The Greatest Ludus (original fiction)

[darth_timon]

The link is to a novel-writing site- essentially a giant fan fiction factory. I'll try and post the chapters here tomorrow to save everyone having to go via the link, but I wanted to put my story out to a wider audience. I hope you enjoy it!

http://www.movellas.com/en/book/read/201307161854309788

[darth_timon]

Ok, now the actual text, as promised:

Titus Norbanus Nepos awoke before his wife, and spent a few minutes watching her sleep. She always slept closer to the portal, so she could take advantage of the cool breezes that took the edge off the hot Rome sun. That sun was now rising, and as it did the light grazed her auburn hair and cast a gentle glow. With a sigh Nepos tore himself away from his wife, casting back the thin silk sheet that was coiled around his legs and slowly pushed himself out of bed.

He stifled a yawn as he stepped slowly toward the doorway, and rubbed his eyes as he trod onto the polished marble floor. The short corridor to the baths was permanently in shade, something Nepos was particularly grateful for at the moment. Another yawn rose up and this one escaped, as he started to pour cold water from old copper jugs into the pool. He would only use three or four with which to quickly wash himself (as much as he wanted a long soak, that would have to wait).

After washing, Nepos studied himself in the small (yet expensive) mirror that decorated the wall. He was sure that strands of silver were creeping their way into his short brown hair, despite his young age. And he was sure that his dark blue eyes revealed his inner turmoil.

Aside from that, physically he was in good shape. Not particularly imposing, but there was at least some definition there. He didn't possess a rippling six-pack, but his stomach was smooth, toned, and his abs firm and strong. If only his mind were feeling the same way.

"The view from behind is quite pleasing on the eyes too." Came a soft yet playful voice. Nepos smiled, despite himself, as he turned around.

His wife, Etruscilla, smiled back. "And the view from the front is quite satisfying too."

Norbana Etruscilla, standing wearing nothing but the skin the gods had given her, looked ravishing. Her hair, which somehow never looked anything other than perfect, flowed over her shoulders, and didn't seem to move even as she sauntered toward her husband.

"My own view is not without its appeal." He replied, all of a sudden feeling torn. His wife had awoken into a playful mood, yet his time was precious today. Part of him wanted to indulge his beloved, and that desire was only aroused further when she slowly brushed past him, her dark brown eyes twinkling with mischief.

Etruscilla climbed into the water, less than knee deep, and took another jug. She took a deep breath, and poured it over herself. The cold water made her shiver, brought her skin out into goosebumps, and made other things stand out even more.

Nepos closed his eyes. "Etruscilla, I..."

"Hush, my husband. If you are about to say you don't have time for me, it would be wiser for you to not utter those words." Her voice was a bit louder now- between lust and irritation.

Nepos gulped. He saw the passion in his wife's eyes, and he knew from past experience that when those eyes held anger it would not end well for him.

Now Etruscilla took his hands in her own. "You are worried my husband. Today is an important day. Do not be worried. You are a man of greatness, and you will make your father proud. If those pompous bastards have to wait a short while longer for you, then so be it... for now you need to make your wife proud..." She placed his hands upon her breasts, and placed her own hands on his hips, and kissed him, and all his worries melted away...

****

"You stupid fuck!" Roared the giant of a man clad in light leather armour. As he shouted he slammed his wooden sword into another man's ribcage, and for good measure drove his fist into his jaw. The other man fell upon the ground, groaning in pain.

They were but two of several pairs of men engaged in combat- sparring to sharpen their skills. They came from every corner of the Empire- some were Roman born but had fallen from grace, others came from Gaul, Syria, Greece, and beyond. In their past lives they might have been enemies- now they were all equal, as slaves.

Silence fell over the sands of the training arena, and all eyes turned to look at the sudden explosion of anger.

Nimr stood over the fallen man, glaring down upon him. Just for emphasis, he planted his boot on the other man's chest.

"You slash with reckless abandon! Had this been the arena your heart would have been cleaved from your chest and your life's blood would stain the sands! What have I told you- what have I told all of you- about discipline? About focus?"

Nimr- he stood over six feet tall. His biceps were nearly as large as the other man's thighs. His chest was criss-crossed with a dozen scars, the legacy of many a glorious battle in the arena. Nimr was known as the Tiger to the other gladiators (appropriate, for his name happened to mean 'tiger' in his native tongue). His hair was short, and his eyes- well, his eyes burned with barely contained fury.

