✈️ Miles' Travels – Episode 5: Gladiator School
The Roman sun beat down on a hidden spot in the center of the city. A sign painted in gold and purple, the solemn colors of the empire, announced Scuola Gladiatori – Ludi RomaniMiles and the group approached with a mixture of curiosity and fear. The air smelled of old leather, polished wood, and sand dust.
There, Dracon, the master, was waiting for them. Slim, in a white robe, with a gladiator in his hand, he looked like he'd stepped out of an ancient mosaic... until he opened his mouth. His sentences had the pomp of a Roman orator and, at the same time, the absurdity of an involuntary comedian.
"These aren't tourists here, they're gladiators in training!" he thundered. "Ave... musculus doloribus!"
The group looked at each other in confusion. Was it Latin? Was it a fabrication? No one knew.
Dracon began to distribute gladii Wooden now explains the routine with surgical precision: —Left foot forward, exact forty-five degree turn, lunge in the air, two steps back. If anyone does forty-six… may the gods save them!
The Radical Minimalist crossed his arms and protested, “A true traveler doesn’t need a sword. Give me something small, a pugio, and that's enough for me.
Dracon immediately interrupted him: "False! Even the poorest gladiator carried a gladiator. Without one, even chickens would beat you."
The Cleaning Neurotic lifted her helmet with two fingers and muttered, “This needs three coats of disinfectant before it touches my head.”
Dracon, impassive, replied: "They didn't use alcohol gel in Rome either, but if Julius Caesar had had it, he would have made his conquests much faster."
Miles vs. The Excel Tourist
Miles was paired with the Excel Tourist. The sword trembled in his hands: he was afraid of hitting even the wood. The other, however, calculated aloud: "Strike at 45°, defend at 30°, retreat two steps... according to my tables, you have a 72% chance of losing."
Miles could barely move his arm. Their duel seemed more like clumsy choreography than a fight. Dracon paced the arena, correcting everyone: "No, no, no! If you keep this up, even a sleeping Roman could beat you. More strength, more honor!"
Miles vs. The Radical Minimalist
The second fight pitted him against the Minimalist. He wielded a tiny pugio made of wood, which looked more like a toothpick than a weapon.
"That's enough," he said confidently. "Less weight, more freedom."
The minimalist threw out brief, almost symbolic movements, as if he were practicing tai chiMiles, on the other hand, hesitated with every blow. Dracon bellowed from the side, "This isn't sword yoga! Give me sweat, not cheap philosophy!"
The fight ended in a ridiculous draw: two soft thrusts that looked more like greetings. The arena erupted in laughter.
Miles vs. Dracon
Finally, it was time to face the Master. Dracon solemnly proclaimed, "A gladiator doesn't fight another man... he fights his own cowardice!"
With choreographed and exaggerated steps, Dracon spun around, loosened his legs and theatrically let himself fall, pretending to be defeated by Miles, in a death so ridiculous that it drew laughter and applause from the group.
Miles, trembling but smiling, realized that something had changed: he was no longer the anxious traveler with the empty suitcase. He had entered the arena and discovered the courage to try. For the first time, he no longer felt just fear, he felt courage.
English version
✈️ The Journeys of Miles – Episode 5: The Gladiator School
The Roman sun beat down on a hidden spot in the city center. A sign painted in gold and purple—the solemn colors of empire—announced Scuola Gladiatori – Ludi Romani. Miles and the group approached with a mix of curiosity and dread. The air smelled of worn leather, polished wood, and sandy dust.
There awaited Dracon, the master. Lean, white tunic, gladius in hand—he looked as if he had stepped out of an ancient mosaic… until he opened his mouth. His sentences had the pomp of a Roman orator and the absurdity of an accidental comedian.
“You are not tourists here—you are gladiators in training!” he thundered. "Bird… musculus doloribus!”
The group stared, baffled. Was that Latin? Was it made up? No one knew.
Dracon began handing out wood gladii and explained the routine with surgical precision: "Left foot forward, exact forty-five–degree turn, thrust into the air, retreat two steps. If anyone does forty-six… may the gods help you!"
The Radical Minimalist folded his arms and protested: "A true traveler doesn't need a sword. Give me something small—a pugio—and I'm fine.”
Dracon cut him off at once: "False! Even the poorest gladiator carried a gladius. Without it, even the chickens would defeat you.”
The Cleanliness Neurotic lifted the helmet with two fingers and muttered: “This needs three layers of disinfectant before it touches my head.”
Impassive, Dracon replied: “Romans didn't use hand gel either—but if Julius Caesar had had some, he would've conquered much faster.”
Miles vs. The Excel Tourist
Miles was paired with the Excel Tourist. The gladius trembled in his hands: he was afraid of hurting someone—even with wood. The other one calculated out loud: “Strike at 45°, block at 30°, two-step retreat… according to my tables, you have a 72% chance of losing.”
Miles barely managed to move his arm. Their duel looked more like clumsy choreography than combat. Dracon paced the sand correcting everyone: "No, no, no! At this rate, even a sleeping Roman would beat you. More strength, more honor!"
Miles vs. The Radical Minimalist
The second bout set him against the Minimalist. I have brandished a tiny wooden pugio that looked more like a toothpick than a weapon.
“This is enough,” he confidently said. “Less weight, more freedom.”
The minimalist launched brief, almost symbolic moves—as if practicing sword tai chi. Miles, meanwhile, hesitated with every strike. From the sidelines, Dracon bellowed: "This isn't yoga with swords! Give me sweat, not bargain-bin philosophy!"
The fight ended in a ridiculous draw: two soft thrusts that looked more like greetings. The sand burst into laughter.
Miles vs. Dracon
Finally, it was time to face the Master. Dracon proclaimed solemnly: “A gladiator doesn't fight another man…he fights his own cowardice!”
With choreographed, over-the-top steps, Dracon spun on himself, loosened his legs, and theatrically let himself fall—pretending to be defeated by Miles—in a death so ridiculous it drew laughter and applause from the group.
Trembling yet smiling, Miles realized something had shifted: he was no longer the anxious traveler with the empty suitcase. He had stepped into the sand and found the courage to try. For the first time, he felt not only fear—he felt bravery.
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