Within two hours, Thad’s arm was screaming for relief. He switched hands, hoping that if he switched off, he could rest one arm and learn to use the weapon in the other, less dominant hand. He had learned in martial arts to use all limbs, not just the dominant hand or arm. This helped him tremendously and it egged him on when his friends were starting to tire.
He saw a new group of men join the other men far down on the field. He thought it looked like they were fighting with different equipment. These men looked little better than them or the other men and Thad thought perhaps they were beginners as well. When the men started dropping their swords with increased frequency, Cato called for a break and water buckets were brought to the men. Thad noticed that there were several men like Cato, trainers. He saw the short man, Glaucis, watching from the third floor. He had also seen the doctore come by to watch their progress. He was beginning to understand how things worked.
You started at the bottom and worked your way up. Your trainers worked for the doctore and the doctore worked for Glaucis and he worked for Scauras, who managed them all. It seemed like Scauras worked for the emperor, but Thad wasn’t sure. There were probably more men between the manager and the emperor. He watched as the more advanced gladiators made their way into the arena. He heard the distant ring of metal on metal and knew that those men practiced with the real weapons. He also heard hammering and remembered seeing a section of the Ludus dedicated to making weapons. The weapons however were locked up and only brought out during training.
“Your rest period is up. Go to the posts and fight them for a while. Try not to kill them or yourselves. You, the one with the dragon, why do you switch hands?”
“My former training has taught me to use both hands and both arms,” Thad said.
“Where do you come from?” Cato asked. Thad hesitated, since telling him about the United States was out of the question.
“My people come from Sicily,” he answered. Cato nodded and then waved him off to the posts. He walked over and started hacking away at the stump. The first strike sent a jolt of pain up his arm and he backed off. The post didn’t give way like the sword did. He switched hands and hit the post again with less ferocity, his other arm a little numb. He looked around from time to time and noted that his friends were doing their best to beat the shit out of the post. Just when he thought his arms were going to drop off, Cato called another break, this time for the mid-day meal.
A slave came up and gave each man a small towel with which to wipe away the sweat. Everything smelled of ammonia or urine. Marco wondered why they didn’t wash the clothing in water? Yet, the material was clean, it just smelled funky. He was reluctant to wipe the cloth over his face but he did pat at it hesitantly. As they made their way to the chow hall, Marco noticed a man taking a piss in the middle of the field. No one seemed to notice. He shook his head and followed his friends. His arms felt like noodles but it felt good to finally do something.
He was going crazy with boredom after the initial shock of landing in the distant past had worn off. It was still crazy to think that they were in this place. By now, he knew the people on base were losing their shit over the disappearance of four Marines. In a few days, their loved ones would be notified, if they hadn’t already. He was supposed to have had watch yesterday, along with Greg. He and Greg had planned to take the train back that afternoon, after they had finished with the Colosseum and dinner. That hadn’t happened. He sighed and moved along, his stomach growling.
He guessed the food wasn’t as bad as he had first thought, just bland. He watched the thin slaves and wondered where they ate. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that these people were exploited. Hell, he himself was a slave and he was being exploited and only one step up from these slaves. The fact that he had mad skills set him apart from these poor wretches.
After lunch, the men stood, getting ready to take their trays and drop them off. Marco noticed a man by a piss bucket and watched as the man urinated in his cup and then appeared to drink it.
“Holy shit, that guy just drank his own piss!” he said and pointed. Greg nearly ran into him when he’d stopped. The four watched as the man spit the urine into the piss bucket and then took another mouthful of pee. Stunned, they watched as he swished the urine around in his mouth and spit it into the bucket. He poured the remaining urine into the bucket and then finished taking a piss. He handed the cup over to a slave and walked out of the chow hall. Marco hurried over to the slave, who held the used cup.
“Why did he drink his own urine?”
