Sarah

His blue gaze followed her gesture, seeing that she already had all that she needed. Dried fruits and soft bread on a fine metal platter, wine in a pitcher with glasses. Glass was something he had only encountered in the smallest, most expensive beads in his homeland; it was fine jewellery. To see so much, and turned into a household utensil, had initially been a shock. But he had come to understand that the household was wealthy, and glass was a sign of that wealth. At the Ludus he drank out of wood or rough ceramic. Why were there two cups? Was Corinthia expecting company? Or was that simply what had been left? For a moment he'd expected her to say she needed nothing, and send him away, but instead she indicated that he was to bring that which had been set, in words that were spoken unusually softly for his mistress, her voice sounding strained and weary, accompanied by a sigh. He nodded briefly and rose to his feet again, pondering the items before carefully tucking the pitcher into the crook of his elbow so that he could carry both the glasses in one large hand, and the plate in the other. The corner of his mouth quirked where she couldn't see as she chivvied him, he would have sworn that she did it out of habit. There were those at the Ludus who spoke to the slaves in soft voices, who wore smiles and easy manners, yet who he knew took pleasure in seeing the slaves hurt, sometimes in hurting them themselves, under the guise of some necessary punishment. Aeneas knew that the other household slaves disliked Corinthia, but for all that she snapped at him, shouted at him, sent him away at times, she had never hurt him. The only time she had laid her hand on him had been gentle, and she'd never ordered him beaten. As far as he cared, she could snap at him all she wanted. Turning with the items carefully balance in his arms he bowed slightly and raised dark brows, awaiting her command. @Gothic

Aeneas was a practical man. The forge was unforgiving of the hot-headed and easily frustrated. He could recognise when a fight couldn't be won, and bide his time until it could. Some saw this as a weakness, some had even called him weak. Many of those no longer walked this earth, and not through any doing of his. That didn't mean that he didn't feel anger, didn't feel pain; but he harboured them away until the time was right. Might he have been so sanguine about his situation if Eoife and Fiachu had been taken alongside him and separated from him? Probably not. He remembered the Brigantean men who'd fought as their wives and children were taken elsewhere by the slavers. But he wasn't in that situation. However much he missed them, however hard it tore his heart to think of his son growing up without him, at least they were free. They would be provided for, there was a place for them in the village. At least, he assumed they were free; in his darkest nightmares the Romans pushed further north and conquered the lands of the Caledonii, and his own family were taken as well, or killed. But from what little he'd heard the Romans were consolidating what they had rather than pushing further, and in truth they might find that land of high mountains and deep snows hard to take, especially from a people who were accustomed to lightning raids and mountain tactics; they'd had enough time to practice on each other. He hadn't spoken of those he'd left behind to his captors; they were uninterested in anything that he had to say that didn't indicate acquiesence. Gaia had been the only exception, but in the public space of the Ludus was hardly conducive to in-depth conversation. Dwelling on the pain gained him nothing, whilst inattention during training gained him bruises and short rations, so he'd buried it deep. But talking about his homeland, his kin, brought everything to the surface. How could these people be so heartless? These Romans, did they not understand what they did? Or did they not care? They seemed to think they had some right over others. At least when his own people feuded it was out of spite, or anger, or revenge, not some idea that one tribe was intrinsically better than others. Prisoners might be taken, but they could be ransomed back. He'd never seen any indication that Romans were interested in ransom. Or in pity. But he couldn't help it, perhaps deep down he wanted one other person to understand what had been taken from him, even if they didn't care. When she looked away, he half expected her to order him sent back to the Ludus, uninterested in his personal trials. Aeneas was aware of Barbus standing behind him, but his focus was on his mistress. She who was the only person with the power to set him free, not that he expected it. Hoped for certainly, but he didn't expect. He was, after all, a practical man. Why bring him all this way to show a sudden moment of humanity? He shouldn't have spoken, but he couldn't not. She turned back, and he expected that angry dismissal, that petulant pout, but no, she looked down. The dark lashes of her kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed wetly, and in a move that shocked him more than if she had slapped him, one tanned, perfectly manicured hand came to rest on his freckled shoulder. She understood. He lowered his head for a moment in emotional acknowledgement and took a deep breath, then glanced up. There was no hope in that glance, no pleading, no anger, just the frank acknowledgement of something that bridged the gap between their peoples and cultures; something they both understood. That unexpected moment of compassion had more effect on Aeneas than any number of months of harsh words and beatings. Truly, one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. @Gothic

