Descendants of Rome (#3 in Gladiator Series)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“Be good,” Lazarus hugged his sister close as the time grew near for him to leave.

“I am always good,” Cassia hugged her brother back, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck like she did when she was younger.

Lazarus chuckled softly at her stubbornness before he pulled back and gazed upon her features that were so similar to his.

With the same ebony eyes that shined, straight nose and thick dark hair they could have been mistaken for twins.

Kneeling to the ground, Lazarus turned to his youngest sibling; Zeph.

The young boy ran straight into his arms unaware of what was really happening and yet Lazarus still inhaled his familiar scent, hoping to ease his nerves.

Now that the day was here, Lazarus’s stomach felt as if it was tightening itself into knots whilst his skin was-

“Lazarus!” Damocles’s irritating voice interrupted his memories, pulling Lazarus out of his reverie.

Looking up, Lazarus quickly noticed something being hurtled in his direction but was too slow to grab it before it whacked the side of his face and fell to the ground.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” Lazarus snapped as he swooped down and collected the water skin from the forest floor.

“You were not paying attention,” Damocles shrugged a shoulder as he continued tying satchels to his horse, “You were a bit slow catching that,” He laughed, “You should watch that when we reach the arena.”

Lazarus ignored his friend’s jibe and began to re-saddle his own horse; Lazarus’s stomach was in a constant state of perpetual fear.

His first major journey from home and he was slowly realising that those who entered the arena had trainers dedicated to making them exceptional fighters.

Lazarus had only Damocles and the heritage of reluctant warriors.

But Damocles was excited and Lazarus would not allow him to see beneath into his fears.

“That is if we ever reach the arena,” Lazarus threw the water skin back at Damocles, hitting him in the arm, “You are slower than a sheep.”

Damocles made an act of being hurt by the comment, “You wound me.”

Lazarus shook his head as a smile came to his lips, making him forget his worries for a moment, “Just get your horse ready. We should have left by now.”

“Says the man who was daydreaming on a log for the past ten minutes,” Damocles muttered, “We’re going to Rome to fight in the Colosseum not for the poets gathering.”

“I know,” Lazarus swallowed nervously, that truth had not been lost on him.

* * * A few days later * * *   

It had been nearly two decades since they had stepped upon Roman land, unable to return to a place which held only pain for them both.

Krista may have been born Roman but she did not grow up as one; she grew up as a Gladiator, nothing more.

A young girl ripped from her mother’s caring arms and forced to fight. She was trained by only the best . . . trained to kill for the pleasure of others.

Krista would not deny she found pleasure in the kills herself, especially after Lazarus was taken from her; her heart had become consumed with rage and the need for revenge.