By Jim Bonnor
He plants each foot in the sand so the nearest squares of sunlight kiss the toes of his boots; a ritual he hasn’t forgotten through years of wine, women, and dice.
The tunnel funnels the baying from beyond the gate. His hand shakes, so he grips the wooden shaft tighter, swollen knuckles aching.
Veterans can make good money. This time he’ll be wiser. This time he’ll invest, a tavern, a brothel—not piss it all away down the back streets of the Palatine. And marry? Poor long-suffering Decima, beneath the arches, listening.
The gate chains rattle.
Deep breath.
One last time.
Really got into the mind and lifestyle of a gladiator. Bravo!