It was a time of celebration, of liberation, and naturally of libation. Slaves feasted, masters served, and in the dark of the year society turned upside down in recognition of the fact that they were all as equals before the Gods, and lesser to them. Let that please Saturn and Apollo Helius and lengthen the days once more, lest the year fail to turn and the world descend into darkness. The Imperial family had attended the rite at the Temple of Saturn, watched the priest with his head oddly uncovered as he said the ancient words and made the sacrifice. The banquet had been well underway for some time and even Tiberius had indulged in some wine and a little too much food, after the palace slaves had eaten. Now he was sitting by the window, looking out over the city and pondering the future. This was the turning of the year, and the new year would bring the first steps into his adulthood, marked by the beginning of the cursus honorum. Titus, who was of age with him, was facing the same, but he was making a thorough enjoyment of the evening, if Tiberius's last glimpse of him was anything to judge by. The young Imperial, last son of Caesar Claudius, glanced up with a slightly sheepish smile at the approaching figure. (OOC: Particularly open to Imperial and Senatore youth)

His Latin was bad, but his opportunities to practice it were few, and given that he'd never really heard the language before his capture, it was at least an improvement. And he tried, he did genuinely try to describe his homeland for her. It was only the barrier of language that stunted his poesy, not lack of love or beauty. And he answered her questions honestly, which was why he was a little surprised when she contradicted him. Why bother to ask his name and then tell him no? Or was it his poor grasp of the language; he hadn't mastered tenses yet. Not that that would have changed his answer; the Romans could call him what they wanted, he knew what his mother had named him. Thus he accepted the correction with equanimity and the slightest of shrugs; to argue would both have caused trouble, and made some acknowledgement that they had any right to name him. He knew his name. Instead he sat patiently, silently, whilst Corinthia tapped her exquisitely manicured nails irritably on the arm of her chair. There was no point in pre-empting her, not when he didn't know her well and guessing incorrectly would lead to further trouble. Indeed, there was something almost easy about not having to think ahead, only doing as he was told and speaking when spoken to. And so he was content to wait on his mistress. Wait, and observe. At last she spoke, and posed another question. Politics? Now that was unexpected. Was she looking for tactical information? Or was she simply curious about how a different society worked? "Have Clan Chief." He said after a moment's thought on the wording. "Clan like large family. All distant family. Also smaller septs within Clan. Like village, with chieftain." He tried to explain. "Clan Chiefs make... friend? with other Clans? Also fight. Big fight, long time." What was the Roman word for fued? Did she want to know about local politics? "Make trade between clans and septs. Make marry. I smith, make tool, weapon. Important for village. My wife Eoife, she daughter sept Chieftain." He said quietly, yet with no less furvour. "My son Fiachu maybe Chieftain one day." His son. His pride and joy, and hope for the future. He remembered the day he'd put his arm around Eoife as she'd held their newborn son to her breast. Remembered the tight grip of that tiny fist on his finger, those big blue eyes looking up at him, the knowledge that he would do anything to protect his child as he grew. And now he couldn't. Because he was here, because of the Romans. As he spoke those deep blue eyes watched Corinthia, watched her expression, the flicker of her own dark gaze. Did she understand what he had been taken from? What she was keeping him from? Did she care? He had a family; a wife who likely thought he was dead, and a son who was growing up without him. "My son not know me now." He said bitterly, the words escaping before he could really think about them. If she couldn't care about him, could she feel for the little boy, growing up without his father? @Gothic

Woot!

It was the nature of the Imperial family that they were always on their guard, whether it be for politics or personal safety; often both. And what's more they had to be so whilst appearing to be entirely at ease, a manner which became second nature to them. But it was pleasant to be able to relax as much as they were able, amongst their peers. Tiberius had eaten well and drunk a modest amount of wine. Just enough to feel relaxed, but he wasn't the sort to overindulge. The ebb and flow of conversations and people had left him momentarily on his own and he reclined at his ease, a cup of fine, deep green glass in his hand, on which had been painted stylised lillies and reeds, romantically remniscient of the borders of the Nile in Aegyptus. Likely the artist had never been to that far province however. He nursed the wine in it, taking advantage of the momentary lull to people-watch. It was a careless individual that did not take not of who spoke with whom. A slave passed by with a bowl of grapes and the young man helped himself to a handful with a nod. (OOC: Open to anyone who might like to join him.)

