10.

Because of their situations as slaves in a gladiatorial school, they developed a strong brotherhood. They bonded and grew closer than brothers, much closer.

At night in the pitch black of their cell they took turns talking about their homes. Each man told his story of how he came to be in the gladiatorial school. To their amazement, they were stolen from their homes, clan or family. Each found himself in the service of some master who found fault with him in some fashion. Lastly, each of the seven wanted to be free. They used every moment they had to talk about how to escape.

The seven young men were within two years of age. Julius, the oldest, turned twenty in the fall. Cornelius, a younger twenty and Antonio, the youngest at eighteen made up the leadership of the group.

The groups saw Cornelius as their leader. They saw Antonio as their mathematician and scribe.

They shared so much and talked so much during their six months in the school, they began to think alike.

One moved and the rest seemed to know what to expect. They laughed.

Giovanni said, “We know each other too well. We cannot fight in the arena. It is too dangerous. We can read each other’s mind.”

Many times they read the other gladiator candidate’s mind and with no effort, defeated each adversary. They became a unit without realizing they were so bound.

Storm after storm dumped snow on the entire land. The mountains and valleys were completely white. Only on still, clear sunny days were the slaves allowed out of the dungeon and the enclosed arena. They stomped down the snow in the outdoor arena and did their exercises in the clean cold fresh air. During one of those storms, while crossing swords with Sergio, Cornelius remembered his nineteenth birthday,

“Sergio, do you know what day this is?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“I think today is my birthday.”

The snap of a whip interrupted their conversation, “You slaves stop talking and do battle. What do you think, this is the forum where they talk, talk, and talk? To your business, this is not play.”

So the winter progressed with cold winds and heavy snow whipping down from the mountains. They trained constantly sparring, fencing, and learning every trick of a gladiator and how he fought in the arena. Time passed and a touch of spring filled the air.

Most of the snow melted and the sun shown brightly. Cornelius and Sergio sparred on that given day. They sparred for over two hours when the whistle blew.

The owner came into the arena, “All exercise will stop. You are to bathe and put on new tunics, which are laid out in the armor room. We have a buyer coming this afternoon and you must be at your best. Remember no talking and insolence toward the buyer. They will not buy an insolent slave. Now move!”

Groups of men, the beginners and the advanced groups, bathed and ate their noon meal in preparation for the buyer. In the previous six months the two groups were not allowed to mingle.

While they were waiting for the buyer they were assembled in the arena. The older group wore brown tunics and the younger group dressed in white.

The older group began to make fun of the younger group. Actually, the older group was not older in age. They were the most advanced students in the gladiatorial school. One word led to another.

Salvatore, the shortest, stood at the edge of the white-robed group. This placed him near the group in brown and he became the brunt of the jokes and jeers. Cornelius saw the muscles in Salvatore’s arms bunching and the cords in his neck bulging.

Cornelius said, “A fight is imminent.”

The others turned to look and saw the main heckler was a young man only slightly taller than Salvatore. Obviously the man was trying to provoke a fight. Salvatore began turning red in the face. He prepared to lash out at the man when the buyer appeared.

The owner shouted, “Silence.”

In that moment of silence everyone heard the small man in brown say. “Salvatore, your mother is the biggest whore in Roma.”

Nothing this side of death would have stopped Salvatore. In a blink of the eye Salvatore charged the man in brown. He knocked three or four bigger men out of the way and drove the small man to the dirt. His great muscles swelled as he held the man in a death lock.

Cornelius moved almost as fast. He plowed through the men in brown and pulled Salvatore off the downed man. With perfect accuracy Cornelius hit Salvatore on the point of the chin, knocking him unconscious and stopping the fight. As Salvatore folded, Cornelius caught him over his shoulder and carried him to the white side of the ring.

The owner’s whip whistled and snapped in the air, “Everyone back in place!” He did not hit anyone with the whip. He only drew their attention.

Antonio whispered, “I am glad Rocco is not here.”

The owner shouted, “What is the meaning of this?”

