Chapter 3

It had been almost two weeks since Lazarus had left his family for the arena.

And as the sun sat at its highest point in the sky on the thirteenth day, Lazarus found himself stood within the walls of Ludus Magnus.

It was such an experience that Lazarus felt as if he was dreaming.

He had dreamt of coming here since he could remember, Lazarus yearned to feel what his parents felt . . . to feel the pride of fighting in the Colosseum, to feel the crowds screaming his name.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Lazarus flung them back open to find that he was not dreaming and indeed he was in Rome.

For the first time in his life, Lazarus had travelled further from home than ever.

He felt slightly upset that he had to lie to his family to come here but he knew what his parents would say if he told them the truth.

And Lazarus needed to do this.

Keeping a firm grip around the strap of his bag, Lazarus followed Damocles through the crowds, their laughter filling the air with overwhelming joy.

Years of training and preparation and the day had finally arrived.

Ludus Magnus was the largest and grandest of the Gladiator training schools and for that reason alone it took no longer than a few moments for crowds to form, eager men hurrying forth to write down their names.

Lazarus and Damocles were two of these men and soon found themselves wandering the grand corridors and hallways of the training school.

Fully fledged gladiators passed them in the corridors. Damocles and Lazarus would say nothing in their presence but as the warriors disappeared they would each burst with excitement.

Soon, they too shall the honour of fighting on the sands.

“I think are beds are through this courtyard,” Damocles hurried forth, running out of the darkened corridor and into a large courtyard.

A large patch of, what used to be grass, was centred in the middle with arcades stretching on all sides, forming a square of arched walkways.

Lazarus felt a soft chill run over his skin as his breath left his body. Stepping out of the corridor and into the blinding light, Lazarus found himself stood before the training square.

His breathing hitched with emotion as his mind took a double take.

His parents had trained here, they had lived here.

They had walked on the very stone Lazarus trembled on now, they brushed the same walls Lazarus walked by and they marvelled at the same statues that filled the alcoves.

Lazarus watched before his very eyes as the present turned into the past. The image of faded grass and worn stone turning into one of bright green grass and rocks bathed in sunlight.

He could see his mother, a young Gladiatrix training with the post, as his father fought across the grass from her; their eyes wandering over each other’s forms with fascination.

A warm smile came to Lazarus’s lips as he imagined his parent’s past.

Lazarus liked to think that they fell in love the moment they saw each other and before either of them knew what was happening.

He could only pray for a love like his parents and hoped he had the same with Andromeda.

“Lazarus! Come on!” Damocles had returned to find him staring into the distance.

Turning back towards the training area, Lazarus watched the image fade back into the present, the memories of his parents eroding with it.

Lazarus took a deep breath, pulling his bag over his shoulder. His parents had fought here but now they were in Greece.

They were an entire nation away and Lazarus, for the first time, could be who he wanted to be.

He would not have to worry about hiding his dream from them, or even hiding a sword because they thought he was out at sea looking for work.

But when Lazarus returned as a proven gladiator they would be proud of him; they could be worthy of calling him their son.

Until then they would both live under the illusion that Lazarus was working on the coast.

Lazarus turned and followed Damocles towards their true future.

* * *

Krista lingered at the back, her eyes locked on to Diomed’s missing hand. The sight made her stomach churn uneasily and yet she found herself unable to look away.

She must not have been watching her actions because Frieda caught her.

“It was a Roman called Maximus,” Frieda informed Krista, a small smile on her lips as she captured Krista staring.

Jolting upright in her saddle, Krista gave a small cough, “Maximus?” Krista feigned ignorance but it was of no use.  

“The man who took Diomed’s hand,” Frieda clarified, enjoying seeing Krista squirm uncomfortably, “He was called Maximus.”

“What happened?” Krista murmured, no longer caring that Frieda had seen her. Krista was startled to see a dear friend with such a wound.

“As we searched for my sister, we headed north and found the Picts. They were fighting the Roman invasion led by Commander Agricola,” Frieda’s voice grew soft, her eyes looking into the forest but Krista could tell she was not seeing trees.

Frieda now gazed into her own past, remembering the horrid scene in which Diomed’s hand was taken.

“We were holed up in some barricade or other,” Frieda’s eyes narrowed in concentration, “I had left with a few others for reconnaissance, but when we returned I found Diomed gone, along with a young boy who had joined the cause a few days earlier.”

Krista slowed their horses, increasing the gap between them and Diomed and Artorius up ahead.

“Corran,” Frieda coughed as she spoke his name, “The boy was barely thirteen when his father joined and, of course, he followed,” Frieda licked her lips as she tried to think of the right words.

