Escape from Evil (2 page)

When the slave horde arrived in the arena the following morning, Master Falni had taken control of the trials. From what Decimus could tell, this wasn't good news. A series of giant poles had been erected, each supporting a circular wooden platform at its summit.

“They get smaller and smaller,” said Ruma, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before him. “And they also get farther apart.”

Decimus nodded. He had spotted a ladder next to the distant pole supporting the largest platform. It didn't take a genius to work out what was expected of the slaves.

“I notice Slavious Doom never watches any of the trials,” Olu whispered. He spoke so rarely that his voice caused everyone to turn toward him. “At least, if he is watching, I haven't seen him.”

“No,” Decimus agreed. “He hasn't been here. I'm thinking he probably won't show up until the end of the trials.”

“Ha!” Argon exclaimed. “Then the chances are none of us will ever see him.”

“Decimus might,” said Gladius without a trace of humor in his voice.

“Yeah,” admitted Ruma, smiling. “Decimus might.”

A piercing cry shook the group from their huddled conversation. Master Falni was calling for silence.

“This trial will test your agility to its very limits. In the next few minutes, I will ask you all to line up beside the ladder at the bottom of the far pole. Once assembled, each of you will climb the ladder and try to make it across the eight platforms that stand between the first and last poles. When the first boy reaches the finishing platform—or falls during the effort—the next boy may begin. Once you have completed the course, you will rejoin the line in order to go again. Our servants will ensure that no one escapes the line or tries in any way to drop back. ALL will be tested.”

Falni took a few moments to let the rules of the trial sink in before he added, “The contest will end when seventeen boys have fallen and only thirty-two remain.”

This time, several gasps rose up from the gathered slaves. Decimus and Gladius shared horrified glances with Olu, Argon, and Ruma.

“Seventeen of us!” Argon spluttered. “That isn't a trial—it's slaughter!”

“I don't stand a chance,” Gladius muttered. He turned to Decimus and whispered in his ear, “Don't suppose you have any good tips for this one?”

Decimus shrugged. “Don't fall?”

“Ha! I'd worked that one out for myself, thanks.”

“I still don't really understand all this,” Argon confessed aloud. “How can he earn back the money our families owe if most of us end up in his stinking prison?”

“It's simple,” said Ruma. “He only needs one decent champion to attract a major crowd . . . and, let's face it, anyone who survives this is bound to make a decent champion. He'll probably make more Denarii from one event than the amount all our families owe him put together.”

“Shhh!” Gladius interrupted. “We're supposed to be lining up.”

Forty-nine slaves lined up at the bottom of the first pole, watching as the first of their numbers began to climb the long ladder that led to the platform above. He was a boy Decimus hadn't seen before: slow, ponderous, and even larger than Gladius. He was almost totally out of breath by the time he reached the platform, but was quickly spurred into action by the impatient roar of the aging trial-master.

Decimus wanted to look away, but he found his gaze rooted to the slave, who took a running leap . . .

. . . and fell before he reached the second platform.

Gladius gulped.

“He landed badly,” said Ruma. “He's probably broken some bones.”

The group looked on as several servants lifted the slave and carried him away. They could still hear the boy's sobs of distress when he was halfway to the portcullis.

“This is bad,” said Argon as the injured slave was carried through the gate. “This is really bad.”

The next slave, who was considerably smaller than the first, reached the first platform and didn't even pause before beginning his turn. He landed evenly on the second platform, receiving an unexpected whoop of cheers in the process. He leaped across to the next stage with equal skill, taking some time to catch his breath while his fellow slaves looked on.

Decimus watched, silently praying for the boy while at the same time having to admit he would stand a better chance of getting through the round if the boy fell.

Fourth platform—no problem. Fifth, sixth. It was looking good. Then, suddenly . . .

Decimus knew the boy hadn't taken enough of a running start for the jump needed to make it to the seventh platform. The gap was big for someone with such short limbs, and he just knew—deep down—that the boy's jump would see him fall short. He was right.

The boy plummeted to the ground, and was quickly dragged away by the servants. The trial continued. Decimus shuffled along the line, Gladius behind him, and Olu, Argon, and Ruma in front. He wondered which of their small group would return to the cells that night.

By the time Olu stood next to the ladder, twelve slaves had fallen victim to the evils of the trial. Decimus found himself shaking with fear as Olu quickly climbed to the first platform.

Rather than watch the quiet boy leap between each platform, Decimus chose instead to look down at the sand, relying on the gasps and sighs of the other slaves to inform him of Olu's progress. Fortunately, there were a lot of gasps . . . but not a single sigh.

Olu completed the course with a heart-stopping leap from the seventh platform. Despite missing the eighth platform, he managed to catch hold of the edge and drag himself to victory. A roar went up from the slaves, and Olu returned to the end of the line.

Argon's own trial got off to a speedy start, and the Gaul only encountered a problem between platforms seven and eight, tripping as he landed and almost toppling over the edge. Luckily, he managed to save himself—and Decimus heaved a sigh of relief.

Ruma gave everyone an early scare when he missed the second platform and ended up clinging onto the wooden edge like a man trying to stop himself from tumbling over the edge of a steep cliff. Once he'd pulled himself up, however, the rest of his jumps were completed with comparative ease.

Decimus took a deep breath, looked up at the platform, and began to climb.

“Good luck,” Gladius whispered. “Remember—don't look down!”

His heart thumping in his chest, Decimus hauled himself onto the platform, paused briefly to take another breath, and sprinted up to the edge.

Leap
.

The thing that shocked Decimus, when he landed safely on the other side, was just how unstable the platforms were. For a moment, he felt the wooden stage tilt beneath him and actually thought it might collapse. Then he found his footing . . . and the third platform loomed. He jumped it without a second's hesitation, and only took a moment to steel himself when he landed on the fourth.

Platforms five and six also passed without disaster, and Decimus finally found himself preparing for the jump that had claimed so many slaves before him.

He took a final gulp of air.

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .
leap
.

CRASH
.

Decimus landed on the eighth platform with such force that he actually pitched forward and almost toppled over the opposite edge. Fortunately, his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled onto the wooden stage, accompanied by a roar of approval from the crowd.

As he climbed down and joined the slave line behind Ruma, Decimus saw that Gladius was about to take the trial. He couldn't watch.

Turning his eyes to the sand once again, he almost wished he could block out all sound as well. Gasps and sighs had accompanied the endeavors of just about every slave who had taken the trials . . . and Gladius's own jumps were no different.

Decimus watched the sand, hearing three sets of shocked gasps . . . and one very audible sigh.

He looked up, sharp. Gladius had missed the fourth platform and was hanging from it, trying to haul his immense bulk over the edge with every ounce of strength he had in him.

Decimus closed his eyes and prayed for the gods to give his cellmate the power to save himself. When he opened them again, Gladius was sprawled on the sand . . . and the arena servants were already gathering around him.

Decimus clenched his fists and muttered a curse. The gods had ignored him, and now his friend would be thrown into some dark and foul-smelling prison in order to serve out his family's crime. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair.

The line moved on. Gladius became the course's thirteenth victim, but it would require more failures before the trial-master's thirst for prisoners would be quenched.

Fortunately for Decimus and his remaining companions, four boys had fallen before any of them reached the ladder for a second run.

The trial was over.