Ch I - Slave
111 A.D. The West Farmer’s Road, Outside Rome
The boy was captivated. So much, in-fact, that he could not help running full out to the top of the hill to get a better view! He lost his breath to wonder. Not just by the busy south roads heading into the city, their long lines of desert caravans, merchants and slave-carriages, but by the endless traffic, the grandeur of such a place—its ability to host such numbers, such spectacle!
The sight of wild animals in cages—a long line of them—made his heart sing! He could hear their savage growls from here: tigers, lions, bears, jaguars and some too that he’d heard of in late tales by the fire. Those strange, tall beasts whose spots resembled dry, cracked mud-beds, lanky beasts with long legs and high reaching necks—those ones that stood taller than three men. So that’s what a “giraffe” looks like!
Following single-file, sitting rather comfortably atop a dozen elephants, beautiful veiled women looked out from a world pampered by elegance and wealth. And as sweet as they were, nothing could be sweeter than the coins they tossed out to the waiting children, if only to see them smile. And the colourful feathers, rose-petals and jewels they tossed to the crowds were but a sprinkle compared to the rest of their great wealth.
Nor was he taken by the natural beauty of the land: the gentle hue of a perfect sunset spilling over lush groves, with gentle forests stretching away on the far southern slope, opening up to easy flowing valleys to the east, far beyond the city’s reach. To the north lazy marshes bridged a wide western field, trailing little forests south along the river Tiberus adding more shine to an already splendorous city. He did not blink. Not once. The perpetual movement of mighty Rome embraced him in loving arms, to his utter disbelief.
He could see now how it was the most spectacular place in all the world, truly a city of the gods! A city of dreams and might. Its tall white columns, magnificent temples, wide halls, teeming markets, lavish hillside homes, brilliant villas, wonderful bathhouses and glorious theatres brought the masses from far and wide across the known world, hosting tens of thousands of milling prospects at any of the great forums, named after mighty rulers: Traiani, Vespasian, Boarium and so forth. The city was home to breathtaking arches, basilicas and of course the most magnificent and prominent creation to date—rising straight up from the earth; an intricately designed marvel of modern architecture, the very pulse of Rome: the great Colosseum.
One-hundred-and-sixty-foot walls the colour of dry sand rounded a long line of wonderful stone arches, boasting the gods in all their glory: Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, Ceres and even great men as well: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, Nero Claudius Drusus and Gaius Julius Caesar—names that transcend time itself. Among them the founders of Rome themselves, the twins Romulus and Remus, posing tall and proud among a legion of excellence.
The Boy breathed deep, overwhelmed by her magnificence, her seeming grace, her light and her lull. But that was not it either.
Dominus, instead was enthralled by what lay beyond the first south road, further east to the second road. He wished he were there right this moment, lost amidst the thousands upon thousands of soldier’s heading out of the city, crowding the distant plains far into the clear evening. And still, it was not just the power of the Praetorian Guard that seduced him, nor the sheer numbers of the Roman Army, the greatest force in all the world, no. It was something even stranger that gripped him, something not seen, but ‘felt.’ It was in the way their women—a long line—trailed closely behind, seeing their men off to war.
He sensed a great power in all of it, discovering within himself a profound connection with his fellow man, that deep-seeded desire for great responsibility; to matter, to show his worth. How he wished he were a soldier, standing side by side with bloody, strong men, hoisting the grandeur of Rome on his shoulders, screaming mad—victorious, winning and expanding her glory, displaying her infectious will to dominate. Her will to power.
Tilting his head dreamily he crossed his arms, letting his mind run away with him. Someday, I’ll have great wealth and power. And someday too, I’ll be rich and famous and have a wife and many mistresses. Someday, I’ll be ‘free.’ He smiled to himself, I’d sell my soul… By Pluto I would.
Amethus walked up beside him, “Your fate is set in stone, boy. Even Jupiter would not bother with such thoughts of heroism and riches. And scantily clad women too, hmmm...?” the skinny fellow teased, nudging him lightly, reasoning with him. “We are slaves Dominus, and don’t you forget that. Your father, his father before him and so it is, all the way down, over a hundred years now. Good-hearted people, your folks. Hard working. You should be ever so proud that we serve above our dreams.”
Not my dreams, old man. Dominus kept his eyes fixed on the gathering crowds, wildly entranced by the city sprawl, its tens of thousands of tiny pinpoints of torch-light beginning to shine. He imagined the city bursting at the seams with fervour and noise—a humming populace with raised goblets of wine and beer, casting long shadows in the setting sun. Watching the huge crowds piling in for a night in the big city he wished for freedom, yearned its delicate kiss. Freedom...he prayed secretly for it. Every night would be a night on the town for me. His mind raced with excitement, and without having ever stepped foot inside the city he knew that it held everything his heart desired.
Amethus carried on, shaking his head at the boy’s ungrateful ways. “And every day you should give thanks to the Gods you’re not in the gutter, a homeless cretin. Now pick up that spill, the others are far enough ahead! There’s no reason we should be this far behind. Hurry up or we’ll both catch a beating!” The old man grumbled under his breath, “I’m sick and tired of catching beatings for your stupidity, boy.”
The setting sun disappearing behind the western valley stole the warmth from his back—a clear indication that it was time to get back to work. The wagon needed tending and the hay, wheat and barley needed gathering from the road. Stupid Hermaxes! Taking to the spill, he eased the old donkey with a light brush and a few choice words, “Hermaxes, if it were up to me you’d be chopped up and served to the feast. You shouldn’t be so scared of snakes. Not those dull-coloured ones anyway. They’re just garden snakes. They can’t hurt you. Probably more scared of you than anything.” He ran a hand through Hermaxes’ mane as if to apologize for his cruel words. “Come on old boy, time to get this mess cleaned up.”
