Polarity

He swallowed hard at Ardra’s question on his prospects for marriage. He had turned seventeen at the beginning of the season, meaning he had been viewed with a begrudging respect befitting of an adult man within his tribe for about a year now. Such an occasion would have once filled him with pride, but had now been sullied by the fracturing of their household. With the loss of Calpornus, the expectation to marry and produce offspring had become a far more apparent concern for Turi. He was a socially awkward and romantically inept young man, though his outward appearance did draw occasional interest. Were one to converse with the taciturn Briton, he was more likely to gain a loud rebuke than their affection. “What need have I of a wife when you feed me so well,” he nervously laughed, rubbing his belly dramatically. “No doubt we’ll be knee deep in children by the time you start. I don’t feel a need to add to our current problems,” he grinned warmly at his own sarcastic remark. “Turning to the matter at hand,” he deflected away from providing an answer to her question. “I think Ardra has the right of it. Maybe ‘Calum’? Either way, young ‘Cal’,” he agreed, though adding a slight alteration to his youngest sister’s suggestion. “As for a girl… what about ‘Etaine’?” Turi quirked his brow and offered a half-smile towards Erea. “'Ula’ is probably better though,” he quickly resigned. Thinking on the subject more thoroughly, he allowed himself to provide one final alternative, “If she’s anything like her mother or aunt, perhaps ‘Moira’ would be appropriate. An exceptional name, for a sure-to-be exceptional little girl. In the same vein as the women before her.” Almost sickeningly flattering. He may have overdone that one. As long as it proves distracting. @Sara @Beauty

The wind. It had been many years since Manius had recalled that story. His friend and late dominus, Belanus, had hailed from Hispania originally, and had once regaled him with the local tradition regarding their origins. The first mares were said to be sired by the wind, bestowing an unmatched swiftness that their foals would inherit. Fanciful as the legend may seem, the inherent rapidity associated with the breed marked a certain precedent. The Equestrian’s own thoughts held that they must have been sired by the wind of a storm, for no fiercer temperament had he perceived in other stock. “Uenerabilis Dea Lucilla[1],” Manius recited in recognition when Claudia made mention of her mother. Though they had never been introduced, the late Augusta had been a significant benefactor of the games and many of the Etruscan’s formative career had been established at such events. It seemed to be yet another of the innumerate ways in which the hand of the Imperial family had touched his life. “She must’ve been quite a woman to have handled such creatures. I regret never having had the chance to meet her,” he offered consolingly. He had known few soldiers capable of taming such a horse as the Lusitanian, let alone civilians. She would’ve truly been remarkable in that respect, not to mention a valuable contact for a charioteer to possess. He wondered if the Hispanian folktale could prove analogous to his new acquaintance. “Wherever the best ones are. When we can find them, of course,” he replied with a grin, referring to the network of talent scouts the faction employed. This seemed to be normal practice for most chariot factions, though they all had a main source. “In the spirit of our Caesar’s namesake, we’ve taken to housing Greek horses; mostly from Macedonia. Many of them descend from the steeds of the Diadochus[2],” he proclaimed proudly, if not spuriously. “I have a personal fancy for the ‘Marino’[3] breed, though the ill-informed Roman tends to call them ‘marsh-horses’,” he shared a subtle intimation of his Etruscan lineage. Along with the Neapolitan, the Marino had served for generations as the typical mount for officers in the Roman legion, as well as for regular soldiers in the small number of native cavalry. “Was there something in particular you had in mind? Some of our individual stock comes from more remote locales,” Manius explained, hoping his answer had not put her off the idea. His profession may force others to regard him with a degree of infamy, but he doubted his honour could sustain disapproval from a woman of such status as this noble lady. @Gothic [1] Latin for "Revered Goddess Lucilla". [2] Latin for "Diadochi", the successor generals to Alexander the Great's empire. [3] Latin for "of the sea"; substituted term for an antecedent to the modern 'Maremmano' breed of horse.

