[MythicDusk]

He untangled his net from where it had been loosely tied around his arm. It was a mistake, he knew. He always made the same mistake. He remembered the Doctore drilling it into him from a child. Don't unwind your net until you're going to throw it boy, you don't want them to see it coming.

He huffed lightly behind his visor, his grey eyes squinting against the sun that shone through the bars. He could hear the roaring of the growd, the hammering of their feet as another corpse was dragged form the sands. He flexed his powerful shoulders, shifting slightly to find the most comfortable way for the armor to lay. He could feel the leather biting into his skin, and he knew that he had done them up too tightly.

He licked his dry lips as the gates were lifted, his own breath coming in hot pants that blasted back against his face, finding it hard to escape the helmet that he could barely see from. He shifted his shield on his arm, flexed his fingers around the haft of his spear and walked to the center of the arena.

One of the lions from the previous bought hadn't been killed and it roared in pain and frustration at the two men that turned towards the crowd and raised their weapons in a roar of their own. Cassius swallowed down his fear, let it compact into a glittering jewel of fury, let it be his killing intent.

when their salute was over, he carefully backed away from the other gladiator. He saw the low stance, how his shield was loose and knew a feint when he saw one. He jabbed high, forcing the gladiator to snap up his shield, hiding his vision from the net that Cassius swung from his shield arm, watching as the heavy weights tangled the man.

It was a simple thing, to take a life. At first, Cassius had been scared. Had felt sick with the blood that had dripped onto him at the end of the bought. Now, he rose his spear to the proprieter in his salute, and he looked down to the other gladiator, saw how his skin trembled and he knew there was fear in him.

He placed his spearpoint against the man's heart, his words barely heard over the screaming din of the crowd.

"Be brave in the afterlife."

With a hard thrust down, his job was done. He retrieved his spear, roaring as he hoisted the blooded point above his head and the crowd roared back. He watched as the arena slaves came forward, watched their meat hooks on chains dig into the flesh of the man he had just killed, watched as the skin grew taught before dragging the lifeless corspe along the sands. He had seen many friends leave the sands like that.

He shook off whatever he was feeling, licking his dry lips as he walked back into the darkness of the underbelly of the arena, preparing to be shackled to be taken back to his home ludus. He wondered if his Dominus would allow him a sip of wine.

[Mousen]

"We are the last people on earth, and the last to be free: our very remoteness in a land known only to rumour has protected us up till this day. Today the furthest bounds of Britain lie open—and everything unknown is given an inflated worth. But now there is no people beyond us, nothing but tides and rocks and, more deadly than these, the Romans." - Tacitus, Agricola (XXX)




The days passed him by in flashes. His dreams, brief as they were, brought him no peace. His father, walking out to meet him, would turn his back upon seeing the blood that coated his son's hands. The gods looked down in anger, his people lay about him, dead. Fleeing to the sacred groves he would find the Druids that had attended to his people cut down. Men in armour would step out of the trees and drag him up to the altar.

Originally he'd tried to count the time that had passed between the present and his defeat, but increasingly he found it impossible. Sometimes it seemed like years since he'd walked among his people, drank with his friends, sometimes it seemed like only hours ago he'd been dragged away from the battlefield.

His captors should have killed him. In days before the client kingdoms, before the chieftains would boast about being "friends of Rome", his grandfather used to keep the heads of enemies outside their front door. It was a way of possessing the soul of a person, their power. The Romans had found another way of possessing a man's soul however.

Louernios had been a king, and now he was nothing more than an object to be bought and sold. He'd been moved with the rest of the spoils, the golden torcs, fine silver bowls and weaponry, into the market. As he looked around the city, he'd found it almost laughable. The grand city of the Romans was nothing more than a few streets and tall buildings. Where was the gleaming marble? The bright painted statues?

He caught snatches of words from the people was they hurried,"Χαιρε, ώ φιλω. Ποῦ ή ἀγορα;" as one veiled women pointed another in the right direction. Latin too, "Vale! Iterum vos videbo!" called from across a square. Many of the languages he heard, he couldn't understand a all. He could see some Syrians playing a game with dice in the shade, some Egyptians walking arm-in-arm and some Gauls, like him. Taller than the rest, marked out by their pale eyes and facial hair. He couldn't make out where they were from exactly, but they weren't Britons. He met eyes with them as they passed and they said nothing to him or the merchants.