Krista remembered the small boy she had rescued from the Romans but something told her that this story would not finish with a pleasant ending either.

“The barricade was feeble,” Frieda grew angry, “And the Romans cut through it in the matter of minutes. Corran and Diomed were taken.”

Krista glanced up at Diomed, walking on ahead unaware of the turn their conversation had taken.

She tried not to imagine the pain he felt.

“They were meant to be prisoners, to be sent back to Rome,” Frieda shook her head in obvious hatred of the situation, “but a soldier took to beating Corran.”

Frieda took a deep breath to steady herself, “Diomed refused to remain silent as he watched the young boy get hurt. But by the time I had returned and tracked them down, Diomed was already lying on the ground with his hand severed from his arm.”

Krista closed her eyes in sadness whilst Frieda seethed quietly with anger.

“They would have kept going, hacking at him further, if the Picts had not arrived to aid me,” Frieda’s demeanour turned sombre, “Corran died a few weeks later in an ambush.”

The sense of defeat lingered in Frieda’s voice and it was clear to see that she hated Corran for allowing himself to die so easily. She thought Diomed’s sacrifice had not been remembered.

Krista parted her lips to speak when Artorius called from up ahead.

Frieda clicked her tongue and pushed her horse forward, turning from their conversation with haste.

Krista followed as her eyes watched Diomed focus on Frieda as she approached. She remembered how the two had bickered when they first met and yet here they stood, husband and wife.

“What is it?” Krista asked as she pulled her horse to a stop beside Artorius on the cliff’s edge.

“There,” Artorius raised his arm and pointed through a gap in the trees.

Looking carefully, Krista’s eyes grew wide as she gazed upon the city of Rome.

Despite being separated from the capital for nearly two decades, Krista could feel every emotion she had ever felt about Rome start to froth inside of her.

They would be within the city in a matter of hours.

Krista stayed and looked at the city for a few moments after the others had left.

She found herself thanking the Gods that her children would never know the disease that was Rome.

* * *

Before the sun had fully risen in the sky, Krista and her friends found themselves once again in the eternal city.

Crowds hurried past them, undisturbed by the presence, whilst they each gazed around them in wonder.

Two decades had passed since they walked these steps; so many years and yet nothing had changed.

Krista felt angry as she watched people scurrying to reach the arena and watch another massacre.

Everything they had fought for, everybody who had died, had been for nothing. Nothing had changed and it made Krista want to hurl her sword at the wall.

But they continued on, noting the pathways she had walked when she was younger, when a Roman patrol met them on the cobbled streets.

The soldier’s faces were expressionless as they came to a halt in front of them, “The Commander requires your presence at the palace.”

Krista and Artorius shared a look; they remembered the palace.

Following their once previous captors and enemies, they willingly walked into the heart of Rome and through the grand hallways of the palace.

Their boots clicked against the mosaicked floor, echoing off the walls, as silence reigned upon them.

None of them knew what to say as they were led through a small temple, past a modest water fountain and into the open-planned garden of the Emperor’s palace.

As they turned a corner, Krista laid her eyes upon a young woman.

She looked barely older than her son, Lazarus, with dark hair falling straight over her shoulders, contrasting with the shining golden armour that coated her upper body.

Her features were pleasant to look out with high cheekbones, rose lips and smooth skin but her eyes held an edge to them.

An edge that Krista knew too well.

“Who is that?” Frieda raised an eyebrow as they brought to a halt in front of the woman.

“My guess,” Krista tilted her head slightly, “would be that she’s the new commander.”

The girl, for she could not be older than twenty years, turned to face them with a smirk on her lips, “Your guess would be correct. My name is Octavia Aurelius.”

“Gaius’s daughter?” Diomed frowned.

Octavia bowed her head, “I was sent by the Emperor Trajan to welcome you to Rome.”

Frieda snorted at the girl’s words. Krista felt her own lips twitch with humour, none of them were pleased to be here.

Octavia narrowed her eyes on the Albion but ignored her reaction.

“Is there not meant to be more of you?” Octavia frowned.

“Two others,” Artorius confirmed, “We have not seen them but they shall arrive shortly.”

Krista frowned, it was not like Leonidas to be late, especially when they were walking into Rome.

“My father’s funeral games should be starting shortly,” Octavia snapped, not caring for their absence, “You are invited to take seat in the royal box.”

Krista lost her smile; she had fought to free herself from the arena and now she would become a spectator?

She wanted to vehemently refuse but one look at Artorius’s logical stares and she knew she could not deny the Emperor anything, not if they wanted to leave Rome in one piece.

