Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER I - TAKEN
CHAPTER II - ARENA OF DEATH
CHAPTER III - THE TRIALS BEGIN
CHAPTER IV - COMBAT
COMING SOON
ARENA COMBAT
CHARACTER PROFIL OLU
READ MORE OF DECIMUS REX’S ADVENTURES IN BOOK TWO OF THE GLADIATOR BOY SERIES:
Other Gladiator Boy titles to collect: 1. A HERO’S QUEST
2. ESCAPE FROM EVIL
3. STOWAWAY SLAVES
4. THE REBELS’ ASSAULT
GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Text copyright © 2009 David Grimstone. Illustrations copyright © 2009 James de la Rue. Published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hachette UK. First published in the United States in 2010 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-44421-4
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For Angelo Tripodi, gladiator and father-in-law.
I would like to dedicate the entire Gladiator Boy series to Terry Pratchett. There is no writer, living or dead, for whom I have greater respect. Thank you for everything.
ANCIENT ITALY
CHAPTER I
TAKEN
When Decimus Rex awoke, he was plunged into a world of darkness and deafening noise. As his battered senses adjusted to their new surroundings, the darkness became a covering made from some sort of animal hide and the noise became the low and thunderous rumbling of a wagon.
Decimus wasn’t the sort of boy who cried in a difficult situation. He felt pain and despair like anyone else, but he was able to hold his fear inside. His father had taught him at a young age that crying never solved anything, and he had taken the lesson to heart. What mattered were facts, and the fact was he had been taken from his parents’ house by men who had knocked him unconscious and thrown him in the back of this wagon. Moreover, his father must have witnessed the entire event: He’d been standing only a few feet away when it happened.
Decimus felt a sudden panic rise within him, and had to make fists with both of his hands to stop them from shaking. He tried to grit his teeth and summon some energy, but it seemed to require a colossal effort even to turn his head. When he tried to take a deep breath, his chest reacted with a sharp, stabbing pain. He needed to think, and to clear his head . . . but he was too afraid, and his mind was too clouded with questions. If these people had bundled him into a wagon . . . what had they done to his father? The thought was quickly followed by others. How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? It was hard to tell—he could be halfway to Rome by now.
Before he could raise himself onto his elbows, a noise in the corner of the cart caused Decimus to look up: He quickly scrambled backward, his eyes locked on the shifting shadows.
“Is someone there?”
“Yeah,” said a sad voice, which sounded as though it had fought tears . . . and lost. “They took me, too. You’ve been out for ages—I thought they might have killed you or something. I’d just woken up when they brought you in.”
“I’m not injured. At least, I don’t think so. My chest hurts, though. What about you? Are you hurt?”
“No, but I’m scared.”
“Me too. My name’s Decimus, by the way. Decimus Rex.”
“I’m Gladius. I come from Brindisium. It’s . . . it’s my birthday tomorrow.”
Decimus could hear from the change in his new companion’s voice that the boy’s tears were about to resurface, so he quickly tried to divert his attention.
“You were taken from Brindisium? That’s in Calabria, isn’t it?”
“Yeah . . . it’s been a long journey.”
“Are you tied up?”
“Yeah.”
“By your feet, I’m guessing. I think we might both be chained to this iron ring near me. If I can just—”
The wagon juddered over a rocky section of road, throwing the two boys around like a couple of pebbles inside a sack. Decimus winced as his head slammed into the side of the wagon, while Gladius badly bruised his elbow on a broken wheel that had been tossed inside by their captors shortly after Gladius had been taken.
“Don’t bother,” said Gladius, nursing his arm. “I tried to break out when they stopped at Tarentum to get you—there’s no chance. Those chains are solid, and they’re fastened to a block of wood that’s thicker than my leg.”
Decimus doubted that. From what he could make out, the young boy lying in the shadows opposite him was huge.
“Who ARE they?” said Gladius, shifting slightly as the wagon hit yet another rut in the road. “Why did they take us?”
Decimus hunkered down beside the rough wood and tried to wedge himself into the corner of the wagon so he could see a bit more of the inside.
“Are you rich?” he said. “Your parents, I mean?”
“No,” said Gladius. “My father works for a sea trader who ports at Brindisium. He doesn’t earn much from it. What about you?”
“My dad carries messages between the merchant houses in Tarentum,” said Decimus evenly. “If neither of us are rich and we’re both from different towns, my guess is we’ve been snatched by slave-takers.”
A heavy silence settled over the cart as it turned slightly and started off along a new road.
