Escape from Evil (4 page)

The following morning, Olu didn't seem to want to speak to either Decimus or Argon, and he quickly moved along the line when the cell doors were opened.

Trial-master Hrin was waiting for the fifteen slaves in the middle of the arena. His fellow masters were watching from the stalls, but there was no sign of Slavious Doom or Drin Hain at the dark arch.

Hrin stepped forward holding a sack, and raised it above his head.

“Inside this sack,” he yelled, “are fifteen colored balls. There are two reds, two blacks, two greens, two yellows, two blues, two browns, two oranges, and one white. The slave who draws the white ball will immediately be allowed to return to the cells, and will not need to compete in the trials until tomorrow. Those that draw balls of another color will face each other in combat, red against red, green against green, and so on. The rules of the combat will then be explained. Form up, now!”

As the slaves positioned themselves in a line, Hrin walked up to the first boy and held out the sack. A green ball was drawn, and the gangly trial-master moved on.

Decimus watched the proceedings with a detached amusement. It almost felt to him as if he didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered . . . things could only get worse now. There was no way out. Sooner or later, he would be hauled away to the underground prison. Ultimately, he was doomed.

When the white ball was drawn, Decimus was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost missed the event. As it was, the ball caught his eye at the last second, and his gaze settled upon Olu . . . who stepped back from the slave line with a look of astonishment on his face.

“Lucky boy,” said Hrin loudly.

“You can say that again,” Argon whispered to Decimus as the trial-master proceeded down the line. More balls were drawn: green, black, yellow, red, brown, and orange.

If Decimus had been paying greater attention to the proceedings, he might not have been quite so surprised when Hrin stopped before him and tossed the sack away.

“There are only blue balls remaining,” he muttered. “You two will fight each other.”

Decimus slowly turned his head . . . and looked into Argon's determined face. The Gaul took a breath and stuck out his chin.

“I hope you're ready to lose,” he said.

Decimus shrugged. He was ready.

As Olu was escorted back to the cells, fourteen slaves paired up and strode out into the gaping mouth of the arena.

“You will be unarmed for this combat,” Hrin screamed behind them. “You may use fists only. No kicks or wrestling are permitted. The object of the trial is to knock out your opponent. The victors will progress into the last eight . . . and will move to Arena Secondus in order to face Grand Master Doom's public trials. The losers will be imprisoned here, like so many who have fallen before them.”

Decimus glanced at Argon as they walked, but the Gaul was staring straight ahead and marching as if to his day of judgment.

When the pair had reached a suitable distance from all the other combatants, Hrin cried out and the trial began.

Decimus and Argon circled each other.

“You cannot beat me,” Argon snapped, his voice cold. It was almost as if the two had never met, and his voice certainly betrayed no hint of friendship. “I've watched you in the trials. You're not strong enough or agile enough to take me.”

Decimus said nothing; he simply continued to circle the Gaul. Neither slave could remove his gaze from the other.

“You're weak, Decimus,” Argon continued. “Ruma was smarter, Gladius was stronger, Olu and Teo are both quicker. I'm better than you in every way.”

Decimus could feel his anger building, but he knew deep down that the Gaul was speaking the truth.

“Your biggest weakness is that you consider EVERYONE you meet a friend . . . even those who couldn't care less whether you live or die. You pretend to be cold and hard . . . but you are the softest slave here. It really is no wonder your family racked up such debt if you—”

Decimus exploded with rage. Roaring a battle cry, he thundered over the sand and threw a punch with all his strength behind it.

Then, two very surprising things happened.

First, Argon's lips split into a resigned and happy smile. Then, the Gaul dropped his defense, letting both arms fall to his sides.

Decimus tried to veer off at the last second, but there was too much weight behind the blow. His fist connected with Argon's chin, and the slave collapsed onto the sand.

D
ecimus walked back to his cell in silence, a blank look in his eyes as Truli shoved him through the doorway and locked the barred portal behind him.

Olu was sitting on his own bed in the third cell. The boy watched Decimus carefully as he moved over to the far wall and just stood there.

“What happened?” Olu prompted, rising to his feet. “Where is Argon? Did he get beaten?”

Decimus said nothing.

“What happened to Argon? Is he out?” Olu repeated.

Decimus finally turned his head, and two tired, tearful eyes regarded the inquisitive slave.

“He just stood there and let me hit him,” he said, his hands still shaking. “He provoked me, going on and on about how weak I was . . . and then he just dropped his guard and stood there.”

“You put Argon out of the trials!” Olu exclaimed.

“No,” said Decimus sharply. “
ARGON
put Argon out of the trials. He could have taken me down at any time. He
chose
to let me hit him.”

“B-but why would he do that?”

Decimus shrugged. “You tell me. Maybe he'd just given up; maybe he thought he'd get to see the others again if he lost the trials. I just don't know. The only thing I do know is that I want to get out of here . . . more than anything else in the world.”

He collapsed onto his bed, put his head in his hands, and began to sob.

That night, Decimus refused his soup. Olu eagerly claimed his own bowl but, as usual, ate very little.

“Pssst. Wake up.”

The call was soft and low, and barely audible even in the cell from which it had been made.

“Decimus! Psst! Decimus! Wake up!”

Decimus rolled over and continued to snore.

“Decimus Rex! Wake up, or the gods can have you!”

“Mmfhat?”

Decimus sat bolt upright and stared blearily around him. The cell swam in and out of focus as the remains of a good dream drifted away.

“Shhh! Don't speak! It's Olu—can you hear me if I talk like this?”

Decimus licked his dry lips and stifled a cough.

“I can hear you,” he managed. “Just about.”

“Good.”

Olu crept over to the barred wall between his cell and the one that belonged to Argon and Teo.

Decimus climbed out of bed and tiptoed across to the edge of his own cell.

“What time is it?” he asked, still trying to fight past a painful dryness in his throat.

“Around midnight, I think,” Olu hazarded.

“Right. What do you want? We should be getting some sleep. We're on public trials tomorrow . . .”

“You want to go back to sleep? Oh—I thought you wanted to get out of here more than anything else in the world?”

“Of course I do, but—” he froze. “Why? Do you know of a way out?”

Olu grinned in the darkness.

“No,” he said. “But you might.”

“Me?” said Decimus. “I don't understand what you mean.”

“Did you split the wood?”

“What?”

“The other night when you flew into a rage and kicked Gladius's bed all those times: Did you actually split the wood?”

Decimus crouched down beside his old friend's bed, removed one of the hay sacks, and felt around the frame.

“Yes,” he said in conclusion. “Not completely, but it would come away if I pulled it.”

Decimus tugged at the wood, and there was a soft crack as a length came away in his hand. He held up the piece to show Olu.

“That might be enough,” said the slave eagerly. “Throw it to me!”

Decimus crawled back to the bars, reached through, and cast the wooden slat toward Olu, who caught it. As he looked on, the scrawny slave hurried over to the front of his cell and began to reach out with the wood, prompting a sudden realization from Decimus.

“Are you trying for Truli's keys?” he whispered.

“Yes. My arms are long, but not quite long enough. I was hoping that . . . with some extra help . . . I might be . . . able . . . to—”

Decimus looked on, his mouth gaping in astonishment, as Olu lifted the jailer's keys from their ring.

“Be careful,” he whispered as the keys gave a tiny jingle. “The piece on the end is
very
thin.”