A Nameless Slave ~ Part Two ~Bloody Offerings
Not the first back in the chute, but by no means the last.
Being thin has advantages when it comes to being fast.
Pay attention now, he sternly told himself, planting feet to get the best view he could.
Finally, something to learn from. It was time for men against the wild things of the wood.
They were by no means the best of gladiators, of this he was most sure.
But, to see the animals, how they fought, the novelty of such held allure.
To one day be champion, best. He never missed a chance to learn of battle.
He was convinced it would be the key to winning the freedom he was after.
And so it was he was hyperaware as the magistrate rose to address the crowd.
Swiftly, the match was announced and the big cats were released roaring loud.
Three giant beasts stalked the blood wet sand,
ears up, muzzles down, sensing prey at hand.
In the Roman slave machine even animals knew of the cruelties of man.
The beasts emanated a savage, primal energy he could feel and understand.
From two chutes on opposite sides of the vast coliseum eight gladiators emerged.
Four from each side, warily spreading out, watching, to bravery by the crowd urged.
A lone gladiator stupidly thought to charge a beast, all the glory for himself, with sword raised, screaming a battle cry.
Lightening fast the massive cat sprang, latching onto the beefy man’s throat. It was not the great cat’s day to die,
not by his hands. While the cat proceeded to tear the man limb from limb, much to the amusement of the masses,
another man drew in too close with jabbing spear. A feline swat took his eye. He would make no more jabbing passes.
Two gladiators down. Great gods above, the crowd was really starting to go wild.
Noise combined with the scent of fresh blood was getting the cats more riled.
Six remaining men strained with the intensity of their desperate shared goal.
The young boy knew only by working together could they make it out whole.
The smallest one yelled to the rest but the boy couldn’t make out the words over the din.
The biggest cat took offense. He glared death as he charged, growling from deep within.
Hundreds of pounds of snarling cat slung the man between massive jaws like a rag doll.
Giant canines tearing through mere flesh and bone. The crowd emitting a constant squall.
By the end of the all too brief match not a single human stood. Judging from the crowd it was for the good.
Beasts won over man, but not because they should. No, because men had not looked to the greater good.
Had they banded together and attacked with a plan the boy just knew that they could have won.
The cats had been slaughtered by guard’s arrows. Their bodies now piled in the noon day sun.
Using a grubby forearm to wipe blood and sweat from brow, the boy resumed his avid onlooker position.
He strained with anticipation. Up next was something new, never seen by him, a one of a kind competition.
He couldn’t believe they were going to do it. Everyone had been swearing it would be a most notable match.
This time when the magistrate stood, he did not have to wait long for the crowd to still so that he was able to introduce the upcoming offering.
Thousands of beating hearts lusted for death, pulsating as one, waiting to feed. Under the Magistrate’s Villa they had been caught burrowing.
Beautiful to behold, gossip said. The tale of their capture had swept through the city. Members of some cult, said to be assassins.
The boy didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. How could they be worth much? They were still just girls from Athens.
The gladiator, with the honor of what he knew would be a swift disposal of the treacherous bitches, was well versed in the arena.
His background spoke for itself. He defeated every opponent, not once giving sign of surrender. He even trained in Sparta!
The boy anxiously awaited the opening blows.
The crowd in anticipation of fresh blood rose
with thoughts of the offerings of virginal flesh now at hand.
Viscous bits of the dead shimmered on the blood wet sand.
To be cont.
© Vix a.k.a. Rhonda Enrayne 7-30-11
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The sweat stung his eyes. He squinted against the glaring sun. Barely twelve, he was strong, but this day was far from done. His tanned skin itched under the coat of blood glued grime. His hair reeked with gore and fluids mixed to a putrid s
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© 2011 poetvix
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