Page 11

Chapter Eleven

V ictor

I bolt upright in the middle of the night, my breathing ragged as the vivid dream fades into wakefulness. It wasn’t merely a dream, but a memory so powerful it pulled me back through time—back to my punishment in the ludus , feeling as real as the day it happened.

As my heartbeat steadies, I can still feel the phantom weight of those sand buckets hanging from my arms, still taste the bitter dust on my tongue. The memory rises unbidden, clear as yesterday though it happened years before the shipwreck.

The lanista’s face twists with disgust as he circles my kneeling form. The coin of the Goddess Tyche hanging against my chest seems to burn—my last connection to my mother.

Before marriage to my philosopher father, she had served as the Goddess’s priestess, teaching me that fate’s wheel turns for all men. Her wisdom helped me endure the early days in the ludus , though she and my sister had already been taken by fever two years before our family’s final fall.

“Five matches.” The lanista’s voice is as furious and loud as if it’s happening to me now and not a memory. “Five victories. Five opponents left alive.” Each word drips with contempt. “Do you know how much money your mercy has cost me?”

My muscles ache from hours of training, but I maintain perfect posture, eyes forward as is expected of a good slave. “A gladiator’s purpose is to demonstrate skill and courage, Dominus . Death should be the last resort, not—”

The blow catches my jaw, snapping my head sideways. I taste blood, but don’t move to wipe it from my split lip.

“A gladiator’s purpose is to please the crowd .” He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “And the crowd wants blood .”

“Then they misunderstand the true meaning of the games.” Father’s teachings steady my voice despite the fear churning in my gut. “Triumph through skill, not slaughter. Victory with honor—”

Another blow, this time to my stomach. If a more vigorous man had wielded it, I would be crouched on the ground, gasping for air.

“Your father’s philosophies are worth less than pig shit here.” The lanista steps back, cold calculation replacing anger. “The slave monger had a lot of nerve naming you Victor. You’re more like a Victus .” He pauses so my comrades can laugh at him calling me defeated . “But perhaps that stubborn pride of yours will make a fine example.”

He barks orders to the guards. I’m dragged to the training yard’s center and placed between two upright wooden posts. Heavy buckets filled with sand are brought forward.

“Since you enjoy denying death so much,” the lanista says with a sneer, “let’s see how well you deny your own suffering.”

The punishment is elegantly simple. Stand with arms outstretched, a bucket of sand suspended from each hand. Face east from sunrise to sunset. No food. No water. No rest until sundown.

“Two nundinals ,” he announces to the gathered gladiators, his voice cold as steel as he pronounces this sentence of sixteen days. “One day for each hundred denarii your mercy has cost me. Drop your arms, and we start over. Collapse, and we start over.” His smile carries no warmth. “Or end it now. Swear to kill your next opponent.”

The first bucket’s weight sends fire through my shoulder. The second makes my arms tremble. But Father’s voice echoes in my memory, “True strength lies not in dominating others, but in mastering yourself.”

“I cannot swear what I do not intend to honor, Dominus .”

Laughter ripples through the crowd. They’ve seen this punishment break stronger men.

The sun hasn’t yet reached its peak and already sweat soaks my skin. By sunset, they expect me to beg for mercy.

But they don’t understand. This is no mere test of physical endurance—it’s a battle of will against flesh, of principle against pain.

The first day passes in a haze of agony. My muscles scream for relief, my hands ache to drop the buckets, my throat burns with thirst. But I endure. Each passing moment is a choice—a refusal to let pain dictate my actions.

When the sun sets, my arms are secured to the posts, not allowing me to lower them or to recline. I’m given a dipper of water, a crust of bread, and moldy cheese. Then they leave me until sunrise, where I’m given another dipper of water but no food.

By the second day, the torment deepens. Flies buzz around the urine and feces that coat my legs and pool at my feet.

My muscles knot into stone, although at times they quiver without my permission. Guards pass by with sneering comments. Mocking laughter swells from the other gladiators, some of them already wagering on how quickly I’ll fall.

At the end of the third day, after the meager rations, my arms tied, alone in the dark of the arena, I’m close to giving up. I look to the heavens and watch a cloud move across the full moon. I pray to the Goddess Tyche for strength to endure. Hoping it is not my fate to die here in my own filth.

The cloud passes, and the face of the moon shimmers with an ethereal light. Is it delirium? For I swear the face of the Goddess appears. My head is filled with a soft soothing voice, “Be brave, my boy, I have plans for you. Your fate is not of this time.” The voice and face fade, but strength and renewed determination return.

