Sarah

I'm up for anything Jenn, so we could definitely have Tibs visit or run into Julia!

For plottings and thread trackings for my characters.

Aeneas

Caledonian slave, training as a gladiator, owned by Claudia Corinthia. Strong, thoughtful, slow to anger, still waters run deep. Misses his wife and son, coming to terms with the fact that Rome is home now. Trying to find some new purpose in life. Could be friends with other slaves or meet people through his gladiator tournaments. Open to anything.

Tiberius Claudius Sabucius

Last son of Caesar Claudius, twin of Claudia Caesaris, nephew and adopted son of Caesar Quintus. Boy on the verge of manhood, learning what it means to be an Imperial. Varies between youthful impetuousness and the serious politician he will likely become. Looking for both friends his own age and adults he can look up to. Starting to look for political connections.

Spurius Antius Claudus

Once a legionnaire and badly injured whilst serving in Brittania, Spurius took his severence pay in slaves and is now a successful slave trader. Garrulous in public, the cost of his success has made him somewhat bitter in private. Pays the tax rather than taking a wife because he views himself as damaged goods. Walks with a distinct limp and is known as 'Claudus' - The Lame - by his peers. Open for clients, slaves, friends, business contacts, potential lover, whatever.

Spurius's Home

 Alaricus Aetius Stilicho

Son of Alaric and kid brother of Barbara, enthusiastic teen who hero-worships his Dad and is determined to be a soldier, just like him! Always up for adventures and fun, tends to act first and think later, often ring-leader to his younger siblings. Looking for friends, role-models, whatever.

 

Citizenship: Slave from Brittania

Occupation: Gladiator, Gallus

Names: Aonghus mac Ailpin; given the latinised 'Aeneas' by his captors.

Sexual Orientation : Heterosexual.
 

Aeneas is a steady and patient man by nature; something he inherited from his father and a necessary trait in any good blacksmith. A man of few words - and even fewer latin words - he may come across as slow, but rather he thinks things through before he acts. Not a particularly subtle man, he does however have great concern for others. Aeneas also has a sense of fairness that causes his current situation to be particularly grating. He is slow to anger, but like the mountain that has long been rumbling, when his temper finally snaps the results can be spectacular.

Appreciative of simple things, good food, strong drink and a warm bed are enough to keep Aeneas content for the moment. Helping others gives him great satisfaction, and after the very personal nature of life in a village, he finds the Roman hoards oddly blank, and their ability to work as a unit rather than individuals, cold and calculating. He can admire that for what it achieves, but he doesn't like it. He worries about what might happen to his people as the Roman conquest moves inexorably northward.

Often homesick, Aeneas misses the cool, green vales and majestic mountains of his homeland, and even more his misses his wife and young son, and worries that he has been presumed dead, and they have moved on. He yearns to return to them, and the life he left behind. At the same time he finds the technological and architectural developments of the Roman civilisation fascinating, and it's not uncommon to find him staring at some modern wonder like the provincial that he is. He secretly worries that if he ever did get back to Caledonia, he himself would be too changed to ever really fit in again.

 

The classic tall, rangy barbarian, Aeneas towers over his Roman captors. He has a lanky rather than broad frame, and whilst well muscled from his training as a blacksmith, his proportions tend to sinewy rather than heroic.

Pale-skinned, he struggles in the hot, mediterranean sun, and often sports the blush of sunburn over his increasingly rich crop of freckles. His mid-brown hair is shaggy and non-descript, when his head has not been shaved by his master. His only really notable feature are his bright blue eyes.

Lanky and long-limbed, tunics are often too short on Aeneas, unless they were made specificially for barbarians of his height. Given the choice he wears his old tartan trews, but he often isn't, it's hot, and they're rapidly falling apart. He does have good, if hairy, legs. He sports a burn scar on his right forearm, and a long, recently healed scar on his right thigh, from when he was captured.
 

