Chapter 1

            My name, as I am called by the living is Timothy.  It was my title by birth, the very name of my great-grandfather Timothy Lawrence.  He was a great leader of a small town, nestled in Beverly, East Yorkshire.  My mother was a historian and a lover of Great Brittan’s legendary past.  My father on the other hand, was less of an activist in my life.  It wasn’t as if he didn’t care to send a letter now and again, but as the flow of birthday cards became more and more obsolete, so did my father.

When I was five we moved from England to New York, seeking new life under the red, white, and blue.  America: the land of the free and a place of hope for the hopeless.  Such a place took me in as one of them.  For the past twenty years I spent living with my mother and always I wondered of my father.  Was he dead, gone?  Did he still want to be with us?  My sixteenth birthday rolled around and still no call, nor card, nothing.  The next four years my father lay hidden in the dark, not willing to expose himself to nether myself, or my mother, who had long given up on him.

After graduating with honors and a Masters degree in English I moved to a smaller city to begin my practice: Chester, New Jersey.  With the income I had earned I raised a small cottage and started the process of moving in.  For the next few months life had gone on, until last night.

The sun splintered in through my pale window.  My bedroom floor was covered in sheets and pillows as many of them had been thrown there from my unconscious outburst.  I just sat, looking out at the forest that surrounded my house.  My mother always loved the country.  She was born in the rolling plains of Scotland.  My father on the other hand was born in the heart of Britain: London.

Beverly was my parent’s compromise; it was neither a huge city nor a sprawling countryside.  But I would not compromise for my father, thus Chester.  I would have brought my mother here as well, but her work in the schools tied her down.  My shirt lay on a rickety chair paired by an old oak desk.  Rising stiffly, I stumbled over and slip it on.  My digital alarm clock displayed 9:00 am.  I had slept in, after rolling out bed screaming bloody murder at one in the morning.

Papers covered in scribbles were spread out all over the desk in disorderly fashion.  Centering them all was a small laptop computer.  With much squeaking I eased myself into the wobbly recliner, booted up the PC, and began typing frantically.

9:35am October 20^th, 2006

I cannot begin to describe the events that have occurred in the past night.  Dreams of horror and terror beyond imaginable. A monster from my nightmare called me Gregory.  Greg is the name of my father, which is short for Gregory.  My mother always called me a little Greg when I was younger; due to the many actions that I performed that somehow imitated my father. 

My dream said I had a son.  Me?  A son?  I have never been with a woman in a relationship more than a friend.  Though now that I think of it, I do know a Martha.  She had recently co-authored a book with me called “The Rising”.  The books constancy was that of fictional political matters in America, yet I highly remember creating that work with her more than any other.

She was a very quite woman; short in stature, yet not in mind. A brilliant mind she had at that.  Full of thoughts and ideas that few compared with.  A very…

My hands stop typing.  Tremors filled my very bones.  Her scream, I could still hear it ringing in my ears.  Anguish over took me as I remembered the pain of her passing.  Though my mind convinced me that the Martha of my dream was not the one of reality, yet something in my gut could not separate the two.  Tears were brimming in my eyes as I let my emotions get the better of me.  It was only a dream right?  How does something so fake become so real?

For ten whole minutes I sat, staring into nothingness, pondering and questioning my very state of mind.  My life had been one of complete turmoil.  After the disappearance of my father, my mother had been wooed many times by several different suitors.  Now it would be disrespectful and even untrue to say that these men were ugly and grotesque, yet they were that way on the inside.  When my mother finally chose one of her liking she did not realize the heart of the man.

Because of that choice she made I still bear the scars of countless beatings from my stepfather.  When my mother was away he would drag me, shirtless, outside and into the cold and smack me around.  Over the many years that went on for my mother would constantly ask why I had black eyes or a bloody nose.  I was too afraid to tell her.  But it came a day when I overpowered my stepfather.  I would take his beatings no longer.  That time it was he who fled our home.

Still the childhood that we live through does not make us or define us.  Of course that does not take away the fact that it is very painful to receive daily beatings from one’s stepfather.  What I learned through all of that was to be better: better than my father who left me, and the one who left me with bruises.

A cold draft came in from under my closed door.  My bear feet started to feel slightly numb and I quickly stomped them to get the blood flowing.  Sluggishly I shut my computer down, stood, and walked to the perpetrator of all this cold air.  As I exited my bedroom I could see my front door from my standing point on top of a flight of stairs.  My front door was ajar.  Panic sized my already unstable heart.  I could have sworn that I had shut that door.

