Gladiator Clash (Time Hunters, Book 1) (3 page)

*

“Where are we?” Isis asked.

Tom looked round. They were standing in a long, gloomy, stone corridor, lined with archways on one side. He peered into a sunlit, dusty courtyard beyond. Men were stretching and jogging on the spot.

“It looks like they're warming up to do sports or something,” he said.

A young man appeared, walking briskly towards them.

“Hello,” he said brightly. “I'm Josephus.”

“What's your title?” Isis said, eyeing his grubby, short toga suspiciously.

Josephus smiled. “Why, I'm a slave, of course!” he chuckled. “Are you new?”

Tom and Isis nodded. Cleo meowed.

“Er… what is this place?” asked Tom.

“This is the city's biggest gladiator training school, owned by my master, Atillius!” the young man explained.

Tom frowned, deep in thought. He looked at the strange clothes he and Isis were both wearing – simple tunics and sandals. And hadn't he spied a man through the arches dressed in the long folds of a toga? Yes! Gladiators… slaves… togas…

“We're in Ancient Rome!” he shouted. “Brilliant!”

Tom suddenly wondered how it was possible that he and Josephus could understand each other. He didn't speak any Latin aside from a few words his dad had taught him.

“It must be part of Anubis's magic,” Tom said aloud.

But Isis seemed to be a million miles away, staring at her hand in amazement. She started patting her arms and legs in delight. Tom suddenly realised why – instead of being wrapped up as a mouldy mummy, she was made of flesh and blood again.

Isis grinned at Tom. “I'm alive!” she cried, feeling the long, black plaits of her hair. “No more horrible bandages!” Then she looked down at Cleo, who had transformed back into a sleek cat, covered in tabby stripes. “Cleo! My little fluffpot!” Isis said, scooping Cleo up into a hug.

“Er, I hate to interrupt,” Josephus said, “but you're meant to be training to fight as gladiators right now.”

Isis stuck her nose in the air. “Fight? But I'm a princess.”

Josephus pointed at the men in the courtyard. “Not any more you're not. Everyone here is a prisoner or a slave. Where have you come from anyway?”

“Egypt,” Tom said, pointing at Isis. “And Britain,” he added, gesturing to himself.

Josephus shrugged. “The Roman Army doesn't usually send child prisoners to fight,” he said. “But then, they're so cruel, nothing they do surprises me these days.”

Tom gulped. “Cruel?”

Isis was offended. “Prisoner?
I'm
a prisoner? I insist you free me right now!”

“
You
shouldn't even be here,” Josephus said, prodding Isis in the shoulder. “No girls. No cats. Don't worry, the soldiers will throw you out as soon as they see you.”

Isis tossed her plaits and balled her fists. “We're on a very important mission. We
must
stay here together.”

“Please help us,” Tom begged Josephus. “We really can't be separated.”

“I suppose I don't owe the Romans anything,” Josephus said with a shrug. “OK, I'll help. First, we must disguise Princess Bossyboots here as a boy.”

“A boy!?” Isis shrieked in disgust.

“Shhhh!” Tom and Josephus both hissed.

Josephus pushed the three travellers into a shadowy alcove and started to wipe off the kohl from Isis's eyes with a rag.

“Get off me! You smell of rotten vegetables,” Isis cried, batting him away.

“Just keep still, Princess Bossyboots,” Tom said. He grinned as he tied back her long hair out of sight.

Josephus ducked into a nearby cupboard and emerged with rattling chains. “Sorry. I have to put chains on you, like the others, otherwise the guards will think you're trying to escape.” He shackled them both at the wrists and ankles and pushed them, clanking, down the colonnade.

“What about my cat, Cleo?” Isis asked.

“Animals aren't allowed in the training ground. She'll get killed if she stays here,” said Josephus. “She can stay in my quarters, where the other animals are kept. Don't worry, I'll look after her.”

He steered Tom and Isis into a noisy room with a barred door. Tom saw that it was packed with chained prisoners, both young and old, chattering away in a variety of languages he'd never heard before. Some had pale skin, some had dark skin. Everyone wore different clothes. Clearly they came from all over the world. They were shovelling food into their mouths with their shackled hands.

“You're lucky – you're in time for breakfast. Try to blend in,” Josephus said, looking doubtfully at Isis, as he carried Cleo off in his arms.

