“He did not drink his urine; he was cleaning his mouth. If you rinse your mouth with piss, it helps to cleanse and also to keep the teeth white and they do not rot. Many do this,” the slave explained. He had a slightly befuddled look, taken aback by the question, as though Marco was a dimwit for asking, but not so bold as to give offense.
“That’s just freaking nasty, man. For real,” Greg said darkly, his face screwed up in disgust.
“Yeah, no shit,” Dean said in agreement. The four of them moved out of the chow hall and headed for the latrine. They had learned that taking a scheduled bathroom break was essential. Their diet consisted of a high fiber content and it was imperative to void their bowels before they went to their cell at night. Marco also noticed that they weren’t followed by Cato anymore, though he felt eyes on him. They were watched and monitored, but unless they stepped out of line, they were left alone. Where could they go. The Ludus Magnus was locked up tight. Every gate leading somewhere was heavily guarded.
“Well, they wash everything in the stuff, but man, that is so gross,” Thad said and made a gagging noise, which caused them all to laugh. They spoke in English, so as to keep their conversation private. When they had been out on the training field, they had spoken Italian, so Cato wouldn’t jump up their asses.
“Maybe because they’ve not invented soap yet, I mean, they use that oil stuff in the bath. No soap. I’m just glad they don’t make us bathe in urine,” Greg said.
“Guess it makes sense, maybe because of the ammonia in pee, but still. I think next time I’m near a tree, I’ll pick off a twig and use that to clean my teeth. I would use a piece of fabric, but that’s washed in pee and it would be about the same thing as using urine as a mouthwash,” Marco said and made a face.
“Good idea about the twig,” Dean said and they made their way back to the training field. Cato was nowhere in sight so they picked up their wooden swords and began to practice with each other. They were Marines, they didn’t need to be told to get back to work.
The days started to blend with the next and without a watch, smartphone or calendar, the men lost track of time. Their days started early and were only broken up by meals and then back to training. Little by little they began to master their weapons. As they did so, a new weapon was introduced. The staff, the shield, the trident and so on. Days were melting into weeks and at the end of the day, the men went back to their cells. They pushed themselves hard because with exhaustion came forgetfulness and grief was buried deep in the heart.
They had started training with the other beginners and Dean found that he enjoyed that. The first day with the other beginners, they were paired up and then shifted partners and weapons. There had been one particular asshole that neither he nor the others liked. He was a beefy young man, about their age, perhaps a year or so younger. He was a braggard and though he was good or rather better than the other beginners, he was nowhere near as good as the Marines.
He had been going at Marco, trying to slash at his friend’s face, more pointedly, at the healing injury on Marco’s face. His name was Philo, though they were all called shiteaters by the trainers. Cato and the other il domatores didn’t bother to learn names. Philo had been talking trash talk and taunting Marco, which did nothing and brought no response from Marco. Dean and another man were sparring near and Dean heard the taunting.
“Come on leno futuo, pimp fuck, can you do no better than that?” Philo taunted. Dean could tell it was pissing Philo off that Marco just smirked at him and deflected his advances. Philo couldn’t rile Marco, nor could he beat the man. So, Philo started swinging for the face. Marco used the small round clipeus shield to block the man. Philo was getting closer to Marco’s face and eyes and Dean could tell that Marco was starting to get pissed off. Philo kept running his mouth and talking trash and started jabbing the point of the sword in Marco’s face. Dean and his training partner, Felix, he thought the man’s name was, slowed down as his counterpart had noticed Philo’s antics as well.
Dean and Felix were still swinging their weapons, but neither were really paying attention. There were several other men around Marco and Philo. Trouble was brewing and those nearest the pair knew there was about to be an explosion. Cato and the other il domatores were farther down the field. Philo feigned one direction but brought the flat of his wooden sword to smack Marco across the face, right on the still healing scar. The sound of the smack was loud and Dean knew that it hurt like hell.
He and his partner stopped fighting, both shocked. Several other pairs stopped fighting as well. Marco stopped fighting and stood rooted to the ground. His cheek was blood red with the imprint of the sword on his pale face. Philo backed up laughing. Marco’s eyes were like living burning coals.
“Perhaps if your head wasn’t rammed up your arse so far, I wouldn’t have been able to strike you,” Philo taunted.
In a split second, Marco charged Philo like Seattle Seahawk’s Bobby Wagner. The impact of Marco’s body slamming into Philo sounded across the whole training field and combatants stopped. All the men turned to watch as