Erea’s affirmation of Turi’s decision to seek out alternative avenues of gaining wages gave him a hesitant sense of pride at her approval, greatly diminishing his growing disillusionment at the harsh reality of business. “Thank you-” he began to reply, but was cut off. Though he had expected Immin to provide resistance, the abruptness of the outburst had caught Turi off guard, causing him to choke slightly on his mouthful of mead. When his brother-in-law suggested that his efforts would be put to slaughtering their own people, the younger male Briton had the imprudent inclination to point out that auxiliary troops rarely served in the lands of their origins; an impulse he ultimately restrained. Ardra’s remarks derived dry amusement from Turi, causing a brief upturn of his lips, but his overall expression remained a mix of confused and concerned. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I didn’t mean to spoil the evening. I should’ve talked to him first. Perhaps… I’m not ready to do this alone,” his fleeting pride giving way to his former regret, as he returned to doubting his actions. “Perhaps I should…” he let the sentence hang in the air, unsure of what he should do. Apologise? Explain? Be quiet? The latter held its appeal, but neither seemed to be ideal and he doubted whether either deed would suffice in bringing this conflict to a speedy resolution. He cast his eyes questioningly towards his eldest sister, hoping she could supply some direction. @Sara @Beauty

“I’ve been discussing an opportunity with some men from the Ecen[1] for the last few days. I think we’re to be a family of farriers for the time being. Not as lucrative, but it should be steady work,” he answered hopefully, yet carrying a sense of weariness. His mastery of the hearth had never been of equal to his brother, with the family’s necessity for Turi to continue that legacy wracking him with equal parts shame and regret, due to his inability to provide in similar style. This recent proposal would have him care for the hooves and shoes of the horses in the charge of warriors from a closely neighbouring tribe, largely under the sway of southern Roman dominance, who provided supporting troops to the Roman legions; a position that would likely put him at odds with his own ideals. The annual influx of Roman colonists to the northern outposts, particularly aristocrats and the wealthy middle class, had gouged the local economy. Roman traders had been able to undercut local artisans with an endless stream of supplies from the continent and detract from the appeal of the Briton’s ancestral crafts through the import of exotic, luxurious and technically superior wares from abroad. The Romans had intended to conquer Britannia, not only by the sword, but by the manipulation of market forces. It had become rare for him to see his kinsmen attired in traditional Brittonic designs and cherished the idea that his youngest sister still held true to their cultural fashions. The thought of either of his sisters dressed in gaudy, Roman garments was a sour one. “I, um- I could probably use Immin’s help in negotiating the, uh… finer details of the contract,” he posited hesitantly towards Erea, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck with his left hand. With the cup in the right, he took a protracted swig of the mead that had been poured and neglected to mention the condescending regard in which the Iceni had held him, lest she thought less of him and his capabilities. The men in question likely wished to take advantage of the youth and inexperience of their new business partner in such matters. @Sara @Beauty Reader Advisory: [1]‘Ecen’ is the Brittonic name for the tribe of ‘Iceni’.

Turi gave his eldest sister a sombre and sideways glance before turning his gaze upon the youngest, Ardra, at her beckoning to confirm her assertion and adopting a reluctantly, mirthful expression. If truth be told, it had been many years since he’d felt any semblance of control. They had long been at the ‘mercy’ of Romans – fabled though it was – and the events of seven months prior had only reaffirmed this belief in his increasingly, volatile mind. Nevertheless, it was not her burden to bear and he would seek to spare her of the same brooding temperament such thoughts would entail. He found her naiveté with regards to the Roman threat more endearing than wearisome, as it provided a temporary escape from such weighty concerns. “Of course. Ardra has been an adequate substitute since you and Immin moved in next door,” he replied teasingly to his little sister’s question. Their brother-in-law had finished thatching the roof of he and Erea’s matrimonial home several weeks ago, with the duo moving out of the familial hovel in bated arrival of an expectant newborn. Though Turi had helped where he could, the loss of Calpornus and Letinie had brought earlier construction efforts to a grinding halt. Further delays had been required as their now absent, eldest brother’s assistance in such matters was sorely missed and the family coffers dwindled. Today was the first time since their departure that all four of the remaining family members had gathered together in such a way, though the couple were never far away should a need arise. “I hope Immin has no complaints,” Turi turned his gentle taunts towards Erea. Familial banter that was once commonplace had grown sparse amongst their retinue, with the once close bond that the two middle siblings shared having become somewhat fractured. It was a situation that neither party had seemed to strive towards nor enjoyed, but had been born of circumstance and their differing views. @Sara @Beauty

