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

Freedom is difficult. He had been born to it. It had always felt natural. It was when his family had been at its strongest and their happiest, as far as he could remember. Ambrosius wished to feel that way again and freedom seemed to be the simplest, perceivable solution. He still wondered if freedom would prove sufficient to this endeavour whilst Britannia remained under Roman occupation, but he understood the need to take one step at a time.

Your relatives die. Only ever at the hands of Romans. His father in battle, his brother in cold blood. Their deaths were a decade apart, yet both as raw to his mind as though they had occurred yesterday. Roman subjugation had displayed more of an apparent threat to his family than freedom ever had.

You’re in debt. When Romans manipulate the markets. Ambrosius’ family had a reliable trade until foreign commodities flooded in to Petuaria^[1]. He may still be a blacksmith if the endless supply of superior wares from Roman Gaul hadn’t driven his family legacy in to the ground. Certainly not if his brother was still alive… or if he was a better craftsman.

You’ve got to play these absurd political games. Roman politics. Roman games. He knew naught of either until they arrived. Had he come in to his manhood whilst still a free Briton, Ambrosius would’ve been able to choose whether to partake in inter-tribal politics. Now, he would become a man in the arena, performing these so-called ‘games’ – this blood sport – for the entertainment of Romans.

Worry about food and shelter, and about money. His father owned his land by virtue of the home he had built upon it. Their community regularly farmed enough grain to sustain the village and their father traded in iron goods for other things their family may have needed. They needed not ‘worry’ about those things until the Romans began claiming the most arable land, ransacking the homes of Britons and demanding denarii to trade.

Want a big house and dormice for dinner? You can’t, because you’re too fucking poor! Though the house he had been born in was modest in size, he had never been refused dormice. He needed only catch them. He thought it best not to share this revelation; one of his better ideas.

You’ve got to look ahead. Shed your skin like a snake, or you can’t grow. You’ll just… stagnate. And suffocate. Clio had sounded like his brother-in-law, but whereas his eldest sister’s husband had ascribed such sentiment to defending themselves against Roman encroachment, this Bithynian slave had used it as an appeal to Roman appeasement. How many times must Ambrosius leave his past behind? Had memories no value to these people? They were all he had left.

“Druids say, man is immortal. Spirit lives on… someday, joins new body. Gives hope I find them, someday,” the Briton explained of his own beliefs before she departed. “If not, I hope we see you in meadows,” he offered in a conciliatory manner. Ambrosius thought she would get along well with his eldest sister, since they had a similar tone in their reprimands. Were such a fate to mean he was reunited with his family once more, he could happily conform to such an afterlife, yet he would hope his sisters would not be forced to join him before their time.

@Liv

• ^[1] Petuaria is the Latin name for modern Brough, East Yorkshire, UK.

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.

Clio's short description of her family brought a small smirk to Ambrosius' face. The equal ratio of brothers and sisters was a unique commonality that briefly piqued the Briton's interest. Were it not for her being the eldest, she could've been describing his own family. At least, at one point in time. When she turned to the concept of viewing this household as her new family, he could not help but display his scepticism rather plainly. It seemed an odd family, unlike any he had known. A prison within which he detected little hint of the unconditional love and care that had been present in his own home. The very idea that he would ever consider a Roman his ‘brother’ or by any other familial term was obscene, especially considering how they had slaughtered his own.

“Why I fight– fought. I still fight,” Ambrosius answered uncertainly, confused by the correct syntax that would describe his situation. “Will fight,” was the Briton’s final decision on the matter. He wondered if his mother would recognise the bruised and bellicose gladiator he had become, from the quiet and soft-spoken boy she once knew. It was unlikely, he thought.

“Sisters, I hope. Maybe mother. I not know,” he replied wistfully, his eyes projecting a degree of despondency. “I had brother, older. He joined father. Now, I father’s last son,” Ambrosius explained further, sharing a small weight of his perceived burden. “I half man he was… both was,” the Briton’s inflating regret prompting a shame-filled confession. “I will find them, someday. I will make right,” his tone adopted a steely resolve, yet his gloomy gaze remained. 

“You not want freedom? To see family again? Life better here? Roman family better?” Ambrosius probed the Bithynian further on multiple fronts, ignorant to the invasive nature of these deeply personal questions. He remained unable to comprehend the preference for the company of their captors, as he certainly had never experienced such a notion.

