial will only require two combatants,” he screeched. “The rest of you will observe. Now . . . form a line. When I come to you, you will reach into the bag and pick out a single ball. If you receive a white ball, you will step forward. If the ball you pick is black, you may take a step back.”
When the slaves had organized themselves, Hrin strode up to the boy at the distant end of the line and held out the sack. Decimus tried to lean forward in order to see the ball being drawn, but it seemed that every slave in the line had had the same idea . . . and he couldn’t tell what was happening until the boy—a muscular youth with a distinctive Roman nose—stepped back.
“Lucky start,” Gladius whispered.
“Not really,” said Ruma, on Decimus’s other side. “If they only need a couple of combatants, it means that there are forty-eight black balls and just two white ones. You’d have to be really unlucky to pull one of those out.”
“Bet I get one,” Gladius moaned.
Decimus was quite surprised when his friend’s comment caused Olu and Argon to burst out laughing, but the merriment quickly died away when Hrin barked something from the end of the line.
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