“Let’s put a move on it, boy! We can’t hang around forever. The night is upon us and…” Amethus looked about worriedly. “Hurry up!” He said nothing of the murderous bandits that frequented the area roads away from the city, robbing and killing those unfortunate enough to find themselves alone, unarmed and loaded up with goods. Amethus looked to the east, losing sight of the others in the thick crowds entering the city only half a mile away. He looked to the boy who was nearly finished, with only two more bales to fill the carriage. “Alright, let’s—” his words were cut short by a sudden ‘thock!’ sound that spewed a gush of blood from his mouth, sending him to the ground face first in a vicious thud!
Seeing the tail end of an arrow protruding the back of Amethus’ head Dominus’ heart shook wildly in his chest! The arrow belonged to a trio of quickly moving shadows rushing out from the trees. Bandits! They were coming fast. He was stricken by fear, unable to move when an arrow opened a wide gash in his shin, nicking bone, trickling a warm, tiny blood-river down into his sandal. Another slammed home an inch from his face, making a home in the barley, setting his wits to flight, and without thinking he bolted past the suffering body of Amethus, leaving Hermaxes, the hay bales, sacks of wheat and barley to their fate.
Licked by something he’d never felt before—freedom, coupled with utter terror—he tore straight off the road and into the safety of the forest toward the banks of the river, heading away from the city. Sheer terror of the bandit raid, along with the thrill and panic of the last few moments, coupled with the taste of freedom took him quickly over the countryside, up a stony hillside, through a dried meadow and back down again under a canopy of oaks into an ever thickening forest. And he never once looked back.
He came to rest under the stars against a huge rotted stump, the voices of the bandits fading to all but night sounds far behind him, swallowed up by a maelstrom of chirping crickets, croaking bullfrogs and a thousand wild things in the dark serenading the night away. Ahead somewhere in the darkness, besides a lonely buzzing firefly, he heard more voices, and what sounded like laughter. Dressing his wound with a hastily torn strand of his robe he scurried forth in the cover of night, curiosity driving him like a cat while a narrow, muscular frame and strong legs brought him silently within earshot of a pair of voices a little ways to the west. The sound of splashing water and tickling laughter just ahead, intrigued him, driving him forward quietly.
Coming to a shallow ridge he could see several torches posted at the river’s edge, where two young girls, perhaps his own age of thirteen summers, and another—older—bathed and frolicked, dived and splashed. Close by he could hear the flapping lips of sighing horses and a pair of guards talking devilishly of the young girls. “Ah, what beauty, no, Dialayus? Perfect age for the slave markets, eh?”
“Quite. Quite, indeed. But be careful what you say Riccos. Though I agree they would make any man beg for mercy with their virtue and warmth, the mere mention of it is enough to get us killed. We would be chopped up and fed to the lions and Governor Skipius would see that it would be a long and torturous end. I value my life Riccos, as much as the man values the safety of his daughters, so keep your lustful thoughts to yourself for both our sake.”
Dominus crept closer in the dark, making very little noise, sliding right down to the shelter of a thick bush where he could hear their laughter and spy their stunning bodies by torchlight. They were twins, about his own age of thirteen, chaperoned by an elder sister, who was quite easily eighteen summers—older maybe, who was fuller, less active and more acute to the guards position, keeping sure they not peek. With their bodies glistening by summer torchlight, teasing playfully by the full moon, Dominus watched them from the shadows, taken by their beauty. Their swelling breasts and widening hips made his blood flow hot.
Enticed by the playful antics of the trio, Dominus’ hand slowly reached under his robe taking a firm grip. He was tickled breathless, coursing through with quick, hot blood. He smiled in glorious wonder at the gods for blessing him this very night. He had never seen a woman’s full beauty before, let alone, the taut naked skin of three young, dark-haired beauties. How he wanted to simply touch their honey-coloured skin. Then he would be truly free.
Immediately he was aching with a new lust for life, his mind flooding through with images of freedom, wealth and a house all his own, complete with a good, loving wife, servants and several mistresses. The mere thought of it opened up a room of butterflies in his stomach and the last thing he heard before two more arrows flew straight and true into the heads of the guards was the sudden thrashing of water followed quickly by blood curdling screams! The night went out with a flash in the back of his eyes and a knock on the head.
He dreamt a wily dream:
Paulus Tait Maracanius, his old slave-keep, the man who taught him to read and write in a handful of languages—the very same man who had taught him to excel at wrestling, boxing, running as well as swordsmanship, archery and the hunt—had come to him along the old crossroads under the light of the full moon. Dominus strained his eyes in the night, “Maracanius? Is that you?”
The old man dragged one bad leg behind him in the night. His red tunic, white wool robe and creamy toga smelled of something special, the boy’s favorite: freshly baked almond cake with melting butter. “You called me, dear boy, don’t you remember?”
Dominus shook his head, “I did no such thing, Maracanius. You’re dead! And I would never call out a dead man. Not one as old and wise as yourself—you who has taught me all the essential tools I need to survive, until I’m a ‘freedman.’”
A glint in the old man’s eyes set the mood, “Ah...how quickly we forget, child.” Maracanius crept closer, slowly, menacing, with dark narrow eyes, a straight, almost-handsome nose and a mere slit for a mouth, his thin white lips striking fear in Dominus’ heart. It was not Maracanius. An imposter! A less than pleasant imposter for certain! The old man swept a cold, frail arm over Dominus’ shoulder and they began to walk into the night under the pale moon, casting only one shadow—his; young and fiery, with many years ahead of him.
