Gladiator

by Theresa Breslin

  When the asylum-seekers had first come to the area, the librarian had put up flash cards with foreign language phrases all over the library. Cy wandered about until he found one in Croatian. He looked down the list until he found a suitable greeting and then, carefully following the pronunciation guide, he called across to Vojek.

  ‘Vidimo se! See you later, Vojek.’

  The younger boy looked up in happy surprise. ‘Vidimo se!’ he replied. ‘Vidimo se.’

  After sorting and stapling his computer printout Cy left the library. He was happier than he had been this morning. His Internet search had given him enough information about volcanoes to write up his school project, and he also knew a great deal more about Pompeii. As soon as he got back home he would try to return to ancient Roman times and rescue the Dream Master. He and the Dream Master could persuade Rhea Silvia and Linus to join their parents at the family’s mosaic workshops in Rome for the remainder of the summer. Then the two young people would be far away from Pompeii and safe from any eruption from Vesuvius. Cy was whistling as he opened the kitchen door.

  ‘I’m starving. What’s for lunch?’

  ‘At least one of our children is speaking to us,’ said Cy’s dad to his mum. He had a paintbrush in his hand and was perched on a ladder, painting the kitchen window-frames.

  Cy’s mum was dragging wet clothes from the washing machine. ‘I’ve stopped the laundry in mid-wash,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to take a look at the washing machine. When that last load was in, the machine was whining in the weirdest way. It almost sounded as though someone was trapped in there.’

  Cy glanced across at the soggy bundle piled up at his mother’s feet. The old beach towel he had taken from the linen cupboard outside his bedroom lay soaking wet and crumpled on the floor. On it and through it ran a filmy squelchy gooey grey mess.

  Cy staggered as if he’d been struck across the face. Lying on the kitchen floor, utterly drained of energy, was his Dream Master’s dreamcloak!

  CHAPTER XIV

  ‘WHAT HAVE YOU done!’

  Cy’s voice was trembling so much that he couldn’t go on. He kneeled down beside the dreamcloak. The strange substance shivered and seemed to weep around him.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Cy’s mum was a bit shaken. ‘I was sorting clothes, looking out warmer things for the autumn, and I found this under your bed.’

  ‘I keep my own stuff under my bed right at the back!’ shouted Cy. ‘Can’t I get any privacy in this house?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ Cy’s mum tried to put her arm round his shoulder but Cy threw it off. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was just some old clothes you’d worn on the beach.’

  ‘You’ve ruined it,’ said Cy. He was almost crying. ‘It’ll never, work again. It’s destroyed.’

  Cy’s father came down the ladder to have a look.

  ‘What is it anyway?’ asked Cy’s mum.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ said Cy’s dad.

  Cy’s heart jumped. He looked up at his father.

  ‘Cy told you. It’s one of his experiments. Probably to do with his school project.’ Cy’s dad kneeled down. ‘Look, son, why don’t you put this . . . um . . . put this away under your bed. No-one will touch it again.’ He glanced at Cy’s mum.

  She nodded. ‘Come back down when you’ve done that,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some cool milk shakes.’

  Cy gathered the ends of the towel and wrapped up the remains of the dreamcloak. He went slowly upstairs and shoved it back under his bed. He sat for a minute or two, but he knew that he would have to go downstairs again and allow his parents to make it up to him. Otherwise they would only come to his room and try to have a meaningful conversation with him about emotions, relationships or growing up.

  In the kitchen Cy found his father looking through the cupboards.

  ‘Right, Cy, I’ve got it.’ His dad held up a tiny bottle of dark liquid.

  Cy sat down and began to drink the milk shake that his mum had made him. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Cochineal. Red food colouring. And don’t worry,’ Cy’s dad added, as he saw the expression on Cy’s face. ‘We are not going to bake.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Make a volcano.’ Cy’s dad lifted the kettle full of hot water. ‘Could you put some cold water in a bowl and bring it outside, please, Cy? When you’ve finished your milk shake. I’ll find the rest of the stuff we need in the hut.’

  Cy trailed after his father into the garden.

  ‘I thought showing you this might help with your project.’

