The sun blazes overhead as we step into the arena, one of us from each of the three doors. The glare obscures the others so they are nothing but silhouettes, dark and monstrous. Already my shield weighs down my arm, the hilt of my dagger grows slippery with sweat. The walls soar above our heads, barring any chance of escape as the crowds jeer and scream down at us.
A ram's horn cuts through the dull fervor, brash and echoing, until the only sounds are the faint clinking of our armor and our ragged breaths. The Augur strides in, leading the sacrificial ram to the altar. I clench my eyes shut as he slits the helpless animal's throat, hold back the bile rising to my throat. The Augur pronounces the omens favorable and hurries back to the gates, discreetly wiping his hand on his ceremonial red tunica as he goes. I wonder why he would try to hide it. No one leaves the sands bloodless-- not even the priests.
Again the ram's horn sounds. It's our turn. We cross our weapons across our chests, stand at attention under the blazing sun. The crowds roar like starving lions above. It's time. Tongue leaden, lungs burning, I chant the Sacramentum Gladiatorum. Our fate is in Mars' hands now.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other and watch the others, circling, waiting for an opening. CLANG. The crowd howls as Phylon strikes first, as his gladius screeches across the forks of Aetius' trident, gets caught in the dip of his weapon. The two of them pull away, clash again, probing. I watch, shifting, blood pounding in my head. Wait-- Wait--
Aetius swings his net, catches Phylon in the legs. Phylon staggers, blade careening wildly off the trident. They are too close, too fast, too experienced. It doesn't matter. I will not die today.
Wait-- Wait-- NOW. I leap into the opening, use my shield to hammer Aetius in the ribs, the force knocks it from my hands. Both of us scramble backward, struggling to keep our footing on the bloodied sand. Aetius is wheezing, wind knocked out of him, and Phyllon leaps forward, his gladius tearing through muscle and flesh. Aetius is choking, choking on his own blood. I stare in horror, numbly registering the delight of the crowd. The net falls from his grip, and I can feel a scream building inside.
Phyllon staggers to his feet, blood dripping from his sword. We stare together, at Aetius sprawled across the sand, at the deafening hordes above. I will not die today. Once more, I raise my too-small dagger, falling back to guard position as he turns to face me.
Phyllon rushes forward, blade flashing in the afternoon heat. Block. Parry. DUCK. Muscle memory takes over, sweep after countersweep.
Wait-- Wait--I spring at him, hacking wildly, bracing for the moment when his blade catches mine. They crash between us, a flurry of movement and sound and pain. My legs burn with the strain, every muscle in my arms in fiery protest. My blade glances off his, slings me off-balance. All at once he slips under my guard, blade singing in triumph. I lash out, desperately, and he easily parries the wild swing, knocking the dagger from my sweat-soaked grip. A quick slash sends me flying to the ground, my leg collapsed under me. My blade lays abandoned a foot away, my cheek stinging. Numbly, I touch my face, stare in shock as my hand comes away red and feel the sand leave angry welts across my cheek. A flash of silver appears again above me.
"Cedo." He demands, sword in hand, perfectly positioned to make sure I never have to fight again. Yield. Never.
Flailing, lashing out, my foot catches the back of his ankle. Suddenly we are both on the ground, grappling, swinging hard as we can. His fist catches my bloody cheek, my elbow sticks in his ribs. I revel in his wheezing breaths, laughing as he flails on the tractionless sand. My chest feels as though it will explode, my breaths ragged. His fingernails claw across my arms, raking deep gashes. I scramble backwards, desperation building. My dagger is within reach. Already Phyllon is rising, preparing to advance again. I lunge for the small dagger, grip it tight. MOVE.
With a final, guttural cry, I swing my blade, drive it straight up through his ribcage. He is dead before he hits the ground. My head is pounding, my ribs feel as though they will cave in. Scorching sand scalds my bloody knees, my constant companion. I can't catch my breath, gasping for air even as the two beside me cannot. Behind me, Phyllon's empty eyes stare at nothing, wide and accusatory. Or maybe he was just plain surprised.
Laughter bubbles up through my parched throat, unbidden. I giggle as the guards clamp irons around my wrists, carry me across the sea of blood and sweat. It doesn't matter. None of it mattered. Nothing we do will ever matter. I wonder what the Augur is thinking now. I wonder if he's turned red as his tunic. The thought is laughable. I giggle harder, wheeze and pant and laugh
some more.
Another group is waiting by the gates for their turn. I wonder if they'll die too. I wonder who will kill them. Maybe one of them will kill me. The other gladiators are already being led onto the sand. Just like the ram. Just like me. It's so funny I can hardly contain myself. I giggle harder, giggle so hard my ribs feel as though they will collapse, fracture into a thousand million pieces. The ram's horn rings through the arena, unheeding of the spectacle it heralds. Maybe it was once a sacrifice too, out there on the sands. The idea of it sends me into fresh peals, alone among the guards in the cool darkness. Sacrificed animals to signal the sacrifice of animals. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
And outside the crowd is cheering. Still they bay for more, still their appetite for death is not satiated. It never will be-- none of us will ever make it out of here alive, and nobody will care. I snort, gasping at the very idea of it. Funny, isn't it? The Plains will claim our souls; Our names will sink into oblivion; The Sands will swallow us whole;
And still the Games will begin anew.
QuickSand
QuickSand
QuickSand
The walls soar above our heads, barring any chance of escape as the crowds jeer and scream down at us.
Aetius is choking, choking on his own blood. I stare in horror, numbly registering the delight of the crowd.
Nyla Blitz, Upper Dublin High School, Pennsylvania
QuickSand
Winning 12th grade submission, 2024-2025 NJCL Creative Writing Contest
Summer 2025 · Torch: U.S. · CREATIVE WRITING
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