FATHER: Ailpin mac Dubh Glas, 45
MOTHER: Mael Muire ingen Feorghus, 42
SIBLINGS: Isabhael ingen Ailpin, 20, Mael Cuimh mac Ailpin, 17, Maebh ingen Ailpin, 14
SPOUSE: Eoife ingen Ruaraidh (in Caledonia), 20
CHILDREN: Fiachu mac Aonghus mhic Ailpin, 2
EXTENDED FAMILY:
OTHER: Master - Claudia Corinthia
 

CHILDHOOD [50-60AD]:

Born at the turning of the year in AD 50, Aonghus was the welcome first child of Ailpin mac Dubh Glas, the village blacksmith, and Maelmuire ingen Feorghus, daughter of a woodsman widely regarded for her herblore and talents in weaving. A steady stream of siblings arrived, and Aonghus became their natural lead; both chief troublemaker and sibling-wrangler. He learned to snare rabbits and tickle trout, forage berries and mushrooms, and keep out from under the feet of his elders. Together he and the other village children would maraud through the nearby forest or play in the snow, help to herd the cattle and sheep, and fetch and carry for the adults, whilst learning snippets of what their elders did. It was an idilic childhood in the rural north.

TEENAGE TO EARLY ADULT [60-70AD]:

Having shown the same calm, thoughtful temperament as his father, Aonghus began learning his trade as a blacksmith; a valuable member of the village and a trade which promised to set him on a path of security and influence in the village. The implications might have been lost on him at first, but the applications were not; Aonghus proved to have his father's aptitude for working hot metal into all the things the village might need. One accident with a hot iron earned him a burn scar on his right forearm and a healthy respect for his tools, but he generally seemed well suited to the path laid before him. He trained with all the children in arms and the crafts that were necessary for the the smooth running of the village.

As they grew older Mael Cuimh joined Aonghus in his lessons at the forge, taking the role of junior apprentice whilst Aonghus was given more significant tasks. Mael Cuimh didn't have quite the even temperament of his older brother, having inherited some of their mother's fiery nature - along with her red hair - like their sister Isabhael, but he also had a flare for the artistic, and produced fine wrought-iron items that were both elegant as well as purposeful. The two brothers worked well together, though there were occasional moments of tension as they grew older and the question of whether they would work together in the future or whether Mael Cuimh would strike out on his own came to the fore. A blacksmith was welcome anywhere, but there was never any suggestion that Aonghus would be the one to leave, being the elder.

This became more apparent as the children of the village grew older and began to catch each other's eye. Aonghus himself developed no particular preference early on; that is to say, he liked most of the girls equally. But as time passed he developed a fancy for a girl called Brigitta from the next village over. However, quiet conversations happened between parents and Aonghus was steered gently in the direction of Eoife ingen Rhuaraidh, a daughter of Ruaraudh mac Domnhall, the current chieftan. Given his easy-going nature this wasn't difficult, helped by the fact that she was a pleasant and competent young woman.

ADULTHOOD [61AD onwards]:

Aonghus and Eoife were handfasted in AD 70, and the arrival of a healthy son Fiachu in AD71 completed their little family. With the help of their family they built a sturdy house next to his father's, and more and more Aonghus was learning the wider necessities of running such a business. Aonghus's path was golden, his career assured, his marriage loving and his son a candidate for future chiefdom through his mother; everything was perfect, much to the growing resentment of his brother Mael Cuimh.

That was, until the fateful journey. Travelling south to the river Tyne to trade for raw iron with the Textoverdi, a sept of the large and powerful Brigantes tribe, Aonghus had of course heard word of the Roman invasion to the south. But the south seemed a very long way away. What he failed to understand was how organised the Romans were, and how very fast they could move.

Swept up in the final push by Quintus Petillius Cerialis and the II Adiutrix to bring the region to heel, Aonghus found himself fighting for both his life and his freedom. Unfortunately he failed. Overwhelmed with his brothers in arms by the sheer discipline and tactics of the Roman invaders, he was downed by a blow to the leg from a legionaire's short sword. Captured, Aonghus expected to be either ransomed or killed; it was what his people would have done. Instead his wound was treated and he was bundled up with a large number of Brigantean captives, marched across more and stranger land than he had ever seen in his life, to eventually arrive in that distant city that, for him, had been only a distant fable; Rome.

It was a harsh fall from grace. Once a young man with all the promise of the world before him, he was now a slave of the Empire. The Romans seemed to hold no pity for them, if also no particular vindictiveness. They might as well have been cattle. Fed when needed, tended when hurt, beaten when disobedient, their status as just another commodity liberated from conquered lands was made abundantly clear to them. A few of their number were executed the first time they tried to escape, and others were marked for displeasing their new masters. Aonghus decided to bide his time and learn how he might be more successful than they had.