Constructed on a raised plateau upon the slopes of the Oppian Hill, from this elevated position it looked down on the neighbouring Ludus Magnus. Were one to stand at the parapet of the Dacian school’s walls, they could catch glimpses over the walls and in to the far side of the interior courtyard of the rival facility. Whereas Dacicus was surrounded by an exterior wall, providing an expansive open space on all four sides of the central structure, the adjacent school encompassed the entirety of its boundaries within the interior of the building; it could be said to be the closest rival of the Flavian Colosseum for sheer volume, when one paused to consider its subterranean capacity. The legionaries that accompanied the quartet of slaves to the Ludus, had made it a point to acknowledge the other two most prominent training schools as they passed the smaller ludi of Matutinus and Gallicus. Though unbeknownst to Ambrosius, a regional division arbitrarily separated the four schools, despite their close proximity. Whilst the latter two resided in the second region, known as the ‘Caelemontium’, Magnus and Dacicus were circumscribed to ‘Isis et Serapis’, the third region of civic planning. This was perhaps corollary of their individually perceived influence and importance. Further in to the structure that formed the main hub of the ludus, an oval, wooden construct, enclosed on all sides, waited in the centre of an open-air arcade. The curtain walls of the assembled amphitheatre were tall enough to provide a protective partition between the spectators and the occupants of the arena, but without obscuring the view of all but the shortest of onlookers. Ambrosius was wrought from his observation of the scene by bellowing of his new ‘custodian’. “Doctore!” The Roman beckoned another servant with a title unfamiliar to the young Briton. The call was quickly met by a response and the arrival of a much older gentleman with Gallic, even perhaps Celtic characteristics. It occurred to Ambrosius that this was unlikely to be the only kinsman among the mass of multi-ethnic slaves that were contained further within. “Vermiculi![1]” The instructor interjected with another Latin term, incomprehensible to the Briton’s mind, but the tone was impossible to misinterpret. The Doctor continued the assault of his foreign tongue upon Ambrosius’ unfamiliar ears, “…you prove…worthy…you will…become gladiators…become…better…you will die…scum you are!” These were the only words of the many that he had just been introduced to that he had been able to distinguish. It reminded him of the insults that the Roman population of Petuaria[2] would mutter as locals passed them by. ‘Gladiators’ was a term he had heard several times, in the barely noticeable background conversations of those very same Romans. Though he knew they fought for entertainment, he had never encountered one personally before now. He pondered how one might ‘prove worthy’. @Brian Reader Advisory: [1] 'Vermiculi' is the Latin term for 'worms/maggots'. [2] Petuaria is the Latin name for modern Brough, East Yorkshire, UK.

Noticing the slight slip in his guest’s noble reticence at the prospect of the odour, which could be nauseating for the unaccustomed and gentle born, Manius gave further thought to assuaging any offense to her senses. “I believe we’ll find some smelling salts inside, should you wish to spare your stomach. I hope you’ll forgive me for being unprepared for your visit,” he offered his apologies once more, before taking his first stride toward their destination. Casting his eyes to the door of the main stable building to the north of the stable yard, he could also see in his right periphery the western wall of the faction headquarters – a structure housing the many slaves, employees and charioteers of the company. Though expansive in its own right, it paled in comparison to the exceptional size required of penning the substantial animals. Presuming his visitor would follow in close step, Manius took this brief window of opportunity to converse less formally with his new acquaintance, in hopes of striking a rapport. “If I may be so bold as to ask, where did you happen to acquire such a specimen as your wilful Soluto? I know a few officers that would be quite envious of you for such an acquisition. They’re highly sought after as warhorses,” he began with this harmless inquiry. @Gothic

Manius planted his thumb and forefinger at the base of his chin, rubbing a fine grain of newly sprouting stubble. As Claudia began her explanation, he quirked his eyebrow at her searching eyes. She was hardly the first horsewoman he’d met and unlikely to be the last. His wife was an adept rider herself, though she preferred the comfort of a chariot. Manius preferred the wealth and stability of a career in charioteering, but his first love had always been the saddle. He grinned at the blue blooded, young woman as she mentioned a wilful stallion in her care. A Lusitanian, no less? Manius had encountered such a horse many years prior, as one had served as the personal favourite and mount to his then Dominus, but future Brother-in-law. He had not possessed the gall to ever attempt riding the bucking bronco, but had further opportunities to do so with other such horses throughout his career. They had been the unruliest breed he’d ever been required to stable and their training was often painstaking. “I may have something that would help with that,” he replied. Noticing the idle stable boy that had brought the mare back to the yard, he gestured toward him to grab his attention before shouting, “Go find me the new training bits, boy!” As the stable boy startled to attention and ran off to complete the task, Manius turned back to his imperial guest. “We’ve recently acquired some new equipment for the horses, to assist in training new riders. As our equipment is largely paid for by the imperial purse, your more than welcome to take one,” he offered, perhaps too eagerly. He did not wish to seem sycophantic, just appreciative of his station. The stable boy interrupted that momentary dismay to present a silver bar, designed similarly to a sort of abacus, with matching silver beads that revolved on the bar. The clicking noise from such a motion would give an indication to the rider as to the mood of their steed. Too much or too little clicking of the rotating beads indicate a problem, such as an agitated or nervous horse. “’Ah! ’tis a beauty, is it not? We got them to assist the novice riders. Just affix it it to your horse's bridle and it should provide a modicum of aid in your endeavours,” he explained, as he presented the mullen to her for review and receipt. “Should you require a more hands on approach to breaking him in, we may be able to arrange a more opportune occasion,” he extended a further proposal. “As for the time being, while we’re not exactly the best market for breeding stock, I believe I may be able to provide some offerings. Just about everything has a price, as I’m sure you’re well aware, but I could hardly refuse a request of our patron. If you’ll forgive the smell, I’d escort you in to the pens, my lady. So that you may view your options in person,” Manius ended on that note and directed her towards the doors of the largest structure in the yard, housing the multitude of stalls for the faction’s racing stock. @Gothic

