It was some sort of mistake; it had to be. Joseph lifted the heavy iron shield off its peg with ease. The bloodthirsty roar of the spectators echoed down the cold stone passage and down into the armory, where Joseph stood. His young, scarred face reflected years of fighting and pain. A long scar trailed down his arm; he covered it as he pulled on a chain mail shirt. He reached out to grab the last mace on the rack, but he paused and remembered how he and Rasho had used to bicker good-naturedly over it; he left it hanging.

Gladiator fighting was far from new to Joseph or his blue-eyed friend, Rasho. They had fought side by side for years, dominating the legacy of the Coliseum together. Now Joseph fought alone. He sheathed a sword at his thick leather belt and trudged down the corridor to the arena gate, where he knew he would never leave alive. He gazed blankly out at the arena.

The great space was covered with a layer of sand, but Joseph knew that often one of the buried trapdoors would spring open and a new foe would emerge from the compartment beneath. The walls surrounding the arena were remarkably high, and Joseph imagined they were to keep the fighters from escaping the lethal pit. The sand was crusty and tinged red, surely from the past bloodshed. Joseph’s eyes traveled to his scarred arm as he realized he had still more to stain the sand with. Hundreds of thousands of blurred figures, situated in long stone benches above the arena walls, screamed for blood as they saw Joseph waiting inside the gate entrance.

An approaching procession snapped him out of his trance. He recognized it as the royal guard, escorting a man among them, dressed in a royal purple toga and soft leather sandals.

Out of habit, Joseph immediately knelt down. Someone drew his sword and removed his dagger. The guards formed a semicircle around Joseph and the man clad in the fine clothes, one of them holding the sword and the dagger.

“You have bowed, and now you rise as the gods in the morn ascend the sky to grace our day.” Caesar spoke, his voice soft and melancholy.

Joseph rose slowly, keeping the guard with his weapons in the corner of his eye. “How may I be of service you, Honor?” His words came out jerkily, as if he wanted to snatch hem from the air and shove them in his mouth before he was heard.