I was standing outside of the arena waiting for my name to be called. Every boy at the age of fifteen had to beat the Minotaur or die trying. From the day I’d turned three years old, my older brother, who had already fought his fight and won, had been teaching me how to work with a sword and a club covered in metal spikes. At the age of seven I had entered a school for tactics and strength.
My brother, standing next to me with sweat dripping from his forehead, cracked his neck. He was nervous-I could tell. All the boys who had graduated the school for gladiators had become bulky and strong. They could lift weight equal to their own. I, however, was just a scrawny kid barely able to lift a log.
“Brutus,” the speaker on the arena called. I began to walk into the arena, but my brother placed his stiff and heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Brother,” he began, “know that the strength to fight is on the inside, not the outside.”
“What does that mean Brother?”I asked, trying to hide the worry in my thick voice.
“Courage,” my brother answered, and took his hand off my shoulder, nodding his head towards the arena.
I walked out and saw the murmuring crowd. There were bodies of several boys-a gruesome scene that the Founders believed would push the gladiator out of his comfort zone and into reality.
The Minotaur roared, and the gate separating it from me lifted.
The fight began.