Fireball by John Christopher Read Free Book Online Page A

once they were clear of the barracks, he would have a chance to slip away. The position after that was uncertain, but better than what might happen if he remained a soldier; and he was learning more and more as time went by.
    Enough Latin, for instance, to be able to conduct a limited conversation with Bos. Bos, it appeared, came originally from the north and had been captured as a boy by a Roman raiding party. He told Simon his real name but, when Simon made a hash of repeating it, merely shrugged. Bos was good enough. Simon tried to find out what had happened to him between then and now, but communicationfailed. He persisted: How was it that he had become a soldier— miles Romanus ?
    Bos was bewildered. His big face creased in total non-comprehension. Simon racked his mind and his limited Latin to get it over to him. Start at the simplest level. Soldiers—he gestured, indicating both the two of them and the rest—they were all soldiers, Roman soldiers.
    â€œMilites?” With understanding came amusement, starting as a slow grin but turning into belly-shaking laughter. When the paroxysm was over, Bos said something Simon did not follow, and then spoke more slowly and deliberately: “Milites non sumus, Simonus. Gladiatores sumus!”
    It was Simon’s turn to be staggered, but when he did grasp it, there was no impulse to laugh. Barracks and military training meant army; he had taken that for granted. He had completely forgotten about the Roman gladiators, who also had lived in barracks and trained with weapons. So much for his notion of deserting once the legion abandoned barracks life for active service. This was a legion that went from its barracks to the circus—the circus where there were no clowns, but bloody hand-to-hand combat,with loser left dying in the dust and winner gaining no more than a reprieve. He had got it wrong about the events that day in the forum. His little group had not been left behind to be press-ganged by the army; they had been sold as a block to the director of the local gladiatorial school.
    Bos recognized his unhappiness and, though surprised by it, did his best to offer sympathy. Simon had the usual difficulty in making out what he was trying to convey, but repetition of the word felix made him realize Bos was telling him he was lucky. He showed his scepticism, and Bos ploughed on, in ponderous and barely intelligible explanation.
    He was talking about Simon and the other who had arrived in the dormitory with him; they were lucky to have been picked for the school, to have been strong enough to train as gladiators. Especially Simon, who, although he was tall and not a weakling, was young to have gained acceptance. Because of that, he had a chance. He would have a sword, an opportunity to defend himself. Not like the others who had been marched to the barracks that day. He spat in the dust, a gesture indicating their fate.
    Simon thought of the five who had crouched naked beside them throughout that broiling afternoon, especially of the little old man who had been in the cellar with him. What was going to happen to them? he asked Bos.
    Bos shrugged. “Damnati ad bestias.”
    Simon had enough Latin to know what that meant. Condemned to the beasts—sent out into the arena, weaponless, to be savaged and eaten by starving lions, for the amusement of spectators. He almost did feel he was lucky.
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    During the ensuing days and weeks, Simon gradually got the hang of his new way of life. At the top, with absolute authority, was Gaius Turbatus, the lanista, or director of training. This was the man in the red cloak who had picked Simon out in the forum. He appeared frequently but at unpredictable intervals, sometimes accompanied by his deputies, sometimes alone. He studied the recruits very carefully, observing their progress with a keen, cold eye. Certain men were dismissed from the ranks following a word from him to an instructor,