Page 8 of House of Serpents and Slaves
"Marcus!" a voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned to see Lucius, one of our younger gladiators, approaching with a wide grin on his face. "We did it! We showed Hikma what real fighters look like!"
I nodded, forcing a small smile. "That we did, Lucius. You fought well today."
His chest puffed up with pride at my words. "Thanks to your training, Marcus. I used that feint you taught me last week. Caught that big brute right in the gut!"
"Good," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But remember, there's always room for improvement. We'll work on your footwork tomorrow."
Lucius' smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded eagerly. "Of course, Marcus. Whatever you say."
As he moved away to join the others, I caught sight of Drusus, our owner, making his way towards me. His expensive robes were pristine, untouched by the blood and grime that covered the rest of us. A reminder, as if I needed one, of the vast gulf between our stations.
"Well done, Marcus," Drusus said as he approached, his voice oily with satisfaction. "Another victory for our arena. The crowd was most impressed."
"Thank you, Dominus," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "The men fought bravely."
Drusus waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. But it was your leadership that won the day. The way you rallied the men when that Hikman nearly breached our left flank... magnificent."
I said nothing, merely inclining my head in acknowledgment. Drusus didn't need to know that the "rally" had been more desperation than strategy. In the heat of battle, with Andus fallen and our line wavering, I had acted on instinct, shouting encouragement and throwing myself into the fray.
"Of course," Drusus continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We did lose Andus. A shame. He was a crowd favourite, and he’s going to cost me quite a bit to replace"
"He died with honour," I said, unable to keep a hint of steel from my voice. "Fighting for the glory of your house."
Drusus studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Indeed. See that his body is given the proper rites. It wouldn't do to anger the gods, after all."
With that, he turned and strode away, no doubt eager to bask in the adulation of the crowd and count his winnings. I watched him go, feeling the familiar mix of resentment and resignation that had been my constant companion for the past twenty years.
Twenty years. Had it really been so long since I had last seen the rolling hills of my homeland? Since I had breathed the crisp mountain air and felt the warmth of a loving family? It seemed like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. That Marcus, the young soldier full of pride and dreams, had died on the battlefield when the Empire's legions had swept through foreign lands, burning and pillaging as we went. I pushed away the memories. That was another time, one best forgotten.
A commotion near the gates drew my attention. The arena slaves had arrived to begin the grim task of clearing the dead and wounded. Two approached Andus’ body, and I strode over to help them.
"I'll take him," I said.
The slaves looked at me with a mixture of surprise and relief. I bent down and lifted Andus' body, grunting with the effort. He had been a short but muscular man in life, and death had not made him any lighter. But I owed him this much, at least.
The pyre was out behind the arena, away from the living quarters and the animals. We kept a large variety of animals on hand, and many of them were predators. The smell of burning flesh could send them into a frenzy so the pyre was built on the other side of the land the arena stood on. It was permanent, a constant reminder to us all that seeing the sun rise the next day was never a guarantee in this life.
As I carried Andus' body towards the pyre, I felt the weight of more than just his physical form. Each step was a reminder of the countless lives I'd seen extinguished in this cursed arena. The smell of blood and death clung to me, a stench I knew would never truly wash away.
The pyre loomed before me, a grim sentinel against the darkening sky. The slaves had already begun stacking wood and kindling, preparing for the night's somber task. Three bodies already lay on the pyre, gladiators from Hikma, their eyes staring blindly up at the sky.
In my country, we would close the eyes of the dead, preparing them for their endless sleep until the gods awoke once more and raised their children back to eternal life, but in the Empire, the eyes were left open so the soul could see their way to the Eternal Fields. Twenty years and it still disturbed me a little.
Laying Andus' body gently on the pyre, I took a moment to straighten his limbs. It ate at me that a warrior was sent on his way without a weapon in his hand, but weapons were expensive and cost more than us the slaves that wielded them.
"You fought well, my friend," I murmured. "May the gods grant you peace in the Eternal Fields."
As I stepped back, I became aware of a presence beside me. It was Antonius. He was one of our veteran gladiators and a man I had come to respect over the years. He was a similar age to myself, another war captive from the northern kingdoms where the mountains touched the sky and for several months of the year, the world was covered in white. Or so he said.
"It's never easy," he said quietly, his eyes on Andus' still form. "No matter how many times we do this."
I grunted in agreement. "It's the life we lead."
Antonius turned to look at me, his weathered face serious. "You did well today, Marcus. Kept us together when things got rough."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "We all did our part."
"True enough," Antonius said with a nod. "But the men look to you. They trust you."