@Liv

"Mornings I feel, evenings I numb. Some months ago, only numb. Seems better,” Ambrosius responded to Clio’s own question, whilst lightly swinging his afflicted leg back-and-forth in a demonstrative and playful motion. He did seem to be pleased with the marked improvement he had undergone since receiving treatment, but he ultimately acknowledged the impediment it would inevitably bear should he overexert himself.

“If,” was his selectively, laconic repetition of her final statement. If he survived, he would no doubt continue that ceaseless struggle. Perhaps it might be better were he not to survive and be saved from the perpetual uncertainty of it all, but what would his family come to know of him then? Would they ever discover his weakness and spurn him for his inability to persevere? Britons were made of sterner stuff, the men of his tribe in particular. As such, he refused to yield to such self-pitying ideas, resolving to cast them aside.

Her advice to seek swift ends to future contests seemed sound, until Ambrosius considered his paramount desire – to seek his freedom. Whilst his chances of survival would be likely to vastly improve using such tactics, any chance of gaining the wealth and prestige required to obtain such sought after rewards would not. Should he ever wish to accomplish his goals, he would need to win the adoration of the crowds. He would not do the kindly slave a disservice of arguing with what she believed would be valuable advice, yet only for a gladiator with less grandiose ambitions. “Thank you. I will think,” he replied curtly, but not lacking in courtesy.

Noticing the sombre not their conversation had taken upon his tactless broaching of the subject of war, he attempted to change tack. “You have family?” Ambrosius addressed another interrogative query towards Clio, with perhaps not the subtlest of approaches. The question itself laid bare where the Briton’s thoughts lay, but as he noted the slight age difference between the two of them, he realised she was likely of a similar age to his eldest sister, who herself had been expecting a newborn child.

@Liv

Ambrosius had heard mention of this so-called ‘evil eye’ before, yet never had it been firmly explained. He found the elaborate Roman rituals with regards to curses and wards peculiar. The Brittonic measures were remarkably simple by comparison and often verbally administered. Even still, he could not deny that the bold lines were arresting, as the turn of the conversation would attest, nor could he dismiss their reputed aesthetic appeal. The exotic and unfamiliar had a way of revealing that inclination within people, even in the conservative Briton. The increasing markets for foreign wares in Britannia had proved that fact time and again

When Clio turned to the matter of ‘gladiatrices’, as he had just been informed, he bit the inside of his lip at her confirmation of the existence of the female fighters. He could only hope his family had found roles for which they were better suited. He’d always had a penchant for foolish endeavours and risking his life, so perhaps this was where he could feel most at home. For the time being, at least.

“Battle at Eburakon^[1],” he halted his speech, forgetting himself for a moment as he floundered in memories of his homeland, causing a slip from Latin in to his Brittonic tongue. “Eboracum,” he quickly corrected.

“Roman javelin strike true. Think legionaries like seeing… suffer. Punishment for dead ones,” Ambrosius briefly outlined the circumstances surrounding the infliction of his injury, exhibiting a degree of nonchalance in his candour. Had the roles been reversed, the Briton believed an equal or even harsher penalty would’ve befallen any surviving soldiers of the Romans. Woe to the vanquished, indeed.

“Fever come, wound black. Medicus help… after time. Get better. Muscle weak. Feel numb, sometime… ache. Training help,” he elaborated further on the residual effects of the physical trauma. The cause of his limp stemmed from the growth and subsequent removal of an abscess, developing from an infection of his wound. The weeks he spent in immobile captivity whilst still held on his native soil had also begun their slow decay on his inactive muscles. Despite the setback, he had been steadily showing signs of regaining his former vigour and agility. Those were the very remarks his instructor was likely to have made to the Imperial client earlier that day, as well as the reason he was going to see his first contest relatively soon.

“You think it be problem? Not train long time. First games soon,” he requested her thoughts on the prospect of his fighting, attempting to gauge her reaction to his chances. He presumed she may have insight due to her presence during drilling sessions.

@Liv

• ^{[1] '}Eburakon' is the Brittonic name for the Latin 'Eboracum', located in the modern-day city of York, North Yorkshire, UK.

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

“Eyes... from homeland, Biff-in-aye?” His own eyes winced as he referred to the black lines painted upon her lids, whilst attempting to repeat the name of her country of birth with difficulty; a product of the northern drawl to his Brittonic accent. Ambrosius would become immediately aware of the error in his recital, but was hesitant to redress it, lest he further her impression of him as a buffoon in the effort. In truth, his personal knowledge on such matters didn’t extend beyond the tribes of his Gallic kinsmen across the Oceanus Britannicus^[1].