Maracanius chuckled, “Ah, but you did call me, Dominus! Indeed, you did. You haven’t seriously forgotten your prayer to Pluto, have you?” His breath smelled quite pleasant, like wild berries. His short silver hair rustled gently in the breeze. Looking deep into the boy’s eyes, Maracanius took his chin up in cold fingers. “You ready to bargain?”
“Say what you, old man?” Dominus took a stance, flinging the old man’s arm free of his shoulder.
“I said....are you ready to bargain?”
“Maracanius...what in the Underworld are you talking about?”
The old man smiled, his eyes glowing like the fires of Hades, “Your soul, Dominus. I want it.” With a sharp, mischievous quality about him the old man smiled devilishly.
Dominus—startled awake by a terrible shriek—opened his eyes to a heavy thud right next to him! It was one of the twins—naked, bloody and groaning sickly, her chest dipping and rising, her lungs heaving in frightening gasps! She was dying. A solid fist to the head wrung the image from his mind. And when he could hear and see once more, he was being restrained at either arm by two boys some years his senior. “Hold him still, Caius!” said a third, standing above. “Put him to sleep Romello!” said another, holding an arm. And with that, a heavy heel came crashing down. He would remember those eyes… Those names: Romello. Caius.
A sharp ringing in his ears stole him away from the world, etching on his memory the faces of two of the three young men. He would never forget them. Slipping into unconsciousness he saw that Maracanius was there, waiting for him. “Come, my boy. Walk with me.” His bony hand waved across the horizon expressing grandiose in a flattering streak, “Let us talk of your future.”
“My future?”
The old man chuckled. “Yes, your future. Remember? The fame, the fortune? The riches, the glory and the power. And let us not forget the freedom, yes? You said it yourself,... ‘I’d sell my soul...’ Is that not what you said? Back there on the hill?” The old man laughed, his hands clapping together, causing a spark of thunder to crash wildly in the distance, “I’m quite certain of what you said, child.” Again the old man laughed, that tongue flickering like a viper, “Perhaps you were too distracted by the city and its way with the souls of young men who dream of wealth and fame and power.”
“You heard that?” Dominus gasped. “But...how...?”
“Forget all that ‘how’ nonsense, Dominus. Let us get back to the topic at hand, which is your future!” Again old Maracanius waved his hand across the horizon as though he were capable of sending all the heavens down to drown the boy in vast wealth, shining glory, mountains of gold and a power unbeknownst to man. “Walk with me awhile and surely you will bathe in the light I bear. Break bread with me and rich women will flock like schools of fish for many miles to lie in your bed. They’ll pay you for what their own husbands cannot give them. They will adore you and pleasure you in all the ways they know how with naught in mind but to see your whims met, no matter how wild.”
Maracanius continued, “You have things going for you boy. Splendid gifts, besides your dark green eyes, like Adonis himself, and I must add...just as beautiful.” The old man pinched his cheek. “They’ll throw themselves at your feet for just a brush of your golden hair. They’ll sell their daughters just to touch your young muscles, to lay against your warm skin. And men too will be awed by your strength, and dread to look upon your gaze. And even the great Augustus himself will know your name and seek company with you.”
The night road was deserted in the dream, the city dark and still, or perhaps it too was just sleeping. Dominus grinned, sensing a request for favour coming on, “And for all of it?”
“Your soul. Nothing else.” Maracanius offered a sly devilish grin, displaying wonderful charm and a thrilling presence, and in the corner of his mouth were fangs, and his leg was all well and strong. He was younger now, more handsome than ever, and even glowing somewhat; a lively dervish, cold blue eyes, night black hair, a beautiful mouth and perfect nose. “What say you, Dominus?”
It was not a hard decision for the boy, since he had nothing to begin with. He just needed reassurance. “You promise, every last thing?”
“Of course, my boy. Every last thing your heart desires: fame, riches, glory, power and above all things...freedom. All that is required to see you through.”
Dominus’ eyes grew wild with delight, his lips widening with every passing second, “It’s a deal!” He took Maracanius’ hand in his own, a smile escaping his lips. “To fame and fortune then.”
The young Maracanius’ nails dug deep, drawing blood, piercing through like a sharp bite.
Dominus woke to an urgent voice calling out to a group of approaching men. He noticed at once that his hand had been pierced by a fleeing snake! Before he could react he was caught off guard by a fast approaching voice. “There he is! Caladon! Caladon! There’s your daughter’s murderer!” It was one of the twins laid out next to him, set in a grotesque sexual pose, her legs spread wide apart with a bloody hand positioned as though she were touching herself.
His heart sank to depths he never knew existed, falling, falling, falling, landing with terrible consequences somewhere at the bottom of his soul. He broke in half the moment he saw the dried blood covering his lower torso, the tiny crimson rivers running down his thighs marking him forever a deviant beast. He was traumatized by the sight: the glossy emptiness in her eyes, her ravishing wasted beauty, her blade riddled corpse and cold greying skin, her vestal innocence stolen away by the evil forces of the world. The entire scene was a blasphemy in the midday sun. A garbled cry rose up from deep within him, “Nooo! I didn’t do it! I swear, I—” His head snapped back with a vicious crack! The lights went out reducing him to blackness up in his brain.
Nudged awake by a heavy boot to the ribs three days later, a thick grumbling voice yelled down at him where he laid on the hard, cold floor, “Wake up murderer! Rapist! Slave!” He groaned in pain, his mind recalling with utter clarity the faces of two of the three young men, having sworn revenge in a dream, never to forget them, the real murderers: Romello, Caius and…he never knew that third one. Never caught the name. No matter.
