Decimus leaned forward again. The skeletal trial-master was now more than twenty boys along, and there was still no sign of a white ball. As Hrin moved on, more and more boys stepped back, and there were several audible sighs of relief.
Then, finally, a white ball was drawn.
The unfortunate selector, a heavyset boy with greasy, black hair and several bruises around his jaw, didn’t even flinch. He simply looked down at the small sphere in his hand, and gritted his teeth.
“He’s called Boma Derok,” Gladius whispered. “He was standing next to me in the coal race.”
Decimus took a deep breath as the slave stepped forward and Hrin moved on. The gangly trial-master was now only four places away.
Olu drew a black ball, and stepped back. He was followed by Argon and Ruma. When it came to Gladius’s turn, Decimus actually found himself holding his breath . . . but his friend pulled out a black sphere and withdrew from the line.
Again, Hrin moved on.
Decimus plunged his arm into the sack, and felt his mind go numb.
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . now.
He withdrew his hand, and heard the gasps from his side before he’d even had time to look down.
He was holding a white ball: The draw was complete.
“You can all step back,” said Hrin, pointing to the line of six or seven boys who’d been standing to the left of Decimus. They quickly obeyed the trial-master, and the heart of the arena suddenly became an incredibly lonely place.
Decimus glanced to his right . . . and stared into the determined face of his opponent.
“You two will fight in there,” Hrin commanded, pointing toward the ring of spikes. “The first of you to fall outside the circle will be eliminated from the trials.” He turned back to the snaking line of slaves. “The rest of you, watch and be thankful you have escaped this test.”
The two slaves entered the ring of spikes and began to circle each other warily.
Decimus clenched his fists. His heart was thumping in his chest and his breath caught in his throat. He’d never been in a fight before, if you excluded one or two minor scuffles with his cousins, and now he was about to enter into deadly combat. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement forcing the reaction.
He was still deciding whether to run at Boma Derok when the muscular slave made the decision for him, and roared across the sand like a rogue lion. He cannoned into Decimus and lifted him off the ground, blocking the smaller slave’s attempts to drive a knee into his ribcage.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Decimus saw that the edge of the circle was nearing. He bunched his hands into fists and brought them both down with all his might on his opponent’s back.
Boma staggered slightly, and Decimus felt the grip around his midsection relax. Seizing the initiative, he brought up his knee in a second attempt to strike Boma’s ribcage. This time, he was successful: The big slave dropped him . . . mere inches from the edge of the circle.
Boma didn’t waste any time. Still reeling from the blow to his ribs, he quickly took several steps back and crouched in a ready stance.
Decimus charged at him and the two slaves clashed in the middle of the ring.
Boma threw out two punches that both went wide as the quicker, smaller slave ducked and dodged past him. In turn, Decimus tried to grapple Boma in a headlock, but was shoved back with such force that he actually stumbled.
The fight was accompanied by rounds of cheers and sighs from the slave line, most of whom seemed to be rooting for Boma. Decimus could just make out the distant shape of Gladius waving his arms and jumping up and down on the spot.
While Decimus rolled over and clutched at his bruised front, the big slave leaped to his feet and loomed over him.
Decimus winced as a powerful hand clamped around his throat and lifted him off the ground. Kicking and punching with all his might, he nevertheless felt completely powerless as Boma held him aloft, slowly stalking toward the edge of the ring with a renewed determination.
Was this the end for Decimus Rex . . . ?
COMING SOON
More terrifying trials await Decimus Rex in the dreaded Arena of Doom from jumping between small wooden platforms on sky-high poles to being attacked by giants with hammers. As each trial eliminates more and more boys, Decimus becomes desperate to escape. Can he survive against the best of his fellow slaves? More importantly, will he be forced to meet one of his new friends in combat? Find out in . . .
ESCAPE FROM EVIL
ARENA COMBAT
Get ready to challenge your friends! Each Gladiator Boy book will contain a different trial. Collect them all to run your own Arena of Doom—either at home or on the playground.
TRIAL 1
SWORD, GAUNTLET,
HAMMER!
You will need two players and one referee. This game is like the traditional rock-scissors-paper game. Each attack must be presented at exactly the same time and then worked out. The first player to win three of five games is declared the winner!
You can either play the game as yourselves or, when you have collected all the books in the series, you can take on the roles of the slaves and use their special character profiles to fire your imagination! One can be found in this book, and there are more in the other Gladiator Boy books!
Here are the hand signs:
1. THE SWORD
2. THE GAUNTLET
3. THE HAMMER
CHARACTER PROFIL OLU
NAME: Olu
FROM: Africa
HEIGHT: 5’8”
BODY TYPE: Slim
BEST FRIEND: Argon
CELLMATE: Ruma
OLU QUIZ: How well do you know Olu ? Can you answer the following three questions ?
