“Pegasus,” I whisper as I drag the heavy fence open. “Come here, boy!”
He walks over lazily, glancing down at my hands to see if I have any treats for him.
“It’s time that you earn your name, old friend,” I whisper into his ear before I hoist myself onto his back. “Fly, Pegasus. Fly.”
I squeeze my thighs and tell him to run, and he does. Fast. His heavy hooves thunder into the ground under the force of his powerful white legs, taking me away from here. Taking me to freedom.
“Elovissa!” my mother screams as she hangs out of my bedroom window, looking furious. “Get back here you ungrateful brat!”
I turn around and stick my tongue out at her as my faithful horse carries me away.
I’m free for three glorious days.
On the fourth, however, someone catches up to me.
It’s not my parents. It’s not Marius.
It’s someone worse.
A slaver.
I don’t even hear him creep up to me while I’m cooking a rabbit over a fire. I don’t even feel the club hitting the back of my head, turning everything black.
I’m only aware of my capture when I wake up with a splitting headache on top of Pegasus. Something more constricting then my corset is wrapped around my neck—a thick iron collar. A heavy metal chain tries to drag my head down. It’s tied to my wrists that are also locked together with some kind of iron contraption.
“No,” I whisper when I look all around me and see nothing but pain and agony on the slaves’ faces as they drag their feet, stumbling in the hot sun.
“Good, you’re awake!” a slaver with dark hair and a jagged scar along his forehead says with a vile grin. He yanks me off my horse and I fall into the dirt with a thud. His sandal comes next, slamming into my ribs as he laughs. “Get up, girl. You belong to us now.”
I gulp as I look up at the whip in his hand. His thumb is stroking the leather, itching to use it.
He lets it rip when I don’t get to my feet fast enough. I scream out in pain and terror as the head of the leather tears through my dress and cuts into my back.
He just grins.
“Get up. Slave.”
Chapter Two
Kaeso
Three months later…
“Kaeso! Kaeso!” the crowd chants as I grip my bloody sword and step over the freshly dead body.
The last remaining man swallows hard as he circles with a panic in his eyes. He knows of my reputation. All of Rome does by now.
Ninety-eight matches in the arena—the longest running streak in Roman history—and I’m still here. And in a few minutes, he won’t be.
Little clouds of dust kick up around his sandals as he stumbles back from me, the defeat already plain to see in his eyes. He’s a slave just like me. Probably taken from the southern edges of the Empire going by the darkness of his skin.
I wonder if his tale is as sad as mine is. The slain family. The childhood abduction. The decades of pain and misery that only a whip can bring.
It doesn’t matter. He’s nothing to me but a corpse waiting to happen.
Just like all the other men or beasts who stepped into this arena—into my arena—they’re nothing but a prop in my show.
Their sad tales stop with me. They end with a slice of my sword, with the tip of my spear, with the crunch of my hands.
I don’t feel guilty. I’m doing them a favor.
They should thank me for ending their sad lives, which aren’t even worth living.
My opponent turns and flees, but there’s nowhere to go.
The crowd boos.
I grin as I peel off the leather armor from my chest and let it drop to the sand. The crowd in the packed Colosseum explodes with cheers as the cool wind tickles my hot sweaty skin. Everyone who’s anyone in Rome is here today on this cloudy summer day. The Emperor included.
Emperor Vespasius is standing in his luxurious box with a golden crown in his messy hair. overlooking the arena, his scantily-clad whores hanging off his arms. He’s a heartless ruler and the people of Rome are growing tired of his irresponsible, selfish ways. They say he’s the most powerful man in the world. I say I could crush his skull if I got close enough. No one is more powerful than me.
He grins at me as I nod my head. His whores stare on with dead eyes, probably dreaming of their homelands and wondering what could have been.
I get offered plenty of women like that. My master Septimus throws them to me in droves after every battle. I throw them all back. I’m not interested in defiling any of them.
“Finish him!” Emperor Vespasius shouts and the arena erupts in agreement. There’s no question he’s talking to me. The other guy doesn’t stand a chance and everyone knows it. He hung back while I single-handily slaughtered the dozen or so men in his company. He’s the only one left.
I roll my big scarred shoulders as I start walking toward him.
I’m the largest man in any room I enter, including the floor of the Colosseum. In here, I’ve fought against men from all over the world and not one has reached my chin. I’ve crushed skulls in my hands and had crowds of mesmerized people surrounding me for hours just to watch how much I eat.
I’m as large as the powerful beasts they call bears and as fast as the fanged monsters dragged from the dark places south of old Carthage called tigers and lions. I know because I’ve faced countless numbers of them—armed and unarmed—and came out victorious every time.
Ninety-eight matches. They’re all starting to blur into one.
Septimus has promised manumission if I win one-hundred matches. Freedom is so close.
Once I kill this quivering man, it will be a little closer.
He sprints to one of his dead friends and grabs the spear at the corpse’s side. He’s all wild jittery movements as he plants his feet and throws the spear at me with a grunt.
I almost laugh as I see it coming. He’s as weak and slow as a child.
The spear whistles as it comes near. I step to the side and pluck it out of the air. The crowd roars. It turns deafening as I spin the spear around in my hand and grip it.
The man runs.
I aim the sharp metal head and heave the spear with a grunt. It sails through the air like a free bird and lands with a vicious shlunk through the man’s back. He falls forward, limp and shaking as he slides down the spear and into the sand.
I glance up at our Emperor clad in golden robes—who is clapping his hands and hollering along with the rest of his people.
Two more matches and I’m a free man.
What will I do? What can I do?
The unwanted dream creeps back into my mind… I try to push it away, but it’s a persistent bugger.
Sail to a little island off the coast of Crete where the water is so blue it will bring a tear to your eye and the fish and game are so plentiful that your stomach will never growl again. Raise a loving family with a wife so pretty she’ll make my chest ache. Buy a house on some rolling hills where my sons and I can plant a harvest.
I shake my head and shove those dreams away. What sons? What family? Men like me are made to kill, not made to love.
It’s just a dream after all.
I already know what I’ll do when I win my hundredth match.