Previously On Clarkus Maximus:
"Okay," Lois said again, nodding thoughtfully. "And once we have that information, then what? We go to whoever has him and offer to buy him back?"
Xena shook her head. "No gladiator trader worth his salt would willingly part with a new acquisition. Not for money anyway. However, there are other methods of persuasion." The look on Xena's face made it clear to Lois that she would not hesitate to fight and kill whoever had Clark, if the need arose. "But, I don't think it will come to that. The word around Kratos was that Caesar's festival was starting soon. Probably within the next day or two. I can't guarantee that Clark won't be forced into the arena right away."
"Without training?" Lois nearly shrieked, once again edging towards panic.
A few sailors stopped what they were doing and looked in Lois' direction at her outburst. After a moment, they shrugged and took up their tasks once more. A new song started, this one about a saucy tavern wench and her drunken suitors.
Xena shrugged. "It's always a possibility. It depends on the owner and the offers made to him. It makes no difference to the spectators, so long as they get the bloodshed that they crave." She spat out the words disgustedly, then softened. "I'm sorry."
"Real tactful, Xena," Gabrielle said sarcastically.
Lois couldn't answer. She gripped the railing to steady herself.
"Lois, it's going to be all right," Xena said, locking eyes with her. "Gabrielle and I are prepared for that possibility."
"Easy for you to say," Lois argued. "It's not your husband out there!"
Xena fixed her with a level gaze, putting both of her hands on Lois' shoulders. "Lois, why do you think I had you and Gabrielle find us disguises?"
"You said it yourself. You can't risk being seen by Caesar."
Xena nodded. "The only time there is danger of that is at the games. I plan on fighting in the arena if Clark is forced into battle. You and Gabrielle are going to ensure that that happens."
**********************
Sunlight streamed into Clark's cell. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the light. For once, he was less than thrilled to see the life-giving orb. Morning meant another day in the practice arena in Tersius' compound. He'd been in the dismal compound for three or four days now; he was starting to lose track of time once more, the days and nights blurring into a continuous stream of despair. From sunup to sundown, he and the others were forced to train out in the walled off courtyard. They were only given a break for an hour in the afternoon to eat. The noon meals usually consisted of a soup and bread, with perhaps a strip or two of dried meat. Dinners were more substantial, consisting of thick stews and a chunk of bread. One of the nights, they had even been given small wedges of sharp yellow cheese.
Clark was grateful for every bite of food. For a normal man, the food would have been just enough to keep them healthy and energized. But the story was different for Clark. Between his high metabolism and the sheer exertion of training, he still nearly collapsed each night. He knew his body was weakening. He'd need at least twice the amount of food to come close to equaling the calories he was burning each day. But so far, he was still strong enough to keep going, and that meant that his life was spared each day.
"All right you dogs! Everyone up!" The prison guard's voice was heard even before the man came down the steps into the stone prison room.
Clark groaned again and pushed himself up off of the hard wooden bench that served as his bed. His sore muscles protested at the movement and he ruefully wished that he had his flight, so that he could levitate above the bench to take some of the pressure off of his abused body. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat, waiting for the guards to open his cell.
After a moment, Giron, the head guard, came into view. Five other guards trailed after him. The six men were all well armed, well armored, and efficient killers. Clark had seen one of the prisoners make a desperate attempt at escape the day before - or had it been the day before that? The man had taken a thrown dagger to the back before he'd made it to the first step leading out of the sunken prison. He'd been dead before he'd hit the floor. That had made up Clark's mind for him. There was no way that he was going to try his own luck against the brutes.
He sighed as he waited for one of the guards to come to his cell door, inspecting some of the slowly healing cuts and bruises that he bore, in order to pass the time. The young, red haired guard was the one to appear at his door this morning.
"Up," the man commanded as he unlocked the door.
Ren and Clark stood obediently.
"Arms up," the guard instructed.
Clark and Ren did as they were told. Like men under arrest, they exited the prison with their arms above their heads, joining the other gladiators on the way out. Guards walked to all sides of the group, weapons drawn and ready.
Clark blinked as they stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Without being prompted to, he made his way to the racks with armor. The prized fighters were provided with their own well made sets of armor. Throm, the best fighter in the compound, had armor of gold and silver metal, embossed with the raised images of the animals he'd fought in the arena and killed. Three bears, four pumas, a pair of tigers, a cheetah, and a lion with a magnificent mane decorated his breastplate, with room to spare in anticipation of more fights to come. Flames adorned his gauntlets and greaves and his helm was wrought to resemble a wolf head.
For the newcomers, there were only ill-fitting and dented helms and breastplates.
Clark chose one of each and quickly slipped into them. He secured the chin strap on his helm, ensuring that it fit his head as closely as possible. He tried to chose the same pieces of armor each day, but it just wasn't possible.