Silence greeted the owner. Rule one, no talking in the presences of the instructors or the owner.

“I want to know what is going on. Cornelius?”

Cornelius stood, straightened, and said, “A personal matter between two of the men, My Lord.”

Being called “My Lord” caught the owner’s attention. It was a new experience for the owner. Impressed, he stood studying Cornelius.

The buyer called out to Marcus the owner, “I would like to see a little fighting. Why do you not let those two, who were fighting, give me a demonstration of their skills?”

The speaker, rotund, baldheaded and flushed in the face, was smiling an evil smile. His giant bodyguards surrounded and flanked him. Dressed in robes of bright purple and white, he considered himself a grand individual.

The owner smiled, “If you like, Fedoro. We will let them fight using the wooden swords. I do not want to damage the merchandise.”

Marcus eyed his fat friend. “You are in good spirits today.”

“Oh, yes. I have just purchased a new villa. But, do as you wish about the wooden swords, Marcus. Just a little demonstration will do.”

The owner began to shout instructions.

A servant poured water over Salvatore and he blinked awake.

“Up, Salvatore, I want you to fight this man.”

The owner pointed at the man Salvatore fought.

Salvatore only smiled.

The two men, Salvatore and the big-mouthed man in the brown tunic, were dressed in combat uniforms and given wooden swords.

The owner called out, “At the whistle, fight until you hear another whistle.”

The two young men squared away. Salvatore, mad over the name calling of his mother, and the fact Cornelius hit him, stood ready to fight.

The other man, mad at Salvatore for knocking him down in front of his companions, glared and prepared himself to do combat. The whistle blew and the match began.

Salvatore began to advance. He landed blows over the other man’s helmet, shield and leather protection. He beat the man back with every step. Salvatore outclassed his opponent badly. The owner realized the fight was one sided and blew his whistle. The match ended, or so they usually ended, but Salvatore, seeing red, continued to beat the other man senseless. The guards raced in and grabbed both men.

Marcus said, “If it would please you, Fedoro, let me pick two men who are more evenly matched?”

“Very well, Marcus. As you wish,” commented the owner.

Marcus looked at the two groups of men. “Cornelius, you fight for the white and you, Lucia fight for the brown.”

He turned to the buyer, “Lucia has been here a few months longer than Cornelius, but this should be an even fight.”

“Marcus, a small wager, if you please and I will pick that one.” He pointed at Cornelius. “I will bet a talent of gold on him, but they must fight with real swords, not the wooden ones.”

Marcus stopped and thought for a few minutes. “I will take the bet, but you pay me for the man who is killed. We shall really make this an interesting fight.”

Fedoro shouted with pleasure, “Then let us make the bet five tablets of gold. I will pay for the man killed, if one is killed.”

Marcus laughed and said, “Done, my friend, done!”

The guards cleared the arena and drove the slaves back into their cells. Cornelius and Lucia were taken aside and dressed in traditional gladiatorial armor.

Marcus said to the two men, “You may choose the weapons you want. You are to fight to the death.” Marcus retreated to the arena bleachers.

Cornelius chose a small round shield and a short sword. Lucia chose a large rectangular shield and a short sword. Both men were fitted with helmets, arm guards, shoulder plates and leg guards.

For days Cornelius carefully watched Lucia in the arena. He ranked as one of the best in his group. Cornelius estimated Lucia to be twenty or twenty-one years of age. He matched Cornelius in height, but did not appear to be quite as strong.

The two men were led into the arena. Marcus called out, “On my whistle, begin!”

The men down in the cells were filled with agony. They did not see the combat. They only listened. The guards knew if the two groups were not back in their cells, a fight might ensue, one they could not control.

Such a fight would include every slave in the school. Suddenly, the two angry groups wanted to fight and claim vengeance. Group pride drove the men to shout and curse each other.

The whistle blew and the slaves grew quiet. Those below could not see or know what happened. They only heard the sounds of sword on shield.