"Praxites, heed this lesson, for if you fail to do so, you will surely die in the arena!" He took his foot away, and Praxites coughed. He spat out a tooth, and stared up at Nimr with a mixture of anger and fear. Slowly he struggled to his feet.

Nimr turned his back on the other man. "Come at me again. The rest of you, watch."

Praxites scooped up his sword. He snarled, and lunged for Nimr's back.

Quick as lightening, Nimr span around, his own sword in his right hand, hurlting for Praxites' face. To his credit, Praxites ducked, but Nimr had halted his pivot mid-step and slashed upwards. Praxites leaned back, and the sword just narrowly missed cracking against his cheek, but now he was horribly off-balance. Nimr stepped forward and with his free hand punched Praxites in the stomach, but remarkably, though he stumbled, he did not fall. Nimr brought his sword around again, sweeping it from left to right and coming forward as he did so, but Praxites actually managed to parry the first advance, and then the second, knocking Nimr's next attack back. However, so focused was Praxites on Nimr's sword that he missed the foot slammed into his left leg. He grunted in pain and fell back, but Nimr was already moving, this time his sword came in from the right, and connected with Praxite's midriff. This time he fell, gasping as he did.

Nimr stood over him. "You did better that time, but remember, a gladiator has many weapons beside the one he carries. Your whole body can be a weapon, and an attack can come from any angle. You must be prepared for this!" Nimr offered his hand to his fallen foe.

Praxites nodded, and took the hand. And wondered if he would survive the month.

[LadyTevar]

Not bad... I'm interested in seeing where this goes

[darth_timon]

Not bad... I'm interested in seeing where this goes

Glad you like it! It gets a lot more violent very soon- I should have asked a mod to put a warning in the title- this is definitely not suitable for work!

The next two chapters...

The hooded figure made their way down one of Rome's many back alleys, past small market stalls, beggars and miscreants, all of whom tried to speak to them, or thrust their hands out, desperate for the smallest crumb or coin. The figure bustled past without so much as a second glance- they had far more important things to worry about than Rome's forgotten people.

One of the nondescript wooden doors on their left was the entrance to one of Rome's most notorious- and busiest- whore houses. Even now, mid-morning, the person knew the brothel would be heaving.

They rapped three times on the door, and it swung inward, permitting them entry.

Several private rooms were either side of the corridor they now walked down, as they followed an impressively large man of the Moors (who probably acted as a guard against the rowdier elements of the place). Most of the rooms were in use- although the doors were closed, the sounds (of men and women grunting, groaning and shrieking, for various reasons) made that quite obvious.

The respectable and the powerful, despite often being the ones to claim the moral high ground, were quite often the ones who came here. There were plenty of such places in Rome, but few offered the discretion- and the privacy- of Petillia Crispina's House. It was not uncommon in other brothels for the fornicating to be out in the open- and the standards were usually low.

Not here. Petillia's men and women were hand-picked, well-trained in various techniques (the older 'employees' were expected to 'educate' the younger ones), and the standards of beauty were high. There were also very strict rules about the treatment of her whores. It was said that Petillia looked after them like they were family.

And because she charged her clients quite handsomely, she was able to treat them like family as well.

This also allowed her House to offer the perfect location for clandestine meetings- such as the one about to take place.

"This way." The deep baritone voice of the Moor directed the hooded figure through a large set of double doors at the end of the corridor. The figure went through- his minder did not.

The next room had all the trappings of wealth. Small marble statues of men and women in various states of sexual entanglements were perched on small tables around the room, with a larger table in the middle. A soft, plush bed and a small desk were nestled in the far left corner. Two small mirrors with gold trim (another mark of wealth) rested on the desk, as did various articles of make-up. One or two... implements (a whip, and some chains) had also been left on the desk. The figure could only imagine what they'd been used for.

"You are late." A voice- an angry, old voice- came from behind the door. The figure flinched ever so slightly, but managed to keep their resolve.

"Apologies." Titus Norbanus Nepos pulled the hood back. "My wife had pressing business that could not wait."