When nobody uttered any grievances, Octavia turned and led them from the palace garden and straight back into the Colosseum.

* * *

Lazarus pulled at his toga, the frayed material resting high above his knee, providing onlookers with a large slice of his thighs.

The cream material was held together with a thick twine of golden rope, tied around his waist, but the fabric showed more than it hid.

Thin sandals were strapped to his feet with the tan leather twining up around his calves; the broad expanses of his chest and his arms were unprotected.

Lazarus felt exposed and unsettled in the uniform, tendrils of self-consciousness seeping into his thoughts.

“Here,” Damocles hurried to his side, dressed in a similar outfit, “I got this for you.”

Lazarus gazed upon the sword with familiarity, his heart settling as he curled his fingers around the leather-strapped handle.

It was heavier than he imagined, the metal dragging his arm down.

Looking around him, Lazarus saw that more and more people were being brought up from Ludus Magnus. He recognised a few of them as the people who joined the same day they had.

“What are we all doing here?” Lazarus whispered to Damocles, uncertain that he wanted to share the arena with these people.

This was meant to be the time when everybody saw him. Not a dozen other men; just him.

Damocles shrugged, “It must be a group thing.”

Lazarus nodded his head, his fingers twitching around the sword when a tremendous sound rattled around them, shaking him to the bone.

“What was that?” Lazarus snapped as everybody turned and gazed up towards the sudden onslaught of light that beamed down into the tunnel.

“It’s time,” Damocles took a deep breath beside him.

Lazarus felt his heart take a sudden jolt inside of his chest; this was it. It was time.

Lazarus was going to be upon the sands in a matter of seconds.

He took a step forward with Damocles when his friend rested his hand on Lazarus’s shoulder.

“No matter what may happen,” Damocles looked into Lazarus’s eyes as the others moved around them, “We stick together.”

Lazarus nodded his head as he reached out and grasped Damocles’s shoulder in a similar fashion, “Together.”

They remained there for a few seconds before they were ordered to move.

Excitement and adrenaline was shooting beneath his skin as he slowly progressed up the sloped tunnel and out into the bright sunlight.

Raising his arm to shield his eyes from the sun, Lazarus stopped breathing as he gazed around him.

The scene was overwhelming on a magnitude that Lazarus had not perceived that his feet became glued to the spot with fear.

His head swivelled in all directions as he tried to absorb all the information he was confronted with and yet he could not face all of it.

Larger than he could have imagined, the sands seemed to stretch out for eternity before they were met with harsh brick walls that towered four metres above them, blocking them off from all possible aid.

His heart beat was thumping behind his ears as the roars of the crowds threatened to deafen him. Their presence was like a great weight upon his shoulders, waiting to collapse on top of them.

A sudden loud bang sounded directly behind him, jolting Lazarus from his reverie, as he spun and watched the gates locked behind them.

It dawned on Lazarus then that they were entirely on their own; the sword in his hand felt heavier than ever and his body felt like a feather.

How could he possibly hope to do this? Lazarus felt his strength and bravery start to wane as his thoughts turned to home.

Looking in front of him, Lazarus found Damocles with the group of others, gazing around them at the otherwise empty arena.

Lazarus wanted to go to him, to feel something familiar, when the gates at the other end of the arena were opened.

Staring intently into the darkness of the tunnel, Lazarus took a hesitant few steps forward as the first few people began to emerge from the shadows.

Lazarus could see previous wounds marking their starved bodies; their faces void of all emotion.

He was meant to kill these people?

Lazarus rather thought they were already dead by the lifeless gaze in their eyes.

But he would do his duty and as he continued to step forward, feeling his vigour return, Lazarus was parallel with Damocles when he gazed upon two faces he had not seen for almost three years.

His feet ground to a halt and his heart dropped into his stomach.

“No,” Lazarus shook his head in denial, they could not be here. It wasn’t possible.

Staring at the pair, Lazarus took a few more steps forward. Maybe if he got closer he would see that it was not them.

But the closer he got the more confident he became that it was truly his uncles. It was Leonidas and Cato.

As Lazarus tried to think of how to react he became aware of someone calling his name.

Their voice sounded distant over the cheering crowds but it was dropping with emotion.

Following the sound, Lazarus scanned the crowds before his eyes fell upon the royal box and they widened in shock.

“LAZARUS!”

“Father?” Lazarus whispered as he gazed upon the figure of Artorius, leaning over the edge of the balcony, his arm outstretched towards him.

Moving his gaze over the royal box, Lazarus saw the familiar figures of Aunt Frieda and Uncle Diomed as well before his eyes located his mother.

She was pressing a sword against Commander Octavia’s throat.