Character name: Ambrosius Associated Ludus: Dacicus Experience: 2 Type of gladiator: Thraex Death: N

The senior legionary’s self-satisfied smirk was replaced with disciplined constraint upon the entrance of the ludus’ manager. At the delivery of Titus’ casual critique of the Centurion’s protocol, the elder soldier produced a parchment and proffered explanation in a practised manner, “By order of the Senate of the People of Rome and the assent of the revered Caesar, Ludus Dacicus is henceforth appointed custody over the accompanied candidates for gladiatorial training.” He relaxed his demeanour at the conclusion of his brief recital, before addressing Titus’ question directly. “Three captives, courtesy of the tribes of Dacia. The young one is a Briton, as far as I can tell. A would-be rebel from what I’ve heard. Supposed to be ‘immortal’, but judging from that scar on his leg, I’d dare say not ‘impenetrable’,” the Centurion guffawed at his own remark. Though unknown to Ambrosius, the arrangement concerning his consignment to this school in particular had been an exceptional case. Traditionally, captives of hostile tribes and prisoners of war were sent to Ludus Gallicus, but these slaves had been spared this fate due to an initiative by the city’s aediles to sponsor prospective talent in an effort to alleviate a recent strain on that associated ludus, as a result of a minor inundation of war criminals. The three other slaves had been selected due to their experience in the Thracian style of combat, whereas Ambrosius’ recovering wound had rendered him unsuitable for the more heavily-armoured classes of gladiator that the Gallic school specialised in. “Is everything in order then?” The Centurion broke the silence his solitary amusement had caused. He clearly wished to be done with this task he’d been assigned and get back to the camp of the urban cohorts, where he’d likely be able to evade further duties for the day. @Brian

Silk was certainly an impractical item of clothing for a stable yard, as well as being typically considered immoral and undignified of a proper Roman woman. Focusing more on Claudia's attire, Manius noted it was only her palla[1] that was of pure silken cloth. Her stola[2] was perhaps… a silk-cotton blend? His wife would know. She had her own predilection for fine fabrics and fashionable garments. In these hot summer months, a material such as that would bestow the modesty of cotton, while retaining the ventilative properties of silk. In Manius’ eyes, it at least appeared to be of similar material and hue as his own favoured blue tunics, though likely superlative in quality. Closing the distance between the two of them, he momentarily peeled his eyes from the gentle-born lady to the intimidating entourage that followed in her wake. A Praetorian and a Gladiatrix? One could hardly blame her for such caution. Manius’ earlier incident with the neighbourhood boys would simply be the most recent example of the lamentable quality of residents within the area. The Campus Martius also served as an epicentre of propaganda from the multitude of temples that served as political instruments for Rome’s elites. It might only be natural to assume any number of opportunists could desire to take advantage of such a public outing. “Ave, mea domina[3], Claudia. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’m always at the service of our Imperial patron. My name is Carisia Magnus, though Manius Magnus to the masses. You may simply call me Manius, as my wife does,” he humbly submitted in deference. “We’re truly honoured by your visit. At least we would be, if I could find anyone else in my employ to warrant such a claim,” he quipped, with more bitterness than he intended. It had been a long day. “Most of the team is running laps in the Circus Flaminius, in preparation for tomorrow’s games,” he explained, attempting to assuage any doubts he may have inadvertently cast on to the competence of his faction members or himself. “We’ll be ready to win renown for the Imperial family, but uh, I’ll spare you the details. You must have important business. To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” Manius finally inquired. @Gothic Reader Advisory: [1] The palla is a mantle or shawl-like garment, worn by Roman women and fastened by brooches [2] The stola is the traditional garment worn by Roman women, corresponding to the toga for men [3] 'Ave, mea domina' is a Latin phrase meaning "Hail, my lady"

