Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Read Free Book Online

The blows land on his face and chest, opening a couple of wounds that spew out blood like fountains.
    Verus is dying to step in but the guard does not let him. The son of a bitch is trained to hurt people and he is good at his job. He jams the handle of the club into his balls and sends him to the ground.
    When he has finished he steps slowly back out of the cage and spits at the two slaves.
    â€œHave a good day, you pieces of shit…”
    Verus and Massinissa sit licking their wounds for a moment before they hear the distant crack of the jailors’ whips and the screech of cage doors being swung open: another day of toil.
    Life at the quarry is truly exhausting. Verus and his companions work like dogs from sunrise to sunset. There are no breaks, apart from the time it takes to swallow a bowlful of boiled grain and a few crusts of hard bread. They take it in turns to sit down for a moment when the guards have their backs turned. Verus works with a chisel on the bare rock. He has grown used to the vibrations, shuddering through his forearm, shaking the gums in his mouth.
    A hundred strikes delivered with precision are enough to turn a crack into a hole, another hundred and the groove widens, filling the workers with confidence. Another thousand, with thirty different mallets, and the river bursts its banks, finite separates from infinite and the rock-face calves a piece of itself, reduced to a boulder and finally a squared block. The material from the quarry goes to build the villas of the well-to-do, those villas that Verus has never seen, but which he imagines as being vast as a grassy plain and crowned with towers like a soaring sea cliff. There are rumors around the camp: some of the oldest slaves, who have seen something of the world—lucky them, and who have connections in the right places—say that much of the stone that is quarried at Pompeii travels all the way to Rome, to contribute to the construction of Vespasian’s mad dream.
    â€œAnd what the hell would that be?” Verus asked one day, chisel in hand beneath the blazing sun.
    The man shook his head in response: “You know nothing, damned Briton! The Emperor is building the greatest amphitheater in the world! They say when it’s ready there will be a hundred days of fighting between beasts and Christians, gladiators and heroes!” His gaze was lost in the airy void of legends.
    Verus did not understand much of it. Each question he asked led to another, eventually giving the impression he was just some damned ignorant barbarian.
    â€œAll right… but what exactly is a
gladiator
?”
    The other stared at him, wide-eyed. He could not believe it. He called his companions over so they could all laugh at him together.
    â€œAre you serious?”
    Verus shrugs with bewilderment while the rest of the work party fell about laughing.
    The old slave’s face lit up, as often happens when simple men get the chance to describe the indescribable.
    â€œGladiators are gods, my friend! Warriors sworn to death, heavenly dancers, true deities. Crowds worship them and women go crazy for them. They bet their lives on the thrust of a sword: all or nothing, my boy.”
    All or nothing.
    So that is how it works.
    Verus would soon find out. In the meantime however, the master’s ugly face appeared to remind the wretches that the time for chatter had just ended. So the young man went back to his chisel, his head filled with doubts and dreams. In the following days he continued to investigate, finding out about the gladiator schools, the fights, the women.
    Today too, the sun does not let up for a second, and the ground under their feet simmers like a pot of lentils. Verus badgers his dark-skinned friend as he makes iron resound against rock.
    â€œThese damned gladiators must be happy, don’t you reckon?” Tiny pebbles between his teeth and little desire to pass the time of day.
    The Numidian shakes his head: “Are you