Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Sulla
In Rome, we started training before dawn. The lanista, our owner, believed early morning was when gladiators were weakest—tired, cold, and hungry. Break them then, and they stayed broken.
I know this because I trained that way myself as a boy. From age eight until sixteen, I was in the training yard every morning with the gladiator recruits. The lanista thought I’d follow my father—become a fighter, bring glory to the ludus.
But I stayed small. Wiry. Fast but not strong enough. Not tall enough. Not built like a gladiator.
At sixteen, they stopped wasting time on me and made me an assistant trainer instead.
But I remember the training. The weights. The endless repetitions. The whip. The way your body learns to push past what your mind thinks is possible.
And since waking from the ice, I’ve had nothing but time. While the others socialize in the evenings, I’m in the sanctuary gym. Lifting. Running. Pushing this body the way I once pushed gladiators.
Not to compete. To control something. To master something.
Old habits.
I’m awake before the alarm. Around me in the barracks, others are groaning, stumbling out of their cots. Trevor looks like he hasn’t slept at all. Zay moves with the slow care of a large man whose body is protesting. On the women’s side, I can hear quiet movement. No complaints. Good discipline.
We’re given ten minutes to dress, use the latrines which have flush toilets and running water that doesn’t get warmer than cool tea, and report to the central area.
The rain has stopped, but the sky is still gray, heavy with clouds that promise more later. The temperature is just above freezing. My breath makes fog in the air.
Mac is already waiting, dressed in the same black tactical gear, looking like he hasn’t slept but doesn’t need to.
“Line up,” he says. “Two lines. Move.”
We form up. Some faster than others. The ex-military contestants—Reid, Aiden, one or two others—snap into position. The rest fumble through it.
The man they call Jacks stands a little apart even in formation—tall, lean in the way of someone who carries nothing he doesn’t need, with close-cropped hair going silver at the temples and a stillness that belongs in a monastery rather than a survival competition.
His eyes are half-lidded, dark and quiet, as if the cold and threat of rain are irrelevant details.
He does not fidget. Does not glance around. He simply waits.
Mac walks the line, inspecting us like the lanista inspecting gladiators before a fight. Looking for weakness, for fear, for the ones who won’t last.
He stops in front of Trevor. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine, Sergeant Major.”
“I didn’t ask how you feel. I said you look tired.” Mac moves on. “If you can’t sleep, that’s your problem. Don’t let it become mine.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
Mac continues down the line. Stops in front of me.
We’re almost the same height. His pale eyes study my face.
“You look ready.”
“I am, Sergeant Major.”
He nods once and moves on. Stops in front of Reid.
“Major Donahue.”
“Sergeant Major.” Her voice is flat, professional.
“You’ve done ruck marches before.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Good. Set the pace. Show these civilians how it’s done.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
He finishes the inspection and returns to the front.
“Today’s challenge is simple. Fifteen miles through the Highlands with a fifty-pound pack. You quit, you’re out. Questions?”
No one speaks.
“Packs are in the supply tent. Get yours, and return here in five minutes. Move.”
We move.
The supply tent has packs lined up by number. I heft mine. Yes, testing us already.
I shoulder it and return to the central area. The weight settles across my shoulders and back. Familiar. I’ve carried heavier.
When I supervised training in Rome, we loaded gladiators with weights during their conditioning. Heavy packs, weighted vests, anything to build strength and endurance. I stood over them with the whip while they ran laps around the training ground.
The memory surfaces unbidden. The crack of leather. Men stumbling, falling, bleeding. Getting up because they knew I’d make it worse if they didn’t.
I push the memory down.
That was then. This is now.
When everyone has returned, Mac points north. “That direction. Follow the trail markers. Don’t get lost. First checkpoint at mile five. Second at mile ten. Finish line at fifteen. Any questions?”
A contestant—I don’t know his name—raises his hand. “What if someone falls behind?”
“Then they fall behind. This isn’t a team event.
This is an individual assessment. You’re responsible for yourself.