The fight began with a clang of the two swords. Cornelius possessed several advantages. Cornelius’ advantage included his strength and the fact he previously killed several men in his brief life.

Lucia, yet to draw blood, did not have the taste for blood, a taste which drove Cornelius.

Lucia, big, strong and filled with pride in himself and the group he represented, fought with vengeance, but he fought with a flaw.

He always gave away his next move by the positioning of his body. If he attempted to cut a man’s legs from under him, he dipped his right shoulder. If he intended to make a frontal attack, he crouched. With each parry and pursuit, he moved his left foot forward. Before every move, Lucia sent a signal to his opponent.

Cornelius, over the past months, studied every man in the older group. He noticed their postures, positioning of weapons, their attitudes and their desire to win or to live, if faced with the situation.

Few, if any, possessed the will to kill. Cornelius knew they would probably not survive long in the real arena, fighting seasoned gladiators.

The arena filled with the clanging of the two swords on shields, helmets, and shoulder plates. Heavy breathing and grunts accompanied the sounds of sword and shield striking. After thirty minutes of steady dueling, thrusting and parrying the two men were soaked in sweat and were breathing hard.

At that juncture of the fight, Lucia made a fatal mistake. He dropped his shield slightly and tried to use it as a battering ram.

Cornelius slid to the side and struck Lucia with his round shield. Using his weight and might, he hammered Lucia’s shoulder. The blow whirled Lucia to the right. He stumbled back and pivoted.

Cornelius cut downward with his sword. Lucia’s right arm was exposed and unprotected. The sword bit into the flesh half down the right biceps and cut to the bone slicing flesh to the elbow.

During the fight Marcus and Fedoro sat and watched with rapture and undivided attention. They both gasped when Cornelius’ sword sliced into Lucia’s arm. Lucia screamed, dropped his shield and sword and grabbed his injured arm. He dropped to his knees and then keeled over into the dirt. Blood flowed freely. It stained the arena floor.

Cornelius stepped back, looked up at Marcus and Fedoro, and tossed his sword and shield on the ground. He walked slowly back to the dungeon and cells.

Marcus yelled, “Cornelius, kill him.”

The owner turned his thumb down at the earth. Cornelius ignored Marcus and walked down the tunnel to the dark, dank dungeons.

One of the guards whispered, “Why did you not kill him? The master may have you hung for disobeying him.”

“Why kill him? He will bleed to death in a few moments. No one is doing anything to help him. Besides, his arm is useless, and he will be a cripple for the rest of his life.”

Cornelius shrugged off the guard’s hands and began pulling off his armor. He walked down to his cell and waited for a guard to unlock the door.

One of the guards opened the door, and Cornelius dropped to his bunk. The other members of his cell sat quiet and still.

Finally Antonio spoke, “We are glad you won.”

“It is the will of the gods,” Sergio declared, “The will of the gods.”

Salvatore laughed, “The gods and the ability of Cornelius to use his shield and sword.”

Silence fell over the dungeon. Word sifted through the cells, Lucia no longer lived. The “doctor” could do nothing for his arm and certainly not save his life. With his arm nearly severed, Lucia drifted into unconsciousness and then death claimed him.

The men in white did not feel like cheering or boasting of Cornelius’ victory over Lucia. It dawned on them, one of their own died at the hands of another of their own. They saw for the first time the role of a gladiator and what would be their lot. In the arena, it would be win and kill, or lose and die at the hands of another slave, or maybe a friend.

Cornelius lay on his back for a long time. He crossed his hands under his head and thought not about the death of Lucia, but Salvatore and Sergio’s statements about the gods.

Were there gods? What god should he worship? Could there be a superior god? His mind filled with those questions and many more, but the killing of a fellow gladiator did not bother Cornelius.

Shortly before it grew dark in the dungeon and cells, Marcus and Fedoro made a tour of the slave’s hellhole. They peered into each cell and Fedoro studied every man. He stood for some extra time in front of the cell where the seven were bunked.

When he and Marcus left the dungeon he asked, “How long have you trained those seven?”