1. WHO MAKES OLU BURST OUT LAUGHING?
2. WHAT IS OLU’S FAVORITE EXERCISE, WHICH DECIMUS ALSO TRIES?
3. WHO DOES OLU TAKE TURNS OUTRUNNING IN THE FIRST TRIAL?
WEAPON PROFILE: THE SWORD
A sword is a long, shaped piece of metal. It was used as a weapon in many historical battles and has appeared in more battle stories than any other weapon ever!
There are many types of sword and each one can be used in different ways. Here are the most common ways to fight with a sword.
SINGLE HAND
DOUBLE HAND
TWO SWORDS
SPECIAL ATTACK —THE WHIRLING DOOM
READ MORE OF DECIMUS REX’S ADVENTURES IN BOOK TWO OF THE GLADIATOR BOY SERIES:
ESCAPE FROM EVIL
Decimus closed his eyes. He was fighting for his life against a fellow slave. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Locked in a powerful choke hold and lifted from the ground, Decimus found himself rushed toward the edge of the combat circle in the mammoth hands of Boma Derok.
Screaming with rage, Decimus shifted his weight several times to no avail—the big slave was so strong that it was like trying to struggle against a moving boulder.
The two combatants had nearly reached the spikes when Decimus suddenly snaked down a hand and raked his fingernails across Boma’s eyes. The big slave dropped his opponent immediately, and raised both hands to his scratched face.
Decimus landed on his feet, hopped around behind the wounded fighter, and threw all his weight at him. Boma staggered forward, palms still covering his eyes, and tripped on the line of spikes. He was doomed.
As the fickle slave crowd roared its approval, Boma Derok plunged face-first into the sand.
The combat was over.
Decimus wasn’t quite prepared for the admiration and cheers he received that night in the cell section. Gladius couldn’t stop talking about the fight, Olu and Ruma both offered Decimus their own soup, and even Argon reached through the bars and shook his hand. Farther down the corridor, whispers and distant shouts could be heard. The name Decimus was spreading along the corridors like wildfire. Boma Derok’s fate would now be a subject few discussed, his name forgotten by all but his cellmate and presumably—in som
e distant town—his family. Meanwhile, he would rot in the underground prisons.
Decimus knew he could easily have suffered the same destiny and, to Gladius’s surprise, decided to scratch the big slave’s name into the cell floor with his spoon. Boma didn’t deserve to be forgotten. No one did.
“There’s something going on out there.”
At first, Decimus thought the words had been spoken by Gladius, but his friend was staring past him. Turning, he saw that his eyes were on Ruma, who had squeezed himself against the barred door of his cell and was straining to see down to the far end of the corridor. Behind him, Olu had drifted off to sleep.
“What’s up?” said Argon, getting to his feet and heading across to the front of his own cell.
“Whispers,” said Ruma, holding up a hand in order to keep the others quiet. “Apparently, there’s a lot of noise coming from the arena.”
“Fighting?” Decimus asked, sharing a hopeful glance with Gladius.
Ruma shook his head. “No, more like building. You know, hammering and work noise.”
Argon was now pressed against the barred door separating his cell from the corridor. “What’s that?” he said.
“Just wait,” snapped Ruma as Olu began to stir. “I can’t hear anything with you talk—”
“No, not the noise. What is that?”
Ruma tried to follow Argon’s pointing finger and squinted into the shadows. “I don’t know what you’re looking at!”
“On the wall! Just up the corridor!” Argon sneaked a hand through the bars and extended his finger as far as it would reach. “THERE!”
Ruma squinted harder. “Keys,” he said, eventually. “It’s a hook. Truli keeps his ring of cell keys on it.”
“Can you get to it?” Gladius hazarded.
Ruma laughed. “Are you crazy? Do you think I have ropes for arms or something?”
They all burst into fits of laughter . . . but Decimus said nothing. He was staring very thoughtfully into the shadows.
When the slave horde arrived in the arena the following morning, Master Falni had taken control of the trials. From what Decimus could tell, this wasn’t good news. A series of giant poles had been erected, each supporting a circular wooden platform at its summit.
“They get smaller and smaller,” said Ruma, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before him. “And they also get farther apart.”
Decimus nodded. He had spotted a ladder next to the distant pole supporting the largest platform. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was expected of the slaves.
“I notice Slavious Doom never watches any of the trials,” Olu whispered. He spoke so rarely that his voice caused everyone to turn toward him. “At least, if he is watching, I haven’t seen him.”
“No,” Decimus agreed. “He hasn’t been here. I’m thinking he probably won’t show up until the end of the trials.”
“Ha!” Argon exclaimed. “Then the chances are none of us will ever see him.”
“Decimus might,” said Gladius without a trace of humor in his voice.
“Yeah,” admitted Ruma, smiling.
“Decimus might.”
A Hero's Quest Page 3