it,’ Finn said.
‘Lampo wouldn’t kidnap hundreds of children just for fun,’ Milli muttered.
‘We’re as much in the dark as you are,’ said Finn. ‘No one is allowed to ask questions, remember? But Lampo and Oslo are part of whatever is happening.’
‘Please don’t put Oslo off side or we’ll all pay for it,’ Fennel pleaded.
‘Who is this Oslo, anyway?’ Milli retorted hotly. ‘Seems like nothing but a big bully to me.’
‘He’s a trained gladiator hired by Lampo,’ said Finn.
‘Why isn’t he fighting hungry lions or doing gladiator things then?’
‘Apparently he gets light-headed at the sight ofblood,’ Finn explained,’ so he’s been reassigned to other duties.’
Milli scowled. ‘Gladiators don’t even really exist any more.’
‘Do us all a favour—don’t tell him that,’ was Finn’s advice.
(What Finn proposed was good advice indeed. In my experience, people generally, whatever their profession, do not appreciatebeing reminded of their shortcomings. But this is especially true in the case of unsuccessful gladiators. Those who prosper in this industry—which is fiercely competitive and very hard to break into—usually find it a short-lived career. Those who do not prosper often turn to child or aged care as an alternative source of income whilst they wait for their talents to be discovered or their fears to disappear through expensive and protracted therapy. Oslo, as it happened, was extremely thin-skinned about his sensitivity to butchery and did his utmost to make up for it by being the most barbaric disciplinarian possible.)
Any further conversation was cut short by a speaker on the wall suddenly crackling to life.
‘All recruits are required in the mess hall for dinner. That is, all weaklings to the mess hall immediately,’ instructed an expressionless voice a little like the one you might hear in the supermarket when the cashier scanning your items calls for assistance.
Feeling even more unnerved than before, Milli and Ernest joined the other children as they made their way to dinner. The mess hallwas a long room that smelled of boiled cabbage and school camp. Spider webs hung from the beams of the ceiling. The only furniture was medieval-looking trestle tables with rough benches to sit on. At the servery were stacked wooden bowls and cups, which the children were required to collect on trays before lining up at the counter. Here the food was doled out in sloppy and shapeless portions by the kitchen staff. They were elderly matrons with scabby scalps and dirty fingernails, and Ernest’s first instinct was to report them to the Department of Sanitation before he remembered where he was.
Think of the most nauseating things your parents have expected you to eat in the name of good health: steamed Brussels sprouts, slimy salmon steaks or the brown pulp they call lentil soup? Well, the food the children were about to be served made these things look scrumptious. We all know the components of a healthy diet are vegetables (however green and smelly they may be), legumes (although they are generally brown and look like rat droppings), carbohydrates (despite being boring and plain)and protein. Alas for the children of Battalion Minor, protein was the only element Oslo considered important, as it built muscle. First came a thick and purplish slab of undercooked meat which the kitchen staff called Rhino Rump. It arrived swimming in its own juice and was as chewy as old octopus. It was accompanied by a serve of baked potatoes so ancient they had sprouted tentacles. Then came a plate of what looked like pancakes rolled into cylinders, although the children had never seen grey pancakes before. They looked coarse and rubbery in texture and had a peculiar smell like the plains of Africa, if anyone knew what these smelled like.
‘Excuse me,’ Ernest asked of one of the kitchen ladies, ‘what is this?’
‘Crepes au Elephant Ear,’ she replied as she scratched a sweaty
‘Lampo wouldn’t kidnap hundreds of children just for fun,’ Milli muttered.
‘We’re as much in the dark as you are,’ said Finn. ‘No one is allowed to ask questions, remember? But Lampo and Oslo are part of whatever is happening.’
‘Please don’t put Oslo off side or we’ll all pay for it,’ Fennel pleaded.
‘Who is this Oslo, anyway?’ Milli retorted hotly. ‘Seems like nothing but a big bully to me.’
‘He’s a trained gladiator hired by Lampo,’ said Finn.
‘Why isn’t he fighting hungry lions or doing gladiator things then?’
‘Apparently he gets light-headed at the sight ofblood,’ Finn explained,’ so he’s been reassigned to other duties.’
Milli scowled. ‘Gladiators don’t even really exist any more.’
‘Do us all a favour—don’t tell him that,’ was Finn’s advice.
(What Finn proposed was good advice indeed. In my experience, people generally, whatever their profession, do not appreciatebeing reminded of their shortcomings. But this is especially true in the case of unsuccessful gladiators. Those who prosper in this industry—which is fiercely competitive and very hard to break into—usually find it a short-lived career. Those who do not prosper often turn to child or aged care as an alternative source of income whilst they wait for their talents to be discovered or their fears to disappear through expensive and protracted therapy. Oslo, as it happened, was extremely thin-skinned about his sensitivity to butchery and did his utmost to make up for it by being the most barbaric disciplinarian possible.)
Any further conversation was cut short by a speaker on the wall suddenly crackling to life.
‘All recruits are required in the mess hall for dinner. That is, all weaklings to the mess hall immediately,’ instructed an expressionless voice a little like the one you might hear in the supermarket when the cashier scanning your items calls for assistance.
Feeling even more unnerved than before, Milli and Ernest joined the other children as they made their way to dinner. The mess hallwas a long room that smelled of boiled cabbage and school camp. Spider webs hung from the beams of the ceiling. The only furniture was medieval-looking trestle tables with rough benches to sit on. At the servery were stacked wooden bowls and cups, which the children were required to collect on trays before lining up at the counter. Here the food was doled out in sloppy and shapeless portions by the kitchen staff. They were elderly matrons with scabby scalps and dirty fingernails, and Ernest’s first instinct was to report them to the Department of Sanitation before he remembered where he was.
Think of the most nauseating things your parents have expected you to eat in the name of good health: steamed Brussels sprouts, slimy salmon steaks or the brown pulp they call lentil soup? Well, the food the children were about to be served made these things look scrumptious. We all know the components of a healthy diet are vegetables (however green and smelly they may be), legumes (although they are generally brown and look like rat droppings), carbohydrates (despite being boring and plain)and protein. Alas for the children of Battalion Minor, protein was the only element Oslo considered important, as it built muscle. First came a thick and purplish slab of undercooked meat which the kitchen staff called Rhino Rump. It arrived swimming in its own juice and was as chewy as old octopus. It was accompanied by a serve of baked potatoes so ancient they had sprouted tentacles. Then came a plate of what looked like pancakes rolled into cylinders, although the children had never seen grey pancakes before. They looked coarse and rubbery in texture and had a peculiar smell like the plains of Africa, if anyone knew what these smelled like.
‘Excuse me,’ Ernest asked of one of the kitchen ladies, ‘what is this?’
‘Crepes au Elephant Ear,’ she replied as she scratched a sweaty
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