Chapter 6

A chill ran through Krista’s body.

It was a summer’s evening, the air was warm with plenty of blankets thrown over her body, and hence there was no reason for her body to be shivering. But it was.

Rousing her from sleep, Krista’s eyes fell upon Artorius sleeping form beside her; his body curved in such a manner as to shield her.

Thinking that he failed to achieve the task as she rose to her feet, Krista perceived her surroundings of forest floor and trees, a half burnt campfire lying a few feet from her.

So it hadn’t been a dream. She had hoped it was only a nightmare. That she would awake and find Cassia and Zeph tottering about their hut as a new day dawned.

But once again Krista found herself in the same woods she had occupied a lifetime before.

Walking softly, as to not wake the others, Krista knelt by her satchel and removed the waterskin from the strap.

Raising the container to her lips, Krista tilted her head back and felt the refreshing water slide down her throat.

It was only as she fastened the top back on that Krista discovered her son was missing.

His blankets, where he was meant to be sleeping, were empty.

Krista tried not to over react as Artorius had instructed her the night previous when they left Rome. Lazarus could be reliving himself or he could have gone for a night time walk. Krista remembered that he did that when he was younger, walking in his sleep in the early hours of the night.

Krista and Artorius used to spend alternating nights watching his room, checking he was constantly safe. As he grew older the wanderings lessened before ceasing completely.

But, being this close to Rome and counting that the dreams had stopped years before, Krista was becoming less and less composed and her anxiety was returning.

There was one final thing that settled Krista’s that something was wrong; Lazarus’s sword was gone.

Slipping her own from the ground where it rested beside her blankets, Krista went after him in a similar way she used to when he was younger.

But the worst thing that could have happened when he was a child was that he may get a little lost in the woods. Now, being this close to Rome, he risked death.

* * *

Sat atop a boulder, Lazarus contemplated his fate with the stars.

But the heavens barely glistened with the silent foretellers as darkness impended upon him, sending his mood spiralling further downward.

Staring intently at the only shining orb, which hung ominously in the sky, Lazarus felt anger resurface.

He would not be contemplating his fate now if his parents, and family, had left him alone in that arena.

Lazarus would be training with the other gladiators, dreaming about the next day’s fight and the glory it would bring him.

Sighing inwardly, Lazarus turned the sword in his palm absentmindedly.

He hadn’t been able to sleep, too restless to settle. His legs wanted to walk back to Rome, to re-volunteer for the arena.

But his mind knew that by now the Emperor had told each gladiator school leader that he, and Damocles, were not welcome there.

Lazarus’s one dream of glory had been snatched from his grasp. And it was done by the very people that were meant to encourage his dreams and ambitions.

They were meant to support him with every fibre of their being, no matter what it was they were supporting. That was the role of the parent, wasn’t it, to support your child?

The only thing Lazarus now possessed of the arena was a disgraced memory and a sword. It wasn’t anything particularly wonderful; worn at the edges and the leather straps around the handle wearing thin, Lazarus knew it had previous masters.

He found himself wondering how many battles the steel had seen, how many victories? How many proven gladiators had held it in their grasp, the same way he held it now?

Shuffling forward marginally on the rock, Lazarus knew it was time to return to camp before someone noticed his absence.

The moon had already begun its descent back towards the horizon when Lazarus paused.

He did not know why he did it but simply that when he did he noticed something strange.

Everything around him was perfectly still. Everything was the same as it had been five minutes ago and yet something seemed different.

Lazarus could not put a finger on what it was that irked him so about the situation but his muscles tensed and his body tingled with renewed life, as if expecting an attack.

But he was alone.

As he thought it, a group of birds suddenly took flight from the tree beside him, chirping in warning as they went.

Lazarus’s heart gave a small start by the surprise and his thoughts quickly resolved that some nocturnal beast had scared the winged creatures.

Feeling safer, Lazarus slid off the large rock entirely until his boots planted firmly into the ground and he turned back for camp.

As he did so, Lazarus became aware of a large shadow flying towards him from the trees.

He barely had time to raise his sword before the creature knocked him to ground and flew past him.

Lazarus perceived the sound of two swords clashing behind him as he slowly got back to his feet, his fingers pressing lightly at the place on his shoulder where the figure had hit him.

But then a new sound entered his ears and he sent him hurtling to his feet in shock, his eyes widened with disbelief.

It was his mother calling his name.

“Lazarus!” She was growing angrier by the second but there was a tone of underlying concern etched deep in her voice.

Lazarus quickly concluded that Krista had been the person to knock him to the ground and he felt anger rise in his chest when he saw the hooded figure she was fighting.

Had he been what Lazarus’s body was reacting to in the darkness?

The moon provided enough light through the canopy above them for Lazarus to follow the fight and know that his mother held the upper hand.

Her age, sex and height may have fooled an onlooker to think she was doomed for failure, with her opponent towering over her frame and undoubtedly younger by the swiftness of his actions, but Lazarus knew different.

“Lazarus!” She called his name again and he sprang into action.

Sword clasped in his hand, Lazarus had his eyes firmly set on the masked man and approached only for his mother to once again push him away.

Lazarus stumbled back, his sandals catching on the rocky terrain, as he watched the man begin to strike.

“Mother!” Lazarus called in warning but as Krista had turned to push Lazarus away, she had left her flank exposed.

Sensing an opening, the hooded figure launched an attack and swiped his sword towards her ribs.