A clattering sounded from my kitchen.  Slowly, I crept downward: the stairs reacting to my every move in a creaky chorus.  I clenched my hands into tightly balled fists.  It seemed like it took forever to get down the stairs as ever step sounded painfully loud.  My heart was beating like an out of control drum.

A crash resounded once again, louder this time.  Stealthily I crept onward, seeking to find the source of all this commotion.  Sweat dripped down my lip, making me quickly wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt.  Fear creped down my spine and rooted itself in my chest: tightening it.

In the kitchen chairs were overturned, dishes and cups shattered on the floor.  What stopped my heart was nothing that lay on the floor, but what was suspended above it.  Hanging by a roughly knotted noose dangled a body of a woman.  Her black hair was dripping from exertion against her killer and it hung over her face obscuring features.

My stomach revolted at the sight of the body as a putrid taste filled my mouth.  The woman’s slim form slightly swung left and right from the angle she was hung.  A trickle of blood slithered from her lip and over her chin.  The creaking of her weight on the rope was the only sound other than my breathing in the room.  I stepped lightly, trying to avoid cutting my feet on the broken glass that littered the floor.  As I reached the woman her appearance became more and more familiar.

“Mom?”  There was no denying the form that hung, lifeless before me.  With a trembling hand I brushed some of her dark hair away from her eyes.  Her green eyes stared at me with blank expression as her mouth opened in a silent scream.  This time there was no holding back the sickness in my stomach as it emptied its contents on the floor.  Tears blurred my vision; this couldn’t be happening.

I feel to my knees, ignoring the pain that flared from pieces of glass that cut them.

“Oh God no, please no,” I allowed my body to shake with each sob of sorrow.  I screamed, so loud; too loud.  Hot moisture wet my cheeks as I wept.  I glanced upward to see a yellow object on my mother’s stomach.  I vainly tried to cut my cries to a sniffle as I stood quickly.  It was a sticky note attached to her.  It read:

Death is such a cruel thing isn’t it Timmy?  The execution of the ones you love, as you stand now defenseless before them must hurt you, deeply.  I told you we were coming, and yet you did not heed our warnings.  And we, have now become one.  One of mind, heart, and soul.  Yet you don’t understand Timmy; why I do what I do.  Why I kill.  Do not think I kill without purpose and reason.  No one is without sin Timmy and because of that all must face death.  The voices above have told me so.  They have called for my repentance, my allegiance, and a willing hand to kill all who opposed the way.  You must hate me bitterly, but I enjoy your hate.  It fills me with joy to imagine you seething, squirming with rage.  Come and find me Timmy, I am near.  Find the ones you love: ether in this life or in the ones you dream.  There you will find me.  Find Martha lover boy.  She’s next,

Black.

Prologue

            A bone-chilling scream pierced the air as I snapped awake from my sleep.  Where am I?  My blurry vision started to clear a little as I shook my head.  A warm tickling feeling ran down my throat as I coughed to relieve it.  Specks of red flew from my lips.  Blood.  The crimson fluid dripped down my chin.  Fear crept into my body as my heart beat faster and my raspy breathing became heard.  I scanned the room.  Cement walls encased me in a grim like prison.  One single bulb illuminated the area.  I was seated under the dim light, hands tied behind my back in a rude fashion.  My shirt was stained in spots of blood and my cargo pants torn.  Where was I?  Struggling with my bonds my wrists became raw and sore.  I looked around the room once again and chanced upon a small, open piece of paper near my feet.

Small print was scratched upon it.  I bent over slowly, the pain in my back ever increasing.  The words, though faint as they were, seemed to scream out that me.

“Greg Frazier, you are probably wondering why u are here and in due time you will find out.  But first three lessons must be learned.  Lessons of pain.  The scream you heard at your awakening was none other than your lovely wife.  Don’t be alarmed, she’s not dead, yet.  Martha is just one of the many tools that will be used to break you.  Greg, the only way for you to be rebuilt is to be broken, severed, torn in two.  Not only literally, but also emotionally.  You have a son that we know of, yet he seems to keep avoiding our grasp.  Not to worry though, we will soon find him. 

            Now you have twenty minutes to exit the room.  To your right is a small knife.  Cut free and the exit will be open on your left.  Follow the sound of your wife’s screams.  You have thirty minutes in total.  Good luck,

Your Executioner.”

