Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Joren let me take what I wanted from the now silent kitchen, lighting a lamp for me. The other cooks had already cleaned up, but two small rats scurried away from the light. My body told me I needed it, so I went straight for the smoked meat, which was out of reach of the rats and mice. It was slightly salty, but my body craved the protein to rebuild the damaged tissue and muscle. Only stale bread remained from the day, with some dough rising for tomorrow, but Joren handed me some watered-down sour wine to dip the bread in to soften it.

I added some slightly bruised apples to my feast as Joren watched, amused. He intermittently tested my vocabulary and corrected me when necessary, or added a new word. “It will not be easier tomorrow,” he said when I started to slow.

“Why is she such a bitch?” I asked. It took a while for us to get a good definition of the word bitch between us, and he chuckled and gave me an equivalent Telhian word.

“It is how she was trained. Female gladiators are rare and usually valued for their entertainment. Varka angered a First Citizen and was matched against an ogre in her first match in the Emperor’s coliseum,” Joren explained while refilling my cup.

It took me some time to understand what an ogre was—a ten-foot, foul-smelling monster with incredible strength. After I got past my disbelief, I noted, “She obviously won.”

He sighed. “It was a match for the ages. She used her whip to explode both of the ogre’s eyes and then bled it out with a thousand lashes. By the end, its hide was crimson,” Joren explained reverently. “The crowd loved it, but the First Citizen was only more incensed. To keep her safe, Titus bought back her contract and made her a lanista, training other gladiators. You are her first class, and she doesn’t want to disappoint.”

“Can I win my freedom?” I asked, thinking I might get a truthful answer from him.

Joren sighed. “There are four types that come to this ludis. The first are the ones who come voluntarily. They have nothing to live for, and for a chance at glory, fame, and wealth, they come here to train and represent themselves in the arena. Titus takes half their winnings for a year in trade. The second are the criminals sentenced to death. They have no rights, and each day in the arena is another day they can breathe air. Then there are the debtors. The amount they owe is so substantial that no amount of labor can repay the debt. With enough victories on the sands, they have that chance.”

“And the fourth?” I asked.

Joren winced. “Prisoners of war. Which is what you are branded,” he said.

“What?” I said in disbelief. I was naked and barely alive when I wandered into the village.

“From what I hear, you were found near the Heptarchy border, and we are at war with the seven sovereigns to the south,” Joren said. “I know you are not from any of the kingdoms, and Titus knows you are not, but you are a foreigner, and the reward for your capture was cheap to Titus. You were needed to meet his quota for the upcoming auction,” Joren explained slowly.

“Auction?” I asked, confused, after I understood the new word.

I could tell his patience was wearing thin, but he explained, “There are only three coliseums in the Empire, but only the Emperor’s Colosseum in the capital hosts true spectacles. For a gladiator to fight there, they must be sponsored by a First Citizen. Titus only trains the gladiators, and then the First Citizens pay Titus for the right to have his gladiators represent them at the games. If a gladiator does well, they might earn a full sponsorship, and that is the closest thing you will get to freedom. You will be given a room, food, women, and in return, all you need to do is answer the call to fight on the sands at your First Citizen's whims,” Joren explained, pausing to clarify as he went.

The auction was more a display of our skill for First Citizens to come and watch and decide if we were worthy of their backing. This event was small but usually attracted the attention of the First Citizens within two hundred miles. I was stunned and silent. Joren began to clean up, and I could tell he wanted to sleep. He was the closest thing I had to a friend, and I asked a nagging question. “How do you lose your arm?”

Joren looked down as if it might have reappeared magically and frowned. “A mistake. I trusted another. Some advice, Thomas, when you fight, you fight for yourself. There are no friends on the sands.” He flexed his good hand and frowned at a memory.

He took me to the shower to wash off the filth and let me clean my clothes, which had become caked with salty sweat and dirt. He left me to wash, and I was checked on by the ludus guards on night watch because I took a long time. I scrubbed the dirt as best I could, pressing into my blisters and scratches. I hoped the magic of this world would be enough to prevent infections. If I was going to die, I would prefer it to be quick like the old man’s, rather than a slow, prolonged death from an infection.

When I was as clean as I could make myself, I returned to my room under the light of the unnaturally large blue moon. The moon seemed to shimmer with a blue glow as it cast an intense light. I changed into dry clothes and hung the wet ones to dry, trying not to disturb Joren. Before closing my exhausted eyes, I reviewed my vocabulary. My mastery of the language was slow, but I was quick to understand and piece together meanings. The energy required for such mental focus was difficult, with my healing body yearning for every scrap of energy. I drifted off as I tried to recall all the verbs I had learned that day.

Joren pushed me with his foot to wake me. My body protested as I moved, the situation rushing back to me. I hadn’t dreamed last night, being so exhausted. “Varka will be by soon,” Joren said as he gave me a dozen new words to chew on before heading for the kitchens.

I heard her approach and stepped out before she could even bang on the door. She was tight-lipped and hard-faced, and I wondered what discipline she had faced for the death of the old man. After seeing the graveyard, it was clear that many gladiators in training perished. When we were all grouped, the others looked less affected by the old man’s death. Still, I would remember his name—Hostus, that was the least I could do for him.

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Varka didn’t push us as hard as usual in the morning. We carried packs full of small stones and marched on narrow paths. She rode alongside us. We climbed every small hill in the countryside, and when we reached the top, Varka rewarded us with water and food from her saddlebags while we rested. The views would have been remarkable if I hadn’t been so exhausted. The pace was manageable, but when Aulus faltered on the third climb, Varka told the boy to remove some stones from his pack. I reprieve she didn’t offer anyone else, no matter how they struggled.

