Chapter 2 #2
She makes a note, doesn’t push. “Any current pain?”
“No.”
Modern medicine healed the physical damage when they pulled me from the ice. Healed my shoulders, my feet, everything the domina’s torturers destroyed.
Didn’t heal the rest.
“You’re cleared. Next station for blood draw.”
The blood draw is quick. Then I’m directed to another tent for a psychological check-in.
The psychological evaluator is a younger man, maybe thirty, with a tablet and an earnest expression that reminds me of the sanctuary’s therapists. Laura keeps trying to make me see one. I keep refusing.
“I’m Dr. Craig,” he says. “This is just a baseline assessment. Nothing to worry about. Tell me, why are you here?”
“To compete.”
“Yes, but why? What motivated you to apply?”
I consider my words carefully. In Latin first, then translate. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“From what?”
“My current life.”
“Which is?”
“Stable. Routine. Boring.”
He makes notes on his tablet. “And you thought a month of extreme physical and psychological hardship would be the cure for that?”
“I didn’t come here for a cure. I came here to be someone else for a while.”
He pauses, looks up. “Escape.”
“Fresh start. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” A small smile. “Fair enough. Tell me about your background. What do you do now?”
“I work at Second Chance Sanctuary in Missouri.”
His eyebrows rise. “The gladiator sanctuary? You’re one of the Fortuna survivors?”
Of course he knows. We were international news two years ago. Ancient Romans frozen in a shipwreck, revived in modern times. Spectacle for the masses, just like in the arena.
“Yes.”
“That’s remarkable. What’s your role there now?”
Here’s where it gets tricky.
The truth is complicated. I was a ludus master. I trained gladiators by beating them into submission. I held absolute power and wielded it with cruelty for decades.
But that’s not what he’s asking.
“I teach self-defense classes,” I say. Not a lie. Laura asked me to start teaching months ago. Using my knowledge for good, she said. Redemption, she said.
I didn’t believe her.
But I did it anyway.
“So you have combat training? Fighting skills?”
“I know how to train fighters. There’s a difference.”
More notes. “Any history of violence? Aggression?”
My jaw tightens. “Not recently.”
“But in the past?”
“Two thousand years ago, yes. I imagine your assessment tools don’t account for that time gap.”
He laughs. Can’t tell if he thinks I’m joking. “Fair point. Any current mental health concerns? Depression, anxiety, trauma responses?”
I could tell him about the nightmares. About waking in the dark thinking I’m back in the cell. About the rats that aren’t there, the dripping water that doesn’t exist, the feeling of my shoulders dislocating over and over—
“No,” I say.
“History of substance abuse?”
“No.”
“Suicidal ideation?”
“No.”
He asks more questions. I answer them all with the minimum truth required. Finally, he sets down the tablet.
“You’re cleared for participation. One last thing—during the program, if you experience psychological distress, we have support available. Don’t hesitate to use it.”
I’m not about to discuss my torture in the brutal underground prison they called the ergastulum with a stranger holding a tablet.
“I won’t need it.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I’m not everyone.”
He studies me, then nods. “No. I suppose you’re not. Good luck out there.”
The final requirement is what they call a confessional interview. A small tent with a camera, a single chair, and a producer who introduces herself as Michelle. She’s young, enthusiastic, probably thinks she’s going to get compelling television out of me.
“Just relax,” she says. “Be yourself. Tell us your story.”
I sit. Stare at the camera. The red light is blinking. Recording.
“I’m Sulla. I work at Second Chance Sanctuary in Missouri. I’m one of the Fortuna gladiators—the frozen ones.”
“That’s amazing! Tell us more about that.”
“Not much to tell. We were frozen. We were revived. Now we’re here.”
“But you must have an incredible story. What was life like in ancient Rome? What was your role?”
“I trained gladiators.”
“So you were a fighter yourself?”
“No. I trained fighters. I taught them technique, strategy, how to survive in the arena.”
She leans forward. “That must have been intense. Did you have a good relationship with the gladiators you trained?”
I almost laugh. Good relationship.