“They have been here almost a year. They came at the end of fall.”

“Did they come in together?”

“Yes, they were on the same ship. Why?”

“I just wonder how strong the feeling between them might be. Are they very close?”

“I do not know, Fedoro. They could be.”

“I hope they are, Marcus. It certainly will make things more interesting, much more interesting. Now, let us see the others and then you can treat me to some more of your fine wine.”

By the evening meal, the white-robed men and the brown-robed men discarded their new tunics of white and brown and were dressed only in their drab training costumes.

No heckling or jeering sounded among the two groups. The older group sat very solemn. They realized one of their best fighters died in the arena. If the best of their group was killed so easily in what appeared to be a fair fight, how vulnerable were the less apt? At mealtime, both groups ate in silence.

Soon after the evening meal, word spread through the cells, Fedoro paid the bet.

One of the guards whispered to another, “Fedoro said he witnessed one of the best fights in ages. He bragged on Master Marcus and the school. The two of them are in the master’s quarters dining and drinking wine. Fedoro has decided to spend the night and look over the slaves tomorrow.” The information soon became known through out the dungeons.

As the men settled down for the night, Leopold asked Cornelius, “Do you suppose they would sell one of us and not all of us?”

His question caught the others off guard. Salvatore asked, “How can we hope to stay together?”

Only silence filled the cell. One at a time they expressed the desire to not be scattered by some turn of fate.

“How do you propose to stay together?” Cornelius growled. “The buyers can buy one or all of us. We could be sent to one arena or seven different places. Stop whimpering and go to sleep. Only the gods can make the choice.”

Giovanni snorted, “Gods! The gods do not do anything for slaves. The gods are for the rich. You have to make sacrifices to the gods to find favor with them.” He snarled, “Gods,” He spat on the floor. “Who believes in gods?”

All slaves accepted the fact the gods were for the rich. Slaves did not make sacrifices to the gods and nor find favor. A slave’s only chance with the gods was to have a good master and one who would make offerings for his household and his slaves.

Giovanni, not finished, growled in the dark, “The only way to find a god is through a kind owner. That is rare, but it is the only way.”

Cornelius lay on his bunk and thought of his home and the clan. They worship some gods.

Not very sure which, he tried to remember, “Were they Roman or Greek gods?” It did not matter. The gods did not look down on slaves, thieves or poor people.

The gods were just like Giovanni said, “For the rich.”

At dawn the slaves were in the arena going through their morning exercises, when the master and Fedoro entered the stands. They sat watching the men for some time.

Marcus blew his whistle and called to his head overseer, “All slaves are to put on armor and be issued only wooden swords.”

The forty slaves returned to the dungeons for outfitting with armor and wooden swords.

The owner shouted to his overseer, “Bring them back to the arena and pair them for drill in the art of the gladiator.”

The overseer snapped his whip and shouted, “Alright you miserable scum, to the arena! Line up in pairs, just like we drilled in the past.”

Silently the slaves returned to the arena and lined up in pairs. Cornelius and Julius were matched. Sergio and Giovanni were paired. Antonio faced Leopold and Salvatore again faced the short man, the one he fought the day before.

The overseer began to shout a series of commands. “Parry, thrust, block, dodge, head blow, and shoulder blow.”

The men moved as one going through the various maneuvers. After an hour of controlled drill the overseer shouted, “Open combat.”

Forty men in twenty pairs began to attack, defend and duel. Some contests were fairly well matched. Some were very unevenly matched. The overseer moved combatants until the contests were more evenly paired.

Another hour passed and the men were near exhaustion before the owner called a halt to the demonstration by blowing his whistle.

Marcus ordered, “Have the men bathe and put on their new tunics.”

A low rumble ran through the men. They did not want to wear the white and brown tunics. The idea of making them into two opposing factions made them remember Lucia. They grumbled and cursed under their breath.

Each felt the sharp biting tip of the guard’s whips. As they came out of the baths, they began to trade tunics, first one here and one there. This continued, until each side wore about the same number of the opposite side’s tunics.