Panic seized my heart as it raced out of control.  I groped around, reaching with my free fingers.  A sharp pain shot up one them as a slow tingling drifted down into the tips.  I had found the blade of the knife.  With the other hand I grabbed the soft, wooden handle and pulled it away from my wounded fingers.  Gripping the end, I drew the sharp edge of the tool through my bonds.  Stiffly I stood and limped to my left.  A grinding sound resounded as part of the seemingly solid wall pulled away.  Without thinking of the traps that might lay behind it I painfully strode forward.

Each step drew a gasp from my mouth.  Dried blood pasted my face as fresh crimson painted my cut hand.  They had my wife.  Who ever they were.  The opening in the wall gave way to a dark hallway.  Cold air breezed out from it.  I tripped as my elbow landed with a dull thud.  Seemingly out of nowhere a small cry reached my ears.

“Greg!  Greg please he’s here!  Please I.. I…”

I staggered upward and rushed forward towards the sound.  As I moved deeper and deeper into the tunnel I could make out stains running along the hard flooring.  They were the marks of a bloodied body being dragged across the cold surface.  The crimson trail ended as the tunnel veered of into two separate paths.  A blood-curdling moan echoed to the right as I stumbled to follow the sound of agony.

There she sat, at the end of the hall, propped up by the darkness behind her.  Her slumped over form looked battered and bruised as her blood matted hair covered her facial features.  The red trail ended where she sat, disappearing under her once white dress.  Tendrils of saliva dribbled down her chin as she gasped at the sight of me

“Oh God,” I exclaimed.  The sight of my wife in such a disheveled and broken state horrified me.

“Martha, what did they do to you?,” her throat pronounced no sounds as she rolled her head to look at me.  Tears brimmed over my eye lids and with much trembling I kneeled next to her.

“Greg?” she mumbled.

“Yes honey its me, I’m here,” I reached my blood covered arms around her.  To feel her frailness tore my heart to pieces.  Anger filled my soul and drove me to my feet.  Yet as I reached to lift my stooped wife I noticed something around her waist.  It was dark, almost shadowy.  It grew and grew, slowly taking shape as a drawing takes form on paper.  It was a spindly hand, with long pointed nails.  It gripped her hard as she screamed in terror.  I reached as fast as I could for her hand, her shoulder, anything that would stop this monster from taking her, but to no avail.  She was suddenly dragged into the darkness behind her, her voice piercing the very walls it resounded off of.

“No!” I chased after her, yet as fast as I ran her frantic calling for help became more and more faint.  Then it vanished altogether.

“Martha!” I called.  Nothing, not a sound.  It was as if hell itself had swallowed her up.  Despair washed over me.  My body was struggling against me, intent on not obeying my commands.  Sluggishly I staggered forward straining with my eyes to catch the slightest glimpse of my taken love.  My gaze fell to the floor as my impaired vision came upon a crumpled form.  The body was huddled on the cold ground in a fetal position, blood seeping from its center.

“No…” My heart was in disbelief, yet my eyes did not deceive me.  The almost folded being was Martha.  Martha!  My sweet love, my life, my very soul here desecrated, bloodied, and scared.  Weak with a pain more deep than any external wound I fell to my knees as anguish overtook me.  Sobs of deep sorrow rang from my dry lungs.  Stretching out my hand I smoothed her once golden locks.

Lifting her gently I managed to pull her limp neck onto my lap.  Methodically I began to stroke her forehead as if she were still here, sleeping silently on my bloodied legs.  Tears came streaming from my eyes like tiny rivers.  They trailed through the dirt that layered over my face.

Then I awoke with a loud scream tunneling down my throat.  My sheets were soaked with sweat as chills ravaged my body.  It was only a dream.  I sat up slowly, trying to take in what just happened.  Was it really only a dream?  I could only hope it was.  I shivered as the recent images flooded my mind as three realities came from them.  One, I had never married.  Two, because of that first statement I had no son.  And lastly, my name was not Greg.

My name was Timothy.

He crumpled before me as the crowd thundered in approval. Underneath my shimmering metal mask I breathed hoarsely. Adrenaline rushed through my battle-hardened body. My sweat glistened chest gleamed in the hot sun. Sand clung to my feet poking through dusty sandals. On my left arm a metal bracer ran from my shoulder to my wrist, encumbering my movement. In my right hand I held a sharp sword. The giant arena, that I was forced to preform in sat millions of visitors who wished to see blood spilt on the white sand.

