Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Read Free Book Online Page A

happy to live in chains, you knuckleheaded Briton?” Grayish dust on ebony flesh.
    Verus spins around, realizing he has failed to ask the most obvious question: “You mean the gods of the arena are slaves, just like us?”
    Massinissa hits harder, a fair-sized splinter flies to the ground. The two friends work balanced on a pile of stones, tackling the rock higher up, where the wind has made it more brittle.
    â€œNot all, but most. Then there are those who choose to give five years of their lives over to death. But there again the world is full of madmen, my friend. Take my uncle, for instance…”
    Suddenly, Verus is interested.
    â€œDid he become a gladiator?”
    Massinissa answers without looking him in the eye. Delicate balance and cutting jokes.
    â€œNo, he fell in love with his goat.”
    Verus lets his mind fly elsewhere for a moment. His thoughts move swiftly and without baggage. In an instant they cover the entire world. The Briton imagines a future of iron and glory, not goats and raving lunatics. Massinissa, however, confuses the excess of concentration for interest.
    â€œFucked that goat better than he did his wife. And more often, apparently…”
    Verus starts listening again as he stops daydreaming, for the first time since the night of the massacre, about freedom, and the absurd bundle of emotions that the damned word brings with it. Because, he realizes, there are slaves and there are slaves: it is one thing to break rocks all day, and another to test your courage with weapon in hand, urged on by the loving roar of the crowd.
    â€œTo listen to him, you’d think the fucking goat let him do what he liked to it…” Messinissa is gathering steam.
    Verus stops him brusquely: “Listen, brother. I don’t know if I really want to hear this, seriously…”
    But it is in this very moment that the gods decide the time has come and there will be no tomorrow.
    The sky darkens, gray clouds loaded with death blow out of Vulcan’s belly.
    Verus’s pulse is racing when the first flaming rock hits the ground. The size of a fist, it slams into the sand and begins to sweat dense smoke.
    The second is as big as a sheep, and knocks the pile of stones supporting Verus and Massinissa to the ground.
    The two slaves lose their balance and tumble to earth. The African burns himself, screaming as his flesh blisters revoltingly. Verus looks up and realizes the blue vault above him is swarming with ash, the air filled with shouting and commotion.
    The guards run, and so do the slaves in chains. The soldiers on the watchtowers of the quarry waver, and then break.
    Hades flings its doors open wide and vomits fire onto the victims’ heads. The bright red tower, which looked to Pliny like a tree trunk atop Vesuvius, now looks like the boiling innards of a butchered titan. A heavy stench that fills the lungs, but the boiling hail is the worst punishment of all. Verus wants to help his friend, but a burning chunk of embers puts the African out of his misery, smashing into his heart.
    The impact is nauseating, Verus kneels and vomits bile, rolls on the ground, scratched and burnt. He rasps teeth and elbows in the sand, makes it to his feet and runs.
    Here is panic everywhere.
    And darkness.
    And ash.
    The rain gets heavier by the moment, Verus threads his way through rocks and flame.
    His mind races. He is losing it.
    Damned fire. Fire again.
    The night of the massacre explodes in his chest, the river of white-hot memories burrowing through his insides as fear does the rest, pumping blood into his legs.
    Verus looks for shelter and bursts through the door of a guard hut. The roof is solid, strong beechwood beams that creak but do not break. But it is beginning to give way under the weight of the flaming rock.
    The roof cracks, the smoke is inside now.
    He is enveloped in a world of ash; his lungs cry out for relief.
    But there is no end to it, the fury only swells.
    The