“Vishna, are you sure about this? I just told you what this is, how can you agree to this?” sitting before the champion was a balding elderly man, his once loose tunic now fitting tight to his plump frame.

“Peukestes, I consider you a friend, one of the few a slave like myself has. As bad of an herbalist that you are, your heart is in the right place and you actually look out for us slaves, that is more than can be said of others.” Peukestes listened intently, taking a quick sip of wine from his cup, a little spilling, adding another splotch to the filth-stained tunic. The two men sat in silence surrounded by empty stone hewn tables, many still marred by blackened stains, reminders of those long passed.

Peukestes put down his cup and walked over to the ailing champion, slowly tightening the dirty linen wrap curled around his wrist. “I also consider you a friend, you saved me all those years ago. The other fighters, they would have torn me limb from limb in that riot, only for the fact that I worked here. You are the only thing keeping the pot from boiling, you are their hope, the hope that freedom is attainable.” Walking over to a nearby cupboard, the herbalist extracted a purple-colored liquid, dumping a significant sum into his patient’s cup. “You will be destroying their hope, and what of the child, what will become of him?”

Vishnamitra could only stare into his cup, contemplating the decision at hand. “He will understand in time, but if you are correct about the pitmasters intentions, their plans, then I cannot complete the gauntlet.”

“You can, it is just-” Peukestes was unable to finish the sentence before being abruptly silenced, the chair nearest the elderly fighter shattered into pieces.

“Do not even suggest such a thing, that child is to be my first and last disciple. I will take on no others, and I will not sacrifice his life and well-being for my own. My time is up, I am long since past my prime, the boy is the future… He will succeed where I have failed.” Vishnamitra took another hard look at his cup, the thick purple concoction easily blending with the cheap watered-down wine. “I appreciate your concern my friend, and your warning. However, I cannot do what you suggest. This is the only way forward I can see based on the information you have provided.”

“This is it then?” The plump man was a shitty doctor, barely could even be considered an herbalist, but he was a good person. Unlike some others, he empathized with the slaves, sought to at least ease their suffering in the end.

“Do not fret Peukestes, my friend. Think about your family, I know you are worried about me, and this does not sit right with you. However, if this is not done, your family will be in danger, I cannot have that, there only needs to be one sacrifice in this equation. After the deed is done, report to your superiors, go back home to your family and hold them tight… that is my request.” Peukestes was unable to hold back the flood of tears, he struggled to remain silent, watching the serene and knowing smile upon Vishnamitra’s lips. The older man grasped firmly the earthenware cup, taking one last look at the surroundings, at the pained, tortured expression of his friend and in one swift and decisive movement downed the entire cup.

“It is done.” The champion had little time for contemplation, with the drink soon taking effect. His lips slowly turning purple, with blood dripping from the eyes and nose, then he collapsed, falling backwards from his chair onto the cold hard ground.

Peukestes unable to hold any longer rushed forward to assist the dying man whose consciousness had long since departed his mortal body. The champion of Myrmien, undefeated in thirty-three fights was toppled by sickness, that is story many would hear, that would propagate the halls of the slave pits and the crevice of every slum.

The hope, the shining star of the downtrodden had been brought low. Yet those at the very top held little concern, now that the impediment had been removed, betting could once again return to a more profitable state. Luckily the man had “died” in the care of a doctor and friend, he was old and sickness as many know could take anyone at a moment’s notice.

At least that is what the people would hear, the old man had somehow survived, his body comatose and cared for by his student. The same student who would begin the gauntlet anew, a feeble attempt at freedom, but one that would provide yet more entertainment. He would fight to the death, a child against overwhelming odds, with both his and his teacher’s lives in the balance. For as long as he lived and won, his teachers living corpse would not be disposed of, but how far could a fourteen-year-old get when competing against battle hardened adults.

No one ever left the arena, the gauntlet would never be completed, and the poor would continue to feed the monster that was Myrmien.