A spearman had the advantage of reach over a swordsman; Aeneas had learned that in his battles against the Romans before he was captured and Eppitacus obviously knew that as well. The seasoned gladiator slid gracefully back as Aeneas advanced, keeping the gap between them open even as the northerner tried to close it. The shortness of the Roman weaponry didn’t help either, where Eppitacus might have just been in range of a longsword as he stabbed his spear into Aeneas’s shield, the gladius fell well short. Bracing against the impact to the scutum, which he had to admit provided a great deal more protection than the lighter, round buckler, and for less movement, if one had the strength to hold it. Aeneas had been a smith, but he’d also lost a lot of muscle on the long walk to Rome. He braced his shield arm, resisting the instinctive reaction of raising the shield above eye height, knowing that it would block his vision. Instead, holding the shield steady, he pivoted and stabbed with the gladius towards Eppitacus; not at his body which was out of reach, but at the nearest hand which held the spear. @Chris

What had Aeneas been doing, wandering along the badly lighted hallway, well away from the general festivities? In truth he’d been looking for a possible escape route, a way out of the family compound that wouldn’t involve going past the other celebrants. Whilst tonight might be a night of freedoms, he still wasn’t amongst those slaves who were trusted to go out on their own and he suspected that any efforts to do so would not be well received. It was a night of simulated freedoms only. Did that make it more bitter-sweet? Yet he had to admit that even that effort was more from habit than any real expectation. It had been over a year since he’d been taken from his native green hills, and the hope of being reunited with his loved ones was dying. The company of Branwen and Eppitacus hadn’t done anything to bolster those hopes; those two seemed far more comfortable here in Rome. And in truth, Rome could be both comfortable and interesting, if one was in the right circumstances and not horribly homesick. He still fell into a black despair some nights, as he lay on his hard pallet in his gladiator's cell, thinking of those he’d left behind, particularly his wife and son. Then at other times he looked around at the marvels of Roman civilisation, and mused that, if he had to be trapped somewhere far from home, there were worse places. That hadn’t stopped him looking for a way out, even if it was force habit, and here he was. As the light of the braziers lit the youthfully beautiful features of his mistress, it occurred to him that perhaps he had found what he was looking for, or it had found him. After all, Corinthia held the power to set him free. Her smudged kohl and irritated pout belied the claim that she was well, but those wide dark eyes were oddly innocent despite her temper, that hand at her breast and the way she looked up at him spoke of a vulnerability that was no doubt irritating her even as it was oddly appealing. He had learned that his mistress hated to appear to be in any less than total control, but tonight was a night that no one controlled, when the Romans acknowledged their equality in the eyes of the Gods and their inferiority before them, and begged Jupiter to bring the sun back for another year. Perhaps that was why Corinthia looked pissed. Perhaps it was also an opportunity. Aeneas dropped easily to one knee, like a barbarian warlord pledging fealty, bringing his gaze closer to her level. “I come to find you, Domina.” He lied evenly, and faint smile on his full lips. He had learned over time that, whilst Corinthia could order Gaia’s slaves around, he was the only one she actually owned herself. He supposed that she didn’t really have need of her own troupe of slaves, whilst in her mother’s house. He’d been a whim, a fancy, nothing more. But he was first. What that meant to her he didn’t know; probably nothing. Or at least, she probably thought it meant nothing. In this odd moment he had caught her at less than her usual, pristine presentation, on a night when such things shouldn’t be a consideration. But Corinthia, he had learned, was a great believer in appearances, and proprietry. Or at least what she considered to be proper. Which, amongst other things, included the obedience of slaves. His blue gaze looked her over, perhaps a little more sympathetically than previously. She looked tired, and grumpy, and stressed. “You like I bring you some food Domina? Some wine?” He offered, service where none was supposed to be owed this night.