Some time later, a gentle rain rouses me. I lift my face and swallow the sweetest water I’ve ever tasted as the sweat and effluvia are washed from my body.

By the fifth day, my body begins to adapt. The pain doesn’t lessen, but my mind learns to float above it. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythm of my heartbeat. Each small victory—another hour endured, another sunset reached—becomes a triumph of will over weakness.

Other gladiators watch with different eyes. Some still mock, but others grow quiet, thoughtful. They see something they didn’t expect. Not just stubborn endurance, but serene acceptance. The lanista’s punishment becoming a demonstration of a different kind of strength.

Six days, seven, then finally one nundinal. My arms no longer feel like parts of my body. They are simply there, extended like tree branches, holding their burden as naturally as leaves hold morning dew. The pain becomes a meditation, each moment an opportunity to prove that principle can outlast punishment.

The lanista’s frustration grows with each sunset that finds me still standing. He reduces my water ration. Still, I endure.

Ten days. Eleven. My world narrows to the rise and fall of the sun, the weight of sand against muscle and bone, the eternal battle between will and exhaustion. Some gladiators sneak me extra water, while others come close when no one is looking, to press a couple of grapes or figs to my hungry mouth, inspired by what they see as defiance.

They are my brothers, and their support fills my heart with gratitude, but they don’t understand. This isn’t about defying authority, but about remaining true to deeper principles.

The memory shifts, blurs, and then focuses on the twelfth day. The lanista stands before me, his expression unreadable.

“Impressive,” he says. “But unnecessary. Just swear to kill, and this ends.”

My voice comes out rough from abuse and disuse. “Every moment of pain is a choice. Every sunrise is an opportunity to demonstrate that principles matter more than comfort.”

“Pretty words. Your father taught you well.” His tone carries grudging respect. “But principles won’t fill my purse or please the crowd.”

Through cracked lips, I offer a bargain. “Let me fight cestus . No blades, no death. Pure skill against skill. The crowd will still have their blood without the final cost.”

He studies me for a long moment. “ Cestus fighting can kill as surely as any blade.”

“But that is not its purpose. Its purpose is to demonstrate superiority through skill, not slaughter. To defeat without destroying.” Each word costs precious energy, forced through cracked and blistered lips, but this is too important for silence. “Let me prove that mercy can be as profitable as murder.”

The lanista circles my trembling form. “Four more days to think about it. Then we’ll discuss terms.” He walks away, then tosses over his shoulder, “But you’ll never make it that far, Greekling.”

More days pass, each bringing new lessons in endurance. I learn to find strength in stillness, power in acceptance. The sand’s weight becomes a teacher rather than a torment. Each grain a reminder that all burdens are temporary, all suffering an opportunity for growth.

Other gladiators watch how stillness can build strength as surely as motion. The lanista’s punishment becomes an unintended demonstration of stoic principles. Even the guards grow quiet, respectful.

My body is half-starved, muscles standing out like ropes beneath sun-darkened skin. But my mind has never been clearer. I understand now what Father meant about finding freedom within constraints, about dignity transcending circumstance.

The memory begins to fade, but the lesson remains sharp as a blade’s edge. Some victories come not from fighting against chains, but from transforming them into strengths. Some battles are won not through resistance, but through acceptance and adaptation.

The scene shifts again to the sixteenth sunset. The lanista himself removes the buckets from my raw-rubbed hands. “You’ve earned your chance,” he says. “Don’t make me regret this mercy.”

My arms drop, but my spirit stands taller than ever. Not because I endured the punishment, but because I transformed it into something more. The crowd would soon learn that true strength needs no killing edge, that skill and mercy can bring greater glory than any death blow.

It took a week to recover from the punishment, then I intensified my training, became faster and stronger. Within two months, I was the new cestus champion.

By the end of the next month, cestus fighters were coming from all over the country to challenge me. None succeeded. The arena was filled with fans chanting my name. There was blood and broken bones, but not once did I take a life.

The memory fades completely, replaced by the soft sounds of Maya moving in the next room. My arms ache with phantom weight, but the lesson serves its purpose. Whatever challenges this strange new world brings, I’ve survived worse. Whatever bonds bind me here, I can transform them into strength.

Tomorrow’s training will build a different kind of strength. But tonight, the memory of sand buckets and burning sun reminds me that all transformations begin with accepting what is while working toward what could be.

Sleep finally comes, dreamless and deep. My arms still remember their sixteen-day burden, but my spirit remains unbound. Whatever trials tomorrow brings, I face them with lessons carved deep as the scars on my palms—some victories come not from fighting against fate, but from transforming it into something greater than its creators intended.