“We came to watch the games. We got lost and my friends and I are trying to find our way up,” Thad said. He tried to add the Italian accent to his speech, thinking that sounding American wouldn’t help them much. He had noticed that the man who had spoken did have an Italian accent, but not like the Italians in his own time. There was a variant in the speech pattern.
A gray eyebrow went up in question and he snorted.
“You’re here now and that is your tragedy. You are soldiers? You look like soldiers,” he said.
“We are not soldiers. We come from Sicily,” Thad said, not wishing to give more information that he would have to try to explain. What did the man mean by tragedy? He didn’t like the sound of it and behind him, his friends shifted nervously. The older man looked past him and scrutinized his friends and then he looked back up to Thad.
“I am Aurelius Scauras and I am the munerarius, manager, of the amphitheater. By the authorization of our divine emperor, Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus, I hereby take ownership of you,” Scauras announced with all authority of someone who knew their position in the world.
“You can’t take ownership of us, we’re free men,” Thad said, his voice raising. He had to make this man understand that they were not slaves.
“It matters not what you were, you are here now, in my province and I tell you what you are or aren’t. Schiavi, slaves, strip these men and we shall send them up to the arena,” he shouted and suddenly, there were more than twenty men surrounding them, fear etched deeply on their thin faces. Thad and his friends were grabbed and manhandled and he jerked his arm from one man’s grasp. He felt the burning sting of a whip and then heard the crack of it. He swallowed down the cry of pain and looked for the culprit. A bull of a man stood near, his arm upraised, ready to bring the whip down once more and this time, it landed on Marco, who grabbed at the end.
Thad heard his grunt of pain, but Marco didn’t let go of the whip. More men swarmed around them and their clothing was ripped off and Thad saw that several men had knives, cutting away the clothing. He heard coins bounce off the floor and he struggled and was shoved to the ground. He felt someone kicking him and he felt someone else hitting him with a stick. It stung and bit into his flesh.
“You will go above, where the criminal prisoners have been sent to die. If you survive them, you will be taken to the Ludus and my friend, Servilius Glaucis shall see if we can make warriors out of you. The prisoners have been told that only one of them can live and be set free. They will try and kill each other to live and they will try and kill you. Some of them have weapons, but most do not. You will have nothing but your hands and your cunning. I can see that you are in prime shape. This is good, you may yet survive. Appuleius, take them up the western gate and put them in the arena. Whoever survives, bring them back to me and we shall send them on to Glaucis,” Scauras said and turned and walked away.
Appuleius was the big man with the whip and he slashed viciously at Greg and Dean, moving the naked men forward as many slaves helped them along. Another man had a long stick and was beating Marco over the shoulders and back, herding him along as well. Thad felt a sharp jab to his side and looked down and saw blood. He looked over and saw one of the slaves holding a sharpened stick. Then he felt the whip again and it cut into his flesh and it felt as though his skin were on fire.
“This is bullshit,” Marco bellowed and Appuleius turned on him and began to whip him savagely. Thad moved forward and grabbed the man’s arm and then he felt several hard blows on the back of his legs and he went down. More jabs and blows hit his body and someone savagely kicked him in the groin and he vomited. Hands yanked him up and shoved him forward. His brain was seized with the pain of his abused balls and the whip that slashed relentlessly at his back.
The sound of the crowd was getting louder and he heard Marco cry out in pain.
“Hijo de puta! I’ll kill you,” Marco snarled from behind and then cried out again in pain and rage.
Θ
Aurelius Scauras watches the four men taken away; Appuleius’ arm is tireless as he herds them up and into the arena. The big man had said they weren’t soldiers but Scauras knew better. They all had similar haircuts and their body language spoke of similar training. He’d seen men come and go and most that came through the thick walls of the amphitheater were nothing but thin pathetic caricatures of men. Most starved and desperate. He had seen their bodies, heavy with muscle and fit, in their prime. He had also seen the unusual tattoo of the dragon on the large man. He’d never seen a tattoo so well done and so colorful. The other man had a tattoo on his arm. He grunted and shook his head. They were soldiers or he was the emperor of Jupiter.
The man said they were from Sicily but he doubted it. One man was black with unusual hazel eyes, tall and slender, another was shorter, stockier but heavily muscled and he was blond, like the Gauls or Saxons. The other large man with the tattoo on his