As he crouched before her, Corinthia’s dark gaze slid over him and Aeneas accepted that scrutiny with equanimity; it was only different from the looks of his handlers at the ludus in that she seemed to take a closer interest in him, rather than treating him purely as livestock. He was, apparently, hers, and she could look at him as much as she liked. That at least cost him nothing. He’d thought perhaps that more personal interest and apparent desire for conversation might allow for more freedom of expression, but her frown at his uninvited question and curt response made it clear that no, she wanted him to only speak when spoken to. She had at least not ordered him punished or sent away, but if Corinthia was the key to his possible freedom - or his imminent death - then he needed to learn her moods. At her scold he lowered his gaze and bowed his head, the learned attitude of the repentant slave, however feigned. Whatever purpose she’d summoned him for was apparently stronger than her annoyance at him; at her gesture Aeneas settled himself cross-legged at her feet, gazed up at her admittedly pretty face with her exotic, dark eyes, and considered her demand. The land of his birth? She wanted to know about his homeland. It was something that he tried not to think about too much, focusing on the demands of the day rather than the dwindling hope that he might one day return home to all that he had loved and been taken from. But perhaps he might inspire her to release him to it, or at least want to visit? Who knew. And entertaining his Domina gave him the chance to observe her. “I from north Britannia.” He began. “No Romans there. Tall… mountains. Snow on them many times. Tall, green trees. Much rain.” Not like here, where it never seemed to rain. “Many small valleys, very green, good grass, many… cow. Good to eat. Many… deer in forest.” The pauses were where he searched for words he’d only heard and not yet had cause to use. How to capture the magic and beauty of his homeland with such a limited vocabulary? “We hunt deer. Drink from water run from mountains, cool and clear. Swim in… loch.” He thought for a moment. “Big water between mountains.” He explained. “Swim in sea too, and make boat, sail to Eire, see kin. Also green land.” What would seem truly odd or even impossible to a Roman? “In winter, lots… snow. Many many snow. Sassanach not travel, but we do. Snow make deer, rabbit, wolf easy hunt, good fur. We eat well and sleep in the snow.” He grinned. “Many days. Snow make food stay good. Then take all good hunt food home for everyone eat.” ‘Sassanach’ was their word for the southern tribes; it could also be applied to Romans. She wanted to know his tribe, and his name? She was the first Roman to ask his name; no one else had cared. Did she care, or was she just curious? She said his ‘former’ name. Did it really matter? “I Caledonii.” He said, using the Roman approximation of their tribal name. “I name Aonghus.” He said, pronouncing it carefully for her,Angus, in case she ever wished to use it, and watched her face to see how she received that information. Was that all that she wanted, a little vicarious travel? Or was there some other curiosity?

The exotic-looking young woman who was his mistress seemed to regard him with interest. Aeneas himself had been more interested in whether this odd visit might present an opportunity for escape, and judged that if there was going to be one it would likely be during the walk back to the ludus, but he suspected that he wouldn't get far. He needed a plan to get out of Rome. Meanwhile Corinthia seemed particularly interested in whether or not he could speak, and understand, her language. Did she want to talk to him then? None of the Romans at the ludus were ever particularly interested in what he had to say. It was an odd thought, but he knew that his best chance of getting out of here would be to gain the trust of his captors, and be allowed the freedoms that some slaves were. "I understand you, Domina." He confirmed gravely. It was truth in the literal sense; he understood her words. He had yet to understand her as a person, but here perhaps was an opportunity One delicately manicured hand rose and beckoned to him, and Aeneas stepped forward obediently, observing in greater detail her careful physical presentation. Calculated. He stopped at closer range, towering over her lounging form before, unbidden, he dropped into an easy crouch, sitting on his heels, elbows on his knees. It was a less intimidating stance, quite deliberate. The crouch was harder to move from, he no longer towered over her, and it brought their gazes onto the same level. It also meant that she wasn't quite within his immediate reach. Possibly it wasn't the best idea for someone wearing a tunica that wasn't quite long enough for him, depending on your point of view. Unlike her he was unplucked, his long legs furry and his fine, dark chest hair showed a little at his collar. The large, flat scar on his right forearm was easily visible, and the long, clean one on his left thigh could now be seen. Did he know why she'd had him brought here? The easy answer was 'no', but if she wanted the stupid slave, he doubted that she would have asked. That blue gaze turned contemplative. "You ask if I understand." He observed. "You want to speak to me." He concluded logically. Did he understand what about, or why now, or even why she'd bought him in the first place? No. But right now what interested him was the opportunity to gain some understanding of his mistress. Did he understand the meaning of the name he'd been given? Not that either; for no one had bothered to explain it to him. It seemed to him only a Roman approximation of his real name. The fall of Troy, the founding of the Roman peoples by the maternal ancestor of Romulus and Remus, and possibly the founding of the lineage of Pictish Kings, were all unknown to him. It was just a name, and not the one his mother had given him. Blue eyes searched her face. "What you want, Domina?" He asked in the uppity way of barbarian slaves who never really accepted their place in life, were never truly broken, speaking when not spoken to. Yet there was no challenge in his tone, only a mild curiosity. Why was he here? What did she want with him? What did she want from the world? And what, perhaps, could he do to affect that?

