Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 Marcus had barely blinked and the woman was gone, swallowed by the crowd. He felt a stab of fear as he thought of what she had said. Was she a witch who could predict the future? A priestess who could hear the whispers of the gods? Marcus thought again of his father. Tata would know what was happening here. A wave of sadness crashed over him. If only Tata were with him now! He could picture his father so clearly — his gentle blue eyes glinting through a mop of golden

hair. Tata was born in Germania, a kingdom just beyond the northern boundaries of this vast Roman Empire. When Tata was just ten years old, Roman soldiers had invaded his village. Marcus's father was soon captured, sold to slave traders, and marched hundreds of miles in chains to the empire's capital city of Rome. But Tata was lucky. He was bought by a kind man, a writer and scientist named Linus Selius. He taught Tata to read and write in Latin, the language of the empire. He took Tata on research trips to faraway lands, teaching him all he knew about the natural world. Soon, Tata was helping Linus research his books and coming up with theories of his own. The years passed. Tata married Marcus's mother, who died when Marcus was just a baby. Marcus grew up helping Tata in Linus's library, one of the finest in Rome. Tata was always trying to get Marcus interested in studying nature, reading him his latest theories and dragging him on long walks through the hills above Rome.

But it was the ancient Greek stories written centuries before that Marcus loved most, especially the tales of the great heroes like Odysseus and Hercules. How Marcus had loved his happy life with Tata! But then, two months ago, Linus Selius had died in a fever that swept through Rome. In a blink, Marcus's entire world crumbled. Marcus and Tata became the property of Linus's nephew, the brutal Festus Julius. Linus himself had always despised Festus, and the nephew wasted no time destroying his uncle's happy home. Within two days, Tata was sold. Marcus was loaded onto a donkey cart and brought here to Pompeii, a two-day trip from Rome. He was now one of ten slaves working endless days in Festus's enormous villa, one of the grandest homes in Pompeii. Where was Tata? He could be anywhere in the vast Roman Empire by now, from the rocky cliffs of Britannia to the deserts of Africa. His thoughts carried Marcus far away, until a blaring trumpet yanked him back. "It's the gladiator parade!" an old man cried out with excitement. "It's the fighters who will appear

tomorrow!" People jammed the sidewalks, so Marcus could not get through. Now he had no choice but to put down the laundry sack and wait. Two men on white horses led the parade, their riders waving bright flags. A band of horn players followed, and then acrobats and jugglers, and finally, a stout man with a leering smile. He was the lanista — the owner of these gladiators. The lanista waved at the crowd, proud as an emperor. Owning gladiators was a dirty business; no respectable person would do it. But the lanista had grown rich on the blood of his gladiators, and he held his head high.

And then there was Cyclops, led by two young women in bright robes who were throwing rose petals.

"There he is!" a woman in the crowd shrieked, pointing at the muscled brute. The champion wore a gleaming bronze helmet. His massive shield matched the armor strapped to his bulging legs and arms. A leather patch hid his blind eye. Scars covered his face. Marcus had heard terrifying stories about this man — that he had jaws like a tiger's, that his battle cry was like a panther's scream, that he could snap a man's neck with one hand. The crowd cheered and hooted as Cyclops passed. But people stood silently as the next four men walked by. These were the wretched souls who would be thrown into the arena with Cyclops tomorrow. None of them had a chance against Cyclops. By tomorrow afternoon, they'd all be dead. Marcus couldn't bear to watch them. But then he caught sight of the last man in line. Marcus froze, staring. The man was tall, with golden hair streaming out of his bronze helmet. He walked slowly, with