” Mac checks his watch. “You have eight hours to complete the course. That’s a thirty-two minute mile pace including breaks.
Should be easy.” The way he says “easy” makes it clear it won’t be. “Begin.”
We begin.
A drone lifts from somewhere behind the supply tent, its low mechanical hum following us as we spread out along the trail.
The first mile is deceptively simple. A trail through relatively flat moorland, muddy but not difficult. The pack settles into a rhythm on my back. My boots find their pace.
Around me, contestants are spreading out.
The military ones—Reid and Aiden, the younger veteran with the prosthetic leg—have pulled ahead, setting a strong pace.
Zay is just behind them, his size making him slower but steady.
Sienna is keeping up better than I expected.
Although yesterday Trevor seemed to be bursting with energy, he is already breathing hard.
Blake is near the front, making loud comments about how easy this is. Overconfident. In the arena, those were always the first to die.
I settle into the middle of the pack. No need to lead. No need to fall behind. Just steady, sustainable movement.
The trail starts to climb.
By mile two, the terrain has shifted. We’re heading into the foothills now, the trail becoming steeper, rockier. The pack feels heavier. My shoulders are starting to register the weight.
When I was ludus master, I once made a gladiator carry a stone block around the training ground for three hours because he’d dropped his sword during practice. He collapsed twice. I made him continue.
Fifty pounds is nothing.
Around me, people are starting to struggle. I can hear heavy breathing, curses muttered under breath. Someone behind me is falling back—sounds like Trevor based on the labored gasping.
The rain starts again around mile three. Cold, steady, soaking through everything that isn’t covered by our hooded jackets. The trail becomes slick. Someone up ahead slips and falls—I hear the crash and the cursing. They get up and continue.
Good. First fall but not first quit.
By mile four, we’re climbing in earnest. The trail is steep enough that I’m using my hands in places, grabbing rocks and roots to pull myself up. The pack pulls me backward with every step. My thighs are burning. My shoulders are aching.
The domina’s torturers did far worse to me in the ergastulum. This I can endure.
Pain is temporary. Pain passes. Pain is just information.
I keep moving.
The first checkpoint appears at mile five—a crew member with a clipboard standing under a tarp, looking miserable in the rain.
“Number seventeen,” I say.
He makes a mark. “Water and energy bar if you need it. Five-minute rest maximum.”
I take water, drink half, and refill my bottle from the provided container. Don’t take the energy bar, not hungry yet. Don’t need the rest, waste of time.
I see Reid ahead. She’s already moving again, didn’t take the full five minutes either. Smart. Don’t let the body cool down, don’t let the mind start questioning.
Aiden is ahead of me, just leaving as I arrive. He’s limping slightly—his prosthetic must be bothering him—but his face is set and determined.
Blake arrives as I’m leaving. “This is bullshit,” he’s saying to the crew member. “My pack feels heavier than fifty pounds.”
The crew member doesn’t respond.
I move on.
Miles five through ten are brutal—mud, wind-driven rain, a quit I hear but don’t see somewhere around mile eight. I keep moving. Just past the checkpoint, I see Reid. She’s stopped on the side of the trail, adjusting her pack. Her face is set, jaw clenched. She’s in pain but pushing through it.
Our eyes meet as I pass.
No words. Just recognition.
She’s not quitting. Neither am I.
I keep moving.
Miles ten through twelve are a descent. Steep, rocky, treacherous in the rain. My knees take the impact with every step. The pack tries to pull me forward, overbalance me. I have to control every movement.
Someone ahead falls; I hear the scream, then the sound of a body tumbling. Crew members rush forward. I pass them as they’re checking the contestant. A woman, her ankle already swelling. She’s crying, trying to stand. Can’t.
“Medical tap,” one of the crew says into his radio. “Ankle injury, possibly broken. Mile eleven.”
I keep moving.
Can’t help her. Can’t stop. This is an individual assessment.