They screamed, yelled, cheered. Death was their entertainment of choice. The only world that I knew was here, among killers, among animals, among gladiators. The coliseum had become our home, or at lest our grave yard. We as a group of people only knew few basic principles of being a slave, to fight, to kill, to survive. Murdering other human beings became more of a ritual to us than anything else. The silence of the multitude, then approval of the emperor, and then the sickly sound of steel cutting against bone and flesh.

The crowd of course loves it. They scream for death and lust for flowing blood. When a man killing a man is not enough they bring forth beasts. Tigers, lions, bears are just a few of them. Man and animal alike have mixed their blood on the battlegrounds of this accursed arena. I have been only so lucky as to be alive at this very moment, though I cannot say the same for my opponent.

As I drew my wet red blade from the body of my fallen enemy the crowd roared. Trumpets blared, intertwining with the enrage chanting of the fans. It was my name they screamed Milo the destroyer over and over again. Milo. Come to think of it I thought my name, above others, was a kindly one. Yet here I stood over the body of the man I had slain, his lacerations oozing. This man could have been a father, a brother, a son. I had become numb to the many killings I had preformed, with each one becoming easier.

The sound of grinding steel halted my train of thought. I turned quickly hoping to find the source. A huge gate opened before me as twenty armed guards came marching towards me. The masses booed and shouted insults as the men created a circle around me and quickly guided me back to the tunnel from where they came. As we descended down the dark pathway I could hear the ruckus of the crowd slowly fading away. Stonewalls created a prisonlike scenery. Iron bars enforced that look.

The coolness of the lower level allowed me to un-tense my muscles.

“This way gladiator,” one of the guards gestured to a cell filled with a single wooden bench hanging by steel chains and straw covering it and the floor. As I sat my strained being on the hard bed as a man littered with jingling keys hanging from his body locked the door behind me. I lay on my back and tried to slow my raspy breathing. I had one more fight. One more and I would be free. It was customary for a champion of the arena, after winning many battles, to be set free. My winning streak has been thirty-two kills; the body I left in the sand raised that count by one. Thirty-four was the perfect score. That number was my freedom.

Gladiators are not chosen; they are taken, and stolen. My small family of six was abducted from me. I was thirteen. Their shouts of terror still ring in my ears. Recalling that day from the actives of my memory is a task I preform with ease. We were eating a small meal of beans and rice. Then they came, Romans clade in blood red armor and holding viscous spears. My father rose to attack them, to protect us. My mother screamed as they thrust the sharp shaft through his body, lifting him from the floor and tossing him onto our rickety dinner table.

“Get the boy!” one shouted. Rough arms encircled me as I kicked and struggled to get away.

“Mother!” I called desperately. The last image that caught my eyes was that of my mother kneeling in her husband’s blood as a Roman strode over to her, grabbed her hair, drew a blade, and swiftly decapitated her. Her headless body fell limply on the floor as her murderer smirked under his feathery helm. He walked over to me, carrying her expressionless head and held it by my teary eyed face. The perfume from her hair wisped up my nose as tears dripped down my cheeks.

“Greeks, such a mighty people,” the well dressed killer kneeled so that we were eye to eye. My mothers crown still hung by his clenched hand.

“Not so much anymore,” in rage I spit in his face, and watched it dribble down his chin. He struck me as my world went black.

In my prison cell I fell off my bed as I sluggishly called for my deceased family. Cold sweat dripped down my face. I huddled up and wiped my sweaty face as my raggedy beard scratched my arm. How many years have I spent here? I turn my head to gaze upon faint white chalk marks. Seven years. As soon as I had entered into slavery a man had bought me with intent of warfare. Though I blame him for buying me, I credit him for training me.

“When your strength wanes, your body falters, and your spirit is crushed then you know you must fight even harder!” Titus use to proclaim. I was his apprentice, his slave, his son. Titus spent endless hours seeing to it that I would survive in the Coliseum. He even went to trouble of putting me into smaller skirmishes. I still bear the scars from fighting older men twice my size. Their graves bear witness to their defeat.

The old man’s training kept me alive. Titus had been a champion among gladiators, cutting down any who stood in his way. His fighting tactics were supreme, and better than any fighter of his day. His signature weapon were two twin knives; more fit for carving than anything else. Titus was unstoppable, unbeatable, invincible in my eyes.