The Bithynian slave’s brief, yet definitive analysis of her treatment at the hands of her Roman masters led the Briton to question his own condition. Had he been treated well? Well enough, he supposed. He was still alive, which had to count for something. He had also been made deftly aware of the fact that his life could be good here, should he so choose and possess the abilities necessary to survive.

The potential of freedom, fame and wealth drew even free born Romans in to the arena, some were attending the very same Ludus. Yet, only the first of those possible rewards held foremost appeal in Ambrosius’ mind. Any chance, no matter how slim, that he may one day find his family and return to their homeland, was worth the trial by fire that the games were presumed to be. Suspiciously, he wondered if this was the reason they dangled these prizes before these gladiators: to keep them complacent – almost acquiescent – in death.

Clio’s following exposition on the intricacies of the servile hierarchy within Roman society would prove enlightening to the ignorant Ambrosius. Her amusing illustration and accommodating analogy, using the gladiatorial classes he had recently become most accustomed to, would serve to address a number of questions he had formed in his time within the city. He would silently note that the differences, or rather, advantages between the subsets of gladiator seemed more subjective than the objective distinctions between the status of slaves within a household. They would have to be, lest the outcome of the games were never in question and only one class of gladiator were preferred, if undoubtedly regarded as superior to the rest. Nevertheless, the Briton was grateful for the insight.

“You not fight? I not see any women, uh– gladiators?” He queried of his new acquaintance, deflecting from the awkwardness of his prior embarrassment by displaying a discernment of the syntactic difference between ‘no’ and ‘not’ through their discourse. The only women he’d seen since his arrival at the Ludus, barring Annia Comna and Clio, had been within the bounds of the domus. He pondered whether the females were trained in separate areas, perhaps different schools, or if even the Romans had some moral sensibilities they dare not shed, though he highly doubted the latter theory. He still believed he had two surviving sisters – somewhere – and the idea that they may have been forced in to a similar, brutal situation was a sombre thought to bear.

@Liv

• ^[1] Latin name for the 'English Channel'; literally "British Ocean" or "Ocean of the Britons".

It seemed, despite his injury, the reason he had been chosen was because he was the ‘best of the bunch’. Ambrosius assumed that there must be a particularly bad market for slaves in city of Rome to warrant such an explanation. He could barely walk when he arrived, yet he was expected to triumph over the battle-hardened veterans of the arena. The Briton could only hope that he possessed as much faith in his prospective training facility as he did this deity of which he professed.

The metaphorical dagger, formerly concealed, came unsheathed and the Praetor had evidently grown weary at the baiting of the junior Briton. Ambrosius quickly understood that it was no longer wise – had it ever been – to continue toeing this line, but his response would contain a certain edge to its tone. “When I see Britannia’s shores again… hold my sisters in my arms, then you may call me by my name, should you so please. Until that day, I’ll play your game and ‘Ambrosius’ will earn their favour and their fear,” he replied menacingly, yet tinged with hope as he expressed the underlying belief that what remained of his family still lived, wherever they may be. He wanted to curse, but couldn’t fault the Roman for reminding him of his reason to survive.

Using the bed as a counterweight, he rose on to his legs to ascertain the extent of his lingering injury. The sharp pain that shot like lightning through his leg earlier in the day, was now replaced with a dull ache and a sense of numbness stemming from his thigh. He mentally queried whether this was a product of the medicine or the new norm. He was unlikely to be certain until tomorrow.

“When would you have me begin?” He questioned of the Praetor and displayed a foolhardy readiness in the process, as a symptom of his youthful inexperience. Even a fool would realise more time was needed to heal and would unlikely see the gladiatorial school for another month as he recovered, should he manage to retain the hospitality of his new dominus.

@The Young Pope

He slowly nodded his head as his eyes danced from the gestures that the female slave’s hands displayed to the shapes her lips made, doing his best to distinguish and interpret any unfamiliar Latin terms from her physical guidance. When she halted her exposition to confirm his understanding he bobbed his crown more confidently, earnestly assisted by her patience.

“No, no,” Ambrosius echoed her earlier sentiment in an effort to be understood. Relaxing his demeanour and drawing on his few lessons with a Latin tutor of his master’s employ, he proceeded to explain further in deliberate and calculated terms. “I return to room. I… stop. I lose time. I sorry… Clio. I return now,” he attempted to clarify, hoping she would accept his short, yet honest explanation in lieu of a more thorough elucidation that would likely be expected of someone with better grasp of the language.