"I'm sure." As the door swung shut an older man, dressed in a similar hooded cloak, stepped into the light afforded by the high yet small windows.

Marcus Octavius Paulus, more than twice Titus' age, and decidedly rounder in shape (years of over-indulgence with Rome's political elite had sharpened his mind but not his body) was not a Senator, but held the ears of several such men. He was said to carry more influence than half the Senate combined, and over the years he had accumulated many secrets on the important and powerful. A property owner, Paulus had spent a great many years with his fingers in many pies. What he knew was said to be capable of destroying shops, markets, businesses- even the Senate.

"I trust you know why I have asked to meet you here." Paulus walked slowly toward the middle of the room, his stark green eyes never leaving Nepos.

"I believe I have some idea." Replied Nepos carefully. He strode toward a pair of cushions near the bed. "Shall we sit?"

"I prefer to stand." Came the stern response. "Let us get down to it. You wish to secure your family's legacy. I can help you to accomplish this. However, you lack the coin to fund my services, so a different sort of payment is required."

Nepos stood still. This was what he had been dreading.

Paulus continued. "Your ludus needs investment. You need fresh blood to bolster your ranks. You have some fine gladiators, but not enough of them. A number have fallen in recent weeks in surprising- some would say- shocking, circumstances." Paulus stepped closer. "The fewer gladiators you have to send to the arena, the less opportunity for winnings. The harder it becomes to pay your dues and taxes. The more this persists, the worse it will get."

Nepos looked Paulus squarely in the eyes. "You speak nothing that I do not already know. What is your price?"

Paulus smiled. "Direct and to the point. Your father could be equally blunt. I can secure for you fifteen new gladiators, all of whom have some measure of fighting experience, either in their previous occupations or as existing gladiators. None of them are what you would call exceptional but all are of good quality. In return, my client wishes for one- just one- of your gladiators."

Nepos cocked his head slightly. "Who?"

Paulus spread his hands wide. "The Tiger, Nimr."

Titus Norbanus Nepos had held his suspicions that he might lose his most formidable warrior, but had quietly hoped the businessman Marcus Octavius Paulus would have a different arrangement in mind. To have his fears realised was not a surprise but it was a body blow. Nimr was more than just another gladiator.

"Nimr..." He had to look away from Paulus' piercing eyes. "He was my father's first recruit. On his first day in the arena he took on three opponents and killed two of them within seconds. His name is bound to the Ludus of Nepos in the eyes of nearly every Roman." He looked back at the older man, his eyes burning with frustration and fury. "And Nimr has always been proud to represent the house of Nepos."

Paulus' smile grew malevolent. "That may be, but if your ludus is to survive, you must be prepared to move past sentiment and consider more pragmatic choices. My client is prepared to give you time- but do not test his patience, nor mine. You have three days to make your decision. Once you have, send message to this place and we shall arrange further meeting. I would suggest you think of your future."

Nepos struggled to resist the desire to bash Paulus' head in with one of the statues. It was very tempting, even if the problem wouldn't go away if he did.

"Three days." He said. "Very well. I will send message in three days. Now, if you will excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to."

"Of course. Good day, young Titus."

Nepos suppressed a shudder. The way Paulus used his first name was, somehow, creepy. He nodded, and passed back through the door, off to consider the fate of his ludus.

Paulus watched him go. "A nice boy, in many ways. Certainly driven, and passionate."

As he spoke, a side-door, concealed by deep purple curtains, swung open. Out stepped one of the most beautiful women in the Empire.

Petillia Crispina, with shoulder-length blonde hair, dressed in a figure-hugging one-piece ensemble of red and pink that seemed to enhance her already-impressive attributes, was a sight to behold. Dark brown eyes always seemed to twinkle with mischief. Her nails were always painted red (even her toenails), and she always walked with a saunter in her step. She grinned, and her smile sent a shiver down Paulus' spine.

Behind her, a man, naked, save for a leather collar around his neck, followed, carrying a tray with two cups on it. He looked contrite- probably a new slave-in-training. He certainly looked as though he had all the requirements to be a good servant.

"Ah Marcus. He is certainly passionate. It's a shame he's loyal to his wife. That sort of passion would be most welcome here." She sat down on the bed, patting the space next to her.

Paulus sat this time. The servant offered up the two cups, which they both took.

