Colosseum by Simone Sarasso

neither enthusiasm nor any great effort; he can pass hours smoothing down stones, gaze fixed to the ground, and continue working until dusk without opening his mouth or taking a break, except to sip water from a wooden cup. And then loses himself in the deepest sleep Verus has ever seen.
    For his part, the Briton is prey to periods of excitement that he is powerless to contain. When one of the foremen downs his club and launches into a rant about the comforts enjoyed by gladiators, Verus cannot help but listen, his pulse speeding unbidden, his eyes filled with hope.
    â€œEven the sons of equestrians and senators fight for the chance to spit blood in the arena, to earn a place of honor in the
familia gladiatoria
, do you believe that?”
    Priscus raises his eyes from his work. It seems impossible that he might want to say something: “That lot fight using a
rudius
, a wooden sword. They hardly ever actually fight a match. And, if they do, they always win: it’s all staged, they make me sick. I’ve seen women fight with more courage than that scum…”
    The foreman respects him, and perhaps he is also a little afraid of the giant from Gaul. But he does not like to be made to look like an idiot in front of his men.
    â€œAnd what do you say of the
auctorati
? Free men like me, in search of honor and glory! They decide to dedicate their lives to the noble art of iron in exchange for few certainties and a great deal of pain! ” the foreman chides him.
    Priscus shakes his head, this time he does not bother to raise his head from the stone he is flaying, one hammer blow at a time. He answers without even looking him in the eye: “You call it
glory
, Odonus. I call it
poverty
. Or
desperation
, if you like. Better to die trying than die of hunger in some alleyway. As long as you’ve got the balls for it…But how many of them survive, master? You take a walk around the city and read the names of the heroes on the tavern walls: Tigris, Invictus, Herculino. Where are the names of the ones who were defeated? Underground, along with their worm-eaten corpses, that’s where they are…”
    Priscus is embittered, he does not stop shaking his head.
    The foreman’s poetic moment has passed. He had felt like going on—especially because it is as hot as hell and the breaks are never long enough—but there is simply no arguing with the Gaul. May as well get back to work.
    Verus, though, will not stand for certain comments. Becoming a gladiator is a dream.
His
dream. The hope of salvation that no god has granted him, but that he is convinced exists anyway. It is out there, just a stone’s throw away; in fact, it is in this very place. In the belly of the stone, wood and metal beast. And sooner or later his chance will come to choose between living a sheep’s life and going for glory. And so he puffs his chest out and answers without taking a breath: “The history of the arena is full of bravery, Priscus! Take Sisinnus the Scythian, who sold himself to the school of Amastride to win his friend’s freedom with iron.”
    Verus likes to impress people. He has heard the story of Sisinnus a million times while sitting around the fire. Anyone who grew up in the desert talks about him: the brave warrior who won a hundred fights and got to within a hair’s breadth of collecting the ten-thousand drachma needed to free his lover, Targitatus.
    â€œI say if the gods had really marked him out for glory, he wouldn’t have ended up gutted by some shitty Sarmatian with a limp. At least that’s how I see it…” replies Priscus.
    Verus tenses his jaw. He is all fire and boiling blood, and he will allow nobody to address him this way. He especially will not allow
Priscus
to talk to him like that. He has no idea why, but sometimes that damned Gaul makes him feel uneasy, with his pure heart and the bad habit of always saying what he thinks. Other times though, he is