It was only then it struck him that he hadn't been brought to Rome at all. No, he was in some province. He was looking at what his own land would eventually become.

The merchants touted him as a Gallic king, a barbarian warrior beaten down for his defiance against the empire (all true enough, he supposed), and as an added bonus, the merchants were keen to add, he was in good health and had most of his teeth.

It was not long before they were approached by a man, tall for a Roman, middle-aged. He looked Louernios up and down.

"Loquerisne Latine?" He asked.

Louernios blinked. "Yes. I speak Latin."

"Good."

"You can fight?"

"I fight well."

"Not well enough, it seems."

Louernios was suddenly conscious of the wound healing on the side of his neck. He reached a hand up to it, his restraints clinking. "Maybe not well enough for Gaul. I still fight well enough to kill you." He waited for a punishment that never came. Instead, money changed hands.

He was lead through the town, giving short answers to questions.  He understood what it was that was expected of him, and that was enough. He would train and sleep in the barracks, he would fight in the arenas. The longer he continued to live, and the more entertaining he was, the more perks he could expect. The more he tried to resist, the more unpleasant his life would become.

In the barracks, the restraints were removed. Louernios considered his options for a moment, and swung at the older man, delivering a punch that left him sprawled across the floor. He went in again, getting in a few hits before he was dragged from him by two attendants. "See," he spat. "I fight well enough to kill you."

The attendants fought to hold him as their master got to his feet. He caught Louernios across the jaw with his fist and then brought his knee up to his ribs. The attendants let Louernios fall to floor and the master kicked him. "Not. Well. Enough."

He watched Louernios for a moment. "Your first fight is in three days. You will be beaten much more thoroughly if you disobey me again."

[MythicDusk]

He sipped at the cup of water that had been given to him, watching with interest as the newest gladiator lashed out at their master. He clicked his tongue softly as he saw the beating. The Dominus was getting soft. Usually he would have taken a mans head for that. Either that, or he paid a lot more than what he usually would have for his gladiators. Most of them being men who sold themselves into Rome's slave trade to cover their debts.

He looked over to the training yard, watching the other gladiators wrestle, watching them strike at palus, lift stones. A few who the doctore deemed not agile enough were forced to run on hot coals, every new step kicking up more of the hot embers. Cassius faintly wondered how long it would take for them to have to go and see the medicus for burns that made it hard to walk in their sandals. Cassius still had burns on the balls of his feet from the very same training. But at least now he was fleet of foot, even if it was just the memory of one misstep his training partner had made, burying his foot deep into the coals and screaming in pain that hounded him to move faster to avoid the training.

Slowly, he stood. He approached the newcomer, his eyebrow cocking. "If you want to survive, you should probably not anger your new master, you know." He couldn't help his quirk of a smile, stratching at his shoulder idly, thick and tanned from his training in the sun. "A little bit of friendly advice from an old gladiator."

[Mousen]

Louernios made a noise at the back of his throat, his dark hair over his face. He got up slowly, moving his arm to brace himself. "It is done," he said. He rubbed at his jaw, bruised by the feel of it. Still, nothing in comparison to the shining black eye his new master was going to wake up with. Louernios doubted he'd come to be a favourite now, but what did it matter?

"What is expected of me here?" he asked. "I know bloodsport. We compete against men and wild animals, yes? We live or die. What about the rest?"

He looked his fellow gladiator up and down, his build, the healed scars, all of it suggested him to be a formidable opponent. No wonder he was still around. Still, he was not unlike some of the young men who had been felled by his sword in battle. All men were mortal, even the ones that looked like gods.

[MythicDusk]

Cassius chuckled from the back of his throat. This one may just survive. "We put on a show. We fight, we bleed, we watch our friends be dragged from the arena sands with meathooks dug into their flesh." He shrugged slightly, a roll of powerful shoulders. "We fight so our master can be famous and get a good word with the Consuls, and so even our sweat can be sold on the market to young ladies searching for something extra."

He snorted at the thought, crossing his arms and watching as the architect put a few of the lesser trained gladiators, mere boys if anything, to work lifting stones from a nearby riverbed and carrying them to the ludus. By the time they were done, the heat of the sun had dried the stone and soaked them.