The footsteps belonged to a red-haired man, one of those who'd come to collect him. Sometimes the man had come with Gaia to watch him, but he didn't seem to be a husband. Perhaps a bodyguard. Was he another slave? The tiers of Roman society were far more complex than his own; whilst one man might have status over another, even the cheiftan was first amongst equals. Not so here, and he was slowly coming to understand that there was also more to it than masters and slaves. He was not going to puzzle it all out in this moment. Barbus's command was met with the slight nod that seemed to generally suffice as answer to his captors at the ludus, and the rangy barbarian followed in his wake. Such commands he was well familiar with. The room he was led to was finely furnished, like the rest of the house, the wealth of the owners prominent. And like a carefully crafted presentation box, at the centre of the room lounged it's jewel. Stopping where he was bade, Aeneas regarded the woman before him with the frank gaze the barbarian slaves were so despised for. "Domina." He said, with a slight bow, too slight but he hadn't been taught otherwise. He'd learned the word, Mistress. She was beautiful, but it was a calculated and finely crafted beauty. From her carefully coifed hair to her long fingernails, it was a beauty that spoke of one who did no work, who existed to be admired. That sculpted elegance was overlaid on a natural appeal, but Aeneas found himself comparing in his mind this careful artwork to the natural, wild beauty of the women of his homeland. And yet, he could not deny that many back home would braid their hair and do no work, if they were afforded that luxury. Perhaps what set the Romans apart most was their leisured class. But that was built on the back of slaves. She was beautiful, and she was also young, she still possessed that softness of face and slimness of build, her dark, exotic looks emphasised by the careful crafting of her clothing and the fine jewellery that she wore. The way she pressed her hand to her breast and widened her eyes was unexpected; fear, surprise or something else? He'd not had that reaction before, and he filed it away for consideration. Absorbing this without expression, he looked blankly across the room with the stoic patience of a slave who has been given no command. Until she spoke. Then his blue gaze met her dark, kohl-lined one once more. How well did he speak her tongue? That depended on the subject. For matters of the ludus, very well. For complex rhetoric, he was woefully underequipped. "I speak Latin some." He replied evenly, his voice a resonant baritone. He'd done his best to learn words, actively listening and absorbing, but there was a limit to what was discussed around him. He'd taken all the help the other slaves would give him; would it satisfy her? He'd become aware that, as his mistress, this woman had the power to set him free. Or make his life a misery.

There had been a change in his routine that day. Normally the Ludus was very strict in it's organisation and training sessions, and if one was late for a meal or a bout there were punishments. Occasionally there would be a half day's rest, and a few times the woman with the soulful eyes would come; sometimes to speak to him and sometimes just to watch. Gaia, he'd learned Claudia Gaia, in that odd way they had of using names. She's purchased him. But not for herself; for the younger woman with the temper; she was the one who'd sent him to be a gladiator. Claudia Corinthia. This he'd put together, come to understand over time. He'd not seen Corinthia since that day.Except that today he was singled out, sent aside and told to wait, until house slaves came to get him. His mistress had sent for him. No explanation was given, but Aeneas had come to accept that of the Romans; they still treated him like an animal. An intelligent one, but an animal none the less. Animals needed no explanations, only commands, occasional rewards, and punishments for disobedience. Which this was remained to be seen. So he played along, reserving judgement. Good dog.The house was... grand, in a word. Nothing like the stone or peat-brick roundhouses of his homeland. The Romans knew how to build, he would give them that. He was made to strip and bathe, not in a cool mountain stream but in a big tub, like a piece of laundry, though the heat of the water was... pleasant. Soaped and cleaned, rinsed and dried, he was provided with a tunica of fine linen. And that was it. He wasn't certain he'd ever get used to the lack of trews, and resisted the urge to pull down on the hem. He'd been told to wait, and so wait he would. He'd become accustomed to that. Aeneas had changed since he'd been pulled from the cage full of dirty Britonic slaves at the market. His dark hair had cut short, his pale skin now sported a wealth of freckles from the hot Roman sun. The muscle that he had lost in the journey from his homeland had been rebuilt, with more balance than had previously been shown in the left-handed smith. Fine blue tattoos wound their graceful way across his upper arms, disappearing into the short sleeves of his tunica, the same rich tone as his eyes. Those eyes turned in the direction of the sound of approaching footsteps. Claudia Corinthia

