Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Page A

enthralled by the sight of him laboring beneath the sun, apparently without ever tiring.
    The Briton has a strong urge to go for him, but in that moment everyone at the site turns toward the blast of a horn.
    â€œIn line, dogs! On your knees! Today is your lucky day!” yells the Mole’s voice.
    Nobody has ever heard him shouting like that. He is not normally very excitable, but there he is charging about and gathering up his slaves as though his life depended on it.
    Verus and Priscus get moving, they know it is best not to anger the boss. Twenty or so forced laborers line up like at a slave market, while the rest of the group abandon whatever they were doing and stare wide-eyed and open-eared in order to find out what on Earth is going on.
    The Mole clears his voice. Protruding eyes and flaccid skin beneath his chin complete the picture. Next to him stands a bold-looking man, tunic and sandals fresh from the cleaners, trimmed beard, very short hair and watchful eyes. He has the muscles of one who has lived on the street, and his arms and chest wear a man’s scars, still hot with sand and blood.
    The Mole introduces him and Verus’s heart misses a beat: “Wretches! Today the gods are giving you more than you deserve. Say hello to Decius Ircius, lanista—owner and master—of the Ludus Argentum, glory of all Rome!”
    The chained congregation raises a cry to the heavens.
    Verus’s head is spinning.
    The Mole continues as Ircius strokes his bristly chin, inspecting the merchandise with a clinical eye.
    â€œThree of you will have the honor of entering his school. Decius has deigned to come down here because he is confident that hardy vines can grow out of stone. Be sure not to disappoint him: show yourselves worthy of the honor being granted to you.”
    Verus is on the point of suffering a heart attack. Priscus, on the other hand, keeps his gaze fixed to the ground, as always. His fists are closed so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
    Decius Ircius makes a close inspection of the magnificent thirty, evaluating the unfortunates’ bone structure, fractures, posture. He feels their necks and arms, tests their feet with the look of a horse trader before a piebald mare.
    When he passes in front of Verus, the Briton smiles like a little boy. The lanistastares at him and Verus opens his mouth like the others, showing an orderly circle of perfect, white teeth. Then Decius moves along and chooses the man to his right, a sort of sulfur giant with yellowish skin.
    Verus is crestfallen and his smile evaporates, but he does not lose hope yet because Ircius is still moving up and down the lines, inspecting faces, hands, and mouths. He asks a black man as tall as a fir tree to lean over so that he can have a look in his ears. He smirks with satisfaction.
    He chooses Porcius, and it is a good choice, because that son of the She-wolf was born to kill.
    Verus’s heart is hammering in his chest now.
    Blood fills his head.
    Ircius passes in front of him once more without even taking him into consideration, then lays eyes on Priscus and thinks about it a moment too long. In the end though, he walks past and settles on Corcides as the last acquisition of the day, a strong, stocky Spaniard with a hairline no more than an inch above his eyebrows.
    At that moment, Verus feels a black hole opens up in the middle of his chest. The son of the Island strangles a groan in his throat as the lanista finally moves off, pleased with his day’s booty.
    So that is how it is: this thing called life will continue to kick him even while he is down.
    His one chance of deliverance, melted away like ice on the first days of March. Smashed by a bolt of lightning sent by his fate, sick and perverse.
    His future reduced to crumbs, condemned to be consumed one stone at a time, until his masters grow weary of him or his muscles are no longer able to satisfy them. And then a blow to the neck and a communal