"You make things exciting for the crowd. They don't want to see warfare, they don't want to see the lines clash and men be put down with cuts to the ankles, to see men weep as their brother-in-line falls. They wan't to see spins, jumps, lunges and dodges." He moved his eyes slowly to look to the newcomer. "The Dominus asks everyone if they can fight." He rose his hand, slapping the gaul on the shoulder in a friendly gesture before he began to walk away. "What he should ask, is if you can play the part."

[Mousen]

Louernios snorted. "My people are called Barbarians and this is how Romans behave?" They'd put an end to his people's sacrifices, their head hunting. Convinced them to value the dignity of human life. They had told his father and the priests that human sacrifice was an affront to the gods, but Louernios could not see this as being better. A sacrifice was honoured, cared for. There was no honour in death here.

He looked out at the training ground and thought that there was neither honour in life, not as a slave to these people. He looked back to the gladiator, nodded as he spoke. It was advice to bear in mind for the days ahead, no matter how limited they may be.

Louernios tensed as the gladiator's hand met his shoulder. It had surprised him. "Would you show me?" he asked, recovering himself. There was something brewing in his bright eyes, the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. "A fight? I promise to be gentle with you, friend. We can stop at first blood."

[MythicDusk]

His lips pulled back from his teeth in a not-quite-smile. his arms bunched at his sides as he slowly cast his eye towards the newest gladiator. He wouldn't learn his name until he had gone through his first bought. It was the same when he had joined. Now he was one of his master's prized posessions. But, he was a posession nontheless.

"My friend, I will not risk my life in a pissing contest with you. If I beat you senseless, the dominus will have my head above his mantle in his Gaul villa." His chest rumbled with a laugh as he turned away again, his own eyes flashing with a bright fire. "If you are so ready to fight, just wait for a few days. Temper that bloodthirst and make it an edge on your blade."

With that, he walked across the sands with a vague wave over his shoulder, picking up one of the weighted wooden blades, going through the forms of basic swordsmanship as a warm-up.

[Mousen]

"You Latins, so quick to turn chicken and even quicker to turn your back on a man in need." Louernios huffed, his blue eyes following Cassius as he picked up a wooden blade to train with. He followed suit. He was pushing his luck, his joints ached, the sleep he'd gotten over the past few weeks had been patchy at best, his meals equally sporadic. His skin, pale in the bright sunshine was mottled with faded bruising. "I have been beaten senseless often enough recently. One more won't dent my skull." There was a sort of smile playing round his face, if you could call it that. It was perhaps a sort of carelessness, or else, a need to see how bad things really were.

"A lesson learned too late is useless." A black bruise was coming up on his jaw from where the dominus had kicked him.

[MythicDusk]

Cassius cocked an eyebrow as the man joined him. "To begin with, I'm Etruscan. Not a Roman." His face became stormy for a second, his swing picking up power. "They conquered my land, just as they did yours." He felt sweat drop down his cheek, his lips pulled back in a snarl. "Only mine was first."

After a moment, he stopped with a huff. "If you want to learn, talk to the doctore." He made a hard gesture with the wooden, lead-weighted blade the hard man, dressed in leathers and with an old, cracked whip in his hand. His dark eyes watched the movements of the slaves around him.

After a moment, Cassius returned to his training. "I'm not your tutor, boy. Time will teach you all you need to know."

[Mousen]

"Then you have my sympathies," Louernios' tone remained even. "And my apologies."

He glanced idly over at the doctore, and rolled his eyes. He could do without the god complex, and to be quite direct about things, another beating was not on his agenda for today. He was at a point where he no longer trusted himself to be tactful in front of authority and so he'd speak to the doctore only when he had no choice.

He snorted when he was addressed as boy by the gladiator. "I think I'll go inside and let the minutes instruct me."

Louernios turned to leave him to his training, but turned around just before he got to the doorway. "Oh! My name is Louernios. Not that you'll care for it, but learning yours would please me greatly, friend!" He paused there, a wry smile creeping onto his features. It was perhaps not wise to antagonise people already, but he had never intended to live through his days peacefully.  

He stepped inside the barracks, unsure if we was expected to remain inside or not but suspecting that no one was going to come and get him, he found a quiet spot. Louernios sat on the dirt floor and exhaled. He dragged a hand through his matted hair, giving up when it was too tangled. He was too exhausted to feel the grief that had first threatened him on the boat and too exhausted to feel any real anger at his treatment. Tiredness and physical pain acted like a wall, separating him from any clarity that might be gained.

