CHAPTER 4

"What do you mean he's been sold?"

John stood at the edge of the cell gripping the bars with bone white knuckles. The guard merely lifted his eyebrows as if to ask, "What do you think?"

When he'd woken up that morning he'd been shocked to see that McKay was gone. Then after a good deal of shouting and empty threats, one of the guards had simply said, "He's been sold." What kind of an answer was that?

There was a sudden roaring in his ears and a sinking feeling in his gut. McKay was gone; sold, in the middle of the night.

As the man who had delivered the news turned away John shouted out one last question, "Who bought him?"

This was his only hope to possibly find McKay later. Receiving only shrugged shoulders in response, John returned to his piece of wall. He closed his eyes against this new developing headache. This was so not what he needed. How the hell was he going to get them home now? He hadn't had a clue how to get them out before, but at least they'd been together. Now, with Rodney who-knows-where enduring who-knows-what John felt despair creeping in. He pondered his options as the morning 'meal,' if one could call a bowl of brown molasses food, was served. However, he didn't have much time before the noise in the courtyard overwhelmed any dark thoughts he was entertaining.

Lifting his eyes from his bowl, Jon looked around to see what the commotion was about. All around the large complex the slaves were being taken from their cells one section at a time and being put in a mass corral behind the 'stage' John had noticed yesterday. A crowd was quickly gathering in the courtyard. Composed of the obviously wealthy and those well off, it was clear to John what was about to take place, a slave auction.


When the first man was dragged to the frond of the stage, His arms and legs were locked in heavy steel cuffs. Stripped from the waist up, the man was then poked and prodded by the auctioneer, who was rambling off the man's many 'assets.' Watching from his cell as this human being was robbed of dignity and treated like livestock was making John ill. For the first time since waking up to find his friend gone, John was glad Rodney wasn't here.

John's gaze wandered to the crowd. He noticed that some of the buyers were going around to the sides and talking to the slavers who hadn't brought their 'merchandise' out yet. It wasn't much longer before a man came to talk with the man who was selling him. When the two stopped in front of his cage, John's ears perked up. Maybe he could get a clue as to who this slime-ball liked to sell to.

"Now here we might find more of what you're looking for Marcus."

John warily looked over the new arrival. This Marcus guy looked straight back. There was a coldness in the man's eyes that set John on edge.

Cutting the slaver off mid-sentence, Marcus asked in a sharp clear voice, "Where did that one come from?" All the while never letting his gaze waver from John's.

The slaver jumped at the sudden interruption, only a slight tightening of his lips displaying his displeasure at having his sales-pitch interrupted. The expression left his face instantly when he suddenly realized whom Marcus was referring to. Snapping his fingers at the guards, he then motioned towards John.

A greedy expression crossed the man's face as he answered Marcus's question. "Ah yes that one was captured near the Ring of the Ancestors. Apparently he was a soldier of some sort on another planet. He put up quite the fight; managed to kill one of my expugnators."

By this point John had been lead out of the cell to stand in front of the two men. He couldn't resist making a comment at this point.

"Hi, Marcus. John Sheppard, United States Air Force. Nice to meet you."

The cocky, sarcastic expression was wiped off his face by the vicious backhand that he got in response.

His ears were ringing as he refocused his attention on the two men in front of him.

"Hmm, he is a spirited one." Marcus said this thoughtfully as he began to circle around John, appraising him the same way someone might look at a fine racehorse. The inspection came to a pause as Marcus stopped behind John.

"That was sustained when he killed my man. A superficial wound, it will heal quickly." The slaver hurried to explain the bandage at the base of John's skull.

Superficial my ass!

"Superficial my ass! You gave me a concussion!" John glared at the slaver. He could tell the concussion was wearing off, but quite frankly he didn't like this guy very much, seeing as how he had just sold Rodney off in the middle of the night.

However, he guessed he was about to get his reward for that little comment. At this point the slaver took out a small box from his robes. After that all John felt was pain. It was like every muscle in his body was contracting simultaneously. It was like being electrocuted at the same time as you were having a seizure. As quickly as the pain came it left. John blinked as he looked blankly up at the sky. Well, at least he had an idea what those collars they had put on earlier were for. They were some sort of control device.

Feeling himself dragged up by the arms, John quickly tried to regain his footing. He realized that the slaver and the Marcus-guy were arguing about something.

"…perfect for your company. Eight thousand."

"You will get no more than Seventy-two hundred. This is more than reasonable for a untrained, uncooperative, damaged slave."

