corridor.
‘Sadly, no. There is much cruelty here, and I’m sorry to say you will see all of it before the length of the day is done.’
A squat old man approached them. He walked with a limp and looked as if his nose had been broken more than once.
‘You! Are you Titus Valens?’ He pointed a dirty finger in their direction.
‘Centurion Titus Valens.’
‘Not anymore,’ the old man laughed, wheezing as he did so. ‘Now you are gladiator, Titus Valens. Or maybe we should pick a better name for you? Never mind. Come, follow me.’
Titus followed the old man, Xanthe hot on his heels. The guard had left them and it now seemed to Xanthe that they fully belonged to the shadowy world of the gladiators.
‘I am Lucius Pulus. I am your master here. You do as you’re told, when you’re told, and perhaps—if you survive your fights—you will do well at the gladiator School. Maybe even become a big hero in the arena.’ He turned and winked at them, yet the gesture offered Titus no comfort.
Lucius stopped in front of a cell. ‘You will be housed here until tomorrow.’ The look on Titus’s face must have registered his displeasure. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad, Centurion.’ Lucius slapped him on the back as he ushered him inside. ‘You could be dead, no?’ He made a great show of locking the door. ‘General Sextus has instructed me to keep you under lock and key until after tomorrow’s game. If you win, you will be billeted with the other gladiators but if you lose …’
Lucius shrugged his shoulders, his meaning clear.
‘Wait!’ Titus cried, as Lucius grabbed Xanthe by her arm and began to usher her deeper into the underground world of the Colosseum. ‘She doesn’t speak Latin. She won’t know what’s going on.’
Lucius turned and offered him another eloquent shrug. ‘Things become clear quickly enough. You will see her again and you can explain it all to her then. Now get to your rest. You will need all your strength for your match on the morrow.’
Xanthe peered at the horrible little man holding her arm, wondering if all Roman citizens smelled this way, or just the ugly ones. He chatted to her in a friendly voice, his words meaningless. Once or twice, he poked his grimy finger at her tattoos and it took all her self control not bite at him. Only the fear of catching some sort of sickness from the dirty man stopped her.
The man led her down the stone corridors to her cell. Unshackling Xanthe, he cheerfully shut the cell door, saluting her with mock respect as he left.
Xanthe studied her new surroundings. Fresh straw had been strewn on the floor of the cell and a bucket of water had been provided. She inspected the bucket’s contents and found it to be fresh: a small mercy. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the cold stone wall and tried not to think of Titus.
‘So you are the Scythian warrior woman?’ A female voice, in a dialect surprisingly familiar to her, sounded through the gloom. Xanthe spotted the speaker in a cell farther down the corridor.
‘I’m Sarmatian,’ she replied.
‘Whatever you are, you will be dead by tomorrow.’
She chose to ignore the woman’s pessimistic forecast. ‘And you? Who are you?’
‘I am Klara. A Hun. They keep me here because I am … untrustworthy.’ The woman laughed, dirty and low.
‘Truly? Where else would they keep you?’
‘The gladiator training school of course, but I don’t like doing what I am told. I won’t have to after tomorrow. It will be my last fight and I will be free.’ The woman sounded so confident. If she had survived to buy her freedom, maybe it would not be so hard for Xanthe to do so also.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Perhaps we will fight each other.’ She hoped not. Clearly the Hun tasted victory already and would make a fierce opponent.
Klara laughed again. ‘I don’t think so. You are to fight a man. A big spectacle. Everyone is talking about it. This almost never happens, so the crowd will
‘Sadly, no. There is much cruelty here, and I’m sorry to say you will see all of it before the length of the day is done.’
A squat old man approached them. He walked with a limp and looked as if his nose had been broken more than once.
‘You! Are you Titus Valens?’ He pointed a dirty finger in their direction.
‘Centurion Titus Valens.’
‘Not anymore,’ the old man laughed, wheezing as he did so. ‘Now you are gladiator, Titus Valens. Or maybe we should pick a better name for you? Never mind. Come, follow me.’
Titus followed the old man, Xanthe hot on his heels. The guard had left them and it now seemed to Xanthe that they fully belonged to the shadowy world of the gladiators.
‘I am Lucius Pulus. I am your master here. You do as you’re told, when you’re told, and perhaps—if you survive your fights—you will do well at the gladiator School. Maybe even become a big hero in the arena.’ He turned and winked at them, yet the gesture offered Titus no comfort.
Lucius stopped in front of a cell. ‘You will be housed here until tomorrow.’ The look on Titus’s face must have registered his displeasure. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad, Centurion.’ Lucius slapped him on the back as he ushered him inside. ‘You could be dead, no?’ He made a great show of locking the door. ‘General Sextus has instructed me to keep you under lock and key until after tomorrow’s game. If you win, you will be billeted with the other gladiators but if you lose …’
Lucius shrugged his shoulders, his meaning clear.
‘Wait!’ Titus cried, as Lucius grabbed Xanthe by her arm and began to usher her deeper into the underground world of the Colosseum. ‘She doesn’t speak Latin. She won’t know what’s going on.’
Lucius turned and offered him another eloquent shrug. ‘Things become clear quickly enough. You will see her again and you can explain it all to her then. Now get to your rest. You will need all your strength for your match on the morrow.’
Xanthe peered at the horrible little man holding her arm, wondering if all Roman citizens smelled this way, or just the ugly ones. He chatted to her in a friendly voice, his words meaningless. Once or twice, he poked his grimy finger at her tattoos and it took all her self control not bite at him. Only the fear of catching some sort of sickness from the dirty man stopped her.
The man led her down the stone corridors to her cell. Unshackling Xanthe, he cheerfully shut the cell door, saluting her with mock respect as he left.
Xanthe studied her new surroundings. Fresh straw had been strewn on the floor of the cell and a bucket of water had been provided. She inspected the bucket’s contents and found it to be fresh: a small mercy. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the cold stone wall and tried not to think of Titus.
‘So you are the Scythian warrior woman?’ A female voice, in a dialect surprisingly familiar to her, sounded through the gloom. Xanthe spotted the speaker in a cell farther down the corridor.
‘I’m Sarmatian,’ she replied.
‘Whatever you are, you will be dead by tomorrow.’
She chose to ignore the woman’s pessimistic forecast. ‘And you? Who are you?’
‘I am Klara. A Hun. They keep me here because I am … untrustworthy.’ The woman laughed, dirty and low.
‘Truly? Where else would they keep you?’
‘The gladiator training school of course, but I don’t like doing what I am told. I won’t have to after tomorrow. It will be my last fight and I will be free.’ The woman sounded so confident. If she had survived to buy her freedom, maybe it would not be so hard for Xanthe to do so also.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Perhaps we will fight each other.’ She hoped not. Clearly the Hun tasted victory already and would make a fierce opponent.
Klara laughed again. ‘I don’t think so. You are to fight a man. A big spectacle. Everyone is talking about it. This almost never happens, so the crowd will
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