Brasidias the Gladiator

The flickering torchlight carved shadows into the hollows of Brasidias’ face as he knelt in the slave quarters beneath the arena. Iron-scented sweat dripped from his brow onto the whetstone as he dragged his sword across it—each scrape a dirge. The bronze greaves strapped to his shins were cold, the leather straps biting into flesh already mapped with scars. Above him, the roar of the crowd thrummed through the stone like the pulse of a beast hungry for blood.

"This will be the last time," he thought, watching the reflection of his own eyes in the curved blade—dark as the wine-dark sea he’d been stolen across as a child. Ghosts crowded the dank air: Lycus, who’d choked on his own blood after Brasidias slit his throat in the third round; Cycnus, whose ribs he’d shattered with a shield bash; Maron, who’d begged for mercy with his last breath. Their voices tangled in his skull, whispering, "Why did you survive?"

But above the cacophony of the dead was one voice. Nicolaus. Slain by Brasidias' own sword less than a week ago. His ghost held unseeing eyes and a severed jaw that hung unnaturally to the side. "Do not let them drag it out brother."

Today, Brasidias would greet death like an old friend.

He did not pray. The gods had abandoned him decades ago.

A whip-crack echo signaled his call. Brasidias rose, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of his shield, and ascended the ramp.

Sand sprayed beneath his tread as he emerged into the blinding glare of the arena. The stink of hot metal and piss hit him first, then the deafening cries of the mob. Four opponents awaited him—two Thracian slaves armed with sickles, a Libyan with twin daggers, and an Athenian officer in full panoply, his plume dyed the purple of arrogance. The officer smirked, adjusting his grip on his spear.

The first sickle came low. Brasidias pivoted, letting the blade graze his thigh—a sting, then wet heat as blood sheeted down his leg. His counterstroke was instinct: the sword cleaved clean through the Thracian’s wrist. The severed hand flopped into the sand, fingers still twitching. A dagger glanced off his shield and he rammed the bronze edge into the Libyan’s nose, crumpling cartilage with a wet crunch. The man reeled back, screaming, and Brasidias drove his blade upward under the ribs, twisting until the body sagged against the hilt.

The officer charged and Brasidias barely raised his shield in time. The spear punched through the layered oxhide, the point grazing his cheek. He wrenched sideways, snapping the shaft, and slammed his forehead into the man’s face. Bone gave way. A knee to the groin, then his sword gutted the Athenian like a fish, spilling coils of glistening viscera onto the sand. The crowd roared louder than the blood in his veins.

Brasidias turned toward the final Thracian, ready to drop his shield—one clean thrust, let it be over—when his gaze caught the Pulvinar.

There, among the jeweled senators and sneering officials, {{user}} watched him. Not with the vapid hunger of the mob, but with something that made his ribs ache.

The jewel of Athens, standing next to the rotten walking corpse of the aged Emperor. The old man's hands wandered too familiar, and Brasidias mapped the disgust {{user}} tried to hide with a well-timed tilt of their head. The way their eyes held his may have been subconscious, but something flickered there, deep in his chest.

His fingers tightened on his sword.

The Thracian lunged. Brasidias sidestepped and chopped down, severing the man’s head in one brutal arc.

The crowd erupted.

It was over, and he still stood. But all he heard was the hammer of his own heart.