Family was precious, especially with so many of them lost. New additions to the family were even more so, and by all accounts Flavia had carried on a certain family tradition. Once news came that all was well and that Flavia was resting, one pair of twins came to see another, and to congratulate their older sister. She'd doted on them as young children, before their lives had turned upside down, and to see her happy and content, with others to dote on, made once believe that perhaps that darkness was behind them and all might be right in the world again. "Salve, Flavia." Tiberius said quietly as he stood in the doorway peering in, not wanting to interrupt the gentle scene. "Are you well?" There was always a risk to a woman, when bringing new life into the world. She looked well; she looked particularly content with her brood cuddled around her. Marriage to Gneus seemed to have suited her as much as marriage to Clemens had not. Tiberius's blue gaze looked over each of his nieces and nephew, before back to Flavia, then a quick glance to his own twin. "May we come in? we'd love to meet them." He held a small box in his hands. The first days of a child's life were always uncertain, it was so easy for the gods to claim back the little soul that had only just arrived, but both of Flavia's twins look hale and hearty to his eyes, which was heartening.

The figure was tall, looming, and oddly broad in the gloom of the unlit torches, perhaps fear made it loom larger still? It was also an odd shape, hunchbacked and limbs bent at strange angles, like some foreign demon against whom Janus and Vesta might guard the door and hearth, lest they bring curses and ill winds. As Corinthia's voice rang out the grotesque silhouette froze in the darkness, before a deep, familiar voice replied, distinct accent and all, "Salve, Domina." Then Aeneas finished re-tying the caliga boot he was wearing, set his foot back on the floor and straightened up, suddenly the normal, if toweringly tall, figure of a man.Stepping forward into what little candlelight there was it could be seen that someone had given him a soldier's boots and belt to wear over the linen tunica he usually wore when summoned to Gaia's house, and someone had also thought it fine to pin a red woolen blanket to his shoulders with copper fibulae, such that he looked somewhat like a centurian without their armour."Are you well?" He asked, blue eyes scanning her face. There was an impressive celebration going on in the house, with much partying and frivolity and apparently today the rules were upturned and slaves could join in the fun and even be celebrated. He didn't think that it was recompense for the rest of the year, but never the less one took what one got. He had noticed his own mistress's absence, and wondered whether perhaps she'd taken ill. Her expression suggested that might possibly be the case.Claudia Corinthia

Nothing in life was free, unless it was freely taken. Not even the aid of a fellow countryman. So much for cohesion against the enemy. But then Eppitacus even looked like a Roman; perhaps he'd been here too long and had too much to lose. In which case, he would also have the most to offer. Nodding, Aeneas lifted the shield and blunted practice sword which he'd been given, the closest weapons to those with which he was familiar, though the weights were all wrong; the sword too short and the shield too large. But needs must. He'd fought spearmen before, but the other man had the look of one well accustomed to the fighting arena; the Caledonii approached with caution, shield raised to just below eye height, sword held low and forward; it was a weapon made for stabbing rather than slashing like a broadsword. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Aeneas advanced quickly, seeking to use the shield to defend himself from any blows Eppitacus might direct at him, the sword ready to come up from underneath. Eppitacus

Catuvellauni; further south even that the Brigantes, it was a name Aeneas only recognised vaguely. The man said he'd spent a lot of time with the Brigantes, but he'd also obviously spent a lot of time with the Romans; not a captive of their final victory then. "Caledonii." The northman replied, jerking a thumb at himself. This 'Eppitacus' as the doctore had called him, might be as close to a countryman as he would find here. Or so he thought, unaware that in a few weeks he'd meet another from much closer to home. The man's advice was sound, and something he'd been thinking himself. "Aye, a'm tryin'." He said. "I ken 'stand up-sit down-come here-stay-there-eat that-shut up' weel enou'." The words were accompanied by a wry grin. "Tis harder tae pick up words whin they dinnae talk tae me much." He added more soberly. Communication was important, and Aeneas listened to every Latin conversation within earshot in the hope of learning more. "Mibbie ye cuid hulp me?" He suggested, giving the man a shrewd look. "If I cuid learn a few wurds ilka day..." He had motivation, after all. Eppitacus Branwen