A curious thought popped in to his head at the end of his statement and he interjected with a query before his new acquaintance had formulated her own response. “You say you slave, no Roman? You well… look well. You pretty dress. Roman pretty dress. I no pretty dress,” the Briton framed his question almost comically, inadvertent as it was. The rust-coloured tunic that Clio was attired in at that very moment may not have been the best example of her finer station, but to further his point, he gestured towards the subligaculum^[1] he had been assigned since his arrival at the ludus, which covered naught but his nether regions.

“Romans like you? Treat you well?” Ambrosius followed his immediate question with two more, in quick succession. He possessed an innately curious mind, but a distinct unawareness when his curiosity became intrusive and overbearing. One could only hope that this interaction would not prove to be such a case. He had made far too few friends since his arrival in Rome, thanks in part to his own reserved mentality, but largely due to his inability to communicate with his multi-ethnic colleagues and the exasperation of others to maintain stilted conversation of someone with a juvenile comprehension of the Latin language. This woman's careful corrections exhibited a degree of humanity that he had only encountered once before, since his arrival in the city. He did not wish to let the opportunity pass of knowing another sympathetic individual. 

@Liv

• ^[1] A type of Roman loincloth worn by gladiators.

“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’.

OCTOBER, 74 CE

Pausing in the arcade of the Ludus’ domus, reserved for the household of Titus Justinius Canicus Phiscerus, Ambrosius surveyed the scene of the surrounding courtyard. The leaves upon the trees that littered the gardens had begun to exhibit tinges of saffron and brown, indicating the passing of summer and the onset of autumn. Being unaware of the exact day of his birth, his family equated the beginning of the season with such a time. It would mark his eighteenth year, but he held no doubts that he would spend this anniversary in the absence of his family, for the first time in his life. Previously, he had often shared this occasion with his youngest sister, who had been born during the same season.

The Briton had been returning to his quarters from a discussion with the ludus’ manager, where he had been briefed on the possibility that he would shortly undergo his first gladiatorial contest. Despite only having a few short months to prepare, his instructor had informed the Imperial client of Ambrosius’ perceived suitability for the tournament – though he was hardly the only one. It seemed as though they were scraping the bottom of the barrel to provide a respectable levy of gladiators for the event and hedging their bets in the process, hoping to achieve a grand victory. Some might consider it ‘desperate measures’.

Resolving to cast such thought aside and return to his room, he turned on his heels and strode towards the central hallway that divided the wings of the structure in to east and west, whilst providing him with a route from the south towards the gladiator’s quarters at the northern end of the premises. He travelled in that direction for roughly fifty meters before coming to a halt as a familiar figure exited from an adjoining room. Catching their gaze, he would recognise the individual as a woman that often accompanied Titus’ wife during periods of training, watching from afar. Her frequent presence gave the Briton youth a curious pause for thought, realising he knew nothing of the woman, despite her frequent presence becoming second nature.

“Me, uh- I sorry... mea domina^[1],” Ambrosius quickly apologised in broken Latin, despite being uncertain of any wrongdoing. His very existence had been considered an offence at various times during his captivity. Neglecting her darker complexion in ignorance of geography, he presumed her to be of Roman birth and somehow of relation to the master of the house, thus the term of respect.

@Liv

Reader Advisory:

• ^[1] Latin phrase meaning "my lady".

Ambrosius has a family history of capable women and could probably endure a degree of emasculation in the eyes of the other gladiators. I've made him slightly prone to foolishly antagonising his superiors, which could give context to that situation. It could be an idea for a later thread though.

I'll start working on an OP using the third idea for now. I'll send you a PM when I've finished the draft to make sure the introduction is good with you.

Hey @Liv, thanks for the interest. I'd certainly be interested in a thread between Ambrosius and Clio. We slaves need all the friends we can get.

My ideas for their initial encounter are:

• A back-in-time thread around July (shortly after he arrives at the Ludus), perhaps having gotten lost on the grounds of the ludus and needs some simple directional assistance, giving a brief window to become acquainted.
• Either a back-in-time or IC thread where Clio might witness a conflict or scuffle between Ambrosius and some of the more senior gladiators, during a break in training (and an absent instructor) that she might be able to intervene in (being a more favoured slave).
• Finally, it could an IC thread where Ambrosius might be returning to the gladiator's quarters, from the villa, after having met with Titus. Being some time after his arrival, he might be considered less of a flight risk at this point and allowed to take this route alone, giving  them a rare opportunity to speak (perhaps having noticed one another several times before, during training).