"Some morning fortification. Wine generously donated by one of my more eager clients. Apparently it's the finest wine money can buy this time of year." Crispina grinned again as she took a sip. "But then, several of my clients have boasted this already. What do you think of my latest purchase?" She ran her nails over her servant's stomach. The slave did his best not to shudder but it was clearly an effort, especially when her nails slipped over his right thigh.

"A fine-looking specimen. Muscular without being too imposing. What is his role to be here?"

"Oh, I'm not too sure yet. I'm reliably informed that young Stigr enjoys men as much as women." Her hand now caressed his thigh gently, and Stigr's body was definitely reacting.

"He's not shy either. He rises to the occasion with little prompting." She purred, and wrapped her hand around the young man's length. Paulus felt the temperature in the room go up a level. He wished business could simply be business, but Crispina always enjoyed her little games, and even at his relatively old age, he found himself struggling to focus on anything other than what Crispina was up to.

"So, do you believe Nepos will agree to my terms?" He turned to face Crispina, trying to ignore what she was doing to poor Stigr.

"Oh Paulus. I believe he might, under great protest." Her hand took a firmer grip of Stigr's cock, holding it upright whilst her right hand cupped his balls. "He's stubborn, but not stupid. His ludus won't survive without new blood." Stigr let out a soft gasp. "He's rather like this young man. Determined to hold on." She laughed, and pumped her hand faster. "I suspect Nepos will resent coming to you for some time."

Paulus swallowed. "I'm sure he will. It is for the best for all concerned however. He gets what he needs, my client gets what he wants, and everyone wins."

"Mmmm, I'm sure. What do you get out of it?" Stigr groaned softly. "My, good stamina..." She winked at her slave.

"I get a share of the initial purchase, plus a share of the winnings Nimr will bring. A mutually beneficial arrangement." Replied Paulus carefully. "and of course, you receive a share as well, for allowing me to use your venue."

"What if Nimr should fall in the arena?" Crispina slowed her pace a little, rubbing her palm over the underside of Stigr's shaft. "Imagine if he fell in his first fight!"

Paulus snorted. "Nimr is the best there is. He has no equal in the arena. Hence why my client wants him."

"I see. Well, let us hope that he is as good as they claim." Her hand started to pump more vigorously once again.

"Indeed. Now..." Paulus pushed himself up off the bed. "I must be going. I have other business to attend to, and you are clearly attending to some right now."

Crispina laughed. "Oh Paulus, perhaps one day you will let me take care of your business."

Paulus smiled politely. "Another time, perhaps. I bid you good day."

"And to you as well." Crispina eased her pace once more, as Paulus left. "So Stigr, you have impressed me thus far. I have known men to spill their seed at my barest touch. One even before I touched him, though perhaps that is more due to my teasing than them... still, you have done well." She let go of his cock, and Stigr sighed. "Now, let us put you to proper test..." She eased her outfit off, and let it drop to the floor, before laying upon the bed. "Show me what you can do."

[darth_timon]

Nepos arrived back to his villa just before the sun had reached its peak. The heat was slowly baking the earth into what felt like rock, and he was starting to sweat. His discomfort however, stemmed from the conversation he was about to have.

He had wanted to tell Paulus exactly where to put his offer. 'Nimr was more than just a Gladiator', he had said- it was true. Not only was Nimr the best, but Nepos considered him to be a friend. It seemed outrageous to think he would have to part company with him.

But, Paulus was right. The Ludus of Nepos had seen better days. Fallen gladiators- good fighters, who for whatever reason had failed to live up to expectations- had cost him dearly. Fewer fighters meant less opportunity to win coin, which meant it became harder to pay taxes and duties. That would lead to destitution before long.

New gladiators- fifteen of them, would go some way toward offsetting things, especially if they were as skilled as Paulus claimed. Still, to lose Nimr...

One of his four servants was waiting in the main chamber of the villa when Nepos arrived.

"Wine, Dominus?" She asked

"No, thank you Servilia. Please attend to the midday meal."

"Yes, Dominus." She backed away, toward the kitchens.

With a sigh Nepos flopped down upon one of the cushions by the chamber's central table, and considered the difficult decision he had to make.