  Cy watched as his dad rummaged around in the garden hut. There is so much stuff in here, thought Cy, he can’t possibly know where everything is. His dad took an old cardboard box and cut out a square from one side. Then he punched a small hole in the centre with a nail. He found some corks from when he had tried wine-making after a family visit to France. Then he dug out a glass jam jar and a small narrow-necked bottle. He took all the bits and pieces and placed them on the garden table.

  ‘We’ll put a few drops of food colouring in this narrow-necked bottle and fill it up with warm water from the kettle. That’s the cone of the volcano.’

  Cy’s dad half filled the jam jar with cold water from the basin and placed the pierced square of card on the top. Then he upended the jar and card onto the top of the small bottle with the red-coloured liquid. He waited a few moments and then began to press down carefully. Slowly, little drifts of colour began to seep through the hole in the card. As Cy watched they rose upwards in spurts through the cold water.

  ‘Do you know why that is happening?’ asked Cy’s dad, and then he answered before Cy could reply. ‘It’s because warm liquid rises!’

  Cy watched the tiny puffs of red and imagined that they were fire and hot rock hurtling into the air.

  ‘Just think of what that would be like magnified a thousand million times,’ said Cy’s dad. ‘The magma chamber of the volcano is full of molten rock. It tries to push up through the earth’s crust to escape. When it does come through the surface then it becomes rivers of lava flowing away from the vents. Sometimes the magma is not so runny. It can be so hard that it blocks the upward flow of the gases behind it.’

  Cy’s dad took some of the corks and held them under the water in the basin. ‘These gases are deadly and they build up until there is an enormous explosion.’ He released the corks and they shot to the surface of the water. ‘It creates a huge, intensely hot poisonous cloud of ash and gas. That’s called a pyroclastic surge.’

  It was a hot August afternoon but Cy shivered. He knew from his research this morning that the explosive kinds of volcanic eruption were the most dangerous. The force that had blown the top off Mount St Helens had blasted eight thousand million tonnes of rock into the air. Cy also knew that people living near these types of volcano often had little or no warning of what was about to happen.

  Cy’s dad lifted the model and took it into the house. Cy’s mum had the insides of the washing machine spread out on the floor and was kneeling amongst them, studying the operating manual. Cy’s dad leaned over to show her the volcano experiment.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘It demonstrates the scientific principles of volcanic eruptions.’ He set the model down on the worktop and gazed at it. ‘I’m quite proud of that,’ he said.

  Cy’s mum looked up from the floor. ‘The kitchen window-frames are only half-painted,’ she said tersely.

  ‘I was spending quality time with my son,’ said Cy’s dad. ‘You don’t begrudge us that, do you?’

  Cy’s mum glared at his dad. ‘I’m glad that you’ve got time for amusing yourself.’

  Cy began to edge towards the door.

  ‘You were the one talking this morning about establishing good communication,’ said Cy’s dad. ‘I don’t call it “amusing myself”. I look on it as positive parenting.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cy’s mum. ‘I think it’s fairly straightforward to make models with children. How about you
do something really challenging?’

  ‘I don’t think that there is any aspect of parenting where I am not prepared to have a go at least,’ said Cy’s dad in an aggrieved voice.

  ‘Really?’ said Cy’s mum. She beamed a benign smile, but her eyes showed triumph.

  Oho, Dad, thought Cy, you should have been more careful. He recognized his mum’s look. If you were playing chess, it was the one that you saw on your opponent’s face just before they said, ‘Checkmate.’

  ‘Tell you what, darling.’ His mum’s tone, although soft, had an edge to it. ‘Tomorrow you can go shopping with Lauren to purchase her new school skirt.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Ah,’ Cy heard his dad say as he slipped quietly out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER XV

  ‘WHERE IS MY DREAMCLOAK!!!!!!!!!!’

  The Dream Master was apoplectic. He flung himself against the door of his cubicle in the gladiators’ barracks, spitting flecks of foam over his beard.

  ‘At home,’ said Cy nervously.

  ‘Why is it not here?’

