Episode 8: Standing Out (Part 1)
On the second-floor terrace overlooking the training grounds, Altannic and Vatia sat in their chairs as usual, gazing down at Caron with expectant eyes. Though their expectations differed slightly.
While Vatia watched out of simple defiance toward Montecorato, Altannic observed purely for monetary gain. Though already the wealthiest man in Palemon, there was one thing he couldn't obtain - status. Despite his family's generations of prestigious service as Palemon's administrators, nobles still dismissed them as frontier barbarians. Thus, Altannic sought to elevate his status by marrying his daughter to nobility - a venture requiring vast wealth. If Caron truly showed promise as a gladiator, he could amass considerable fortune in Palemon. With luck, astronomical profits might even come from the capital's Colosseum. The greed of the privileged knew no bounds.
Altannic raised his hand - the signal to begin.
SWISH!
The drillmaster cracked his whip toward six slaves and bellowed: "Today's test measures endurance, perseverance, and mental fortitude! Each of you will drag a log around the training grounds 100 times! The time limit is sunset! Those who fall behind will be dragged to the arena as fodder!"
No slave ever returned alive from being arena fodder - even newcomers knew this. When the slaves attempted to drag their logs, despair washed over them at the tremendous weight. Only Caron kept his gaze fixed on the two figures above.
'These two orchestrate everything.'
Caron's facial muscles twitched imperceptibly. By the time Vatia noticed his stare and looked down, Caron had already begun dragging his log around the grounds.
As adjutants counted laps, the drillmaster assembled gladiators for training. The seasoned fighters watched the slaves with morbid fascination - one of few entertainments in their deadly profession.
Vatia studied Caron closely. Straining at the rear, the boy struggled against older slaves in their late teens or early twenties. As Caron fell behind lap after lap, the gladiators lost interest - they'd seen many slaves fail before.
But Vatia saw differently: 'He's gradually learning techniques.' His eyes gleamed strangely at Caron's movements.
By shortening his chain grip and slightly lifting one end of the log, Caron reduced ground contact and friction. Adopting short, even breaths with measured steps maintained steady rhythm - slower but less exhausting. His previously unfocused eyes grew sharper through sheer concentration on overcoming physical disadvantages.
Unaware of this progress, Altannic rose bored when no breakthrough came: "This won't end soon. Shall we dine?"
"Agreed," Vatia readily acquiesced.
At midday, changes emerged. The initially vigorous slaves slowed dramatically until their ragged breathing betrayed broken spirits. Through these gaps Caron advanced steadily.
"Oh! Would you look at that!" Altannic exclaimed upon returning, pointing at Caron while Vatia remained impassive.
"What lap is he on?"
After checking with an adjutant, Altannic stroked his chin: "Past fifty laps. At this pace he'll finish...but afternoon exhaustion remains decisive."
Vatia nodded grimly - human bodies had limits without exception.
The test continued even after gladiators finished training. True to Altannic's prediction, some slaves collapsed from exhaustion while Caron persevered steadfastly. Others began mimicking his techniques - shortening chains for better leverage and adopting rhythmic breathing until they regained momentum.
All except one muscular blond slave who stubbornly refused to follow "some brat's" methods despite wheezing protests. His pride proved fatal when depleted stamina forced him to his knees with ten laps remaining at sunset.
The drillmaster Marcus loomed over him: "Fool! Trading life for petty pride? Take him away!"
"NO! I CAN DO IT! LET ME— NOOOO!" The blond screamed as soldiers dragged him off to become arena fodder.
THUD!
The heavy sound signaled four exhausted slaves completing their hundredth lap by dropping logs before collapsing trembling to the ground - all except Caron who stood steady while catching breath without visible fatigue.
The slaves gazed up at him with complex expressions; whether from delirium or sunset's glow, Caron seemed some distant being in human form.
Marcus studied Caron pensively: 'He barely made time yet shouldn't have succeeded physically...especially weakened...How? Surviving Colosseum alone wasn't just luck.' Perhaps they'd found a genuine talent - though two more trials remained.
"Enough lying around! Back to your cells!" Marcus barked before privately hoping Caron would pass further tests.
That night after rations, when all fell silent, Caron rose stealthily to practice combat techniques memorized over two days - movements mirroring gladiators perfectly despite screaming muscles until they loosened mysteriously under disciplined silence and motionless precision beneath darkness' cover.
At dawn he sat meditating while mentally mapping escape routes from training grounds layout to armory before realizing only second floor remained - where Altannic and Vatia resided.
The next morning five confused slaves were transported via wagon to coastal cliffs where Palemon's southern sea met eastern precipice. Waiting soldiers aimed bows from small boats below while Marcus unchained them within armed encirclement:
"Today tests courage and adaptability by climbing back up these cliffs directly! Fail or flee and arrows will find your throats!"
The near-vertical face seemed impossible until one slave asked about descent paths.
Marcus stepped close grinning: "Who needs paths? There's a faster way—"
THWACK!
The slave flew screaming over edge before waves swallowed sound while others panicked until spears pressed close.
Caron alone acted strangely - leaping backward while twisting midair to face cliff throughout descent without looking down until impact.
For he had already committed every inch of that cliff face to memory.