So lost was he in his considerations that he didn't notice his wife, Etruscilla, enter the room. She had elected to wear her simple robes today, but Nepos didn't notice her at all until she sat down beside him.

She took his hand in her own. "You look troubled my husband. Speak to me." She urged gently.

Nepos sighed. "If this ludus is to survive I must sell Nimr."

Etriscilla looked down for a moment, then back into her husband's eyes. "This is painful for you."

"Yes." Nepos stood, started to pace the room. "Nimr is the finest gladiator I have ever seen. He is also a good friend. To see him pass from these walls and become opposition to this house... it would tear the heart from me."

Etriscilla gazed up at him, her eyes very clear. "And if you do not sell?"

Nepos grimaced. "If I do not sell, we will end up as beggars on the streets, barring a miracle from the gods."

Etriscilla stood, crossed the room to him, and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

"You are a good man placed in a bad position, through no fault of your own. If you must sell Nimr, you know he will understand."

"In his head he might. In his heart, he will feel betrayed." Bemoaned Nepos.

"Perhaps he will, for a time. He will also know that this ludus is safe. Surely he desires this outcome more than the other? Speak to him."

Nepos shook his head. "There isn't time. Today's games are to begin soon, and Nimr must be focused on the task at hand. I will speak with him afterward."

"Ok. See that you do." Etriscilla offered him a sad little smile. "Shall we prepare for the games?"

Nepos ran a hand through his wife's hair. "Let us prepare."

****

"Remember what I have taught you." Nimr clasped Praxites by the shoulders. "Your whole body can be a weapon. Be light on your feet, and don't overthink it. And above all else, remember your opponents will be doing everything in their power to kill you."

Praxites nodded, but the fear was all to plain to see on his face. The gates to the arena were still closed, whilst the noblemen gave pompous speeches and bigged up their fighters. This was to be Praxites' first time in the arena, and he was terrified.

"And now, I present to you all, for the first time, a gladiator of much promise! Good people of Rome, I give you, Praxites!" Nepos' voice boomed. The guards pushed open the gate, and Nimr nodded. With a deep breath, Praxites stepped out onto the sands, arms aloft.

The crowd cheered. They roared. They applauded. Praxites, clad in simple leather armour, equipped with a small sword and small shield, felt small himself. Yet there was something strangely exhilarating about the occasion, as the crowd chanted his name.

I hope I don't die badly. Strange that this worried him more than just death.

"His opponents are five in number!" Bellowed Nepos. Praxites tried not to look aghast. "Thieves, who have tormented shopkeepers and market stalls for the past year, caught at last by our determined guards. They have caused much hardship with their crimes, but now they answer for them! Execution, by gladiator!"

The crowd roared again. Five young men, not much older than twenty, were ushered out onto the stands by the guards. Two were already trembling. Another began to piss himself- the sand darkening and turning to sludge beneath his feet.

"Numerius, Mamercus, Titus, Servius and Appius, you have one final chance to rise above yourselves. Fight well, and you may yet be spared. If you at least die with honour, you will have demonstrated some redemption!"

As the five made their way toward the centre of the arena, the crowd booed them viciously. For Praxites, their own nerves were soothing his own- this might be easier than I thought.

Nepos gestured from his balcony for the crowd to fall silent. Then he bellowed again.

"Begin!"

The crowd let out another huge cheer. Praxites bolted forward, toward his opponents.

They each had a simple wooden shield on their left arms, with small swords to strike back with. The only clothing they had been granted were their boots and leather underwear- they were horribly exposed in every other way.

The first of them, Numerius, was a short, non-descript man with little in the way of fat on him but not much muscle either. Praxites snarled as he approached, but to Numerius credit he didn't back away like the rest. Instead he lashed out with his sword, but his attack was uncoordinated, and Praxites easily avoided every slash.

Numerius came at him again, sword swiping for Praxites' stomach. Praxites leaped clear, then brought his shield not only up but forward, knocking Numerius' sword back and knocking Numerius off-balance. He stepped forward, and quick as a flash snapped his own sword forward. He caught Numerius on the left side of his stomach, his sword piercing flesh and then withdrawing quickly. Numerius cried out in pain- the wound was serious but not fatal, yet it was most certainly painful.

