The Roman Fights:Ch.1 Sparta

Chapter One: Sparta

My name is Sparta and I've killed people. Not just any people, not the really bad people, but the people who were once normal, good people until they got caught and thrown into the Roman Fights. People like me.

I work for the bad people. The really bad people who kidnap children and force them to fight like the ancient Romans did in the Colosseum. I kill for them, because if I don't, then someone else will kill me. If there is one thing I still have it is my life, and I will not give that up.

They say that if you win you get a prize. It's money, but it's not for the fighter. It's for the trainer. The Roman Fights are like dog fights; you have a trainer, and you have their fighter, their dog, or their slave. To keep with traditional Roman, the fighter is called their gladiator. That is me, and those are the people I fight, the ones who have the same lack of choices that I have. Backed into a corner, the choice is grab the sword by the hilt or let it hit you with the edge; not because you want to, but because you're the fighter and your trainer wants the prize. To live by the sword is survival.

I think I was a good person once, a normal person who went to school and had a family. That must have been a long time ago, in a different place, under a different name. Names are everything in the Roman Fights- you are given a name by your trainer, as I was, or if you are unlucky or belong to the men who run the fights you are named by the crowd. From what I've been told since I was brought to the Roman Fights- as I can't remember anything from before- Sparta was an elite military city in ancient Greece.

The irony of a Greek conquering the Roman Fights has always set a smile on my trainer's lips. I was never told his name, and refer to him as master, but I think of him as the other trainers call him, as King. Names are everything here- a source of power, but also danger, especially for those running the illegal fights. No one must know your real name for fear of black mail or a government spy. The fights have run successfully for over ten years thanks to their secrecy and carefully selected members, all of whom are trustworthy not to rat out the illegal society to the government. No one wants the members who started the Roman Fights mad at them.

Half of my life and all that I can remember was centred on the Roman Fights; almost eight years of captivity and training and killing. The fights were all I knew, all I had was my life, and all I could hope for was anything else. But even the idea of a different lifestyle was hard to believe let alone that I might obtain one.

Everything I knew, everything I had, and everything I thought possible was drastically changed the day the man in the top hat came to watch the fights.

The first time I noticed him was my last fight. King pulled me aside before I reached the loading box.

“Boy,” he said, “There's a lot of money to be won in this one. Don't mess it up; knock them down quickly and don't get flashy until you're sure they won't put a knife in your back.” He poked his finger into the small of my back in case I hadn't gotten the point.

“Yes, master,'' I told him as he unlocked my handcuffs. This was common practice, a last minute pep talk that was memorized by both of us. You don't mess up; one slip and even an amateur can seize advantage of you. You knock them down quickly; an opponent on the ground and unable to get up means their fight is over for them no matter how much longer it lasts. Don't get flashy until you are sure they will not stick a knife in your back; small or big, standing or fallen, a weapon is a weapon and it hurts. Do not waste time on giving the crowd a good show until you are sure your opponent is on the ground and weaponless. Then the fun starts.

King smiled a little at the sight of me in my armour, which did not not amount to much but a black shirt with a chain mail covering, black athletic pants, army combat boots, and nothing covering my head. The bare head was a rule in the Roman Fights to give the rookies a chance at winning, and only one serious piece of armour-- the chain mail covering-- was allowed.

King set my handcuffs on a side ledge of the weapons room, the room connected to the loading box. The walls were covered with weapons, and racks were stationed in the corners for the overflow. There was another weapons room connected to another loading box on the opposite side of the arena, which everyone calls the Pit. There were four doors entering the Pit- the loading boxes for the competing fighters, the door of life for the winner, and the door of death for the loser. No fight passed without a death.

A red light on the wall over the loading box started to flash and buzz. The fight would begin in five minutes. King grabbed my wrists and forced me to the ground, then kneeled before me so he could look down into my eyes. To anyone he looked like a normal business man, with gelled brown hair, light brown eyes and a crisp black suit. I judged him to be in his forties. If I had met him anywhere else I would have thought him to be a kind, average man with his smile and appearance, but this was a monster with a mask. He smiled at me.

“Boy, I've been thinking, and I've decided your sister is ready. Ready for the fights,” He said, all with an amiable expression on his face. He waited for me to respond but I just stared, so he continued, “She's had extensive training and you've taught her as well; she may earn her keep yet.” King chuckled softly at his own words as he tapped himself a note on his phone. No matter how many times over she earned her keep, she would never be able to make it count towards her benefit. Fighting earned you survival, not a way out.