He was snapped to with a heavy hand across the face. His dried lips burst open once again, splashing a salty thickness over his teeth and across his tongue. Again, that haggard, stinky voice grumbled in his face, “Your days of rest are long over, boy! Now, get up!” He heard the unmistakable sound of picks hitting rocks nearby and armour being forged further on, and he could see across the lane—past many milling men—large slabs of stone being hoisted high above their heads by difficult knots in what appeared to be the walls of a huge pillared structure.
The next three years were spent working long hours in the sun and suffering cold, broken days in the winter, while the long draining days under the spring rains bruised his morale, saddening him to no end. Considered a foul rapist he made no friends, spending much of his down time alone, studying his swordsmanship with only a stick, adding—to his delight—fancy new moves and techniques. From the bottom rung of the criminal world, from a quiet spot below ground, through a barred lonely window, he watched many of the Gladiators across the way, train daily and nightly, mimicking their movements, learning all that he could.
He scraped their moves in the walls, practising them well past bedtime. He wrote songs and poetry to the gods, begging their forgiveness for selling his soul to that devil Maracanius. And he begged forgiveness of Amethus, his only true friend in the world, and still the dream of Maracanius’ imposter haunted him, bringing him pain and torment. But it gave him strength too, the belief he had in it being real, the sale of his soul—that which truly belonged to the gods. He felt they were punishing him.
He cried quietly in his hands in the farthest corner of the large cell where the heat of the hall fires did not reach. In the middle of the night, while the others slept soundly, farting and snoring, talking, screaming and grumbling in their sleep—taking up all the space in the large cell, leaving him just enough to sit straight up hugging his knees—he thought of death. Always death. Always wishing it would come and steal him away. In these hardest moments alone only the moon cared to look down upon his sad little life, bringing no comfort to warm the frigid walls of his cold, dank world below ground.
Early in his sixteenth summer, two hulking guards appeared outside his cell. “Approach, prisoner...Dominus Titus!” He did. “You are hereby sentenced to begin your training as Retianus, the lowest of men to gain entrance to the door to glory and death. We’ve been sent for you.” The haggard giant laughed. “Well, smile boy! You’ve just been sold to a wealthy slave driver whose gain has been reputable in the Games. You will no doubt make a fine man proud with your death, and Justice will be served.”
The other chimed in cheekily, “And the women… Ah, the women... You’ll see for yourself, boy. If you survive long enough!” He broke into an unpleasant sounding laughter, clutching his big belly. “Well...! Come along!”
And like that he was dragged off once more, taken far away from the brooding ruffians who abused, berated, scorned him and beat him to their hearts content. Soon after, he was thrown once again into a wagon of despair and foulness with a new group of rapists, killers, thieves and scoundrels, his destination unknown. Their hair was matted and their breath stank of shit and rotting eggs. They beat him, pulled his hair, kicked him and held him down against his will. They spit on him and drove their knuckles deep into his ribs, and some—those cruellest beasts—even pissed on him. And still the wagon would not stop, no matter how hard he screamed. And the iron bars, he could not hope to break. Truly, the gods were punishing him for a crime he did not commit.
For thirty days the torture continued, his last meal ripped from his hands to feed a brute twice his size. And still the wagon did not stop. Life went on like that for some time, over rocky gorges, through narrow valley passes, through icy nights and sweltering days. With little water and even less food he lost weight, becoming sickly and thin beyond reason. Still, he would not let them win. He kept coming back and back and back, no matter how much damage had been inflicted, no matter how swelled his lips had become, and no matter that his eyes had been swollen closed. If he had a fighting breath he would raise his hand. One day...all that stopped.
The last man who drove a fist full of knuckles into the side of his head was stripped bare, flogged and fed to the lions. Dominus remembered little of that day. Almost nothing at all, but the maddened screams of the man as the lions went in with powerful thirsts and vicious hungers. While the brute was mauled and eaten before the crowd Dominus heard a voice. A crisp voice—loud and sharp, that commanded rather than spoke. A voice that roared like the emperor Augustus Caesar Himself, “This boy belongs to me! You...belong to me!” The man roared like a lion, “Any man who lays his hands on another...will meet the same fate!” The man chose two more men randomly and had them thrown into the pit. The lions fed well that day. “Consider this your last warning! Now, eat! All of you!” And like that, the man left.
When Dominus’ eyes finally opened on the morning of the third day he saw a villa a good march north of the table where he ate fresh bread and hot oatmeal. An estate of distinguishable measure the mansion consisted of a large central hall with a series of tall columns holding up a large roof. The walls of the estate were the colour of mud-brick and the woodwork lined up straight with strong beams and expensive shutters. Red clay-tiles covered the roof in a gentle sloping pattern. A splendid home this was with fine stone walkways and manicured garden with palm, date and olive trees studding the land alongside cypress and summer wisteria.
To the east sweeping vistas and rolling hills played host to two dozen horses and twice as many camels which roamed free, grazing to their hearts content. To the south, overlooking a lush valley, at the far side of a weathered plaza he saw groups of men training with wooden blades, hide shields and mock spears, their voices roaring into the morning sun. To the west the land degraded, falling down into a rocky gorge where even more men trained far below, their roars echoing off far-reaching cliffs far in the distance.
When he finished eating Dominus was guided down a series of narrow steps where a group of older men gathered about the western edge of the estate. Once there they regrouped and were led single-file further down a series of stone pathways and narrow ridges, along splendid hillside ruins, crumbled pillars and worn masonry. At the bottom of the treacherous path the ground levelled off, and like a platoon of soldiers thirty-six slaves stood in neat rows of eight, while many more trained all about the grounds. Though they were older, Dominus was just as tall as many of them. He was leaner, more wiry, his brain like a fresh sponge, learning everything as he saw it.
