"We'll take this one too," one of the merchants say as he points his finger at you. Relieved that you will not be taken to the mines, you follow them as the good slave you are.
In the weeks to come you are trained, fed and took to the best of your fitness, and then thrown into the arena. You win fights, receive the applause of the public, but find no comfort in that, for your sword and your trident often drinks the blood of a friend. Or better, of something you knew: gladiators cannot have friends.
Not even the slave rowers are so poor, nor even in the coal mines is a darkness as great as the gladiator who cannot afford to be a friend.
The sun shines on your last day. The fight is clean and fast only this time you are the one to be a split second slower. Defeated, you fall into the ground. As life abandons your body you wonder what became of the Prince. You can only hope the best for him; for you this is...