Praxites followed up quickly. His shield became the weapon, slamming hard into Numerius' face. His nose was broken, with blood spattering everywhere. Now disorientated, Numerius stumbled, and Praxites slashed again, slicing across his chest. Before Numerius could even gasp, the shield cracked across his right cheek, cracking it instantly. Praxites flipped his sword around so the hilt was pointing toward his opponent, and slammed it into his teeth. Next, he turned his sword back around and cut into Numerius' left thigh. Sword slammed into chest, and for good measure Praxites sliced across stomach, not quite deep enough to spill the intestines.

Blood was pouring from Numerius' various wounds, watering the arena sands. The thief staggered, tried to bring his sword back up, and even took a weak swipe that Praxites easily parried with his own sword. But now the game changed.

Appius stepped forward to help his colleague. It was too little too late- but it was an unwelcome distraction. His sword was aiming for Praxites' throat, but he quickly raised his shield to block, and swung his own sword back.

It clattered against Appius' shield, who was at least showing some sense of fight. But Praxites was starting to enjoy himself now. He was beginning to understand why Nimr reveled in the fight. His sword came back, and he span round, parrying another attack from Appius, before stepping forward, knocking a defensive swipe from Appius down, and stabbing forward. Appius managed to block with his own shield, but wasn't expecting Praxites' boot to connect hard with his right knee. He grunted in pain, but held his ground, and now the other three were coming forward...

[darth_timon]

Five against one. Well, four against one, as Numerius was bleeding out slowly from several wounds, and struggling to remain on his feet, let alone fight. Praxites faced Appius, a young man, actually slightly taller than Praxites and not of unreasonable build, but hardly a gladiator, either in body or mind. The thief's eyes held fear and fury, and though his right knee was bruised, he was standing his ground.

Worse for Praxites, his former comrades were closing too.

Mamercus, Titus and Servius. None of them were particularly noteworthy. One had long wavy black hair, the other blond, and the third short brown hair. None of them looked like they'd washed in days. Praxites had no idea who was who. They advanced together, slowly moving outwards to entrap him.

But Praxites, though new to the arena, though rough around the edges, was prepared. When Titus lunged forward Praxites rolled across the sands, his sword trailing in his right hand, which then came sweeping around, aiming straight for Titus' right thigh.

His sword cleaved through flesh and bone, nearly but not quite severing the leg. Just a tiny piece of flesh remained, and blood burst out from severed arteries, like a fountain. It felt like hot rain upon Praxites' body, and the scream that came from Titus' lips was like a beautiful melody.

The shock in the eyes of Titus' fellow thieves was amazing. Their comrade fell, his life's blood flowing from his body, his screams fading to whimpers. So paralysing was their shock that Mamercus didn't move when Praxites picked up Titus' sword and flung it in his direction. Mamercus still didn't move when the sword pierced his heart, though he did cough up blood.

As Mamercus collapsed, Servius looked like he didn't know whether to scream or cry. The soppy-looking lad brushed his blond hair from his eyes held his sword up, as the blood-soaked Praxites began to walk toward him.

Servius backed away, but there was nowhere to truly run. The crowd was on their feet, roaring with delight. Praxites grinned and Servius shuddered. He tried shouting and screaming at Praxites, trying in vain to intimdate him, but to no avail.

"How shall you die?" Asked Praxites casually. "Shall I make it quick, and cleave your head from your shoulders? Or shall I carve a hundred wounds into you and let you die slowly upon the sands?"

"Fuck you!" Spat Servius. He lunged forward, sword slashing manically. Praxites calmly blocked or side-stepped every attack, blocking a couple with his shield for good measure, backing up a few times, before stepping forward, shield slamming against Servius' chest. He jumped, planting both boots heavily against the young man's chest and sent him sprawling.

Appius had not been idle, but he could only limp. It was all too easy for Praxites, who evaded the slightly surprising slash of sword, then, with Appius off balance, drove his steel into his stomach, and twisted the blade.

Appius staggered, blood pouring down his body. He looked up at Praxites, eyes full of indignation, before flopping to the ground.

Servius was back on his feet, screaming obscenities at Praxites. Perhaps Appius had meant something to him- Praxites didn't really care. Sword met sword as the two duelled, Servius' rage granting him greater energy.