A well dressed desert man robed in light creamy colours stepped down from a passing chariot, holding himself with a sense of strength, wisdom, character and experience. He approached calmly, his eyes missing nothing, looking out at them from behind grim, heavily-scarred features. Somehow enhancing his fearsome gaze a large ruby shone out onto the world from the centre of a wild-oat coloured turban. His hands came together and he bowed. And there it was, that thick voice—the one that could roar like a lion at a moment’s notice. “I am Felix Fortunata, and as my name suggests I feel as though I have somehow been cheated by sorcery with the sickly look of a host of dogs such as yourselves! I guess you’ll just have to do.”
His eyes became serious. “And let there be no doubt that you belong to me! Every last one of you! Your death will bring me more more wealth, more glory, and most importantly...a bigger name! And together we shall bring the Colosseum to its knees with every glorious victory! And perhaps too...” he looked them over with fiest and hope, “one of you will become famous. We shall see.”
He circled them, taking measure of each of their qualities, aiming for the best partners, the most awkward of teams; one weak and one strong. “Know now that many of you will die in the following days after the opening ceremonies. That cannot be helped. Understand that...that is why you are here. That is your destiny!” He became bright, “Some of you, however, will keep for weeks, and a few of you…months. Death my friends...is an unstoppable wave. He is far too grand and tricky.”
“Those of you who survive the summer and the autumn will go on to become great in your conquest, and you shall claim your stake in the Colosseum. You will etch your name in its stone with each bloody victory. By your ending lives...a lot of lives...your name and mine...will grow in size and popularity. And that… That, my friends...is the first step on the road to immortality: making a name. A lasting name, worthy of memory. A story of the ages.”
He carried on with gusto, his voice sharp and booming, “Against beast, foe and friend...you will become more powerful than you might very well imagine. But slavery is not without its own recourse. I assure you, that a month from now, some of you will not be here to share the in The Great Feast. But do not despair! I would not send you to The Boatman on an empty stomach. We shall have our own great feast beforehand. That, I assure you. After all...I am not some woodland boor who gets his kicks from watching his men starve.” He tilted his head and laughed, a cheeky wit striking fear in all their hearts, “Well, not entirely anyway. I only like watching men suffer needlessly when I am having a bad day.” He laughed, but Dominus was certain that this was not a jest.
Master Felix looked upon them with hope, remembering his own savage climb to the top, his long and bloody road to freedom. “My friends...my brothers...do not forget that you are Gladiators! Now and forever! I ask only one thing, from all of you,” he smiled wickedly, truly asking three things. “Train hard, fight hard, and never stop! Gladiators...I shall honour your death with drink and feasts. Every one of you! Go now! Fight for glory! Kill for fame and thunder! Die with honour! Gladiators...I salute you!” He bowed graciously and left.
The next ninety-days leading up to the Games were the most exhausting of Dominus’ life, with many miles of running, weight training and the vigorous mock pit-fighting, which drained him day after day, week after week, turning him from a mere boy to a little beast among men. And Felix himself was always there, among his men—teaching him a variety of weapons, letting loose his drive to fight; unleashing his will to win at all costs, compelling him to be more than just a fifth-generation slave stemming from a line of proud and foolish slaves. And every day he was unearthing little by little the one true drive in his soul: the will to conquer all who stood before him.
Every day, he pushed himself through pain and blood, fighting for respect, fighting for his piece of hard cold earth, fighting not to be the last in line, scraping the pot for scraps. And every day came the pain, the cuts, the bruises, the scars and the aching muscles. And every day he grew more and more immune to the world—its drive to pound him to mash and pulp becoming a lover that would never stop loving him and caressing him with wounds. With constant training and endless fighting he grew faster, stronger and more aware of what lie in his wake. And every day under the guidance of Felix, the Master, Dominus grew smarter, more cunning and more perceptive, like a shark honing in on the weakest prey. In the midst of a hundred battles he found his courage. Found his beast.
His body too had become something else entirely. A temple of pain and rippling muscles, grit and determination. Strong, lean, wiry and wickedly fast Dominus was agile with movements that were difficult to follow. It was then that they saw it, every last one of them: the change. He was no longer the weakling from before, the one who did not know how to stand up for himself. He was no longer the terrified child crying after dark, begging the gods to come and rescue him with death. No. He still wished for death, but only now he dreamed of inflicting it upon others. He now possessed a wild, cocky nature and unwavering attitude. Not so clever though. Not yet.
During training, his agility, ferocity and newly inspired nature turned heads. Relentless, he was unafraid to give all that he had, no matter the cost, be it a broken hand or cracked cheek bone. On two occasions he had entered into a shoving match with Sextus Vorpa, a man far his elder and experience, taking the larger man to the ground on both occasions. He was torn off before killing the man and disgracing Master Felix with an in-house humiliating discrepancy.
After shaking hands, Sextus Vorpa was his friend ever since. Vorpa, once a great soldier, taught Dominus all that he could in the little time they had together before leaving for Rome. All along the way, for a month straight Vorpa was there to train him, right up until the feast the night before the opening ceremony. While they ate, a parade of rich and powerful women entered the halls, there to see the wares; to look in the men’s eyes for strength, looking to find a hardy Gladiator to bet on, and also, to search their bodies for signs of, perhaps a night of pleasure while the husband was out to war. Definitely. The women—the most alluring creatures Dominus had ever seen—oozed in the midst of such testosterone and pheromones. One young man in particular caught their attention.