Before he passed into the void he said the most profound statement, “Milo, let my training be applied in your life. May my strength, my speed, my skill, and my courage be your own.” As I kneeled by his frail form he slowly slipped from existence; his knives held crossed on his cold chest. The day after his passing I was sent to Rome to ‘perform’. Ever since I have honored his life by winning and staying alive.

Partials of broken daylight began to shimmer through a rusted grate on the ceiling.

A guard came too my door, “The emperor requested that you be released until your premiere fight this afternoon.” His silver chest-plate and bracers shone from excessive cleansing.

“So you are saying the emperor has requested a killer to roam the streets of Rome until he is ready to kill again?” I asked, my voice dry from un-use.

The man unlocked my cell door, “It is what he has requested and it shall be done accordingly without question.”

“Very well Roman, lead the way,” I responded with bitterness in my voice. Romans… the proud scum of the earth, willing to sell other man for sport. I followed the scrawny man through many passages until we came to the exit of the prison. How long ago was it when I last saw the light of day? The bustling of the crowd and the smells of the market overpowered my senses.

“Take your leave gladiator, but remember you have till this afternoon. If you are not back by that time, your chance of freedom will no longer be.”

“Very well Roman, I take your word,” I stepped down stone stairs and too the ground level below. The crowed streets bustled with life as energetic bodies moved too and fro. Rome had gotten bigger since I last was out, though that was years ago. I cam in bundled in chains and came out bundled in a tunic. They never let gladiators roam free. The cobblestone pavement felt warm under may sandals as I strode forward, itching to take in the entire city.

“Pastries, come get your fresh pastries!” a man behind a counter called out. So many smells wafted at my nose, some sweet, some bitter, and some salty. Part of the crowd knew who I was. I was deemed a killer and a savage in the coliseum. Yet I was loved by them and feared by all. As luck would have it the guard who had lead me out was kindly enough to provide me with a hooded cloak and I drew up its rough cloth to spread shadows across my face. In Rome the houses and stores are tightly nit together and separated by ally-ways and main streets. I took to the allies.

The clay rooftops somewhat shaded me from the blinding sun. Scattered here and their beggars covered in tattered rags softly called for lose change. One bold one wobbly stood and touched my shoulder.

“Sir, if you could led me something, any extra money that may burden you.” I looked upon this man in his stooped position and felt sorrow for him. We were both prisoners, one of poverty, one of war. This man and I had nothing, yet we were forced to make something of it. It was almost as if civilization expected us to conceive statues without giving the items necessary in order to gain it.

“Man, I have very little time to walk among free men. Before long I must return to my pit to fight for my freedom. But I can make you a promise, if I win my profits of the victory will belong to you.”

Tears weld up in his eyes, “You are Milo! The great warrior of the coliseum, you promise is most kind. I thank you so much,” he grabbed my hand and shook it violently.

“But in turn you must promise me something,” I stated pulling my hand away from the man’s vibrating one.

“What? Anything I would do for you. You have given me hope. Your wish is my command!” he proclaimed.

“Share the profits you have gained with your fellow brothers in poverty,” I gestured to many other slowly moving bodies that were scattered two and fro on the cobblestone.

The man gulped, “Very well, I shall do as you ask,” his gaze traveled to the ground.

Putting my hand on his shoulder I ask, “What is your name?”

“My name is Felix,” he looked up to me and asked, “What of you? How will you live if you give your winnings to the poor?”

“My good sir, freedom is living. Poverty is a cruel slave master. How can I live rich when I know so many are in bondage,” grabbing both his shoulders I continued, “That’s what makes us different than the Romans Felix. All they care about is wealth and statues. The wealthy just become more and more rich while the poor just sink deeper and deeper into poverty. We must make a difference.”

Felix looked off into the distance, seemingly entering to another dimension of thought. Then a smile drew across his warn face.

“Milo you are a wise man, I will do as you ask,” he paused, “I would like to help you as much as I can in your journey for freedom. I am not strong, but my mind works better than my body.”

“You are as noble as you are kind my dear Felix and yes I would much enjoy your company. My time of short freedom is drawing to an end and your friendship would be much appreciated.”

Flex’s smile spread even more across his face, “I know a place we could go for the day. I have some friends I would like you to meet that I think might interest you.”

I grinned, “Lead on my companion.” For a while we seemed to be going nowhere. The endless streets boggled my mind. As we traversed down the warm roads of Rome I studied my friend’s figure. He was slim, though next to me many a man seemed fragile.