It did not however, grant him greater skill. Praxites easily deflected every blow, then used his shield to trap Servius' sword, and slammed his sword into Servius' ribcage.

The satisfying crack of bone was music to Praxites' ears, and as his sword came away, his boot slammed into Servius stomach. Shield then smashed into jaw, and sword just below navel. Praxites sliced outward, spilling Servius' intestines to the arena floor.

Servius somehow remained on his feet, shaking. The crowd's roar sent shivers down Praxites' spine. His next two quick swipes removed the thief's arms, and blood erupted across the sands again. In one quick movement, Praxites then parted head from shoulders, and laughed from the freedom of battle as Servius' body fell.

Numerius had fallen to the sands, but was not yet dead. He struggled to stand again, as Praxites walked casually over to him, and plunged his sword through Numerius' chest. He raised his hands aloft, and the crowd chanted his name. It felt good.
[Edit][Delete]

As Praxites made his way from the arena the audience cheered. They had enjoyed the bloody spectacle of his execution of five thieves, and they eagerly awaited the next fight. As the guards dragged the bodies from the arena, Nepos raised his hands to request silence.

"Now good citizens of Rome, we welcome, all the way from Capua, one of the House of Sextus' finest warriors. Many times has Sigivald- known to the good people of Capua simply as 'The Butcher'- left behind many bloodied bodies in the arena. Today, you get to witness his prowess first hand!"

More cheering. The crowd was in boisterous form. Once again the far gate opened, revealing the one they called the Butcher.

At over six feet tall, it was difficult to make much out about the man. He wore a helmet that revealed only his eyes, nose and mouth, and was clad in thick leather armour. In his right hand he carried a large, spiky, ball and chain mace- his left a thick wooden shield.

"Today he faces the best we have to offer- one you all know and love. One I know you enjoy watching. The great and mighty tiger Nimr!"

If the crowd had been loud before they were deafening now. Nimr was the hero of the Castrense Arena, and the crowd adored him. Nimr entered the arena floor, clad very differently to Sigivald.

Nimr had always eschewed heavy armour and large shields. Underneath the hot Roman sun, and on the soft crunchy sands, he wanted to be as light as possible. He sported a small oval shield of light metal on his right arm, and wielded an impressive sword in his left, but aside from leather boots and shorts he wore nothing. His dark brown hair was kept as short as possible, and his passionate green eyes were focused entirely on his opponent as the two drew closer.

"Begin!" Came Nepos' voice from the balcony, where the elite watched. Nimr smiled. It was time to give himself to the freedom of battle.

"I will tear you limb from limb, and reveal you not as a tiger but as a pussy." Spat Sigivald. For a change, Nimr did not have to look down to look his enemy in the eye.

"Words are meaningless, especially from a man who hides his face."

Sigivald didn't like that. He roared and charged, and swung his mace above his head, then launched it at Nimr's chest. Nimr simply side-stepped to his left, and the mace clattered into the sands. As Sigivald started to pull it back Nimr bolted toward him, swinging his sword for the other man's ribcage, but Sigivald was wise to him and thrust his shield out, which splintered ever so slightly as Nimr's sword smashed into it. The 'Butcher' pushed out, and Nimr was pushed back, his sword coming loose from Sigivald's shield as it did. By now Sigivald was ready with his mace again, and swung it out quickly at Nimr's legs.

Nimr jumped over it, and then again as Sigivald quickly readied it and attacked again. The third swing was for Nimr's head, and it was easy enough to duck, though he also moved to the left, in case Sigivald tried anything elaborate. He hadn't yet put his shield to the test against the mace, because he suspected it would offer little resistance, and he had to keep sharp, for if that spiky ball caught him even once...

The crowd cheered each time Nimr dodged the swinging weapon, but he couldn't do this forever. He had to change the game.

The mace came out for Nimr again, and this time he dodged to his right. As he did so, he drove his sword down, through one of the links in the chain and into the sands. With Sigivald's one and only weapon stuck, Nimr darted toward the other man again.

Sigivald dropped the chain and tried to catch Nimr in the jaw with his shield, but Nimr was quick- he ducked underneath the attack, punched Sigivald in the stomach as hard as he could, and swung for his ribs with the sharp edge of his own shield.