Isis and Tom sat on the stone floor in silence, taking in their surroundings with wide eyes. Tom helped himself to a piece of bread.

“I hope Cleo's all right,” Isis whispered to Tom. “At least she can cuddle up to the other animals.”

Just then a roar echoed around the barracks that made Tom shudder.

“Oh no! What was that? It didn't sound very cuddly,” Isis whimpered.

One of the other prisoners leaned over. “That's the wild animals,” he said glumly. “Sounded like a lion. Sometimes it's tigers, bears… anything that can tear your toenails off with its teeth.” He stroked his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “I still can't decide which is worse.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked, gulping.

The prisoner shrugged. “Being killed by a gladiator's sword or eaten by lions. What's the better way to die?”

“I don't even want to think about it, thanks!” said Tom.

The prisoner looked grim-faced. “Well, you should. Because none of us will make it out of here alive.”

“We need a plan. We've got to find the amulet and leave this place before we have to fight anyone,” Tom said.

Isis held up her hands and rattled her chains. “We can't exactly go for a stroll, can we, Professor Smartypants?” she said.

Tom scratched his head and tried to remember everything he knew about gladiators. “Look,” he said, “gladiators fight with swords and shields, or daggers and spears. They'll make us practise so they can't keep us locked up forever. At least the food is OK.”

Isis peered down at the other prisoners' plates and snorted. “Pah! Oats and beans? These Romans haven't got a clue. Our Egyptian fighters were tough and lean. They fought with their hands and feet, not wobbling around with a sword and a belly full of porridge!”

Tom shrugged. “So, any thoughts on where the amulet might be, oh warrior princess?”

“I've no idea,” Isis said. “But I do have something that might help us. Look!” She waved her hand in front of Tom's face.

“I know, I know,” said Tom. “You're not a mummy any more. But how does that help us?”

“No, silly. My ring,” said Isis, pointing to the gold ring on her finger. It was in the shape of a scarab beetle, and on it was a hierogylph of a woman on a throne.

“That's who I'm named after – the goddess Isis,” explained Isis. “She's the goddess of magic and children, and protector of the dead. I wore this ring all throughout my life. I was even buried in it.”

Tom studied the ring closely. “Cool! I've never seen a ring like that before,” he said.

“Finally!” Isis harrumphed. “Something Professor Know-It-All
doesn't
know about.”

“Well, go on then,” said Tom. “We're both kids, and you're dead. Let's face it – we could certainly do with some help!”

Frowning in concentration, Isis said, “Oh, magical scarab. Oh, lovely goddess Isis. Will you please, please, pretty-please help me find my amulet?”

Suddenly a whirring noise, like flapping insect wings, came from the scarab. Silvery letters started to float out of the ring and into the air:

“It's a riddle!” Tom said, after reading the words. His eyes narrowed as he pondered the clues. “This has got to be about one of the gladiators, if it mentions fighting and a shield. But which one?”

Isis looked at her ring. “Do you think we're searching for someone who's sticky?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Yuck! Maybe it's someone who doesn't wash their hands after eating. A gladiator called Stickius Smellius.”

Just then, a tall, burly, bald man carrying a whip opened the door to the prison cell with a crash. The other prisoners held their chains up for him to unlock. When it was Tom and Isis's turn, the man raised his eyebrow.

“Children?” he said. “We've never had children before.” His stern face cracked into a greedy grin. “Why, the crowd are going to go crazy for children fighting in the arena! Imagine that!”

The man ushered Tom, Isis and the rest of the prisoners into the training-ground courtyard. The sun blazed down on the stone buildings. The burning heat bounced up off the sandy ground.

When they were all assembled, he shouted, “My name is Rufus. I'm here to train you as gladiators. I'll put you into five groups where you will learn different ways of fighting. You will need to become fearsome warriors and the fittest of athletes.”

Isis clapped her hands together and turned to Tom. “I'm just brilliant at athletics! And archery! And you should see me on a horse.”

Tom groaned. “Is there anything you
can't
do?”

Rufus started to hand out weapons, shields and armour to the small groups of prisoners. Tom was put in the
scissores
group.

He thought about what he could do with scissors. They were fine for cutting paper, but as a weapon they'd be pretty useless. Surely gladiators didn't fight with scissors?

But the weapon Rufus thrusted into Tom's hand was made up of two short, sharp swords fixed together at the hilt. They didn't look anything like ordinary scissors.