Gladiators of Rome:Short Stories

III

III

Lazarus will never kiss his wife again, he will never feel her soft lips against his cheek in the morning telling him to awaken and nor will he ever see his son take his first steps.

Those memories, those things yet to come, had been taken from him in the most savage way possible. And it was the Romans that had taken them; his own countrymen, and knowing that made the pain he felt even worse.

He did not know how long he sat there for. In one sense it felt as if years had passed and in others only a few moments, though he did not care.

His limbs had become numb from the cold and where he was kneeling but he did not care. His throat felt as if a fire had set itself up inside of him but he did not care.

Against his wishes his senses were still working and he heard footsteps approaching in the mud. He heard the soft chatter of men as they searched the huts, knocking over tables and dishes.

They were drawing closer and common sense told him that they were romans and that they would kill him just as they had his wife and child, but still he did not care.

He welcomed their advances and prayed that they came quicker, perhaps then he would see his family again.

Laying Patroclus down next to his wife, Lazarus slowly got to his feet.

The footsteps were close now, they had just turned the corner when he heard them shout, "Oi, you!"

Lazarus took one last look at his family, lying dead on the ground, and turned to face the Romans solemnly. He would put up no resistance; he would welcome his death with open arms.

There were two of them, dressed in the uniform of infantry footmen and as they strode passed the hut Lazarus could see that they were idly chatting between themselves.

Their swords dangled uselessly by their sides. They appeared startled to find him there.

"What are you doing here?" The man on the left demanded with uncertainty.

Lazarus could not tell the two apart other than the fact that the man who spoke was a few inches taller than the man to the right.

"You should be with the others," The same man said.

Lazarus waved slightly on his feet as his eyes drooped close. This was it, they would kill him now and he would see Cardea and Patroclus again.

He heard the footsteps as they drew nearer, he heard their swords being drawn but he remained completely still, until their hands clasped around his wrists and they attempted to drag him from his family.

His eyes flew open in shock.

"Come on," The man growled in annoyance, his sword held at an awkward angle as he tried to hold onto Lazarus at the same time, "You should be with the others, slave."

"Others?" Lazarus realised then that they would not kill him, that he was to be taken with the other prisoners to be sold on as slaves.

His body numbly went where the soldiers pushed him, over the body of his wife and child, for a few moments as his mind tried to catch up.

As he was pushed on, Lazarus's head lolled forward slightly so that his gaze fell upon the ground and there, casted aside, was the wooden sword he had carried here.

The blood that flowed through the cobblestones had stained the underside of it red but as he stared at its jagged edges his thoughts turned to Krista.