The thin metal shield didn't have a lot of penetrating power, especially against Sigivald's thick leather, but it was swung with such strength that Nimr managed, however slightly, to slice through the armour and into skin. Sigivald howled, and hurled a fist at Nimr's face, which the Tiger managed to evade simply by leaning back. Sigivald kicked out, catching Nimr in his left hip, but it wasn't a very good effort. Nimr rolled backwards, kicking at the chain that now lay on the floor, and scooped up his sword again.

The two man faced each other. Where Sigivald's eyes had held such confidence and venom earlier, now they held caution.

Nimr grinned. He would never choose the mace- unwieldy, even in experienced hands, it could certainly kill with a single blow but landing that blow was very difficult. Plus, as he had demonstrated, it was a weapon easily removed.

Sigivald however, was no fool. He reached to his side- and unsheathed a hidden sword that had been disguised by his armour. Slightly smaller than Nimr's own weapon, it looked well-made as it shimmered in the sunlight.

"Come at me then Butcher. Or is it you who is the pussy?" Taunted Nimr. Sigivald snarled and charged.

Their swords crashed against each other in a dizzying whirl of movement. The two men pirouetted, appearing to dance, yet as fluid as their movements looked this was a fierce fight to the death. Shields blocked fatal strikes, flesh was narrowly brought out of reach, and sparks flew as the steel blades struck one another. For Nimr, his shield was starting to be a burden.

Being quite flimsy, it was denting, even tearing where Sigivald's sword hammered away at it. Deciding to ditch the rapidly deteriorating shield, Nimr kicked out at Sigivald, knocking him back a little, then tore it away. Sigivald looked as though he wasn't sure whether to smile or be worried, then came back at Nimr.

Nimr did the unexpected. He kicked the sand up into Sigivald's face, stopping him in his tracks for just an instant. He slashed out for Sigivald's right hip, just catching it with the tip of his blade before Sigivald re-orientated himself and tried to slash his throat. Nimr rolled away, in a very specific direction, and Sigivald growled.

"Cowardly fuck!" The Butcher roared. "You claim to seek battle yet you keep running away!"

"Then why are you the one bleeding?" Retorted Nimr.

Sigivald snarled again. He once again ran at Nimr, his sword held at his side. He swung for Nimr's neck again, and Nimr jumped back, flicking his sword across Sigivald's right cheek. The helmet prevented serious injury but the crunch of steel upon steel still managed to hurt. Before Sigivald could react, Nimr kicked him hard in the stomach. Sigivald staggered backward, but bared his teeth and came back once again. He slashed his sword quickly, forcing Nimr to retreat and parry with all of his skill, but Nimr was silently pleased. He shimmied backwards just in time to avoid his left leg getting gored, and took another cheeky swipe at Sigivald, slicing the Butcher's leg just above his right knee.

Enraged, Sigivald finally managed to land a blow- he kicked out with his left leg, catching Nimr in the chest. Nimr stumbled, the breath knocked from him, and though he blocked Sigivald's attempt to slice down his chest, he could do nothing to stop Sigivald's heavy shield, which crashed into his right hip and sent him sprawling, dropping his sword.

Sigivald kicked the sword away and tried to impale Nimr upon the sands, but Nimr rolled out of the way and got back to his feet. Winding up weaponless had not been part of his original plan and now Sigivald stalked him, his eyes full of bloodlust. Nimr was hoping to get around the other man and get his sword back, but Sigivald was cleverly covering that option.

So Nimr went for something else instead.

The chains beneath his feet as he retreated across the arena belonged the ball and chained-mace that had failed so miserably earlier to be a burden to Nimr. He stepped back, scooping up as much of the chain as possible, then held his ground.

Sigivald sneered, then charged forward again. His sword came around, aiming to end the fight swiftly... So when Nimr launched the spiked iron ball directly at him, Sigivald's eyes widened in shock, just before the ball smashed into his shield, shattering it and breaking his left forearm in the process, not to mention sending him crashing to the ground.

The Butcher shrieked in pain. The crowd went wild, cheering and applauding their hero. But Nimr knew the fight was not over. Sigivald, holding his injured left arm to his side, slowly rose again. What was left of his shield lay in pieces on the arena floor.

"When I gouge the eyes from your lifeless face I will skull-fuck you you worthless shit!" He screamed. Nimr laughed.