Those are my first thoughts, but I'll consider some other possibilities. Let me know if any of those ideas appeal and I'll start working on a draft OP.

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

“Jesus, Maria et Josephus^[1],” Lucius had exclaimed these obscure Latin terms before the Interprex initiated her translation. She had come to a brief halt at the use of the word “Christus^[2]”, but went on to question the possibility that the Briton could be in the service of a rival Roman. Ambrosius detested the accusation, until realising the farcical and rhetorical context in which the assertion had been phrased. He knew the Romans to be fond of their word games, likening it to a cat toying with a dormouse.

“O Ambrosius, aut Turi, aut quicumque^[3],” the Praetor had resumed speaking in Latin, giving no time for the young Briton to respond to the previous statement and testing the reactions of the Interprex. Ambrosius had already engaged with the first phrase before the interpreter had been able to cut in with her translation. Despite having given his Brittonic moniker freely, he had disliked the humanising quality that the use of his birth name had instilled in his developing perceptions of Lucius. Summarily, his brow would furrow as he continued to endure the lengthy discourse that proceeded unabated.

The spiel that the Praetor purported would be a struggle for Ambrosius to wrap his head around. From the good deeds he propounded and connections he enjoyed, to the power over life and death that he possessed and the potential horrors a slave could suffer. The Briton was familiar with this tactic, but it usually involved two individuals playing each part and rarely involved boasting. The Praetor had appeared to invent his own variation by assuming both roles, offering an olive branch in one hand and concealing a dagger in the other. It could lead one to question the sincerity of either position, but Ambrosius had never been in the habit of trusting Romans.

Lucius would go on to further acknowledge issues with his civilisation, but presumed to surmise similar problems within Briton society. As far as Ambrosius was concerned, the only issue with Britannia was the continued presence of Romans, but did not allow the signs of his irritability to show. His current subservient position gave him little cause to feel superior. Signs of the Praetor’s snobbish upbringing would begin to show as he casually degraded the Briton’s native tongue as ‘absurd’. The small measure of common ground that had been gained during their conversation was now quickly diminishing and Ambrosius’ impassive expression would finally darken, yet he retained what little patience he could.

Deflecting from the prior insult, Lucius had turned to matters concerning the heavens and imparted a story concerning his own faith. The particulars were not of great interest to Ambrosius, who never took to Roman Gods the way some of his kinsmen had, yet he was as all too familiar with them. Statues of their deities had proliferated around Petuaria in recent years, with Romans flocking to the burgeoning outposts in the north. Fervent as Romans are with propaganda, knowledge of them quickly became commonplace among the island’s population. Nevertheless, he had never heard of this ‘son of God’ of which the Praetor spoke, though the Romans were known to be a somewhat syncretic culture. Many of the earliest Celtic converts to Hellenism were devotees of the sun God, Belenus, of whom the Romans had equated with their own sun God, Apollo. It would stand to reason that this could be a recent addition to their pantheon, by way of the eastern reaches of the Empire. Though questions remained, they would be left for another time.

At this point, the Roman would return to the question at hand and answer Ambrosius’ long awaited question. The Praetor sought redemption, it would seem. A curious answer, indeed. The scepticism on the Briton’s face plain to see, becoming further embellished as Lucius went on to promise aid in any endeavour to seek freedom. To purchase a slave to assist in their manumission? Ambrosius had never heard of such a thing, certainly not of a Roman. He began to believe it was just a cruel joke, perhaps a fever dream from an infection. He probably succumbed to his injury on the voyage and this was some kind of hallucination. He pinched himself in response, but nothing happened that would confirm that theory and he would now be distracted by a biting pain, emanating from his left forearm. Quick thinking was evidently not his forte.

Taking the offered cup of wine in his right hand, Ambrosius would swill the liquid within the receptacle several times as he studied the drink. He had never had wine before, despite its increasing prevalence among the Britons. Mead had been a far more common beverage among his tribe and his tastes would reflect that, spitting the sour wine back in to the cup moments after passing his lips. He would sheepishly sit the cup on the floor, declining to imbibe any further.