Dominus heard them whispering to the bookies in Greek. He understood the language but kept it to himself. “Who’s the babe? I would like to put him on reserve for twenty-silver pieces. Surely, he’s worth it.” They giggled to one another in Greek. “I must have that hard young stallion between my legs. What a gem! His blond hair shines like the sun. I wonder if he’s blond all over?” Again they giggled and laughed.
In minutes the fire spread. Dominus, without effort—without really trying—was already adding to Felix’ fortune well before the first stroke spilled blood. He ate and let them stare, and when he was done he approached the bars that separated them. They gathered in a little crowd to touch him. It swelled his heart, setting his blood ablaze, tickling him that they gathered in such numbers to stare and grope, to lose themselves utterly in his presence; the very air of his youth warming their thoughts, swelling those natural prizes between their legs, inspiring lustful images of sweating bodies and wet, hungry mouths.
When the first brood left, a new host of beautiful princesses and maidens sweetened the air once again, lifting their hearts. A treat indeed. Dominus was taken by their beauty, deeply moved by their sensual natures, their youth, their eager advances and their striking bodies, the sheer differences stealing him away to wonder. Some were full breasted while others were mere handfuls, some were tall, others short, but every last one of them was extraordinarily succulent. He had never seen such a collection of tantalizing creatures such as these before. Their long hair and wide bright eyes, like blue oysters in the sunshine, set off by pout crimson lips, gave him a new drive.
He went back to eating, not realizing that every last one of them placed an order in advance, knowing all too well that he had to live through it all first. They milled about to ogle him where he sat, placing their bets, inquiring as to his status, caring not that he was so young, so inexperienced, so low in rank and name. They were all ultimately beautiful and lustful—wanting the same thing from him already, despite his being the lowest of lows in the Arena; certainly the youngest at sixteen. They simply had to have him. Had to give themselves up to his whims.
The opening ceremony filled the streets with cheering multitudes and huge crowds bursting with excitement! Theatre, drinks, drums, song and dance began early in the day, leading on to drinking, games and wild performances complete with knife-jugglers, sword-swallowers and fire-breathers and a wide range of spectacles to keep the crowds entertained! And already, men from other factions entered the Colosseum and did not return. And the next morning came with a free breakfast setting the day in tones of blood and death and thunderous appeal! And the days went by at a terrific pace with pools of blood, horrific screams, wild, dangerous beasts and grisly death.
What drew him most—what kept him strong, was the famed thunder of the Colosseum as fifty-thousand cheering Romans screamed, hollered and cheered! “Gladiator! Gladiator! Gladiator!” drowning out even the trumpets, threatening to bring down the walls with pure, blood driven exhilaration! Like the hounds of hell set loose on the world, many more people crammed in, filling every available seat and every conceivable space, cheering on their favourite killers.
Dominus lost his friend Sextus Vorpa to the third day and a trident through the heart. He wept one last time, silently—showing little emotions—before being startled back to the moment with a crisp hollering voice that echoed through the ranks. “Dominus Titus! Retianus! Rise and be fitted! Marius Marcus Otho! Retianus! Rise and be fitted!”
His heart shook and his wits sharpened. He was cuffed to Otho, who was weak, battered by wear and a sea of weathered years. Dominus felt vulnerable with only a weak shoulder pad, trident and flimsy net for which to defend himself against the terrors of the Colosseum. The fear in Otho’s eyes was evident. Dominus, gripping the trident tightly in both hands, handed Otho the net. A look of ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with this?’ splashed across the old man’s face, almost making him cry, as though certain death loomed just beyond his sights, just waiting to yank his number. Dominus gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, breathed deep and went down, down deep into those darkest cellars somewhere far below his soul. And there he roared into the darkness, daring the gods themselves to come down and fight.
Felix approached them with a steady hand on their shoulders, as if giving them up as an offering to appease the Gods and Fate. “Gladiators!” He yelled! “Die with honour!” They both bowed and took to the ramp up to the arena floor. Breaking through the day in orange and red tones the evening heat was thick and dry and filled with stink of rotting blood, dirt and sand. Through narrow slits in the door Dominus could see a host of armed figures readying themselves when a loud, sharp voice delivered a message to the crowd:
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Colosseum, I bring to you the final fight of the night! The gruesome stand-off between The ‘Brother’s Lucilla’ and the blood hungry Barbarians of Germania!” The man’s voice carried thick and hearty, resonating with a natural narrative quality, as though stories and crowds were his forte’. “Thirty years ago, in the narrow ‘Lion’s Pass’ in the northern mountains of Goth, the famous Captain Leonius Lucilla and a small band of Praetorian Guard—weary men who had been walking for months, returning from war—were surrounded by a hundred stalking Barbarians.” A fervent silence brought all ears and eyes to him alone, on the edge of their seats.
“A vicious clash ensued! Blood! Entrails! The sound of war—strong men killing other strong men! A world of screaming and bloody hacking—men dying into the day from dawn to dusk! And through rage and bloody desperation—becoming demons with every successful stroke and every delivered blow, their numbers dwindled! Oh, what a battle! Unleashed, from the forefront of their wills—driving forth into maniacal savagery, these men faced one another with glorious hearts, smiling, laughing, only to die in combat! Their ravenous will to survive, to conquer their fears, pressed them through hacked limbs, cleaved and riddled bodies!”
