The Rebels' Assault (2 page)

The opening through which he'd fallen was far above him, well beyond his reach. The only viable exit was an adjoining, equally flooded channel that stretched off in an easterly direction. Gladius took in another deep lungful of the tunnel's foul-smelling air, and dived under the water.

A murky terrain greeted Gladius when he managed to force his eyes open. The channel seemed to go on for about thirty feet before turning left. As there didn't seem to be any breathing space in this section of the tunnel, Gladius swam with all his strength in order to reach the bend. Then, bringing his arms tightly to his sides, he propelled himself along the new channel. The statue was visible now, standing at the end of the tunnel with weeds and other marine growth swirling around it. Gladius could just make out the golden glint of the torcs, which were all fastened around the statue's neck.

He dived deeper into the tunnel using blocks of sunken masonry to help his progress.

Down. Down. Down.

His fingers found the statue, but already he could feel the exhalation building inside him. There was no TIME to study the torcs, no TIME to do anything but snatch one, unfasten it, and then swim frantically for the entrance tunnel and its glorious oasis of breathing space.

Gladius reached out a hand and took hold of the first torc he could reach. His chest now ready to explode, he swooped and turned in the water, propping his feet against the statue and pulling at the neck ring with all his strength. The torc came away from the stone with surprising ease, and Gladius began to swim madly for the entrance tunnel, kicking himself off the statue and spearing through the water. He spluttered, water flooding into his mouth and nostrils as he began to panic, flailing madly as he tried to drive himself back along the original channel. A terrible fear gripped him as the tension in his lungs grew, and he felt closer to death than he had throughout the trials that Slavious Doom's hideous servants had set for him.

He put on one last burst of speed and powered on. Unfortunately, Gladius was still too far from the entrance well . . . and his strength was leaving him.

A series of gray images flashed before his eyes: downcast faces and cruel, cackling masks. He saw Ruma, Argon, and Teo all sharing his fate: a watery grave that swallowed them all one by one. He saw Slavious Doom and Drin Hain smiling down at the lifeless corpses of the slaves. He saw Decimus Rex . . .

. . . who had taken on the arena, and triumphed.

In the roasting courtyard, an uncomfortable silence had descended on the slave line. They were all thinking the same, dreadful thought: Gladius was too heavy to swim a network of flooded channels—he wasn't going to make it. Ruma risked a glance at Hain, who was still occupying the platform over the arched gate. The cloaked assassin showed no signs of concern; his arms were still folded and his rigid stance had not altered in the slightest. Beside him, however, the jailer was darting furtive looks at the heavyset guard who'd marched Gladius to the opening. He was obviously of the opinion that Gladius had drowned in the waters beneath the tower.

As Ruma turned to face his companions, Argon lowered his head. Even Teo looked away. Poor, clumsy Gladius had fallen before his method of execution had even been decided.

“Maybe it's better this way,” Ruma muttered. “For Gladius, I mean. He would never have—”

“Out! OUT! Ouuuuuuut!”

The cry echoed across the courtyard, causing several guards to start and all the slaves to leap back in surprise. There was a halfsecond pause before Gladius's voice pierced the silence again.

“I have a torc! Lower the rope!”

The guard nearest the grate turned to Hain, who gave a quick nod of permission. Dropping his spear, he hurried over to a length of rope that was secured on an iron ring at the base of the tower wall. Then he heaped it onto his shoulder and, arriving at the grate, lowered the slack into the gloomy darkness below.

When Gladius finally emerged, puffing, panting, and soaking wet, from the grate, none of the slaves could stop themselves from smiling . . . especially when he flopped over onto the baking sand and lay there like a beached whale, spitting out plumes of water as the guards advanced on him.

“Well?” Hain yelled as the jailer scurried down the ladder and hurried across the courtyard. “Which torc does he have?”

One of the guards reached down and drew the necklace from the slave's unresisting grip. However, it was quickly snatched by the jailer, who practically fell over himself in his determined dash to place it in Hain's gloved hands.

“This torc is the most finely crafted of those we placed below,” the assassin decreed. “Therefore, Gladius has earned the right to be executed by my OWN hand.”

Ruma gasped, while Argon and Teo shared a horrified glance.

On the sand, Gladius raised his head slightly and stared at the distant shape of the man who would end his life. The icy depths of the well would have provided a preferable end.

Hain beckoned to the jailer and pointed at Argon, who was next in line.

“My turn, then,” Argon muttered as Gladius was dragged back to the line and dumped unceremoniously onto the hot ground.

T
he
Caveat
rocked back and forth on the rolling ocean. In the depths of the ship, Decimus and Olu were both feeling incredibly sick, but the crew was used to the rhythmic pitching of the deck, and their slaves were so exhausted that any mere sickness would have been a luxury. However, Decimus and Olu weren't simply sick because of the ocean—they were recovering from shock. A few seconds before, a trapdoor had been flung open and a dead slave had been cast down into their hiding place, thrown aside like a used rag and left to rot.

However, the slave deck itself didn't have many better sights to offer.

A scarred brute of a man stalked between the rowers, barking abuse and stopping occasionally to whip those that he felt weren't pulling their weight. This amounted to just about anyone who wasn't already bleeding, and, occasionally, the odd unfortunates who were already bleeding and had stopped rowing briefly to try to staunch the flow of blood from their backs.

Arriving beside the smallest slave on the deck, the hulking crewman raised his whip and grinned. The victim rowed for all he was worth, throwing what little strength he had into the gesture. Unfortunately, it made no difference: The whip came down upon him, birthing a glistening line of blood on his back as the little man cried out in pain.

The brute was about to follow his attack with a second strike when another crewman appeared at the entrance to the deck. This one was shorter and had a single eye. The brute was covered by a rough patch of skin. His hair was long and matted, and he walked with a stoop.

“What do you want?” the brute boomed, lowering his whip as the second crewman approached.

“Keys,” said the one-eyed slaver. “Captain thinks we're turning too fast.” He cast a glance around the deck. “And it's your fault.”