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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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œNo,” Decimus agreed. “He hasn’t been here. I’m thinking he probably won’t show up until the end of the trials.”
    â€œHa!” Argon exclaimed. “Then the chances are none of us will ever see him.”
    â€œDecimus might,” said Gladius without a trace of humor in his voice.
    â€œYeah,” admitted Ruma, smiling. “Decimus might.”
    A piercing cry shook the group from their huddled conversation. Master Falni was calling for silence.
    â€œThis trial will test your agility to its very limits. In the next few minutes, I will ask you all to line up beside the ladder at the bottom of the far pole. Once assembled, each of you will climb the ladder and try to make it across the eight platforms that stand between the first and last poles. When the first boy reaches the finishing platform—or falls during the effort—the next boy may begin. Once you have completed the course, you will rejoin the line in order to go again. Our servants will ensure that no one escapes the line or tries in any way to drop back. ALL will be tested.”

    Falni took a few moments to let the rules of the trial sink in before he added, “The contest will end when seventeen boys have fallen and only thirty-two remain.”
    This time, several gasps rose up from the gathered slaves. Decimus and Gladius shared horrified glances with Olu, Argon, and Ruma.
    â€œSeventeen of us!” Argon spluttered. “That isn’t a trial—it’s slaughter!”
    â€œI don’t stand a chance,” Gladius muttered. He turned to Decimus and whispered in his ear, “Don’t suppose you have any good tips for this one?”
    Decimus shrugged. “Don’t fall?”
    â€œHa! I’d worked that one out for myself, thanks.”
    â€œI still don’t really understand all this,” Argon confessed aloud. “How can he earn back the money our families owe if most of us end up in his stinking prison?”
    â€œIt’s simple,” said Ruma. “He only needs one decent champion to attract a major crowd . . . and, let’s face it, anyone who survives this is bound to make a decent champion. He’ll probably make more Denarii from one event than the amount all our families owe him put together.”
    â€œShhh!” Gladius interrupted. “We’re supposed to be lining up.”
    Forty-nine slaves lined up at the bottom of the first pole, watching as the first of their numbers began to climb the long ladder that led to the platform above. He was a boy Decimus hadn’t seen before: slow, ponderous, and even larger than Gladius. He was almost totally out of breath by the time he reached the platform, but was quickly spurred into action by the impatient roar of the aging trial-master.

    Decimus wanted to look away, but he found his gaze rooted to the slave, who took a running leap . . .
    . . . and fell before he reached the second platform.
    Gladius gulped.
    â€œHe landed badly,” said Ruma. “He’s probably broken some bones.”
    The group looked on as several servants lifted the slave and carried him away. They could still hear the boy’s sobs of distress when he was halfway to the portcullis.
    â€œThis is bad,” said Argon as the injured slave was carried through the gate. “This is really bad.”

    The next slave, who was considerably smaller than the first, reached the first platform and didn’t