Unable to pronounce the palatal g of his name, the Roman who seemed to be in charge of the slaves during the march dubbed him Aeneas, and thus was he known to them. Just one of many idiot barbarians to be looked down upon. Arriving with a large influx of other slaves, he was amongst those set aside for the upcoming gladiatorial games.

And he might have ended there, just another human foil for the more famous fighters to demonstrate their skills upon, had not a young woman, Claudia Corinthia, taken an interest in him. Whether becoming her property would be an improvement on his lot remained to be seen.
 

 

Quiet and reserved, Tiberius thinks before he acts and plays his cards close to his chest. Family are very dear to him, and in his view too many of them have died for the Imperial throne. He doesn’t want it for himself, and is more interested in good governance than rulership. He is wary of politics whilst knowing that these are the waters in which he must swim, and that others will either seek favour with him or hate him purely because of his bloodline.

Rather than stay sheltered in the Imperial palace, Tiberius has a yearning for adventure, a desire to see the far reaches of the empire, to really understand what it encompasses. Lacking the assumption of superiority common to one of his birth, Tiberius instead possesses a diligence and a desire for knowledge, which in turn give him greater understanding and hopefully lead to better decision-making. He listens to people and takes in what they say, though not without a grain of salt. The deaths of so many of his family have made him wise, and wary, beyond his years. He has learned that even Caesares are mortal, and does not think that anyone is deserves to be lauded purely because of their ancestry. It is important to him to earn his accolades himself.

Less inclined to the easy smile that is his sister’s armour, Tiberius is possessed of a quiet, reserved confidence, and a subtle, thoughtful practicality that comes across as a certain steadiness. He is nothing if not reliable, yet beyond that business-like front is occasionally revealed a certain intensity and conviction. He does not wish to loose any more of his family, and he does not want to be Caesar. Yet, he cannot leave a duty to someone he does not trust.

He is particularly close to his twin sister Claudia, and his cousin Titus, as well as several of his uncles.
 

Of average height and slim build, Tiberius is naturally very similar to his twin sister in appearance. Thick, dark hair frames features only now growing into strength. Blue eyes contrast with pale skin, lightly tanned. He has the build of a youth, just beginning to fill out into strength; very much a man still in the making.

Unpretentious, Tiberius prefers garments that are simple and practical rather than ostentatious, but well made as befits one of his line. He chooses fine cloths and good tailoring rather than excessive adornment, and regularly prefers a simple tunica.
 

FATHER: Drusus Claudius Sabucius (Caesar) (deceased)
MOTHER: Flavia Lucilla Augusta (deceased)
SIBLINGS:

Full siblings
Claudia Caesaris (twin)

Paternal half-siblings:
Gaius Claudius Caesar (deceased)
Claudia Livia (deceased)

Maternal half-siblings:
Darius Claudius Sabucius (deceased)
Junus Claudius Sabucius (deceased)
Rufia Flavia

SPOUSE: None
CHILDREN: None

EXTENDED FAMILY:
Step Father: Marcus Rufus Honorius (Caesar) (deceased)

Paternal

Rufia Flavia's Children
Sestia Lucilla, {alive} {b. 69}
Gnaeus Sestius Vacticanus Minor, {alive} {b. 71}

Maternal

Flavii-Alexandrones

Grandparents
Cneaus Flavius Alexander Germanicus (deceased) & Cornelia Annthea

Uncles & Aunts

- Quintus Flavius Caesar Alexander Augustus
- Rufus Flavius Alexander (deceased)
- Jullus Flavius Alexander (alive; b. 24)
- Decimus Flavius Alexander (deceased)
- Octavius Flavius Alexander (alive; b. 33)
- "Laelius", adopted as Marcus Aemilius Scaurus Alexander (alive; b. 39)

Cousins

From Quintus.
- Publius Flavius Alexander Belanus, deceased (37-62; adopted illeg. son)
- Cnaeus Flavius Alexander Gemellus, deceased (57-62)
- Titus Flavius Caesar Alexander (b. 57)
- Flavia Caesaris (Rutiliana) (b. 61)
- Drusus Flavius Caesar Alexander (b.67)

From Jullus.
- Flavia Juliana (daughter of Laelia Serginilla)
- Flavia Alexandra (deceased; daughter of Laelia Serginilla)
- Flavia Alexandra (deceased; daughter of Laelia Serginilla)
- Lucius Flavius Alexander (b. 60 AD, by Caecilia Metella)
- Publius Flavius Alexander (b. 64 AD, by Caecilia Metella)
- Cnaeus Flavius Alexander (b. 66 AD, by Caecilia Metella)