  ‘Er, it was my mum’s fault actually,’ said Cy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My mum,’ said Cy. ‘I put the dreamcloak under my bed. Right at the back. I thought it would be safe there. She decided to sort out clothes. So she took it out from under the bed and—’

  The Dream Master thrust his hand through the bars of his cell and grabbed Cy by the neck. ‘Tell me exactly where my dreamcloak is, at this precise moment. Now!’

  ‘It’s under my bed.’

  ‘I thought you said your mother had it.’

  ‘She did, but I got it back.’

  ‘But you just said it was her fault that you have not brought it with you.’

  ‘It is.’ Cy took a deep, deep breath and spoke as quickly as he could. ‘She thought it looked a bit grubby and a little rinse through would smarten it up.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The washing machine.’

  ‘The washing machine?’

  Cy loosened the Dream Master’s hold on his neck and stepped back from the cell door. ‘My mum put your dreamcloak in the washing.’

  ‘WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!’

  The little man stamped his foot so hard that one of his greaves fell off. ‘You allowed your mother to put my dreamcloak in a washing machine?’

  ‘She used fabric softener,’ said Cy.

  ‘I don’t care what she used!’ bawled the Dream Master. ‘You just don’t put a dreamcloak in a washing machine. It’s completely disrespectful! My dreamcloak has survived Fire, Flood and Famine. My dreamcloak has taken me through the Red Sea, the Dead Sea and across the Sea of Tranquillity. I’ve walked on the Great Wall of China and swum off the Great Barrier Reef. My dreamcloak . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Cy.

  The Dream Master sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘I should have known it would be the twenty-first century that would harm my precious dreamcloak. The people who live in this Time have no idea about anything.’ He glared at Cy. ‘Your mother puts it in a washing machine and you think, you Nit-witted Numpty, that adding fabric softener might help?’

  ‘I got it out after only a few minutes,’ said Cy. ‘I think it can be fixed.’ He paused. ‘That’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you. The energy in the dreamcloak – where does it come from? Where is the centre?’

  ‘Not “where”,’ said the Dream Master. ‘“Who”.’

  ‘Who,’ repeated Cy. ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like an owl,’ said the Dream Master. ‘A fact I find worrying, as I am now relying on you to re-unite me with my dreamcloak. You who can barely tell a story without using a cliché!’

  ‘A cliché?’ said Cy.

  ‘A cliché,’ said the Dream Master nastily. ‘You know. An expression that has lost its meaning through being employed too often.’

  ‘Does that include alliteration?’ Cy asked equally nastily. ‘I can’t tell you how many times you use alliteration.’

  ‘Alliteration is good,’ said the Dream Master. ‘That’s imaginative use of language.’

  ‘My adjectives are good,’ said Cy. ‘Mrs Chalmers told me that they were very expressive.’

  ‘That’s another thing that everyone overuses,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Adjectives are absolutely knackered.’

  ‘Isn’t that an adjective?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Don’t push it,’ said the Dream Master. ‘You are supposed to have a good Imagination. Just think of how exhausting it would be if you were an adjective. Do you have any idea how many millions of people on millions of computers every day type out the word ‘nice’. Do you have the slightest conception of how many trees have been sacrificed to make pencils, of the oceans of ink that have been squandered so that humans can overuse adjectives?’

  ‘What are we supposed to do?’ demanded Cy.

  ‘Verbs, you Vacant Vagrant. Verbs . . . That’s what they are there for. They are the “being” words and the “doing” words.’

  ‘I know about verbs,’ said Cy. ‘I use verbs.’

  ‘Yes, but do you choose any verb, or the easiest, or the first one that pops into your head?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Because people who do that begin to shove in adverbs all over the place. Something you may have noticed yourself doing,’ the Dream Master said sarcastically.

  ‘Adverbs are there to support the verb,’ said Cy. ‘Mrs Chalmers told the class that. I can give you lots of examples.’

  ‘We are not going there,’ said the Dream Master.

  Cy thought about it. He recalled being in the library when he had spoken gently to Vojek, and then firmly and emphatically to the librarian. Maybe he did overuse adverbs. But then . . . the librarian had walked off briskly, and Cy was sure that, generally speaking, librarians knew what they were doing. ‘When used properly in the context of the story, adverbs contribute positively to the verb,’ said Cy. ‘And I’m saying that very firmly,’ he added.