They feared me. Hated me. Still do.
“It was professional,” I say.
“Why did you apply for Elite Crucible?”
“Fresh start.”
“From what?”
“From being known. At the sanctuary, everyone knows me. Here, no one does. For one month, I’m just another contestant.”
That lands. She makes a note, signals the cameraman.
“That’s great. Really honest. Thank you, Sulla.”
I stand. “Are we done?”
“Yes. Go get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
Rest. Right.
As if I’ve rested well in the years since I was pulled from the ice.
Dinner is packaged military rations—MREs, they’re called—eaten standing in the mess tent because there aren’t enough seats. The food is terrible but I’ve had worse. Much worse.
As a slave in the ludus, I ate what the lanista allowed—better than the kitchen slaves, worse than free men. Adequate. Functional. This is similar. Processed, strange-tasting, but edible.
The young one with the tied-back hair—someone calls him Trevor—is already befriending people. Loud, enthusiastic, talking too much. In the ludus, we called this “arena nerves.” The ones who couldn’t stop talking before a fight.
Usually died first.
The blonde woman—Sienna, I hear someone say—is tougher than she looks. She’s not complaining about the cold or the food. Just observing, like me.
There's a man who moves with too much confidence, aggressive body language, loud voice. Blake. Good muscle mass, but he favors his left side—old injury, or habit. Either will cost him. Reminds me of the kind of gladiator who bullied the younger ones. I dislike him immediately.
The large Black man is named Zay—former athlete of some American sport, someone mentions. Big frame, real power in his shoulders, but that size will be a liability in the cold. He's being friendly to everyone, trying to keep spirits up.
In the ludus, we had men like this too. The ones who tried to keep morale high, who helped the younger gladiators, who refused to let the brutality destroy their humanity.
I beat them the same as the others.
I eat my rations and try not to think about that.
And then, just as I’m finishing, the tent flap opens and someone new enters.
Late arrival.
Female, tall—almost as tall as me—with short dark hair soaked from the rain. Athletic build, moves with purpose. She’s wearing civilian clothes still—tactical pants, wet jacket, hiking boots—and she’s got a pack slung over one shoulder.
She scans the room once, quick assessment, then walks directly to the crew member with the clipboard.
“Reid Donahue. Sorry I’m late. Flight delay.”
Her voice is flat, no emotion in it. American accent.
The crew member checks his list. “Number twelve. Surrender electronics first, then gear tent for clothing change. Medical and psych screenings tonight—we start at 0600 tomorrow, you need to be cleared. Move.”
She nods once and turns to leave.
Her gaze sweeps the tent, efficient and detached. If she sees me, she gives no sign. Then she’s gone.
I set down my empty ration pack.
Something about her…
Military, probably. The bearing, the efficiency, the way she assessed the room like she was looking for threats.
Competent.
Dangerous, maybe.
I should stay away from her.
After dinner, Mac gathers us again in the main tent.
“Sleeping arrangements,” he announces. “You’ll all be in the communal barracks tent. Men on one side, women on the other. Cots are assigned by number. Stow your gear under your cot. Lights out at 2200. Wake-up is 0530. Any questions?”
Someone asks about privacy. Mac’s expression doesn’t change.
“There is no privacy. You will sleep, eat, train, and compete under observation. Cameras are everywhere. You signed the waiver. Deal with it.”
The barracks tent is large, drafty, and lined with metal cots. Mine is near the back on the men’s side. A thin mattress, a sleeping bag, and one pillow.
I’ve slept on worse.
I set up my sleeping bag, organize my gear beneath the cot, and lie down. Around me, other contestants are doing the same. Some are talking quietly. Some are already asleep. Trevor is fidgeting on his cot, clearly nervous.
Outside, the rain continues. Wind shakes the tent. Somewhere in camp, someone is laughing.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow, the real test begins.
Tomorrow, I start over.
Just another contestant. No past.
That’s the lie.
The darkness behind my eyelids is familiar. Too familiar.
I open my eyes and stare at the tent roof until exhaustion finally takes me under.