Your legs ache, your wrists and neck chafe and your heart is thumping wildly in your chest. You never wanted to be sent to this place, you were always content with serving your master. However, being the Master's pet had its disadvantages, namely the other, less well-off slaves hating you. Which found you in your present situation, nearly being dragged along behind Master's cart by the chains connecting your hands as well as your slave-collar. In the middle of the night the other slaves had crept into Master's favourite concubine's rooms, held her down so one of them could have their way with her. In the morning there was a massive commotion about it, and none of the other slaves seemed to recall you being in your bed at midnight and slinking in about three hours before the rooster crows.
You are lost in your thoughts when the cart comes to a stop, "Come on, Chuva. I don't know what got into you last night, but whatever it is, it's getting out fast." He unhooks your fetters from the cart and drags you to the registration room, registers you and leaves for a seat in the crowd.
One of the organisers comes around to you, "Chuva?" he asks. You reply by nodding your head, "Equipment is over there," he says, pointing to a ramshackle room adjoining the slave lobby, "You're in the second event, a Battle Royale, which means that eventually only one person will be left standing. You may form an alliance with your fellow competitors, however do not expect them to keep their word or for the alliance to last long." He walks off.
You head to the window of the room and peer at the poorly-lit room. You see a variety of weapons there, none of them new, some (you doubted) would fall apart at the slightest impact. About the only semi-decent bit of gear there is a set of old legionnaire-style greaves and a rusty legionnaire helmet, held together by strips in some places. You point them out to the attendant, who hands them over. You think about a shield and pick out a wooden buckler that doesn't seem too rotted.
You are about to walk away when the attendant calls to you, "What about a weapon?" and you mentally slap yourself. Of course you needed a weapon. There seems to be a rack of short-swords of dubious quality and a few short spears lying around on a table. You point these out and the attendant hands them out, "Nice save, eh?" he says cheerfully, not really expecting a response. You go and sit down, awaiting the time of your trial-by-combat.
The room fills in short order. A rather good-looking female slave sits next to you, "First time?" she asks.