When they were lined up Marcus began to curse them. He did not see two groups, but one group, half-wearing white and half wearing brown tunics. They stood mixed and unrecognizable.

The buyer began laughing at Marcus’ fury, “Do not let them make you mad. I know which ones I want to buy. I want the ones who came into the arena with your killer. I will take one more so there are eight and have pairs for combat. Let me have the short man from the brown group, the one who fought so valiantly.” He meant the one who fought Salvatore the day before.

Marcus rubbed his chin. “You are sure you want that group? They are the most insolent and unruly group here. I do not want you to be disappointed.”

“I want them. They are fighters and that is what I want.” His face filled with childish glee. “They are exactly what I want.”

Marcus shouted to his overseer. “Return the men to their cells. We will retire and conclude our transaction.”

As they left the arena the slaves heard Marcus say to Fedoro, “In place of the man in brown you wanted, let me sell you Rocco. He is a hardened fighter. I will sell him to you at the price of any three of these slaves. He will make a much better fighter.”

Fedoro beamed at the idea. “Excellent. I will take him. I heard there is blood between him and the seven. Is that right?”

“Yes. Does it matter?”

“Oh, no, it is perfect. I want to see some blood.” He roared with laughter. They vanished into the villa.

Back in the cell, Sergio said, smiling, “We are going to be sold together.”

“You realize we are going to Roma and the main arena.”

Sergio exclaimed, “Roma! I always wanted to see Roma!”

“Fool, we are going to be fodder for some older gladiators or the animals.” Julius glared at Sergio. “We will last about two days. We are doomed.” Anguish filled his voice.

The seven men fell silent, until Antonio spoke, “Did you hear Rocco is going to be sold with us?”

A chorus of affirmative answers told of their glee at having Rocco with them on the road.

Someone muttered, “I will kill him on the road to Roma. Just give me a chance.”

Salvatore asked, “When do you think we will leave?”

Leopold answered, “Not today. Too much of the day is gone. Fedoro will enjoy the master’s food and wine for one more night. He will be hung-over in the morning, so by noon we might start to Roma.”

Giovanni laughed. “He likes the food and wine, but he is more interested in the slave girl the master sent to his room last night.”

“How can you know such information? You have not been out of this cell for almost a year. You can see through the stones?” challenged Julius.

“No, I heard one of the guards talking. He said Fedoro tried to buy her as well,” Giovanni responded.

“The rich have the gods, food, wine and the girls. What do we have? Rats, mush, sweat and wooden swords.”

The seven grew quiet. Finally, Sergio said, “Cornelius, you have not said one word. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cornelius answered.

“Then why are you so quiet?”

“I am thinking.”

Sergio began to make fun of Cornelius. “He is thinking. Just what are you thinking about? Perhaps you are thinking about Marcus’ slave girls? Some girl you knew in Zadar?”

Cornelius only smiled and then said, “No. I am thinking about being free.”

“Free?” Antonio asked, “How, Cornelius, how?” The men crowded around him.

“On the road to Roma!” he explained. “On the road to Roma,” he repeated.

Every head turned to look at Cornelius, and they shared hopes he would find a way to set them free.

Antonio, the closest to Cornelius asked, “How can we gain freedom? We will be chained together and there will be guards and they will be well armed.”

“That is right, Antonio, but we would rather die fighting for freedom, than be butchered in the arena at Roma. In the arena we will be killed, one by one. It is like Julius said; we are going to be fodder. I want to be free.”

Every man in the cell agreed.

Antonio asked, “How, Cornelius? You are our leader. You tell us how to become free.”

For the first time, one of the men expressed what each of them knew in their minds and hearts. Cornelius was their leader.

“I do not know yet, but the opportunity will come. The gods will not deny us.”

Giovanni growled, “Gods! The gods be damned!”

“Giovanni, you better hope the gods did not hear you. Otherwise this might be your last night on this earth.” The men laughed.