He moved down to the racks of weapons. Giron handed him a sword and a spear. Clark belted the sword and scabbard onto his waist. He had always admired swords from afar, but using one to fight with didn't sit well with him. He was all too aware of the lethal possibilities, both to himself and to others. He had vowed to himself that he would only draw his sword if no other option was available to him. The spear was no less vile, to his eyes. He tried to use it more like a staff, trying to keep the sharp tip away from his opponents. After all, they were only sparring and Clark didn't want to hurt anyone. Still, he wondered what his reaction would be if he were to be put in the arena to fight for real. Part of him argued that he would refuse to make the kill. The other part of him argued that he would do just about anything to stay alive - not for his own sake, but for Lois'.
His staunch refusal to draw blood in the courtyard each day had earned him more than one beating, and even a few lashes with a whip. Stubbornly, he had continued to hold fast to his decision.
Clark twirled the spear around a few times, getting a feel for the weapon. He tried to think of it as a drei, just as he had with the piece of wood when he and the others had first been attacked by Spartos. It was a little harder for him to do; he only had one non-sharp end of the spear to work with, instead of two non-sharp ends. He faced off against Ren, his usual sparring partner. Ren was similarity outfitted with weapons.
Clark waited for the younger man to make the first move. He'd learned that much from Ching when he'd been learning to duel in order to fight Lord Nor. Silently, he was thankful for the training that the Kryptonian lieutenant had given him. Ren eyed him for a moment, used to Clark's refusal to make the first move. After a moment, Ren struck, aiming for Clark's left shoulder. Clark easily parried the blow, using the same momentum to strike back. A resounding crack rang out as the wooden shafts made contact. Clark side-stepped as he struck, swinging the spear around as he moved. He landed a blow across Ren's back, though he reigned in his strength and used only enough force to fool the watchful eyes of Tersius' guards.
So the morning progressed. Clark had the upper hand for most of the morning, since he'd had that small bit of training with Ching. His nearly flawless memory ran through each of the nine hundred and eighty basic moves that he'd been forced to learn. He couldn't use all of the moves, of course, but the ones that he could use gave him a distinct advantage. That wasn't to say that it was easy. Ren kept him on his toes and Clark's muscles ached with the effort of trying to stay one step ahead of the younger man. Both of them, like all of the gladiators in the yard, were slick with sweat.
After lunch, the gladiators were given an unexpected reprieve. A centurion, dressed in the red and silver of his office, arrived at the compound, mounted on a massive tan warhorse. The guards quickly opened the main gates to allow the centurion to pass into the compound. Giron saluted the visitor, then turned on his heel to alert Tersius that his presence was requested. The rest of the guards encircled the gladiators, weapons drawn and ready, lest one of them make an attempt on the visitor's life. Unconcerned, the centurion dismounted.
After a few long minutes, Tersius emerged from his villa. As always, he was dressed richly and the gems on his fingers glinted in the sunlight. With a smile carefully affixed to his face, the gladiator owner crossed the dirt yard to the middle, where the centurion stood. They saluted one another - the right hand fisted and brought to one swift thump against the middle of the chest, then extended out before them toward the recipient of the salute. The centurion lifted his helm from his head and cradled it in his left arm.
"Brutus, my old friend! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Tersius asked as he recognized the man. His smile changed from a carefully crafted one to a genuine one.
"Tersius," Brutus greeted him. "Good to see you again, my friend. I come at Caesar's behest. He wishes for you to bring some of your gladiators to the games this week."
Tersius' eyes lit up. "An invitation from Caesar himself," he said with delight.
Brutus nodded. "You will, of course, be well compensated."
"Who does the great Caesar wish to see fight?"
"Throm will fight a pair of leopards. He is to be the last fight on the last day - the star attraction, as usual. He also wants Mercurion, Paxius, and Exion. They fight in three days. And one more thing."
"Oh?" There was interest on Tersius' face.
"Word has it that you have some new acquisitions."
Tersius nodded. "I am flattered that the great Caesar pays attention to my humble business dealings."
Brutus chuckled. "Bring them before me."
Tersius snapped his fingers together. Guards grabbed Clark and Ren by both of their arms and dragged them forward to stand before the centurion. Brutus eyed them silently. His gaze lingered on Clark. It was all that Clark could do to stand defiantly, his head held high, his unreadable Superman mask on his face. His heart, however, was pounding in his chest in dread.
"What is your name?" Brutus demanded.
"Clark."
Brutus nodded. "Caesar asked for you by name." He swung his gaze to Tersius. "He'll be announced as Clarkus. The people like names that sound more familiar to them. Not that it matters much. He'll be dead before tomorrow night." Brutus looked Ren over briefly. "Bring this one too. Caesar wishes to start the games off tomorrow with amateur fights. It's been a long time since the people have been treated to such easy bloodshed. You will, of course, be compensated when they are killed."
Tersius nodded easily. "I paid fifty dinars for Clarkus. And eighty five for the other."
Brutus nodded and made a note in a scroll that he retrieved from his saddle bag. Replacing it, he nodded. "Standard compensation on that one." He pointed at Ren. "For Clarkus, however..." he shrugged.
"What?" Tersius demanded, one skeptical brow raised.
