It was hard not to be angry at Dean, but he had to remind himself once again, that he had gone willingly and joyfully down into the tunnels. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Marco’s father was a doctor and had urged him to go to medical school. Marco hadn’t wanted that and had gone instead, into the Marines. It was way too late for regrets now. The doctor came back and poured liquid into the small bowl and once more, Marco caught the scent of vinegar which was now mixed with some kind of herb and the sweet tang of honey. Taking a finger of the mixture, the doctor wiped it along the stitches. Then along the other abrasions on Marco’s body. He turned and went to the other men and did the same. Marco looked down at the long scrape across his middle and saw the leaves stuck to his wound.
With a tentative finger, he wiped it across some of the mixture and sniffed at it. He couldn’t identify it, but he did detect the honey and vinegar. His body and wounds still throbbed, but it seemed not as bad as it had been earlier.
“Please stand now, that I may examine you,” the old doctor said. Marco got off the table and stood and his friends came to stand beside him. The old doctor felt about his head and neck, then shoulders, and ribs. He pressed his old hand into Marco’s gut.
“Cough,” the old man ordered and Marco coughed. Then the hands moved downward and Marco wanted to jerk back when the old man held his genitals, but then the old man moved on, pressing in on each side of his hips and then moved down to his knees. Next, the old man took each of Marco’s hands and studied them and his arms. Then patted Marco on the shoulder and moved onto Greg, who stood right beside him.
Cato stood by the door and watched with bored indifference. Marco figured the man had seen these proceedings hundreds if not thousands of times. Cato picked at his nose and examined the excavation and wiped it on the wall beside him, then scratched at his groin. Cato wore a short tunic like doctore, but this one had no adornments. Marco thought that perhaps the more decorations or adornments on clothing, the higher the rank, but he just wasn’t sure. Cato was barefooted and he looked down at the doctor’s feet and the old man wore simple sandals that looked like they were three steps away from falling apart. The old man had a hump on his back and Marco thought of his abuela, who had osteoporosis. The old man’s legs were bowed out and he walked slowly, rocking from side to side.
“They are done, you may take them,” the old man announced and Cato stepped forward to usher them through the door.
“I shall take you to the bathhouse, latrina, toilets and once you have finished, to the kitchen. Mind your wounds in the bathhouse,” Cato warned.
Greg’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. For all the pain and horror, he had experienced in a few short hours, his body reminded him that he was still alive and he was hungry, the gelato having long since gone away. He was glad that his wounds no longer hurt but the shackles around his ankles chafed. He looked down and thought about his ancestors long ago and he wondered if this were how they felt. He was a slave now and he wasn’t fooled by the label gladiator. As the doctore had said, fight well and die well. He had no idea what the life span was of a gladiator, but if it were any indication of what he’d just experienced in the Colosseum, it wouldn’t be long.
However, seeing the doctore and Cato, both men had obviously been gladiators and both men were much older than he and his friends. So, perhaps there was hope? If he could survive, was there a way out of this? Hadn’t he seen in the movies, about winning the favor of the crowd? He wasn’t sure and his brain was still in numbed disbelief as to what was happening. He was afraid if he thought about it too hard that he would break down and lose it. Marco’s face was swollen and red from the slash mark. Each of them had bruises, scrapes and cuts all over their bodies.
He didn’t even want to think about the fact that he was stark naked and had been so in front of thousands of people, some of them women. He’d not seen the women, only the men. It didn’t matter as he looked around him. The slaves were nearly naked with only a scrap of dirty cloth covering their junk. The slaves kept their eyes to the ground and didn’t look them in the face. Their entire body’s posture echoed defeat. Greg stood a little straighter. He would not be that way; he would not accept defeat. They moved and turned and went into a large room.
He could smell water and his mouth felt suddenly dry. When was the last time he actually drank something? This morning, when