Back in Rome, if a gladiator fell during training, the others kept going. You helped your partner in the arena because your life depended on it. In training, you looked after yourself.
Same principle here.
Miles twelve through fourteen are flat again but the exhaustion is setting in. My vision is starting to narrow. My breathing is labored. The pack feels like it weighs twice what it did at the start.
I’ve been moving for almost six hours.
As ludus master, I ran training sessions all day. Dawn to dusk. No breaks except for water. No food until evening.
I can do this. I will finish.
Mile fifteen appears like a miracle. The finish line—a large tent with crew members, medical staff, and Mac standing in the center like a general surveying his troops.
I cross it and immediately unshoulder my pack. The relief is instant and overwhelming. My shoulders feel like they’re floating.
“Number seventeen,” Mac says. “Time: six hours, twelve minutes. Well done.”
A camera operator steps closer, lens angled to catch exhaustion, pain, triumph.
I nod, can’t speak yet. My mouth is too dry.
A crew member hands me water. I drink it slowly, feeling my body start to process that the challenge is over.
Around me, other finishers are arriving. Aiden limps in, his face pale but triumphant. Zay arrives ten minutes later, looking exhausted but smiling. Sienna comes in after him, soaked and shaking, but still standing.
Blake arrives complaining loudly about the weight of his pack, the conditions, the trail markers being unclear.
Mac ignores him.
Reid arrives about twenty minutes after me. She’s moving mechanically, clearly in pain, but she doesn’t slow until she crosses the line. When she drops her pack, I see her hands shaking.
But she finished.
Trevor arrives almost an hour later, nervous energy nowhere to be found, barely able to stand. He crosses the line and immediately sits down, head in his hands. But he didn’t quit.
Over the next hour, more contestants trickle in. Some strong, some barely conscious. The crew members guide them to medical for checks.
The medic checked my vitals, handed me a small box with a red cross on it, and moved on. “For your feet,” he’d said — a guess, or maybe everyone gets one. He hadn’t looked.
The mess tent has hot soup and sandwiches waiting for us. We eat. There is no energy for talking.
By the time Mac calls time—eight hours exactly—we’ve lost four contestants. One quit at mile eight. One medical tap at mile eleven. Two more quits around mile thirteen.
Out of the twenty-five who started, twenty-one are left.
Mac addresses us as we sit in the tent, wrapped in blankets, drinking tea or hot chocolate.
“Congratulations. You survived day one. Some of you did well. Some of you barely made it.” His eyes scan the group. “Tomorrow will be harder. Rest, eat, hydrate. Medical checks are mandatory. Lights out at 2200. Dismissed.”
We pull on wet jackets, stumble back out into the rain and mud, and head back to the barracks. My legs are shaking. My shoulders are on fire. My feet are destroyed.
In the barracks, I hang my sopping jacket on a wall hook, then collapse onto my cot and remove my boots. The socks are bloody. The blisters have burst. I’ll need to clean them, treat them, and tape them before tomorrow.
Around me, others are doing the same. Groaning, cursing, some crying quietly.
I clean my feet as best I can with the first-aid supplies we were given. The pain is sharp but manageable. When I trained as a boy, I had worse injuries and kept going because stopping meant the whip.
Once my feet are taped and I’ve changed into dry clothes, I clean and treat my boots, rinse out my bloody socks and hang them to dry with the rest of my wet clothes on the rail at the end of my cot.
The afternoon gives way to supper time. The rain has stopped. The mess tent is quiet as we eat our MREs. Exhaustion is obvious in everyone.
We all go immediately back to the barracks. I lie back on the cot.
Fifteen miles down.
Who knows how many more to go.
Outside, the rain starts again. Inside, the barracks slowly quiets as exhaustion and jet lag take over.
I close my eyes and try not to think about Rome. About standing over men who had just run fifteen miles in armor and making them do it again. About the whip in my hand and the fear in their eyes.
About the fact that what I just endured is nothing compared to what I made others suffer for decades.
Sleep comes hard.
But it comes.