Copper plaques kalig rhythmically jingle on a polished stone, with each step.

One hundred twenty six steps. And behind them, life or death. One hundred twenty six steps.

The gate at the end of the corridor opens, after the twilight of the corridor, a bright light dazzles. The measured roar of the crowd fills everything around. They are waiting. Waiting for the spectacle, waiting for blood. They long to see blood flow. Alien. They anticipate someone else's death. Fools. The time will come, and their blood will flow through the streets of the Eternal City, their lives will be taken with laughter by those whom they contemptuously call barbarians. Yes, barbarians, barbarians because they drink undiluted wine, do not shave beards, and wear pants. And these same barbarians will, like pigs, slaughter those whom they call men by mistake, and their wives will appease the winners. They are doing it now, and with pleasure. Junia Carr.

I take a step out of the gloom, on the sun-drenched sand of the Arena. One hundred and twenty seventh.

Tribunes explode with an enthusiastic roar.

- CE-VER ... CE-VER. - Chants the crowd. They, my name is North, This name was given to me by the Romans, North Mad. The romans Boars who have grown fat on someone else’s blood are not able to appease even their own wives. Where the icy waves break on the rocks of the native fjord, I was called differently. Totally different. Ragnar Skald. Then I became Ragnar Two Ax, and now, I am North Mad.

I take a few steps forward and raise my hands. I don't have armor, I always enter the Arena like that. Caligi and loincloth. A wide cloth bandage covers my forehead, it absorbs sweat well and does not allow my long blond hair to crawl into my eyes. In the right hand there is a long spata, in the left gladius.

The gate opposite is slowly opening. From the gloom on the brightly lit southern sun Arena comes my opponent.

In the right hand there is a short gladius, in the left there is a small rectangular shield. The right arm and leg are protected by quilted armor, and there is a wide belt with iron metal plates on the belly. On the head is an open helmet. Judging by the face italian.

The gates are not closing, it seems that today I have more than one opponent. Two are not so scary, three are already much worse.

The second goes to the arena. Greek. On the head is a Greek helmet with a wide comb of horsehair, a torso is covered by a bronze breastplate with a skirt of riveted leather bands, there are bronze leggings on the legs, a large round shield in his left hand, and a right spear in his left hand. On the belt a short sword. Swordsman and spearman. The gates are still open, is there really a third.

Yes, the third. A lean, dark-skinned Numidian, with a trident and a net in his hands. Retiarium. The worst possible alignment.

The gates are still open. Fourth. Briton. A shock of blond hair, a long mustache, a naked body painted with blue tattoos. A long oval shield painted with Celtic patterns, an ax on a long arm.

With four I have not had to face.

The gates are open. Fifth. And this is my death. Healthy, above my head. The shaven skull covered with scars, it can not even be called a face, a muzzle. The mountain of muscles under ebony black, shiny skin, sharpened teeth. In the mighty lapisch there is a short handle with a chain, and on a chain there is a studded iron ball, slightly smaller than my head. In another paw a club with spikes.

The gates closed. I glance at Tiberus Carr, the manager of the battles. A crooked, satisfied grin, with Junia Carr, his wife, sitting next to him. And my mistress.

But I have no time. Beat the gong.

BOOO.

They stand half circle. In the center is a monster, flanked by Italians and Greeks. Along the edges Numidian and Britt.

The most dangerous for me now is the Numidian. My salvation is speed, and his trapping network, my death.

Monster is moving towards me. The rest of him.

I turn to Britt, send him a kiss and make a movement with my hands, as if I am stretching his asshole to my dick. He is furious and screams at me.

That's what I relied on. Celts are very easy to anger. The rest do not have time to react, his attack is too sudden.

I rush to meet Britta, go around to his right, taking his ax to the gladius, sleeping open the bare belly.

I jump back, turn around and run from my pursuers along the fence of the Arena. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Britt kneel down, trying to keep the bluegrass hanging out on the sand.

I'm runing. I took the first blood, but there are four of them, and the Retiary. Numidian literally hangs on my tail. The monster and the Italian are behind, and the Greek decided to cut my way, well, yes, there is no runner in his armor. But to meet with him and Numidian at the same time, I for some reason do not want to.

I turn around sharply and throw urine at the Numidian. The network is such a thing, you have to prepare for the throw, but it turned out to be not ready. We are too close. He beats the trident, catching him on the spatu and deflecting the gladius aside, immerse the gladius into pliable flesh at the top of the stomach. I cranked. I'm pulling back. The blade with the champion comes out, the blood from the wide wound splashes onto the sand. Blood Sand Arena. The Numidian looks at his blood in disbelief between his fingers in disbelief. He still did not understand that he was already dead. But I have no time, those two are getting closer.

I’m going further, it’s good that I don’t have armor, I’d be out of breath long ago, and so ... So I can run for hours.

And here is the Greek. Protection from him that is necessary. It is necessary for him, I just his protection very much interferes. It would be enough time, I would dance around it, and get this turtle out of its shell. But there is no time. We must act quickly.

I hit him at once, rejecting a spear with a spade, I cut it with a gladius, I beat it with my foot down the shield. The sharp edge hurts the Greek on the bare thighs. Blood stains polished bronze. Push shoulder to the shield and the Greek falls on his back. He is trying to reach for a sword with a shaking hand, but my gladius has already entered the hollow at the base of the throat. The Greek choked with his own blood, pulling out his sword, I leave the gurgling opponent to die, and run on.

Looking up from the sluggish pursuers translate the spirit.

The wild race at the limit of power is over. I look around. Through the noise of blood in my ears, external sounds reach my consciousness. Tribunes roar, the audience jumped up from the seats, waving their hands, women squeal. One, catching my gaze with a jerk, lowers her tunic, exposing her chest, stretches her arms towards me.

Another, seeing her in general, took off her clothes and naked jumping on the podium swinging a tunic over her head, her husband tries to pacify a broken wife, but she pushes him away, but she gives full will to someone’s hands. But I have no time to look at what is happening in the stands.

Enemies are approaching. Do not run, go fast paced. And the Italian is not a fool, does not break away from the giant. Now he is my problem. I carve this huge carcass, but the Italian will not allow me to do this. So it is he who is my goal. Although...

I take off and run in a wide arc, my goal is Numidian. He is still alive, trying to crawl away from me. Don't twitch, I don't need you. I stick blades in the sand. Pick up the net and trident.

Moving towards the opponents. Pretending to attack a giant. The Italian bought, slightly moving aside, he begins to bypass me, that would attack from the back.

And breaks away from his partner. This is the moment I waited. And he is not. I jump to him and throw the net. He clearly did not expect an attack, the network did not very firmly swaddle him, he was almost freed. But it was almost a naked back that flashed before me, a beautiful target.

The sharp teeth of the trident, with hooked hooks at the end, pierce the human body. Ditch the weapon back, it goes bad, you have to pull with all your might, finally the weapon is free. Three gaping ragged wounds in the back, with scraps of meat. Italian howls. I again drive a trident in his back. And leave him hanging around from the back.

I barely manage to dodge the spike death. The ball crashes into the sand.

I am unarmed. It remains to run.

Ahead lies Britt's body, he tried to crawl, and guts stretched behind him, leaving a wide trail of blood. Sand absorbs blood well. But she was too much.

Grab a hand ...