By midday, the straps on the pack had dug into our shoulders, and my feet were bleeding. The others shared my shoulder pain, but their feet were in much better shape than mine, as they were used to wearing the sandals. Varka seemed annoyed that my flesh was so tender. When we returned to the ludus for the midday meal, the healer came and looked at my feet. “Heal him,” Varka demanded.

He frowned. “He needs to build calluses; my healing will just bring back his tender skin. I suggest wrapping his feet and giving him a day’s rest. Maybe do the mobility exercises this afternoon?”

Varka seethed, not liking being told what to do by the healer. “Their bodies are all still too soft,” she cursed at the healer. “If you were a better healer and could focus your healing, this wouldn’t be an issue. Heal him,” she repeated more emphatically.

“I am what I am. My spell form is weak, and Titus is lucky I chose to stay at his ludus. I am sure any town would welcome me,” he challenged.

“You are paid well in coin and flesh, Faustus,” Varka snapped. The healer shrugged, and his hands closed on my feet. A pleasant tingling sensation spread from my feet up through my body, and my aches and irritating scratches vanished. I noticed my blistered hands forming new skin as the old skin peeled and flaked away. Although it was a huge relief, I could see why Varka had been hesitant to have me healed. I was going to get new blisters and have to go through it all again.

Varka turned to me and, with a grating tone, added, “I have lost my patience with you. You will use your spell form until your aether core is dry. A don’t care what Titus wants—you are mine!” She stormed away.

That afternoon, we were back to carrying logs in circles, but I had my own, somewhat smaller log to carry. Varka’s whip was always ready, and I did as she asked. While the others rested, I kept going, pulling on my inner strength that I guessed was my aether. The others looked on with envy until my legs gave out, and Varka smiled in victory. “Eat and drink and use your aether as it replenishes when we continue.” Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel~fire~net

I seethed as I lay in the sand, watching my burning thighs spasm in confusion after suddenly losing whatever magic had sustained them. My back was tight, and my neck throbbed from carrying the log. My rest didn’t last long, as when the others stood up, I was forced to start again with them.

The next two weeks, the physical conditioning and strength training continued. They were working to shape our bodies into ideal physical specimens for this mysterious auction before teaching us how to fight. After a week, I was separated from Joren, having sufficiently learned enough words to be able to take orders and communicate in the Telhian language. My room was barely large enough for my worn straw mat, and the piss and shit bucket was cracked and leaked slowly so I tried to piss outside as much as possible. At least I had my privacy for ten hours a night.

Titus sometimes came out to observe our group, and his interest was mainly in watching me perform feats of endurance under Varka’s “encouragement”. The men, noticing his interest in me, tried to welcome me into their “survival” group, but I declined. Joren had given me advice, and I was going to follow it.

The boy, Aulus, was a pain in the ass, as he seemed to be the only one of us that Varka showed any favoritism for. He constantly got away with slacking. Appius, the old man, told me Varka sometimes had the boy stay in her room at night. He was a “pretty boy,” but Varka was not a woman I would find desirable under any light. If the boy could find some way to appease the fiery bitch, more power to him. It was about survival and every man for himself. Varka never softened the training for any of us, so Aulus must not have been doing a good job.

We climbed the pillars, ran with rocks, moved boulders, carried logs, and swam across the lake—likely a way for us to clean up and wash clothes faster. At meals, my body never felt satiated. I would stuff myself with the bland food, only to be hungry again an hour later. Knowing the auction was coming, it felt like I was a willing pig being fattened.

My skin tightened and my muscles grew. Two weeks wasn't enough for me to look impressive, but the other men in our group were already showing cut physiques. That was enough for Varka, because after almost three weeks at the ludus, a new aspect of our training was introduced. Seeing Varka’s malicious grin as we were brought over to an odd rack with Healer Faustus standing nearby told me this was not good development.

Varka snickered as she explained. “You think you are fit and stronger?” The others grumbled a wary yes. Varka laughed. “If you are to be a warrior, a true gladiator, you need to be nimble and flexible. Your joints are stiff and rigid right now, but we have the benefit of a healer. We will stretch you and heal you until you have the proper range of movement to go through all the sword forms.” We all looked at each other, quickly figuring out what the rack was meant to do.

Thankfully, I was not the first man summoned to the rack. Quintus, the bricklayer and the stoutest of us all, was the first. When he didn’t step forward on his own, four guards were called. They were ready for resistance. He fought only briefly, knowing there was no escape as he was strapped in. As the wheel turned, each click gradually spread his legs further apart. When he strained and cried out, the healer healed him between each kick of the wheel. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. It wasn’t a full split, but close. After the mechanism was changed, his shoulders were next, followed by his torso rotation. When the healer told Varka he was out of aether, Quintus was released. He fell to the earth, panting and sweating from the ordeal.

“You will each get a turn on the wheel, but for now, we will go through the progression of stretches you will do every day,” Varka said. We had seen the other gladiators doing these stretches, so we weren’t surprised. Varka was right; we all had pathetic ranges of motion except for Quintus. As we went through the stretches, holding them and sweating, Varka talked. “Once all of you can achieve the required range of motion, we will begin weapons practice.” That news caused the others to try harder, straining with each stretch. I don’t know why they were eager, as learning to fight only meant we would be closer to fighting for our lives.

The next day, it was my turn on the stretching rack…

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