Brutus smiled. "Caesar will pay you ten times what you paid for him once he is dead."
"Ten times?" Excitement was barely concealed in Tersius' voice. His eyes were alight with joy as he thought of his good fortune. Clark could tell that the man was already mentally counting his money.
The centurion shrugged again. "It seems that the gods themselves have demanded that this one die."
Brutus replaced his helm onto his head and mounted his steed once more. The two men saluted each other once more. Then, with a gentle kick to the animal's ribs and a sharp click of his tongue, the centurion turned the warhorse and galloped off. Terius watched as the man rode out of the gates and the guards secured them once more. In the next moment, the gladiator owner was gone, back into his villa and out of the hot sun.
"Back to work!" Giron shouted.
Guards and prisoners alike hastily got back to their posts. Giron approached Clark and Ren.
"You," he said to Ren, "you're to fight with Exion for the rest of the day. You won't survive tomorrow, but we can at least give the people a good show. Exion!" The summoned gladiator approached immediately. "Make sure you don't kill him."
"Yes, sir," Exion said. Ren trailed miserably behind the more experienced gladiator.
"And you," Giron said, turning to Clark. "You will be with Mercurion for the rest of the day." He turned his head to the large, ebony skinned man. "I don't care how badly you beat him today. Just make sure that you don't cripple him before tomorrow." Mercurion nodded and turned. "Oh, and don't make his wounds obvious," Giron warned him.
Clark followed Mercurion across the yard to the weapons rack. The man picked up two heavy fighting staves and tossed one to Clark. Clark instinctively caught it, hefted its weight and gave it an experimental twirl. The choice in weapons pleased Clark. Sure, the staves could be just as deadly as any blade, if wielded in the proper way, but at least Clark didn't have to worry about any sharp edges.
Mercurion made the first move. For a large man, he moved with surprising agility and speed. His stave crashed into Clark's breastplate. Clark was momentarily winded, unable to move. Before he could recover, Mercurion was in motion again, bringing his stave in a swooping arc. The heavy piece of wood cracked into the back of Clark's knee. There was an audible pop as the joint took the abuse. Clark grunted in pain as he fell forward. Using his forward motion, Clark jammed the end of his own stave into the gladiator's booted right foot, baring down with all of the weight and force that he could muster. Mercurion grunted in annoyance. Clark marveled that the move hadn't seemed to really affect the man.
Before Clark knew what had happened, Mercurion arced his stave around. Clark heard the stave crack as it collided with his back. In the next instant, Clark's back bloomed into a stinging fire of pain. His vision swam before him and the air was once more knocked from his lungs. He tried to cry out in pain but was incapable of uttering a sound.
For the rest of that afternoon, Clark was the recipient of Mercurion's pent up rage. Livid purple-yellow bruises had sprouted up over most of his body. His chest and back were in agony. His injured knee all but hobbled him. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth; he wiped it away with the back of one hand.
Finally, mercifully, the sun began to go down.
Instead of being led back to their cells for their evening meal, the gladiators were chained with ankle and wrist manacles, then ushered into a smaller building adjacent to the prison. Clark could scarcely believe what the building held as he crossed the threshold.
Two large, steaming circular baths stood at either end of the room. The veteran fighters stripped out of their dirty, sweaty garments, tossing them on benches as they moved. Nude and unashamed, they descended the steps into the bath on the right. From another doorway in the back of the room, women entered, their garments so sheer that it was as if they wore nothing at all. The women slipped out of their garments and joined the gladiators, two of the amber haired ones immediately moving to join Throm.
Clark felt his face flush and he quickly averted his eyes. And yet, he wasn't surprised by what he'd seen. The gladiators in the tub to the right were Tersius' big money makers. They were afforded certain comforts - better food to sate their hunger and women to sate their lust.
Clark self consciously undressed and slipped into the tub on the left when directed to. He kept his back to where the veteran fighters were. He focused only on scrubbing away the layers of dirt, grime, and dried blood that covered his aching body. He savored the feel of the hot water on his tired and throbbing muscles. The thrill of a hot bath was short lived, however. Giron gave a signal and the prisoners were forced out of the baths.
Once the men were dressed, they were led back to their cells and let out of their restraints. Food was brought to them, the prisoners that were to fight the next day receiving better meals than those who would not be taken to the arena. Clark's eyes widened and his heart was grateful as he eyed his plate. Thick slices of venison, three small red potatoes, half of a loaf of bread, a thin soup, and a mug of cold water. It seemed a veritable feast. He ate with renewed strength.
By the time he had finished, however, he wasn't feeling right. He felt somehow weaker and more disoriented. A headache grew - a stabbing pain that felt as if it was right behind his eyes. He felt nauseous. A cold sweat broke out on his brow and he shivered despite the summer heat.
Worried lines creased Ren's brow. He called for the guards to help Clark, but his pleas were only laughed at or ignored completely.
With an effort, Clark laid on his bench in a nearly fetal position, too sick to keep his eyes open.
To Be Continued...