“Roma is new,” I defended, “She's had less than two years to train. If she faces the wrong opponent she'll die within the first five minutes and all her training will go to waste.” I tried to keep my voice calm, like King's, like we were discussing the probability of fair weather tomorrow. King's desire for Roma to fight caught me off guard; she was young, but that did not matter so much as that she was new. She had no experience since being King's backup gladiator for me kept her safe from the fights; I never lost and always reaped good money so King never needed Roma to fight. I had protected her, but I realized a long time ago that I do not choose what or who I protect; King does.

He continued to smile. “Mm-mm yes, your sister is new isn't she? All the better for her skills to come as a surprise thanks to your help.”

“She's young,” I tried.

King waved an impatient hand at me. “You were young when you started too; eleven if I remember and she is already twelve. Come boy, stop shielding her from her fate. You've been victorious every fight since you were eleven; let her grasp some of the glory.”

The buzzing was urgent now, and a page poked their head through the door to point out that the fights were about to start and could King please put his gladiator in the loading box? I grabbed my machete off a rack and walked into the box. King looked me over and nodded once, then slid the door shut. I heard the click of the lock and then nothing.

Not Roma, I Thought. Please not another one. Roma was not actually my sister. King brought her here almost two years ago from who knows where. Small and scared, she immediately gained my pity so I took her under my wing like she was my sister. It helped that we looked alike. She was twelve now, almost thirteen,but trained and feisty enough to take care of herself. Still, I could not bear the thought of her stepping into the Pit and facing a problem too big for her, one I would not be able to save her from. I would not be able to stand it if she died, disappeared like Jack. Not another one.

I ran my hands over the walls of the loading box. It was small enough for me to touch both sides with my arms stretched out. There was no light so I could not see them but I could feel the engraved names in the walls of the box, hundreds of names. If you survived and were brought back to the box for your second fight you found your name and placed a small tally next to it, and so on until one day you never made it back. It was tradition for gladiators, a way to make sure they were remembered, that their deaths were not forgotten.

I felt in the bottom left corner, low down from the short extent my arms could reach when I had first stood in the loading box. I picked at the wood with the tip of my machete until another small, jagged line made its mark next to the others. I had stopped counting my lines a long time ago, only knowing there were a lot.

I dropped my hands and squatted, feeling the wall where it met the floor. Four letters were etched into the wood, merging with the crease as it joined the floor boards. J- a- c- k. The letters formed a familiar name, bringing memories of a young, smiling face and innocent laughter. There were no marks next to the name; traditionally the letters should not have been there as Jack had never fought in the Pit, but I had carved them there for him as way for him to be remembered now that he was gone like all the other names. A way for me to remember.

The loading box was both dark and silent, the door perfectly blocking the noise of the Pit, so when the door slid open without warning the sudden exposure was always a shock. I stepped out onto sand, a technique borrowed from the original Colosseum to soak up the blood and gore without needing to treat it firsthand.

It was dim but I didn't need light to know my surroundings; repeated visits had hammered a mental map of the Pit into my head. The arena itself was an oval shape with the diameter at its longest point being ten running paces wide. Sometimes this width led to a cat and mouse game of chase as a frightened rookie tried to run, an experienced fighter stalking in pursuit. The arena was surrounded by an eight foot high wall with a razor edge as a railing on top to discourage escape. Seating was offered in the form of bleacher-like raised benches on the longer sides of the oval; at one end of the smaller side sat the commentator and at the opposite end sat the betting box. I knew without looking that King was there, betting the maximum on me to gain extra money.

I was standing below the commentator's compartment, which was stationed directly above the entrance to my loading box. The second I placed both feet on sand the door slid shut behind me with a soft but solid click. Bolts were moved, and the door was as secure in its position as me in the Pit. I walked to the centre of the arena where a freshly painted white circle covered the sand. I stood on my side of the circle, waiting. My opponent, slightly slower, made his way to the circle as well.

The commentator was speaking, a rapid stream of words crammed together. The topic turned to the fights as I entered the Pit. “-couldn't trust her and haven't since that night- oh, here come our brave contestants! On the far side, we have a new boy, a rookie, he'll be some fun to play with, won't he boys?” He said with an audible wink. The crowd sniggered and roared their approval, leaning forward eagerly in their seats to see him. Most of the benches were full.

I took a look at the new gladiator, a small boy with a big sword looking very lost. His eyes were large and shadowed like they had not closed in sleep for a very long time, and he carried the sword like it was an unwanted burden, holding it by the tip of its hilt, keeping it as far away as possible. This one had obviously not been trained, a ward of the Roman Fights society. I felt pity for him, for his newness, for his innocence, for his imminent death.