“S-slave-takers?” Gladius said eventually. “B-but what does that mean?”
“It means we’re slaves,” said Decimus, without the slightest trace of fear in his voice. “And don’t bother crying, either—crying is a waste of energy. My dad taught me all about slave-takers. They have no mercy.”
“B-but why us? What did we do wrong?”
Decimus took a deep breath and exhaled, his neck beginning to ache.
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Gladius. We were just unlucky. As for why they took us, well . . . it really depends who they are. The Brindisium gangs always take slaves to sell food for them in Rome, the Tarentiums get theirs to dig d
itches. Personally, I hope it’s one of them—that way, we’ve got a good chance of escaping. The only other slave-takers are the ones from Campania . . . and believe me, we better HOPE we haven’t been taken by them.”
Even though they were several feet apart, Decimus could hear Gladius gulp.
“W-why? What do they use slaves for?”
“They train them to fight,” said the young captive, his eyes locked on the large shadow opposite him, “. . . in the arena.”
As the hours passed and the wagon rolled on, Decimus became more and more certain that they were heading for Campania. He and Gladius talked very little on the remaining journey, and both boys drifted off to sleep several times before the wagon finally rumbled to a halt.
Suddenly, the great hide covering was ripped open and a heavily muscled arm reached into the wagon and took hold of the wooden block that supported their chains. The veined hand fiddled with a noisy lock before, to their horror, Decimus and Gladius were dragged out of the wagon feet first. Both boys were hauled across the dusty ground, kicking and screaming, until the powerful arm released them.
Instinctively, Decimus rolled over and tried to stand, but tripped on the chain and collapsed in a heap. Gladius didn’t even get that far. The boy, who Decimus could now see in the flickering torchlight was very overweight, couldn’t seem to haul himself off the dirt. Instead, he just lay there, groaning and rubbing his head.
Amid the captors, a giant of a man with a blazing torch and an enormous broadsword barked orders and employed the blade to point in various directions. As the many hooded figures began to step back into the shadows, Decimus quickly saw that he and Gladius were only two of an incredible number of children gathered in the vast stretch of barren land that surrounded them.
“Where—”
Gladius started to say something, but Decimus noted the expression on the big man’s face and quickly jabbed his new friend in the ribs to keep him quiet. Then Decimus glanced around them. At first, he thought there might be hundreds of children in the circle that had been formed by the captors. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the fiery darkness, he began to count heads.
He’d reached fifty, all boys of a similar age to him, when a deep, booming voice rang out over the sobs and screams of the captives.
“My name,” said the bearded giant, “is Tiberius. However, if you should address me by my name, you will be soundly beaten. You will call me Master.”
A hushed silence had settled over the gathered boys, and there wasn’t a single whisper to be heard. Decimus felt the hairs on his neck begin to rise.
“You have been brought here because your families have amassed a debt to Slavious Doom, Overlord of Campania. Some of you—a lucky few—will earn the right to settle those debts in service to the overlord by entertaining his guests in the arena. The rest of you, those found wanting, will be imprisoned until your families are able to fund your release.”
The giant held up the torch and a disgusting grin spread across his face. “Do not hold out much hope of release, my boys. One hundred Denarii gets added to the debt for every day you rot in your cells. You now belong to Slavious Doom. ALL of you. Hahahaha!”
Decimus absorbed the information without question. He knew his family had always been poor and it wasn’t impossible that his father had amassed such a debt.
Beside him, Gladius was taking in the scene with a mixture of horror and disgust. One thing was certain: The boy was in no state to work or fight for his family’s debt. Poor Gladius would have to trust luck to save his skin. Looking around once again, Decimus could see many different boys. Some lean and muscular, but many ragged-looking, and several who seemed, like Gladius, chubby and very sluggish. None of them looked as though they could muster much of a fight, and very few looked capable of digging even the smallest ditch.
Decimus returned his attention to the giant, who had passed his torch to one of the captors and was cupping both hands around his mouth.
“You will rest for an hour,” he cried. “After that, your beams will be chained together and you will march west to a place that many of you, in time, will learn to call home. Prepare yourselves. At Arena Primus you will all, for good or for ill, face your destinies. Do not ask questions of us: I have told you what is necessary. Enjoy this short break—you will need it! Hahahaha!”
The booming laugh erupted once again and the giant moved over to whisper to his brutal companions.
“We’re dead,” Gladius whispered, his face contorted in fear. “We’re all dead.”
