A Dream of Mortals

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Darius, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, sat in the small stone cell of the gladiators’ holding pen, devastated. He had never felt so alone, so dejected. It was definitely, he realized, the low point of his life.

Every muscle in his body ached, but that wasn’t what troubled him most; he closed his eyes and shook his head and tried to shake the awful images of the day’s battle from his mind. He saw, again and again, Desmond and Luzi being killed, the other boys dying, Raj being injured. He could not see the victory, but only the deaths, the suffering. Two of his close friends, boys he felt sure would live forever, killed on one day—and a third, mortally wounded. The images, so deeply embedded in his mind, would not go away.

Darius looked up, bleary-eyed, into the small holding pen, and saw the two other boys who remained here with him: Raj, lying on his side, nursing his wounds, and, ironically, Drok, the boy who just would not die. Darius knew that, somehow, they would be forced to fight again, and he knew that the next day of combat would be the worst of all. All three of them would be dead. He wanted it to be over now.

But Darius was so beat up, like the others, he barely had the strength to move, much less to fight again. Morg, he realized, had spoken the truth on that first day, when he’d said they would all die, and to prepare themselves. But how could one really prepare oneself for death?

Darius looked over, exhausted, at the sound of an iron door swinging open, and he saw Morg strut in, alone, this time not needing any guards. He knew they were too beat up, too wounded, to resist.

He stood there, staring down at them, hands on hips and with a self-satisfied smile.

“You cannot win, you know,” he said, examining Darius.

Darius lowered his head back into his hands, trying to nurse the pain, trying to make Morg and everything else go away.

“You should have accepted my offer,” he added.

Darius, head down, ignored him, too tired to respond.

“None of my gladiators have survived the final day of matches. Not one. Not in all the years I’ve been here.”

Finally, Darius looked up.

“I feat not death,” he said, his voice cold and hard, parched from lack of water. “I fear only a dishonorable life.”

Morg, realizing it was a dig at him, smirked back.

“And yet, you can still avoid this,” he replied. “All you have to do is agree. Agree to end the fight in your own arena, where you will be spared. Agree to let the others die. Drok, you hate anyway. And look at your friend Raj: he is dying as we speak.”

Darius grimaced back.

“But he is not dead yet,” he replied. “And as long as he lives, I shall remain by his side.”

Morg scowled.

“You are a fool,” he said. “You will be swallowed alive by your honor and go down to the grave with it.”

Darius managed to smile back.

“You will never understand,” Darius said. “My dream on this earth is not to merely live—but to live and fight with honor, with valor. If I were immortal, I have would have nothing to lose, and those things would mean nothing to me. My dream is made possible precisely because I am mortal. I have something to sacrifice, something to lose. And that is what makes it honorable. My dream is a dream of mortals.”

Morg grimaced.

“You will die,” he said.

“Only cowards die,” Darius replied. “The valiant live on in death.”

Morg, enraged, glared down at him. And with nothing left to say, he turned and stormed out, slamming the iron door behind him, leaving Darius more alone than he’d ever been.

Darius sat at Raj’s side, as his friend moaned through the night, clasping his shoulder. Darius did not need to look at his festering wound to know it was in dire shape, to know he could not live. Raj lay there, wincing in agony, and as flies landed on his wound he did not even have the strength to swat them away.

Darius could see the light fading in his last friend’s eyes, and he was overwhelmed with grief. Here was Raj, the most confident of his friends, the most daring, the one who Darius had been sure would never die—and he, too, was going the unstoppable way of death.

“You will be fine,” Darius said, clasping his shoulder after a bad bout of moaning.

Raj shook his head.

“You always were a bad liar,” he said.

Darius frowned.

“There is no way I will let you die.”

Raj winced.

“Even you, my friend, cannot stop that.”

Darius shrugged.

“We have one more battle left to fight. We will fight it together. And we shall die together.”

“I cannot fight,” he said. “Not anymore. I will be chained to you as dead weight. Leave me behind. Let me die. Spare yourself.”

Darius shook his head.

“No man left behind,” he said, insistent. “Not now. Not ever.”

Raj sighed, clearly knowing how stubborn Darius was.

“Look at me. I cannot even stand,” Raj said.

Darius smiled.

“Then I shall kneel by your side and we shall fight together.”

Raj reached out and clasped his hand.

“You are my brother, Darius,” he said. “You have proved it now, more than ever. But don’t die for me. It’s not worth it.”

Darius looked him firmly in the eye.

“You said it,” Darius said. “Brother. I have always wanted to have a brother, and that is a word that has great meaning to me. Brothers do not abandon each other; they do not leave each other behind. That is what it means to be a brother. Brothers are forged for times like this. And not even death can stand in the way of them.”

Raj fell silent, breathing hard for a long time, gasping, then finally, he clasped Darius’s hand and nodded.

“Very well then, brother,” he said. “Tomorrow, if I live, we shall kill as many as we can. And we shall go down fighting together.”