Decimus screamed, rampaging across his cell and delivering a powerful kick to the wooden frame that had housed Gladius’s hay sacks. “Shhh!” Argon urged him, his face pressed against the bars that separated their cells. “Keep quiet, or they’ll—” “I don’t CARE!” Decimus brought his foot down on the frame a second time, forcing a splintering crack from the wood. “I’m sick of evil trial-masters! I’m sick of losing friends and I’m REALLY sick of this food.” He kicked his soup bowl into the air. It shattered against the cell door and the spoon flew out through the bars. “That wasn’t too clever,” said Olu. “You know they probably won’t give you another one.” Decimus ignored the two slaves, dropped onto his own bed, and turned to face the wall. He’d arrived at Arena Primus with great determination, but he honestly didn’t know how much more he could stand. Sleep overcame him . . . and the shadows lengthened. He awoke from a nightmare in which a dark figure in flowing robes was trying to force a dagger between his ribs.