Krista awkwardly deflected his strike with her sword, her arm bent at a strange angle, but nothing could stop his boot was connecting with her side.

Crashing against the trunk of a tree, Krista held onto its bark for support.

Rushing to her aid, Lazarus once again found himself being pushed away.

Was this punishment? Lazarus felt a pang of sadness grip his chest. Was she angry with him? Did he upset her that she no longer wanted him near her?

“But-” Lazarus began to speak.

“-Go to-” His mother spoke between gasps of breath, her shoulders hunched over, when she suddenly gripped his shirt in her first and threw them both towards the ground.

The hooded figure, not caring for their conversation, swung a low swipe at their necks but found his sword becoming imbedded in the tree rather than their throats.

Lazarus found his lips pulling into a smile as the man’s growls of annoyance. He gripped his sword tighter, jumping to his feet, ready to fight.

“No.” Krista had regained her breath and pulled herself to her feet, using her sword for aid slightly.

“What?” Lazarus frowned, looking between her and their attacker with apprehension.

“Go back to camp and warn them about the others.” Krista dismissed him.

Lazarus frowned as he spoke, “Others?” He counted only one.

A lone assailant currently relieving the tree of his blade.

Lazarus thought he heard his mother sigh in disappointment.

“There’s a small party twenty metres away heading south towards the camp,” Krista spoke in precise orders, “Go back and wake your father. Tell him what’s happened and where I am.”

“I can fight!” Lazarus shouted in defiance as the hooded man turned towards them, his sword now back in his possession.

Krista sent Lazarus her famous stare, “I need you to warn the others. Go.”

Lazarus hesitated.

“Now.” Krista barked and he reluctantly submits, heading back for camp and leaving his mother alone.

He could have been running for minutes, hours or days before he reached his father. Lazarus did not know but when he finally broke upon their camp he found that everyone was already awake and gone.

Stepping up to the blankets his father had occupied, Lazarus stood and looked at the empty spot he should have been and wondered where they had gotten to.

Casting an eye on the other blankets, he found that each of them were vacant; did they already know about the attack? How?

“Lazarus!”

Turning to see who had called his name, Lazarus instead saw the flash of a sword.

And then the darkness descended.

* * *

The first thing Lazarus became aware of was the persistent pounding behind his left temple, just above his eye.

It felt as if someone inhabited the inside of his head and began to hammer at his skull, trying to break through.

After a few seconds of trying to ease the pain, Lazarus found it useless and focused on trying to simply maintain it as he began to open his eyes.

The last he remembered was coming across their empty camp, someone calling his name and then the heel of a sword knocking against his head.

Panic flooded his chest at the thought they may still be under attack and he bolted upright, his vision growing blurred by the sudden rush.

“Oh,” a voice sounded close by, “He’s awake.” The voice sounded disdainful and angered.

Looking the direction it had come from, Lazarus found himself looking up at the young Marcia, her arms folded over her chest as a sign of frustration but the blood on her clothes and the disarray of her hair spoke of exhaustion and defeat.

The sweet, happy girl he used to run around the meadows of Britannia chasing insects with was gone and in her place was a surly adolescent.

“What happened?” Lazarus turned from Marcia, not caring for her opinion when he needed facts.

“You mean after you left the camp?” Marcia couldn’t resist the temptation for one last jibe.

Lazarus didn’t reply when he saw the expression upon his parent’s faces.

“Marcia,” Frieda spoke her daughter’s name in a warning.

Lazarus knew then that something was wrong then even his Aunt Frieda saw no humour in a situation.

“Father?” Lazarus got to his feet, reaching out to steady himself when his ankle dipped slightly.

“Son,” Artorius closed his eyes briefly in pain, “I do not know how to tell you this but . . .”

Lazarus was growing concerned as he looked at the pitying expressions that his family sent his way.

But it was only once, Lazarus turned in a full circle that he saw someone was missing.

“Where is Damocles?” Lazarus asked, still half dazed by the blow his head.

No one responded.

“Where is Damocles?” Lazarus was now shouting but no one told him to stop.

No one said anything. Instead the small circle they had formed around him now parted to reveal a clearing littered with bodies.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lazarus noted the crimson Roman infantry uniforms that peeked out from beneath the hoods of the men that attacked them.

But if that was significant, Lazarus did not care right then for in the sea of black and red lay his trusted companion and friend, Damocles.

Blood smeared his chest and cheek that was pale in comparison with the deep red liquid.

Lazarus could not tear his eyes away from his friend, his throat working in reflex ad he stumbled closer.

Lazarus half expected Damocles to burst to life at any moment and reveal that this was just some big joke against him for having Damocles thrown out of Rome.

But as each second passed he was becoming increasingly aware that this was not a joke and it wasn’t a dream.

Unable to sustain his weight any longer, Lazarus collapsed to his knees beside Damocles’s body and reached out his hand to his friend.

Afraid to touch him, knowing his skin would be cold despite the warm sun that now shone above them, telling Lazarus how long he had been unconscious.

Unconscious and therefore not protecting his friend; they had promised to stick together. To protect each other and Lazarus had failed.

Mustering his strength, Lazarus reached forward and shut Damocles’s eyelids, those haunting eyes watching him with emptiness.

Whether it was the knock to his head or seeing his best friend dead before his eyes, Lazarus did not know but a few seconds later he found himself emptying the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush.

When there was nothing left for him to heave up, Lazarus collapsed against the base of a tree and remained seating there in stunned silence.

He did not move for two days, watching over his best friend.