From Octavius.
- Octavius Flavius Alexander Minor
- Flavia Valeriana

From Laelius
= Aemilia Scaura (B. 67 AD, by Furia Camilla Minoris)
Aemilia Laeliana (B. 70 AD, by Pinaria Lucretia)
Publius Aemilius Scaurus (B. 72 AD, by Pinaria Lucretia)

Other members of the Flavii-Alexandrones.
The Corneli-Scipiones.
Caecina Tuscas

In-laws:
Junia Silana (Widow of Junus)

OTHER:
 

CHILDHOOD [56-66]:

Born of an aging Casear and his younger second wife, Tiberius was one half of a whole, together with his twin sister Claudia. She was the constant in his life, whilst nursemaids came and went and their mother’s warm affection was interspersed with periods of absence. He could never know the politics in which his mother was embroiled, trying to keep the wolves from their door.

Youngest of the Imperial brood, Tiberius couldn’t understand what it meant when his eldest half-brother Darius stepped up to the throne to replace their ailing father. It was not until he was older that he would understand that the dangers of that tumultuous time were only beginning to make themselves apparent. Darius’s reign was short, and his his assassination in AD 60 led to the rise of his younger half-brother Junus and step-father Honorius as co-caesars, until Junus came of age.

Alas he never got the chance. Civil war erupted and Tiberius’s comfortable and closetted childhood was torn apart as he was separated from his sister, spirited from the palace by the Palatine guards and Gneaus Juventius Geta, a friend of his step-father, who kept him carefully hidden. It was only some time after that fearful night that Tiberius learned that Junus was also dead, and his older sister Livia had been taken east. He cried for his missing sisters and his doting older brothers, his mother and his lost life, but it changed nothing.

It was not until the civil war ended in 63 that he was returned to the palace by Geta and presented to his uncle Quintus, one of the other survivors of the Imperial purge, who formally adopted him. He was also reunitied with his sister Claudia, a cause for much joy in his young life, but learned that Livia had died of a fever before she ever found safety. The companionship of his cousins helped ease the loss of his mother and siblings, though they could never replace them.

Growing up in the palace he and Claudia formed part of the gang of young Imperials, watched over dotingly by their aunts and uncles. They had both changed in their time apart, but the rambling palace grounds provided many places where the twins could spend time together. Their life had suffered upheaval, but it seemed there was peace once more.

TEENAGE TO EARLY ADULT [67-72]:

Tiberius grew into a serious and thoughtful teen, an apt student if somewhat less rambunctious than his peers. He tended to watch, and to learn, from those around him, particularly his seniors and betters. He became a solid friend to his cousins and remained very close to his twin sister, the events of the purge having solidified in his young mind the importance of family.

In 67 AD his uncle Quintus, Caesar to the rest of the Empire, remarried. Allaying their concerns, Julia Drusilla took the royal brood under her kind and generous wings, becoming in some ways the mother that Tiberius had barely known, though lovingly remembered. That memory had been kept alive by those who had been close to her, including her best friend Antonia. Later that year Drusilla gives Caesar an infant son. His uncle Octavius takes a greater interest in Tiberius’s upbringing and the two grow closer as the young man looks for role models.

ADULTHOOD [73 onwards]:

Sarah | UTC +10 | CONTACT

@Gothic

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

December AD73

The classic narratives told tales of fathers re-marrying and the new wife making the lives of his children hard in favour of her own, so it had not been without trepidation that Tiberius had at first viewed the marriage of his uncle Quintus, under whose paterfamilias he fell. But that trepidation had proven entirely unwarranted. Drusilla seemed to take all the royal brood under her wings, like a mother hen. In some ways she had become the mother he had never really known. 

"Ave, Augusta." Tiberius said politely when he came upon her, executing a bow. He was at least not generally lacking in propriety. Clad in layered linen and wool tunicas at this short end of the year, he was a youth balanced somewhere between a boy and man, his features beginning to show their final shape but not yet finished, his frame tall and lanky, not yet filled out. The sculpter had not yet finished his work. 

He also seemed to vary at times in confidence; once moment a shy youth, the next speaking with the easy authority of his bloodline. No doubt over time the pattern would settle, just as his voice had. For now he offered his step mother a warm smile.

@Anna

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.