[MythicDusk]

Cassius snorted, swinging the blade again and again, feeling the weight beginning to weigh on his muscles. It was good, it was tiring, it made his arms burn with pain. That was all good. "Tell me it again when you survive." He grumbled softly, stepping forward to the palus and giving it a heavy handed strike.

He had struck down his foe, the blood spurting and falling against his corded arms. The blade the gladiator carried had nearly gutted him. He wondered if he would survive, if he would ever fight again.

The crowds roar became a dull thudding in his ears as his heart and lungs labored, as his body tried to keep what little blood that was left in him pumping. He watched blearily as the dead man was dragged away. He wouldn't give the crowds the pleasure of seeing him fall.

He walked on dragging feet into the underbelly of the arena, it was owned by his Dominus. It was attached to his Ludus. He heard the dulled roar of the crowd as his legs gave out, felt calloused hands grab him and begin to drag him home, to the needle of the Medicus.

The last thing he remembered seeing was his own feet, bouncing across the familiar sands of the training grounds.

[Mousen]

Louernios had watched the fight, where he could catch glimpses of it. His friend, or rather, the only person who had cared to speak to him since he'd been transported to this land as a slave, fought well. His movements were practised, almost elegant. If he lacked anything in brute strength he made up for it in his speed and agility. He found himself rooting for him, concerned when his blood spilled across the sand. He watched him kill his enemy, and his own twin feelings surprised him. Horror and relief. He supposed he'd become used to it. Then, he watched the winner slip to the floor, carried to the medicus.

Under the scent of blood was the scent of the soil, something like heather and fresh rain, the same way he'd known it all his life. He watched his cousin slip to the floor, a spear through his shoulder and the look of a hunted rabbit in his eyes, bright with fear. Still fixed, in that first awful moment of knowing death.

In the hubbub, no one noticed Louernios keeping an eye on the medicus' progress, or else they simply didn't care. That was until the medicus asked him to fetch something, hurry. He did, and came back. The medicus needed someone to hold this, to tell the other one he'd have to wait, to watch him.

It was nice, to be told what to do without an edge of malice behind it, to not have to think. So Louernios stayed, watching the man he barely knew and promising to let the medicus know of any change.

[MythicDusk]

He felt weak. Weaker than he had ever been. It was a struggle to open his eyes. He couldn't move. The burning pain in his chest and stomach kept him awake. He supposed it was better than the pain being so firey, so vicious that it knocked him out.

Slowly, so slowly he opened his eyes. His breathing was labored. He knew it was. He remembered looking down while standing on the sands, seeing the ragged gash, seeing the lifeblood pour from him.

He wanted to ask if he would fight. He wanted to ask for water, for hard wine to dull his senses and send him back into a painless sleep.

Instead, he stared at the ceiling and breathed.

[Mousen]

There was a relief in seeing him come to, a small thanks bubbling out of him in his native tongue before he'd had the chance to think about what he was thankful for.

Louernios could see the pain in his expression, there before the rest of his senses had really caught up. He ought to get the medicus, he knew, but he paused for a moment there. "You're with the living, friend. Or, thereabouts." Louernios had had the chance to clean up a bit, since he'd last seen the gladiator. His hair was shorter, no longer matted, his beard trimmed. He still looked sallow, the bruise where the dominus had kicked him staining the edge of his mouth.

"Water? I'll call the medicus?" Louernios wasn't sure if he was with it enough to hear him or respond, especially through his pain.

[MythicDusk]

Cassius licked his lips slowly, his mouth felt full of sand and dust. Perhaps it was. "Water."

The word was like a breath of wind through an olive grove. It reminded him of the sound of the wind through wheat, when he was a boy. One of the few memories he had of where he had been born. He could remember the old plough horse better than he could remember his own mother's face.

He supposed that was for the best, it never did well to dwell on the dead. Dwelling on the dead made you weak, made you open to strikes. He remembered watching one of his friends lose their lover to the sands, and they stepped from the gates and fought like an old man, begging to be struck down in their misery.

Cassius let his eyes close for a moment as he let the memories wash over him.

He was surprised, for a moment, to feel the hot tracks of tears on his face.