His entrance drew glances, and all around him Aeneas could see others, armed similarly or differently, some exotic in their colouring, practicing against dummies or each other whilst being instructed, or yelled at, by various others with a distinctly Roman look. Instructors then, or trainers. This was a training grounds for fighters, the impression only strengthened when the sword and shield were thrust at him. No, the ‘gladius’ and ‘scutum’. He filed the two new words away for future reference. None were allowed to let their attention drift for long, and Aeneas obediently squared up to the dummy that his trainer pointed him towards. As he did so he noticed movement off to one side, another who had been heading in roughly his direction, who then paused. Pale-skinned like himself, she was a woman in this arena of men, though clearly another warrior. As she took up against a nearby pell, her words drifted to him and he nodded silent thanks, resisting the urge to grumble. “Gods willin’.” He murmured. It was a frustrating process. He wanted to ask her how she’d managed, how she’d come to be there, and above all how long she had been amongst the Romans. He wanted to ask her if she knew how to get home. It was plain however that idling would not be tolerated, as he received yet another cuff up the back of his head, presumably for his distraction. The warrior woman wasn’t the only one whose attention he had garnered. Indeed he and the other new arrivals were widely regarded with mild interest, but one in particular wandered over. Were it not for his height and pale skin, burned and freckled by the hot sun, this man might have been mistaken for another Roman. Someone who, from the look of him, had aclimatised. So it was something of a surprise when he was addressed in his native tongue, or at least the southern dialect with which he had become so accustomed of late. Blue eyes regarded the man curiously for a long moment. “Aonghus.” He said at last. “But they caw me ‘Aeneas’.” He added with a tip of the head in the retreating doctore’s direction, followed by a shrug. “An’ yersel?” He asked in turn. “Ye soond like a Brigantean.” Those amongst whom Aeneas had been captured. He himself had an obvious northern burr.

(Aeneas again) The trainer sighed and shook his head. Another idiot barbarian, and not a word of Latin to him. He should be in with the others, given basic arms and armour and sent into the games as something for the more accomplished gladiators to demonstrate their skills on. Captives from conquered lands, in excessive quantities, they were the definition of expendable. But some lady had bought this one, and wanted to see him fight. Which meant that she didn't want to just see him die ignomiously, and if he wanted the trainer's fee he had to do something with the man in the short time before the games. Not a welcome prospect. Wearing a put-upon expression, the trainer glared at the newest slave and pointed emphatically in the direction of one of the training dummies. That, at least, Aeneas could understand, and he walked in the direction the man pointed, pausing and glancing back in his direction when he reached the indicated spot. He was watched thoughtfully for a long moment, before the trainer turned to the weapons rack. What to do with this one? There wasn't time to train him in any particularly unusual fighting style; so best to go with what was hopefully familiar to him. He would be a murmillo. The trainer grabbed a rectangular shield and blunt training sword from the rack and shoved them at the slave. "Scutum." He said. "Gladius". Deciding that he could worry about armour later, he watched with growing interest as the slave fitted the scutum to his right arm, and took up the gladius in a familiar grip in his left, moving both to test the weight of them. So the slave was left handed? Perhaps he might be worth the effort of training after all; left-handed gladiators could pose an interesting challenge to their opponents.

(Aeneas) January 73AD He'd been bought, and he'd been sold. He had an owner. Well, a new owner, though the various people who'd wrangled him before had really just been dealers, he understood. He'd dealt and sold ironwork both at home and on trading trips; it wasn't until the ware was being put it's intended purpose that it was really owned. So he was owned. It was a new experience, one of a great many over the last few months, and none of them pleasant. But this, this was something different. He paused to look up at the strongly constructed buildings of the... actually, he didn't know what it was suposed to be. But it looked secure, and there were sounds of clashing wood and metal and occasional grunts and cries. The hesitation earned him a rough shove in the back. He knew from experience that the next one would be with the butt of a spear if he didn't move. So he moved. What was this place? Would he die here? He didn't know, but he had yet to see any chance for escape, and so he moved, through a guarded archway and into an... arena? There were figures sparring with staves and blades on the sands, and further along people practicing with pells and other inert objects. Ah, a training grounds. Another shove, and his keepers left him, whilst a burly man bustled up, untied his hands and yelled a stream of something presumably important at Aeneas. He'd picked up a fair few words of Latin on the way here, but whatever the man said was lost on him. His answer was the blank look and raised brows that his trader had come to understand meant that he was willing, but didn't understand what was being asked of him, but it only earned him a ringing slap up the back of the head, and another stream of incomprehensible words, this time even louder. Ears ringing, Aeneas shrugged and shook his head. "Not got.. names." He realised he didn't have the word for 'word'. "I dinna understand whit yer saying." He added in heavily accented Brittonic. It earned him another cuff, this time harder.

