Episode 23 (40 A.D.):

The fierce duel continued. Demosthenes realized that he could not convince his opponents: today's spectacle was a fight to the death against someone who could not die, and these men knew it well.

Remembering the cruel battles against the Easterners, the Athenian fought, trying not to kill them.

The crowd cheered for the violence. While Demosthenes, despite his weakened state, fought with ferocity, using his combat experience to dodge the attacks of both gladiators, he could not avoid receiving some blows from their swords, tridents, shields, and stones.

The Athenian managed to wound his opponents several times, trying to put them out of action. However, fatigue and the time that had passed without fighting put him at a disadvantage.

After a while, Demosthenes lunged at the one with the helmet and took away his sword, then placing himself on top of his opponent with the sword pointing at his enemy's neck.

Zenodulos rose from his seat, agitated.

— What are you waiting for? Kill him!

But Demosthenes hesitated.

Taking advantage of Demosthenes' indecision, the other gladiator dealt him a fierce thrust to the abdomen. The sharp trident points pierced the immortal Greek's flesh, traversing his chest. A sharp pain ran through him from head to toe, and he vomited blood on his opponent's helmet. Darkness enveloped him again.

And unconsciousness returned...

Suddenly, Demosthenes woke up with a start, disoriented and with a sharp pain in his stomach. He found himself in a long corridor, being carried by a couple of guards. The only light came from the torches hanging on the stone walls. The roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears, mixed with the accelerated sound of his heartbeat. He tried to break free, but his arms and legs were bound by thick ropes.

Upon entering a room, the guards stopped and pushed him roughly into a cell. The only consolation for his fall was the straw floor. One of the men approached the immortal stealthily and, with a quick and efficient movement, cut the bindings on his extremities with a small knife. Then, and with great speed, he headed for the cell exit.

Before Demosthenes could even think of escaping, the guard slammed the door shut and they both left. Minutes turned into hours as Demosthenes examined every corner for an escape route. The bars were too strong to be bent or dismantled. A bucket for his needs and a small pile of straw to sleep on were his companions in his prison. His only illumination was a small opening in the wall opposite the bars, distant and dim.

Suddenly, the door burst open again and Zenodulos stormed into the cell, his impeccable toga contrasting with the grime of the place. Behind him, two Germanic guards with golden hair and gleaming armor protected him. These men were much better armed than any soldier Demosthenes had ever seen.

Arrogance was reflected on Zenodulos' face as he contemplated his former master.

Demosthenes rose from the floor, his gaze blazing with anger.

— What do you want now? — He roared, barely containing the fury that consumed him.

— How dare you address his majesty like that? — Shouted one of the guards, but Zenodulos stopped him with a gesture.

—Leave us alone— He ordered with an imperious voice.

The guards obeyed, closing the door with a bang. Zenodulos sat down on a rough wooden stool, enjoying his prisoner's discomfort.

— Demosthenes, foolish Demosthenes— he said in a mocking tone— What do you think of seeing your former slave become the emperor of Rome? Absolute power in my hands, while you rot in this cell.

The war veteran did not deign to respond. He had no intention of listening to that man's boasts; for every word he spoke with that arrogance, he could only remember the boy who thought he was smarter than everyone else.

— Aren't you curious to know how I did it? — Zenodulos insisted impatiently. — It wasn't difficult at all. I simply eliminated the real “Augustus Germanicus” and convinced the Senate and the people that I was him, despite the obvious difference in our appearances.

Demosthenes' blood boiled with fury. He sprang to his feet, ignoring his status as a prisoner.

— You scum! — He shouted with all his might— When I get out of here, I'll do what I should have done long ago: kill you!

Zenodulos raised an eyebrow.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

— Strong words for someone who ran away like a dog with his tail between his legs— He replied. — Speaking of which, you and Agatha's little escape caused quite a stir. Two injured guards is hardly ideal, but for my dear Agatha I can overlook it.

Demosthenes' stomach churned. He couldn't bear to hear that man speak of his wife in that way.

— Shut your mouth, you insolent serpent!

— Say whatever you like, you'll still remain locked up here for all eternity. Unless, you tell me where she is. Do that, and I'll grant you a quick death. That way, you won't have to endure the torture I have planned for you. Aren't I generous?

— Don't you know where Agatha is? — The other Athenian asked sincerely.

A veil of doubt fell over the "emperor's" face. His eyes narrowed, his gaze turning piercing, searching for any sign of deception in Demosthenes' eyes.

— So, you have separated... That explains a lot of things—He said with disdain. — I could torture you to find out if it's true. But I know you well, you're too stupid to pretend that well. It's a shame I still have to use resources to find her.

Zenodulos rose from his stool with a sudden movement.