Enjoying the sound of his own voice—commanding the crowds attention—the man kept on. “And when the last of the screaming men was silenced, all but two lone warriors—brothers—stood to conquer against many. The brothers fought like lions! Like our very fathers before us, with tremendous will and iron hearts, willing to go the distance, to the death! And in the end, only Daetrius Lucilla—the famed Captain’s youngest brother of twenty-two—stood above all, vanquishing his fears and gaining such a wide-spread and glorious name in the Empire, worthy of song and legend!”
The man was screaming now, his full potential echoing through with perilous thunder, “Ladies and Gentlemen...I proudly bring you...the Barbarians Goth!” The men outside the door clanged their steel and raised their weapons in vicious roars, like mad men unaware of pain and fear, and the very floor shook under foot stomps, a sea of wild cheers and a seemingly endless round of applause! Fixated on the enemy’s closing shapes on the other side of the door, a dark light turned on in Dominus’ heart. “Amethus help me.” No Prayer to the Gods. Not this time.
The voice continued with full assembly. “Now, the moment you have all been waiting for! I present to you Retianus, Dominus Titus! And Retianus, Marius Marcus Otho! As...The Brother’s Lucilla!” The crowd thundered through the evening like a herd of stampeding elephants shaking the walls and the floor beneath their feet, their screams, whistles and cheers reaching the heavens in a glorious symphony!
The door opened to a total of six men. A single giant Secutor (the largest and most heavily armed of combatants) donned in thick leather, wore heavy armour on the left shoulder, right leg, both elbows and wrists. He remained in the back, quick to shove the three lesser Murmillo forward. The Murmillo were a frightening lot indeed. Tall, solid and hardy in appearance they were stronger and more experienced and only slightly slower. But it was the two younger Thracians—men not much older than himself, who wore less armour—that came forward eagerly, with guts and courage, still climbing their own ladders in the Arena.
Before Otho could gauge the situation—in a single flashing moment that caught everybody off guard—Dominus leaped out, quickly pitched to the side with two straight and powerful jabs of the trident at the heads of the two nearest foes! The crowd responded with thunderous applause and piercing whistles, a wild, blood-driven excitement screaming through the evening! Like that the two Thracians fell dead, charging the air yet again with the scent of blood!
Pulling the frightened Otho along, Dominus yanked the little man close before tossing him out to the three quickly closing Murmillo, giving himself a moment to take a single sharp blade—a finely crafted Gladius—in his left hand while the Trident remained gripped tight in his right. The old man and his net met the Murmillo head on with tragic results. In his first fight—his first chance at glory—Otho fell one last time in a sickly groan, his face instantly transformed into a twisted grimace with a wash of blood where his eyes were only a second before. He fell holding his entrails, blind, both eyes struck through with devastating effect!
Leaping back, Dominus lopped the little man free of himself as the three Murmillo came forward, while the fourth—the giant Secutor—patiently waited his turn.
The first—and the bravest—of the three Murmillo (a brawny fellow ten years his senior) shot in rather confidently, albeit a little too eagerly, dashing forward with a wide arc of his spiked club, leaving his chest unguarded. Dominus, his blade driving forward, deflected the spiked club in a show of will, strength and training, bringing the trident forward in another quick snap, piercing the man’s heart before kicking him free, catching a slick of hot blood across his forehead. Only three—two Murmillo’s and the giant Secutor—remained.
The two larger Murmillo closed in as did the giant Secutor, carefully penning him in. The first—a cold killer of a man twice his age and thickness—came forward in a sudden burst, meeting a faster, unexpected foot to the chest, which sent him back, giving Dominus a moment to trade the trident for the heavier spiked club. The fallen Murmillo, whose blood jetted high and across with every desperate pump of his impaled heart, would not need it. Not where he was headed.
Witnessing the fury of the young Retianus—coming face to face with his determination, his resolve—the three circled cautiously. Not so willing to venture out these three respected his strength, speed and skill. A wild combination of seething carnage—that ill-crazed look in his green eyes told the story of a man who is no longer a man, but a beast woken by the desire to survive, driven to gain, to kill, to bring the Colosseum to explosive heights, finding power in the earth shattering applause, finding home and adoration in every shriek and whistle. Less eager to die they certainly underestimated the boy, inching forward, remembering their training. Dominus dropped the spiked club, gripping the blade in both hands.
The two remaining Murmillo rushed in rather stupidly—the first of them throwing forth a powerful strike. Moving in to meet his opponent in a quickness that was difficult to match, Dominus’ blade met with grating steel, sending the mace sailing through the air, and with a fierce spin he caught the stocky bull through the neck with his blade. Not hesitating a single moment, he turned to meet the last two: the giant Secutor and a lone Murmillo—men of age and experience well beyond his own young years.
They sneered devilishly from behind hideous masks, missing teeth and brown, stained tongues. They pounded their chests in a quick attempt to demoralize him. It had no effect. Dominus smiled back, throwing in a wink which sparked something terrible in them both.
Faking an attack Dominus lunged in, backing them up just enough to circle out from the wall, leading them back to the middle of the arena where he picked up a second blade. Once near, the giant—eager to teach him a lesson—swung a single thick blade. It took all Dominus’ strength and both blades to keep the giant from cutting him wide through the ribs, and in a quick response of his own he brought both blades up and around in a brutal chopping force, relentlessly attacking, managing to land a deep slice on the giant’s forearm just as the other closed in unafraid.
The less frightening of the two—the last surviving Murmillo—drove forward, forcing him back quickly, causing him to trip over a body, narrowly escaping a sword to the head! Falling onto his back Dominus used all his momentum to bring himself up off his shoulders in a stunning display of agility, adding to the crowd’s delight, breaking them out once again, raising their momentum with every quick step, every wave of a ready sword and every drop of blood! And once again—in the midst of bloody combat—he was renewed somehow, boosted by the soul of Mars.