"Hmph. He is in better shape than many you've bought from me in the past. Seventy-eight."

"You will have to do better than that. Though his quick mind lends itself to the arena, it means he'll be that much more difficult to teach. Seventy-two fifty."

John's head was spinning from the combined effects of the concussion, the ringing hit, and that last experience, but he gathered that Marcus was buying him, and that he was going to be trained to fight in some sort of arena. Crap.

"You are trying to rob me. Seventy-five."

"Then auction him off. But in that dazed state, he won't sell well. Seventy-three, final."

"Done."

"Done."

"Have him prepped and ready to be transferred with my other purchases."

"Right away."


After regaining his senses John had found himself being hosed down and being given new clothes to wear. It was a basic tunic and belt, along with a pair of leather sandals that laced up the calves. He donned the outfit with minimal complaint and watched in anger as his uniform; his last piece of Atlantis was thrown in a small bonfire. After that he'd been loaded onto a cart, similar to the one he and McKay had been in during the first part of this nightmare. Six other men were loaded into the cart and they were taken back out into the city. Fortunately these men were a bit more talkative than his other cellmates had been so far. So, John decided to find out what he could about this planet.

It turned out that these gladiator games were the all important event in town. Everyone from government officials to the homeless would follow the games. He also learned that famous gladiators were known by everyone and revered above even the highest authority figure. The games sounded almost identical to the ancient Roman version, at least from what he remembered from Spartacus and Gladiator. Those were some good movies.

The cart lapsed into silence as they approached the Colosseum. John made a decision at that point. As much as the idea of killing for the entertainment of others sickened him, he knew that that was the only way to survive this. If he was going to get out of this and get McKay he also knew that one of them was going to have to find the other. To do that John realized that he would have to make sure that McKay was able to find him, by making a name for himself here. And if Atlantis started searching the city, they'd be sure to find him as well.

As they passed through the gates into the gladiator center, John steeled himself for what was to come. He didn't have to like it, but he would do whatever the hell it took to get him, and McKay, off this goddamn planet.


"Name"

John looked at the small man in front of him with a cheeky smile before responding, "Spartacus."

He received only a slightly irritated glare in response. John had thought the name rather appropriate; a slave who incited a rebellion, he would've liked to give it a shot.

"Okay, not Spartacus then." Sighing John replied, "Lt. Colonel John Sheppard."

Writing down the information on the scroll in front of him, the man simply gestured to the side, where a rather large man stood next to a table of weapons.

After arriving in the gladiator center, they had been directed to a smaller separate section that John guessed was reserved for this Marcus guy and his troupe. He'd then been shoved in the general direction of tiny-scroll-guy. Now it looked like he was getting his first dose of what was to come.

Moving to the table John looked over the weapons. They were all wooden representations, but still looked like they could cause some serious pain. There were several swords, a few axes, and a rather wicked looking thing that resembled a quarterstaff with a short sword on the end. He would have loved to give that a try, but decided he should choose something that he may actually be able to use. That's when his eyes fell on a set of long thin sticks that reminded him remarkably of Athosian fighting sticks.

Thank you Teyla.

Picking them up he turned to the man he assumed was going to be his opponent. Okay, maybe he should have paid more attention to practicing with Teyla; the guy was huge. The man looked at John's choice, and then picked up the quarterstaff-type thing. Oh yeah, this was going to be 'fun.'

He followed his opponent into the clearing in front of the tables and raised the sticks into position.

What followed happened fairly quickly. John managed to hold the man back for a little bit, but he was on the defensive the entire time. Due to his opponent's large sizes he was required to keep the sticks together to stop the force. This, and the residual effects of his concussion, slowed his speed significantly. Soon he felt a heavy smack to the side of his ribs, followed by a strike to his knees. This move brought him to the ground. He was able to block the strike to his throat, but he needn't have bothered. A "halt" was called almost immediately.

Breathing heavily John got to his feet, and turned to see Marcus watching next to the scribe.

"He shows some skill, but will need extensive training. Put him down as a blade-dancer." Seeing the look of confusion on John's face he clarified, "Dual-swords wielding."

John turned back to the table at this point and set down the sticks. Leaning against the table, trying to feel for broken ribs, he heard Marcus say one final thing.

"Training starts this afternoon, after his wounds have been treated"

Great.


A/N: Sorry it took so long to get up, but now that mid-terms are done, updates should come more frequently. And thanks again to all you lovely reviewers!