The commentator continued. “And facing him today will be our returning winner- a real fiend with that machete, I am telling you Frank- the one warrior who fights like a real demon, Sparta!”

They knew me and they cheered. They shouted advice. They screamed insults. And I ignored them. I was not here for them; I was here to win. If I won, then maybe Roma would not need to fight. If I lost, well, I would not lose.

"I am your commentator for this evening, call me the Voice," said the Voice, "Are you ready to enjoy the show?" The crowd gave their approval. "Alright boys, we want a clean game today." More sniggering. "The fight ends when the loser stops breathing. Ready .. set.. fight!" A gong sounded, the arena was bathed in light, and the fight started.

There is something about conflict, its competition and excitement, that can change a person, turn them into a monster. I've seen it, and I try to forget it, but it is a reality of human nature that never truly goes away. It was everywhere in the Roman Fights, evidence of men turned savage, turning children into bloodthirsty beasts. Their minds gone, all they could do was scream and fight, and I felt pity for them, but never as much pity as I felt for the innocent. The boy I fought that day, the one with the wide eyes and the big sword, was innocent and good and doomed. Untrained, his survival chances were zero.

I can remember how I fought, how I had tuned out the commentator. I can remember every move, every blow I struck against that boy. But in the end, it all blurs together into a feeling of blankness, because in the end there was nothing I could do to save that boy but to spare him any more pain in the fights. All I could do was kill him quickly and painlessly, spilling blood only after he was dead to satisfy the crowd. He didn't deserve death any more than he deserved the fights, but it wasn't his choice this time. It was mine.

When the boy was pronounced dead and the crowd was satisfied with the blood, the comments from the Voice flooded back into my hearing. "Another stunning performance by Sparta-- that's how we do it Roman style eh?-- or demon style, just the way we like it. Better give him some love, boys, wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of that machete. Give it up for Sparta!"

The crowd roared, and I looked down at the boy's body, now mangled. A team of pages would take it away, once the audience left. I turned and walked to the victor's door, the Door of Life. The crowd never stopped whooping, which was why I noticed the one man who was not.

He stood, like the rest, leaning over the razor-edged railing above the Door of Life, but his arms were crossed and his expression was not one of twisted mirth. He wore a suits, complete with a black top hat that caught my eye. There was something funny about the hat- but before I could get a good look at it i noticed his mouth moving. It appeared as though he was muttering to himself, but then he looked up and made eye contact with me. He didn't smile or cheer, he simply nodded.

It was in this small movement that I noticed his ear piece, and through its suspicious presence it led me to pay closer attention to his next action. Following the movement of the crowd he thrust his arm towards me, hand closed. Even with his arm outstretched he was easily a good four feet too high to reach me. The men around him yelled and stretched their arms out as well, applauding my victory, oblivious to the man's oddity. As he let his arm sway slightly, clapping along with the crowns, he cracked his clenched fist open slightly, and what I saw gave me a hope that I had never felt before.

In his hand, he held a small badge, and I recognized three letters. FBI. For the longest time the Roman Fights had existed as their own separate, messed up world, but now they had been infiltrated. A foolish hope began to lift my heart but I quickly stamped it down. Rescue was coming, but one man could do little to stop the blood lusting masses around him. It would end, but not today. I walked past his arm like it was just that, another arm.

I paused as I reached the door of life, a gate from one cage to another. I did not want to leave quite yet, as though leaving would erase the man and erase the hope of rescue. It was a heavy hope, that help was coming, that after over ten years of smooth illegal action the Roman Fights would finally be abolished. It wouldn't be long now before it all would end, and then what? My past was a mystery to me; all I knew were the Roman Fights. I didn't know where I was geologically-- somewhere underground, beneath an abandoned warehouse. I didn't even know for certain how old I was, fifteen maybe sixteen. The real world had been as distant from my life as freedom, but it had to be better than the small, cruel society I knew in the fights. I needed hope.

The crowd began to tire of cheering and their shouts grew increasingly rude. The Voice began to joke about there being enough time for a second fight this evening and I got the hint. Pages were waiting edgily along the sides of the arena to dispose of the boy's body. It was time for me to go.

As I walked through the door I looked back at the man in the top hat,his arms once again folded across his chest. His eyes were focused on me as his mouth moved rapidly, speaking into his ear piece. A life other than the fights. My mind formed an answer, one that I had heard of, but never understood.

Freedom.