She didn’t notice Paul looking over at her, watching her intently.“Feel free to raid the minibar, if you want,” Marcy told him before taking another puff. “I’m not going to cheapskate out on the booze.”Paul nodded and climbed out of bed with an exhausted huff. He walked over to the miniature fridge, which was under the counter almost directly opposite the bed and crouched down as he perused its contents.There was a modest assortment of spirits, but right now Paul’s throat was dry and he was in the mood for something her could really slam down, so he grabbed a beer. "Momma’s Secret Ale." At first Paul didn’t recognize the brand name at all, but then he recalled that he had heard of it once or twice. It was a microbrewery in a nearby county, if he recalled correctly. This would be the first time he tried it.“Is that a beer?” Marcy asked, upon noticing Paul holding the bottle.“Yep,” he replied.“I think I saw a few in there. Could you get me one, too?” she asked.Marcy was right. It. The boy thought he was good. The problem was, he did not realise that the slaves were given a drink before the fight which was laced to slow their reactions, slow them, make them less good. If they’d won, they would have been executed anyway I suppose. But instead Grantus got the idea that he was a brilliant fighter. I’d seen him fight and I was reasonably sure I could beat him.We all – the family, the slave, the gladiators, and some locals – met at the arena the next day. It would do the gladiators good to see that I was not afraid to fight. I hoped they accepted me as leader already; the locals, too, should see that one of their own who had become Romanised was still able to stand up for himself.Grantus was given full armour and a sword and shield because that was what he wanted. I opted to be dressed in a loin cloth and have a sword and long dagger. I figured the armour would slow him as much as it protected him. So it proved. The fight was fun, I have to admit. He swung with some.
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