Page 14 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“A gladiator’s purpose is toplease the crowd.” He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “And the crowd wantsblood.”

“Then they misunderstand the true meaning of the games.” Father’s teachings steady my voice despite the fear churning in my gut. “Triumph through skill, not slaughter. Victory with honor—”

Another blow, this time to my stomach. If a more vigorous man had wielded it, I would be crouched on the ground, gasping for air.

“Your father’s philosophies are worth less than pig shit here.” Thelanistasteps back, cold calculation replacing anger. “The slave monger had a lot of nerve naming you Victor. You’re more like aVictus.” He pauses so my comrades can laugh at him calling medefeated. “But perhaps that stubborn pride of yours will make a fine example.”

He barks orders to the guards. I’m dragged to the training yard’s center and placed between two upright wooden posts. Heavy buckets filled with sand are brought forward.

“Since you enjoy denying death so much,” thelanistasays with a sneer, “let’s see how well you deny your own suffering.”

The punishment is elegantly simple. Stand with arms outstretched, a bucket of sand suspended from each hand. Face east from sunrise to sunset. No food. No water. No rest until sundown.

“Twonundinals,” he announces to the gathered gladiators, his voice cold as steel as he pronounces this sentence of sixteen days. “One day for each hundreddenariiyour mercy has cost me. Drop your arms, and we start over. Collapse, and we start over.” His smile carries no warmth. “Or end it now. Swear to kill your next opponent.”

The first bucket’s weight sends fire through my shoulder. The second makes my arms tremble. But Father’s voice echoes in my memory, “True strength lies not in dominating others, but in mastering yourself.”

“I cannot swear what I do not intend to honor,Dominus.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd. They’ve seen this punishment break stronger men.

The sun hasn’t yet reached its peak and already sweat soaks my skin. By sunset, they expect me to beg for mercy.

But they don’t understand. This is no mere test of physical endurance—it’s a battle of will against flesh, of principle against pain.

The first day passes in a haze of agony. My muscles scream for relief, my hands ache to drop the buckets, my throat burns with thirst. But I endure. Each passing moment is a choice—a refusal to let pain dictate my actions.

When the sun sets, my arms are secured to the posts, not allowing me to lower them or to recline. I’m given a dipper of water, a crust of bread, and moldy cheese. Then they leave me until sunrise, where I’m given another dipper of water but no food.

By the second day, the torment deepens. Flies buzz around the urine and feces that coat my legs and pool at my feet.

My muscles knot into stone, although at times they quiver without my permission. Guards pass by with sneering comments. Mocking laughter swells from the other gladiators, some of them already wagering on how quickly I’ll fall.

At the end of the third day, after the meager rations, my arms tied, alone in the dark of the arena, I’m close to giving up. I look to the heavens and watch a cloud move across the full moon. I pray to the Goddess Tyche for strength to endure. Hoping it is not my fate to die here in my own filth.

The cloud passes, and the face of the moon shimmers with an ethereal light. Is it delirium? For I swear the face of the Goddess appears. My head is filled with a soft soothing voice, “Be brave, my boy, I have plans for you. Your fate is not of this time.” The voice and face fade, but strength and renewed determination return.

Some time later, a gentle rain rouses me. I lift my face and swallow the sweetest water I’ve ever tasted as the sweat and effluvia are washed from my body.

By the fifth day, my body begins to adapt. The pain doesn’t lessen, but my mind learns to float above it. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythm of my heartbeat. Each small victory—another hour endured, another sunset reached—becomes a triumph of will over weakness.

Other gladiators watch with different eyes. Some still mock, but others grow quiet, thoughtful. They see something they didn’t expect. Not just stubborn endurance, but serene acceptance. Thelanista’spunishment becoming a demonstration of a different kind of strength.

Six days, seven, then finally onenundinal.My arms no longer feel like parts of my body. They are simply there, extended like tree branches, holding their burden as naturally as leaves hold morning dew. The pain becomes a meditation, each moment an opportunity to prove that principle can outlast punishment.

Thelanista’sfrustration grows with each sunset that finds me still standing. He reduces my water ration. Still, I endure.

Ten days. Eleven. My world narrows to the rise and fall of the sun, the weight of sand against muscle and bone, the eternal battle between will and exhaustion. Some gladiators sneak me extra water, while others come close when no one is looking, to press a couple of grapes or figs to my hungry mouth, inspired by what they see as defiance.

They are my brothers, and their support fills my heart with gratitude, but they don’t understand. This isn’t about defying authority, but about remaining true to deeper principles.

The memory shifts, blurs, and then focuses on the twelfth day. Thelanistastands before me, his expression unreadable.

“Impressive,” he says. “But unnecessary. Just swear to kill, and this ends.”

My voice comes out rough from abuse and disuse. “Every moment of pain is a choice. Every sunrise is an opportunity to demonstrate that principles matter more than comfort.”

“Pretty words. Your father taught you well.” His tone carries grudging respect. “But principles won’t fill my purse or please the crowd.”

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