Decimus shook his head. “We’ll be okay,” he said, cracking his jaw. “You and me both, as long as we stick together.”
CHAPTER II
ARENA OF DEATH
The march to Arena Primus was long and grueling, and more than once Decimus suspected his friend would collapse before they reached their goal. As it was, the snaking line of young slaves actually helped to support one another, and the line of wooden beams became not just dead weight but a force driving them on.
The arena itself was nothing like Decimus had imagined. His father had told him of the bustling amphitheater in Rome, chariot racing and the battles between men and wild beasts, halls decorated with sculptures and murals, and colorful servants offering larks’ tongues and peacock brains to the hungry, roaring crowd.
The only thing Arena Primus seemed to have in common with the amphitheater was size:
It was vast in a way Decimus simply couldn’t comprehend, and seemed to stretch off in every direction. His heart thumped in his chest at the sight, but a voice inside his head told him that the arena only appeared so immense because it was empty. Rows of vacant stalls conspired to make the place seem even more alien than it was. The pit itself was a colossal circle filled with sand and punctuated, at its northern and eastern points, by large iron portcullises. Decimus noted that one of these obviously led to the outside world; the other, he assumed, barred the way into the depths of the arena’s hidden areas.
Somewhat surprisingly, Gladius hadn’t stopped talking since they’d arrived. Decimus thought this might be because the boy was so incredibly relieved that the walking was over. He was suddenly very animated.
“Do you think we’ll get to watch the events?” he said, peering around them as the portcullis through which they had emerged slammed to the ground. “I’ve always wanted to see a fight myself, but we could never afford to go. Do you think we—”
“I think you better shut up,” Decimus snapped, nodding past his friend at a muscled thug who was progressing along the line of slaves and unlocking their various chains.
“They’re letting us go?” Gladius continued, confused. “But aren’t they worried that we might escape?”
“Through those?” Decimus exclaimed, pointing toward the north and east portcullises. “No, I don’t think they’re worried at all,” he said, looking away from the gates. “What’s more, great Gladius, I don’t think you fully understand what’s going on here. We’re going to see the games, all right . . . because we’re going to be in them . . . or else we’re going to rot in some stinking cell, probably underground in the damp, dark places they put children to forget about them.”
Gladius smiled weakly, as if he thought his stern companion might be joking. When he realized Decimus was dead serious, the smile soon slid off his face.
“I don’t think I’ll be very good at the games,” he said. “I never catch anything my dad throws at me.”
Decimus reached out an arm and patted Gladius gently on the shoulder.
“These probably aren’t going to be the sort of games where they throw a ball at you,” he muttered. “And if they do, you can bet it will be covered in spikes.”
In the hours that followed, Decimus and Gladius learned a lot about their new surroundings. The arena was basically comprised of five sections, including the animal pits, arena floor, trial-master’s quarters, amphitheater, and the prison cells in which they would be staying until their families’ debts were earned back.
Decimus also learned, by lingering at the back of the slave line, that there were sixty-four boys in total . . . and the trial-master was expecting to lose at least ten of those the following day.
“Lose?” Gladius gasped when Decimus relayed the overheard conversation. “What do they mean exactly?”
Decimus rolled his eyes, but made an effort to keep his voice level. He knew Gladius was still deeply scared. “It means the first trial will take place tomorrow, and they expect ten or more of us to fail it. If we do, we stay in jail.”
And what a jail it was.
Decimus and Gladius stepped reluctantly into their new home and stared around them. Two half-shattered wooden frames supported several bags of cloth stuffed with hay. Apart from these sparse features and a rough wooden bucket that didn’t need any further explanation, the cell was empty. It was one of a row of three cells in this part of the prison, each separated by a row of thick iron bars.
“At least we can see everything,” said Gladius, smiling nervously as he noted the lack of solid walls. “You know, the jailer, some of the other slaves, when they bring us food and stuff . . .”
“You think that’s a good thing?” Decimus said, when the large, pot-bellied jailer had slammed the iron door behind them. “It also means they can see EVERYTHING we do, so we have absolutely no chance of escaping.”
Moreover, the other boys in their section didn’t look too friendly. The cell immediately next to theirs contained a muscular youth of Oriental origin and a pale, freckled youth who simply had to be a Gaul. In the cell next to that, a tall, dark boy looked around him with wild eyes, seemingly taking in everything except his own cellmate, a greasy-looking character he’d heard some of the jailers refer to as “the Etrurian.” He noted that none of them made any effort to speak, even to their own companions.
A Hero's Quest Page 1