Tiberius and Juliana The rest of the family had been slightly delayed, something about Drusus and a cat that lived in the Naples palace. Whilst he liked animals he was more interested in people and Tiberius had managed to avoid getting roped into the search for Drusus’s search for the cat by goading Titus into declaring that he was more than a match for the task himself, and then taking him up on the boast. Instead Tiberius had arrived a little before the main royal party, giving him time to spy out who else was attending, and as it turned out, bump into his cousin. Well, be bumped into, which was quite alright with him. The look that she gave him was one that Tiberius was growing accustomed to; the long, measuring glance up and down, and no longer felt the urge to straighten up before it, like a child before a tutor. Claudia had already transitioned from lanky adolescent to confident young woman, in the precocious way of girls and women, and Tiberius himself was now on the cusp of young manhood, though there were still distinct flashes of teenage awkwardness about him. He gave Juliana a lop-sided smirk as she finished inspecting him. “Tell me my toga’s straight.” He said good-humouredly. Always interested in the doings of family, Tiberius smiled and listened as Juliana spoke of her own. “I hope the children enjoy the change of scenery.” He said earnestly, a boyish openness in the comment. “It’s a shame that Tuscus couldn’t be here,” he said, referring to her husband, “but I’d love to stop by before we all travel. I haven’t seen your littles in some time; likely they’re not little any more.” He grinned, even as he spotted what had to be her older daughter across the room. Definitely not ‘little’ now. If he recalled correctly, she also had an extended brood of stepchildren, having been wed thrice and widowed twice in her tender years, once to one of the Junii-Silani, lost to the troubles. “Do you see much of Junia these days?” He asked curiously. The two were of an age, good breeding and both widowed. Whether they had any more in common he did not know. A few moments later a certain amount of noise and the hint of a familiar voice from the atrium suggested that, at last, the great circus had arrived. “Excuse me cousin.” Tiberius gave Juliana an apologetic smile and a quick peck on the cheek, before disappearing out between a pair of columns. Tiberius in the Royal Party Shortly thereafter, with the appropriate fanfare, the royal family made their grand entrance with Tiberius at Titus’s side, the pair of young men walking sedately beside and slightly behind Caesar himself, though not before Tiberius had visually inspected Titus for cat-scratches. All eyes turned to them, and Tiberius fought the instinctive self-consciousness; this was his life, and would become even more so. He made a point of looked from face to face, recalling names and families where he could, noting both Marcus Aemilius to one side, and then Junia Silana to the other. Once she would have walked here, at the side of his brother Junus, who had been Caesar after Darius. And it still felt odd not having his twin by his side, though he knew that modern society held different fates for men and women. Suddenly Tiberius felt the burden of being the last son of Claudius Caesar rather acutely, and was glad that tonight's focus was shared by Quintus and Titus. Flavia Juliana Q. Flavius Caesar Alexander Augustus

Tiberius and Juliana The young Imperial and last of Caesar Claudius's sons turned to see who had jostled him, and broke into a broad smile when he recognised Juliana. "Not at all, cousin." He assured her warmly, dismissing any possible offence. "This place is only likely to get busier." And thus people more likely to bump into each other, especially as the wine flowed. The elite of the Empire would be here tonight, to see and be seen, and that of necessity included the various members of the Royal family. Tiberius wasn't much of one for finery and public show, but he understood the importance of appearances. His fine, white linen tunica bore a band of gold threads woven in across the front and back of the shoulders, and again at the hem, and was offset by the rich red woolen toga, edged in braid woven of gold thread and purple silk. His slave had combed his dark hair and ensured that the cloth of his garments sat just so. He'd drawn the line at any jewellery or further adornments, preferring to let the good cloth speak for itself. The banquet was likely to be one long, extended family reunion, amongst other important peoples, and he was glad to have started it by bumping into his cousin; literally. "How have you been, and how are the children?" He asked. If he recalled correctly her husband was away on campaign, but at least Juliana herself could attend. Speaking of family, Tiberius scanned the room and spied his sister Claudia, speaking with Antonia, who had been their mother's close friend and confidant, someone he'd not had the opportunity to speak with in a while. His sister, he knew, had helped Drusilla significantly with the organisation of the banquet, taking up her duties as a lady of the royal family. Flavia Juliana