  The Dream Master gave him an odd look. ‘Does this mean that you are now able to take proper command of this dream? Would you, for instance, be able to make this locked door disappear?’ He waited. Then he kicked his cell door. ‘I thought not,’ he said. ‘Can I also ask why it has taken you two days to get back here?’

  ‘I had a bit of difficulty with the dreamsilk,’ Cy admitted, ‘which held me up for a couple of days.’ He’d tell the Dream Master later about what had happened to him as he’d boomeranged about in TimeSpace . . . much later. ‘I still need practice.’

  ‘So,’ said the Dream Master, ‘bring out your piece of dreamsilk and let’s attempt to leave ancient Pompeii.’

  ‘Ahh . . .’ said Cy. ‘We need to talk about that.’

  ‘What’s to talk about? Use your piece of dreamsilk and let’s go.’

  ‘No,’ said Cy. He held his hand up as the Dream Master began to speak. ‘Listen. This is AD seventy-nine. It is the year Vesuvius erupted and buried Pompeii. I am not leaving until I warn some people about what will happen.’

  The Dream Master gave Cy a grave look. ‘You cannot change history.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cy. ‘I have thought about that. But at least I might be able to persuade Linus and Rhea Silvia to leave.’

  ‘You might not be able to.’

  ‘I must try.’

  ‘What must you try?’ asked a voice.

  Cy turned. Linus was standing behind him. ‘I have been looking for you for some time. You should not have come down here without me,’ he scolded Cy.

  Cy bowed his head.

  ‘But I am glad you did. Today is the holiday, and we can go to the Amphitheatre now and secure a good seat.’ Linus saluted the Dream Master. ‘I wish you well.’

  Before either the Dream Master or Cy could reply they heard the sound of marching footsteps approaching.

  ‘They are coming for you,’ said Linus. ‘It is time for y
ou to fight.’

  CHAPTER XVI

  ‘SLAVES MAY NOT sit with their masters,’ Linus told Cy as they entered the Amphitheatre. He put his hand on Cy’s arm. ‘Try not to worry too much about your friend. It is an honourable way to die.’

  Cy shuddered. Linus bought some food to eat during the games and then Cy left him in a seat in the shaded part of the Amphitheatre. Cy walked round the huge stadium, pushing his way through the crowds until he was standing close to the parapet at the gladiators’ entrance. Behind him the tiered stone and wooden seats were filling up rapidly as the citizens of Pompeii came to see the new fighter, whose famous bad temper was now being talked about all over town.

  Cy shaded his eyes against the rising sun and watched as, led by an Indian elephant and two camels, the procession of the gladiators entered the ring. The little figure of the Dream Master was in the lead. Cy signalled desperately as the column of animals and figures circled the great ellipse of the arena. Eventually the Dream Master caught sight of him and gestured that he had seen Cy. The procession wound its way back outside. There was a long intermission when people queued to place bets and buy food and drink. Then the first combat was announced.

  Following a loud fanfare of trumpets, the master of the games stood up and cried out, ‘First for today, I now present to you the most famous, the most skilful, the most courageous . . . Dominus Somniorum!’

  Cy’s tongue clamped itself to the roof of his mouth in fright as the Dream Master stepped into the blinding sun of the Amphitheatre. The roar from the crowd almost lifted him off his feet.

  ‘What are they saying?’ the little man shouted up at Cy. He twisted his head this way and that in his helmet. ‘I can hardly hear or see inside this piece of tin!’

  ‘They are shouting for you,’ said Cy.

  ‘Dominus Somniorum! Dominus Somniorum!’ chanted the crowd.

  ‘Is there anyone else in the arena?’ asked the Dream Master.

  ‘No,’ said Cy, ‘but—’

  ‘Sometimes you have to be firm with people,’ said the Dream Master. ‘I told them that I would not fight and they have honoured my wishes.’ He strutted forwards, waved his sword high above his head and acknowledged the applause of the spectators. He bowed to each section of the Amphitheatre, then he laid his sword down. ‘Can I go now?’ he asked.