Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Page B

grave.
    Shit.
    When Priscus the Gaul comes up to him to place a hand on his shoulder and whisper to him: “We got off lightly…” his world suddenly turns red. His anger explodes in an instant. The pain, pressed down into the bottom of his belly, gains the upper hand, and nothing else exists. Verus throws himself into Priscus, smashing his face with a head-butt. He cries out in madness, like a beast at the slaughterhouse.
    The Gaul is caught unawares and staggers backwards, bleeding. But he is not the sort to be floored by something so slight. With a bound he is on top of Verus, hammering into his face with his right fist.
    At that point the other slaves form a circle around them—it is between the two of them.
    Only those two.
    Ircius and the Mole are about to leave the site, but they notice the commotion. The former raises an eyebrow and takes a step in the direction of the fight. Suddenly alert.
    Verus and Priscus are really going at it.
    The Briton lunges about clumsily, but his sheer rage makes up for lack of fighting skills. The emotional paralysis of the last two years is a chained beast: it kicks and howls, throwing itself into the attack only to be choked by the iron links, risking a broken neck and carrying on regardless. It pulls until its prison chains give way.
    And then things really turn bad.
    Priscus is well prepared and evidently used to fighting. In a previous life he must have been a soldier or something similar—Decius Ircius is convinced of this as he observes the two battle with each other. The lanista studies the Gaul’s composure as he takes the punches and studies his adversary’s moves—which are failing miserably—so as to neatly fell the Briton and quench the lad’s rage. Priscus knows precisely what he is doing and keeps his guard up. What he does not know is that because of Verus he is about to find himself in bigger trouble than he ever has before.
    The Briton bleeds but does not give up.
    His lungs heave, he lunges, receives a blow, falls, but gets back on his feet.
    The lad is giving it his all.
    Until his breath catches in his throat, until the Mole’s stick lands hard on his naked back.
    Until Priscus too, having taken his dose of wood and discipline, collapses to his knees.
    They stay that way, staring at one another blankly. Sand, blood, and sweat.
    Labored breaths, balanced on the edge of that precipice which is fate.
    The Mole is not irate. He is used to dealing with these beasts.
    â€œThat’s enough, now,” says the master, sternly.
    The lanista Ircius examines the two exhausted combatants once more: “I’ll take these two as well.”
    The Mole smirks to himself: at this rate he will make enough money to afford the decorated palanquin he has been eyeing for weeks. He savors in advance the moment in which he will plant his behind on the seat and order four servants to carry him through the city center. He is about to rub his hands together with glee but stops himself in time.
    â€œTake them,” he says unctuously. “I’ll make you a fair price.”
    The deal is done.
    Verus cannot believe his ears.
    The wind of fate has suddenly changed direction once again.
    Without thinking, he hugs the bastard he wanted to kill until a moment or two ago.
    For his part, Priscus is unruffled. He is man enough not to hold a grudge, and well understands what is going on inside the head of the damned Briton.
    â€œThank you, brother,” whispers Verus.
    â€œDon’t thank me,” the Gaul says with a shake of the head. “You are deluding yourself if you think destiny has smiled on you—you’ve just put us into the shit, up to our eyeballs, you’ll see. Thanks to your pigheadedness, we’ve basically signed a pact with death. Death. That’s what being a fucking gladiator is about.”
    Ircius has overheard their exchange and nods to himself. Since the Gaul now belongs to him, he could punish the