— Enjoy these moments of peace, you mangy dog—He added with a mocking tone. — Because now I'm going to fulfill my promise: I'll torture you until you beg for mercy! And there is not a better setting for it than the gladiator games. You'll be executed like a wretched prisoner in the arena, over and over again.

The emperor slowly retreated, chuckling to himself, enjoying the superiority he felt over the other immortal. The cell fell silent once more, oppressive. Demosthenes thought long and hard about his next move. Escape was his only option, but the cell didn't seem to offer any possibilities. The sun set, and the man in a foreign land had no choice but to sleep on that mound of straw.

At dawn, he was dragged brusquely to the arena. The deafening roar of the crowd enveloped him once again, vibrating his body. In front of him, a corpulent gladiator, clad in the skin of the Nemean lion and wielding a massive maul, awaited him with a mocking grin.

— The Nemean Lion against Hercules! — Zenodulos roared, framing Demosthenes and the gladiator in a deadly play. This was not uncommon for the time. To Demosthenes' misfortune, he had to pretend to be the lion, clad only in tattered animal skins.

Needless to say, Demosthenes could do little to defend himself: unarmed and facing a warrior with far more combat experience, he ended up being struck by that mace more times than he could count.

After so much torture, they moved on to another event, and the immortal, bruised from all the blows, was locked up again.

The next day, he was thrown into a large cage erected in the middle of the arena to protect the spectators from a pack of hungry wolves. Demosthenes fought with ferocity, using his fists to strike the beasts and his hands to fend off their bites, but the fight was unequal. The wolves ravenously devoured his flesh, which regenerated time and time again.

When the audience grew bored, they moved on to another game, and Demosthenes' mangled body was dragged back to his cell. There, on the floor, was a new tunic, as the previous one was in shreds from the wolves' fangs. Demosthenes looked at it with bitterness; his last memory of Agatha now lay in the bellies of the beasts.

The following days turned into monotonous solitude. From his small cell, he could barely hear the comments of an announcer proclaiming the end of the games. Demosthenes sighed with bittersweet relief; he had not managed to escape, but at least the torture was over... until who knows when Zenodulos's whims would once again seek to torment that man.

His only contact with the outside world was the guards who brought him food and water. His thoughts revolved mostly around his wife, wondering where she was and if she was safe. The idea of escaping Rome and returning to Athens became an obsession. If Zenodulos was now far from the city of the patron Athena, perhaps it would not be so dangerous to return. Perhaps Agatha might even be there. He wondered where this Rome was located and how much it would cost him to reach Greece.

Suddenly, the cell door creaked open and Demosthenes stood up from his bed with caution. A middle-aged man, his face weathered by time and with a tired look, entered the cell. Wrinkles furrowed his eyes and forehead, and his pale complexion matched his white hair. Limping slightly, he approached the immortal. It was the same man who had accompanied Zenodulos in his box during the games.

Demosthenes, his gaze fixed on the man, asked:

— Are you my torturer?

— N-no, by all the gods, no. I d-deeply regret what my nephew Caius has made you suffer. — He replied stammering, his body trembling as if he were cold.

— Caius? Who is that? —Asked the Greek.

— Caius is the name of the emperor, — The man replied with perplexity, as Demosthenes was used to people from that place and time answering him like that.

Then the immortal Greek remembered Zenodulos's words, about how he had eliminated the true emperor and convinced everyone that he was their leader. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, the possibility of telling the truth to the man in front of him. But he chose not to do so, only Agatha believed him about the true intentions of his former slave, and that was after seeing his true nature. With Zenodulos's abilities, it would be more difficult to convince people of who their "emperor" really is.

Breaking the silence, the Roman introduced himself.

—I am Tiberius Claudius Drusus, but you can call me “Claudius”.

In Demosthenes' mind, the name Tiberius resonated, but he couldn't quite recall where he had heard it before.

Claudius, with a nervous tone, apologizing for his stutter, continued:

— I-I'm not as cruel as other members of my family. The idea of throwing you into the arena and making you fight the gladiators was C-Caius's idea. —He apologized nervously. —I'm just curious about the knowledge you might possess.

With the excitement, Claudius's nose began to drip. Embarrassed, he wiped it with his tunic. Demosthenes, still on the defensive, remained silent. The emperor's “uncle” continued speaking.

—I'm sorry... You're Demosthenes, right? Your name is Greek, what era are you from?

Demosthenes, giving up, finally responded.

— What kind of torture is this?

—I'm not your torturer, I just want to talk to you.

Demosthenes sighed, resigned.

— Do you know anything about the wars of the Greek poleis against the army of King Xerxes?— He asked.

Claudius's eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically.

From that moment on, a long conversation began between the immortal and the ephemeral being. The Greek, cautiously, began to share what his life was like in Athens and the war in which he participated. Claudio, fascinated, asked him questions with eagerness. They were two totally different men, but the Roman's curiosity reminded Demosthenes of his father, who had died who knows how many years ago.