“Those guards will probably kill us the minute we try to escape,” Luke replied, “but we have no choice.”
Fred the Red, who had brought the boys to the amphitheater in the wagon, came over with a large cloth sack. He turned it upside down and dumped the contents on the dirt—shin guards, shoulder guards, a thick leather vest with a picture of a horse on it.
“Put these on, slaves,” he ordered.
Then he handed each of the boys a helmet and a large square shield. The helmets were not like the bike or skateboard helmets you wear. They were big, heavy bronze helmets that some craftsman had clearly spent many days making. Luke’s helmet was embossed with a picture of an ostrich. David’s had a plumed peacock crest on it. The boys strapped on the armor and put the helmets on their heads.
“What about our swords?” Luke asked, casting a sideways glance at David.
“You will get a sword when you need a sword, Oceanus,” said Fred the Red.
Outside the Palestra Grande, the crowd in the amphitheater could be heard. There must have been a lot of hoopla going on. People were laughing, booing, and roaring. It was like a pre-game tailgate party.
Crustus, the toothless pig thief they’d met in the wagon, saw the boys standing in the corner nervously. He limped over to them.
“Do not be apprehensive,” he said. “Your battle will be over in five or ten minutes. They never last long. The citizens are impatient for what comes next. I wish you fine gentlemen good luck.”
“Same to you,” the boys said.
“To what gladiator school did you attend?” asked Crustus.
Luke and David looked at each other. There were schools for gladiators? Who knew?
“I went to Tiger Schulmann Karate Academy, in Boston, Massachusetts,” Luke replied. Actually, Luke only took one karate class, when he was in first grade. Some kid hit him in the face and he ran out the door crying.
“I have never heard of such a place,” Crustus said, and he walked away.
On the ground next to the wall was a line of stretchers. It was obvious who they were for—dead and dying gladiators.
The timer counted down: 81 minutes.
A man came over wearing a hat with wings on either side of it. His shoes also had wings on them, and he was carrying a staff with what looked like a snake wrapped around it. It appeared to be some kind of a costume.
“Gather around, gladiators,” he announced. “I am Mercury the messenger god, the son of Jupiter. Today you will fight for the honor of Rome. In all probability, you will die. It is my job to escort your soul to the Underworld.”
“Excuse me,” David said, raising his hand. “May I ask a question?”
“No!” shouted the guy dressed as Mercury. “I have a few simple instructions you must follow. You were brought here to entertain the citizens of Pompeii and to please the gods. If you die too quickly, the crowd will not be entertained. The same is said if it takes you too long to die.”
“So what you’re saying is that we have to die in the right amount of time,” David said sarcastically.
“That is correct,” Mercury said. “You are here to put on a show. Hold your shield up to protect yourself from the blows. Engage the crowd. They like that. Try to get them on your side. And when you have lost and it is clear that your battle is futile, you must die with dignity. Remember, you will be dying for Rome. For the gods. You who are about to die, we honor you!”
“How about honoring us by letting us go free?” David suggested.
At that point, Fred the Red came over. He was holding some papers.
“I will need all of you to sign this legal agreement and to swear the sacramentum gladiatorium oath.”
All the prisoners who were in the wagon lined up to sign the paper. It was written in Latin.
“What does it say?” Luke asked. “I can’t read.”
“It says you agree to submit to beating, burning, and death by the sword if you do not perform as required,” Fred the Red explained.
“And what happens if we don’t sign?” asked Luke.
“Then you will be put to death instantly.”
“So in other words,” Luke said, “we’re going to die if we sign, and we’re going to die if we don’t sign. So what’s the difference?”
“The difference is that if you don’t sign, you will be sacrificed to the gods,” Fred the Red explained. “You will be stabbed one hundred times, and then your body will be dragged through the Gate of Death and hung upside down for the public’s amusement until you are eaten by vultures. Of course, the choice is yours.”
“Where do we sign?” asked Luke.
CHAPTER 12SOME DIE SOONER THAN OTHERS
INSIDE THE AMPHITHEATER, IT LOOKED LIKE THE entire population of Pompeii had come out to see the gladiators fight. Every seat was taken, and some of the sections were standing room only.
The first four rows were filled with political and business leaders, senators, and knights. The bigwigs sat in a gilded box and stood out in their white,purple-bordered togas. Some of them had personal slaves holding umbrellas over their heads to shield them from the burning sun.
The rest of the crowd was separated by large stone tiers. Soldiers sat in a different section from civilians. Married men sat in a different section from bachelors. Women and poor people got the worst seats, up in the twenty-first row. One thing that everyone shared was excitement and anticipation. Going to the gladiator games was not a daily or once-a-week event. This was a special occasion.
It should be remembered, reader, that there were no movies, TV, or internet to amuse the population in the year 79. This is what people did for fun. This was their entertainment.
Gladiator games always came with pageantry. There were no marching bands, of course. But men