Suddenly, and without warning he charged forward in fast jerky movements, side to side, ducking, striking forward and then back, growling, his flighty steps lifting his confidence. Focused and breathing nicely, utilizing his training—along with Sextus Vorpa’s own drawn moves and counters—Dominus was ready for them.
As always his mind was calculating the next series of devastating moves, watching, reading his opponents, and in a highly skilled effort—like the night and just as comfortable, he brought all his will forth in a heavy bellow, a raw and tainted cry, followed by an even quicker flurry of mighty thrusts, again and again, never stopping, metal clashing and clanging followed closely by the slick horrible ‘thuck!’ sound of steel meeting flesh. In a moment that brought him back he heard a heavy moan, saw in the man, terror, pain, blood and shock.
When his senses cleared Dominus saw that the Murmillo’s thighs, arms and torso had been riddled with grave wounds, dropping him to the ground where he spilled out like a fountain. Quickly, in one natural fluid motion, like the breeze itself, Dominus followed through with a mighty slash, the force of the Gladius rocking the Murmillo’s head to one shoulder in a fount of blood. As a warning to the remaining Secutor, Dominus kicked the staggering man hard to the ground, soaking the crazed sands of the Colosseum in a wide, spraying vat.
And once again the mighty thunder of the Colosseum took Dominus away to fantastic machinations, taking him to the top of the Games, if only in his mind—his dream: to be crowned Grand Champion, stirring his motives. The scent of blood filled the air rippling a frenzy through his every fibre, down to his soul, filling his lungs, filling his heart with bold force and vast courage, and he no longer saw the man before him as a Roman. No. The giant Secutor before him was now just an obstacle. One of many on the road to success and greatness—a lasting name. Only one more.
He caught eyes with the lone Secutor before him. The giant returned his gaze, seeing in him, a vast insatiable hunger, a savage thirst for blood, a new sparked fury—like a caged animal fighting itself free. Smearing the blood of both blades thickly across his face, Dominus sprang forward with astonishing speed, slashing at the giant with great skill and deadly precision, looking to exact his own brand of justice when a clean slice tore him across the chest followed quickly by a severe wound to his inner thigh and a bashing shoulder that sent him hard to the ground. Rolling desperately, narrowly escaping the giant’s fierce blows, Dominus leaped to his feet, his blood, like the fire of the gods blasting through! The noise, the blood-fuelled excitement was like a dream! All for him!
Despite his gaping wounds, and the pain which tried in vain to slow his wits, Dominus stood strong; spilling into the evening. Fine cuts they were. Deep cuts they were. But not enough. He grinned darkly, sickly with bright fiery eyes glinting like evil emeralds, his blood gushing down from his chest and leg, sending a cold shiver through him like an early winter spell.
The stands came alive, exploding suddenly like never before! Cheering fans who had never known him, nor had ever met him, were thrilled, lifted and deeply affected, shining in their souls at the sight of him, witnessing his courage and his will and falling madly in love with him, adoring the young Retianus, seeing in him a monster. And in one voice—one thunderous voice—they howled for him, chanting their message that he might give them a reason to remember him! “Kill! Kill! Kill!” Dominus squared off with the giant in a final clash of wills.
The giant Secutor, with his own dark agenda shining through, came forward screaming, slashing for all his worth. Dominus met him with fantastic force, quick light steps and awkward movements in a ‘one-two,’ ‘three-four’ accurate series of blocks and matching strikes, finally catching the giant in a bloody whip about the shoulder, arm and chest. Dominus’ eyes, for the moment, were that of a deranged lunatic lost in a moment of dread and savagery. In a blood rage all his own, in a single breath of pure volition and malicious intent, the only sound he could hear was his own screaming howls, like a newborn demon crying with only death in mind.
The giant’s gaping wounds about his shoulder and forearm left him vulnerable, driving him to desperation. Wildly courageous, driven by adrenaline, the giant swung a last powerful, clean stroke. Dominus, both blades rushing forward, deflected the giant’s attack before spinning around in a fantastic counter-strike, lopping the giant’s head clean off in a thick crimson whip. A blood fountain opened up to the heavens as the lone Secutor fell forward in dramatic fashion—via his knees, followed by the rest of his tremendous bulk, his head tumbling sickly to the side, his face disappearing in the sand.
Dominus took up the giant’s head, removed the iron helmet and raised it high above his head like a sacrifice, screaming and roaring, adrenaline shooting through him like falling stars, bursting with life, free of fear; a wild bloodlust careening through him like Titans with the Chariots of the Gods in tow.
And in that moment something truly amazing happened. He was no longer an unknown. He was recognized as a true combatant of the Colosseum, acknowledged as a worthy adversary, awakening the most glorious thing to behold: the cries, the screams, the whistles and the cheers—the pure delight of the Colosseum; sixty-five-thousand screaming spectators, taking up every available seat, cheering his name with pride, their satisfied hands raised to the Heavens for him alone. The young Titan, Dominus Titus.
Then and there he felt the awesome power of the masses; a blessed will coming to find true strength in his own killing hands. On shaky, weakened legs he stood tall, overwhelmed that he alone was the last man standing. He waved to the crowds, lost in the thousands of men, women, and even some children, screaming his name, falling madly in love with him! “Dominus! Dominus! Dominus! Dominus!” He took to her bloody games like a fish to water.
Unable to hold himself upright any longer he fell over right there, loved and cherished, and they would not quiet for some time yet. A devilish grin stole over his face. They won’t soon forget about me. I’ll see to it. He closed his eyes and dreamed of naked, beautiful women, pools of blood and fame.