JULY, 74 CE Ambrosius awoke to the aching of limbs and the cold press of iron shackles against his wrist. He’d managed to achieve some desperately needed rest in the night, despite his stilted position and the makeshift mattress his cage wall provided. Upon noticing the slave stirring, a Roman soldier kicked at the young man’s shin and barked, “Get up!”. Ambrosius’ eyes fluttered a moment, before his face assumed an irked expression. If looks could kill, his captors would currently be the ones at his feet. The Romans would prove to be in no mood for games, as Ambrosius suddenly felt a brutish and calloused hand upon his nape, wrenching him upward and using the momentum to thrust him forward, towards their destination. Making their way in to a long and dark corridor, with no candles to illuminate their way, Ambrosius would form a daisy chain with three other slaves and their legionary guards, so as to not lose their way in the sprawling and unfamiliar complex. Upon turning a corner and reaching the building’s atrium, they would be blinded with a sudden assault of light to their unaccustomed eyes. As Ambrosius’ vision adjusted to his surroundings, he took note of the opulence present within the structure he now occupied. Silk carpets, rich tapestries and marble busts littered the room, and a strong perfume struck his senses.The senior legionary addressed one of the household’s female slaves and demanded, “Go find your master, girl!” The legionary turned back to the assorted slaves he had accompanied and smirked, “Welcome to your new home, curs. If you survive that long.” @Brian

JULY, 74 CE As he shovelled another pile of manure out of the stall and peered around the wider stable to no sight of a groom, Manius had begun to believe he’d never left Greece. A hundred-thousand denarii in my hands and appointed to one of the most prestigious posts in the city, yet here I am... still covered in shit! A sudden commotion around the exterior of the building would alert Manius to a nearby presence. Resting his spade on the stall’s curtain wall and exiting through the gate, he continued on his path towards the ruckus. A distressed neighing, followed by the thumping of hooves and high-pitched laughter would instil Manius with clarity of the situation; a young slave of the faction, with a mare in tow, waylaid by stone-throwing youths. Upon closer inspection of the scene, his comprehension of the perpetrators became clear, “Is that you, Alfius?” Manius paused in his admonishment momentarily, to scowl in disapproval of the young man. “That boy is half your size and three-to-one is hardly a fair fight,” he rebuked of the youth and continued, without giving the assailant a chance to reply. “Not to mention that you of all people should know better than to startle the horses. Your dolt of an uncle got himself killed that way. It seems stupidity must run in the family, at least on your father’s side. I think my wife may have words for your mother tomorrow evening, at the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris,” he threatened. A crowd began to gather around the rather public scene, causing the cheeks of the vilified boy to burnish a bright red. Alfius’ darting eyes began to tear up at the possibility of punishment from his parents for his cowardly actions, leading to his immediate flight, less he bore a two-fold embarrassment. Manius huffed at his small victory, glad that the neighbourhood boy hadn’t possessed a sturdier backbone or the rabidness of the racing fans he was accustomed to. He shifted to assist the wounded slave to his feet, before recovering the scampering mount. Upon their return to the stable yard, Manius was surprised to spy another unwarranted visitor. This one was a young woman, who seemed to have taken an interest in one of the steeds that appeared to worm it's way out of a stall. No grooms and no guards. What am I paying these incompetents for? “Eh, little lady!” Manius exclaimed a brusque reproach, whilst trudging in her direction. Upon a sudden dawning of realisation at the evidently aristocratic bearing of his target and the unwarranted sternness invoked in his tone, he sighed in exasperation before adulterating his annoyance towards the stranger. “Uh. My apologies, milady,” he respectively amended his patter, before continuing, “but a stable is hardly the place for such fine silks.” @Gothic

You may wish to consider, Ambrosius, as a new addition to your school. I know we're currently discussing a plot with my other character, so feel free to peruse at your leisure.

Great tip Sharpie. The 'awyeah' theme is a little bit easier on the eyes, if not nearly as aesthetically pleasing.