“So, I am to be a ‘gladiator’, you say? I’m to kill barbarians for the amusement of Romans… and you feel that, that will redeem you? You’ll have to forgive me for saying so, but your reasoning seems flawed,” the Briton countered of the Praetor’s supposition. Ambrosius had never been the most tactful of conversationalists, but he attempted a subtler approach than he was accustomed. “Many of my opponents would surely be as downtrodden as myself. Why choose me?”

@The Young Pope

Reader Advisory:

• ^[1] The Latin terminology for "Jesus, Mary and Joseph".
• ^[2] The Latin terminology for "Christ".
• ^[3] The Latin terminology for "Oh Ambrosius, or Turi, or whatever".

His host was evidently unsatisfied at the repetition of the Latin designation that had already been ascertained from Ambrosius’ legionary guards. Why this Roman would care what his name ‘used’ to be was a mystery. They had assigned him an arbitrary name of their own design, so as to not suffer the indignity of learning a barbarian tongue. Not to mention the quality it provided to the mental disassociation from a slave’s life with the one they would come to accept in servitude. It had been many months now since he had heard his own name, longer still since he’d had call to use it himself. His keepers didn’t much appreciate fraternisation between captives during their travels and he became prone to speaking sparingly, lest he wished to risk the lash.

“My name was- uh, is… Turi. My name is Turi,” Ambrosius initially hesitated to correct himself, before projecting proudly, as fleeting memories of his former life assisted in drawing him out of his despair and giving way to the briefest of smiles. His momentary happiness was replaced with a tightly, clenched jaw when the Roman continued to speak in vast and unabridged rhetoric that he had come to expect of their ilk. It had long ago occurred to him that these people loved hearing their own voice as much as the pleas of the vanquished. Perhaps not all his preconceptions were correct, but it did appear to hold a kernel of truth.

This Praetor – Lucius as he wished to be referred – seemed to hold many presumptions. It appeared to be a trait that no Roman could escape, no matter how humble or noble of heart they believed themselves to be. Ambrosius needed no empty apologies from this relative stranger nor did he want one. This man could not make right all that was wrong with his society and all the wrong they had inflicted on himself or his kinsmen. Though this man did seem to be a mass of contradictions, at odds with his culture and innate sensibilities; a unique commonality between these men of very different backgrounds.

“I don’t think it's very clear at all. This seems unusual to say the least. What do you gain from this? All of you Romans want something,” Ambrosius reflexively insisted in response to Lucius’ ‘bestowments’. What could he have possibly done to warrant any such magnanimity from his enemies? His suspicious mind assumed himself some pawn in a greater play, but could not discern the intent.

@The Young Pope

Despite the size of the city, the Praetor’s domus resided a mercifully short distance, directly south of the Forum. Had Ambrosius known what to be looking for, he would’ve been able make out the marble walls of the impressive structure from their central location. As it were, he had taken the opportunity that this status of invalid had granted him and decided to rest his eyes for a while. When he opened them again, it was to a bronzed, familial seal upon a colossal and groaning gate, providing entry on to the premises. Passing under the archway of the entrance, he rose his head to examine the surroundings of the Praetor’s property. Slaves, servants, guards and other manner of employees congregated around various positions of the courtyard as the Briton was carried in to the vestibule of the palatial building and set down in the atrium.

After a brief repose to address the assorted assembly of workers, the Praetor and his two, constant companions followed the stretcher to a large cubiculum^[1], modified and devoted for use as a makeshift medical facility. The expansive stores of medical paraphernalia, herbs and remedies that could be seen littering the shelves and receptacles within the room would give weight to any claim of rivalling the capabilities of a public hospital. As he left, Ambrosius cast a final gaze upon the Roman who had taken him in to his household, hardly beginning to understand what to make of this man. The Praetor had, in such a short window, acted so very differently to any Roman he had ever met before. This city was meant to be the heart of his oppressors, yet it was as if he was being extended a strange kindness.

The Medicus responsible for seeing to his injury had just finished dressing the wound when the arrival of several female servants in to the room marked the beginning of a different procedure. The two remaining lictors left the room to allow the women to go about their work. The eldest of the ladies attempted to engaged Ambrosius in conversation, to the latter’s dismay as he understood very little of what she had tried to say. Taking his silence as an affirmative, her and her compatriots started to lather their hands and rags in olive oil contained within clay pots and apply it to his body. At the conclusion of this exercise, he was led out in to the adjoining peristyle and allowed to bathe in the piscina^[2] for a while, before they returned to his room and the women proceeded to remove any remaining excess of dirt and grime from his skin, through the use of a strigil^[3]. The re-entrance of the Praetor on the scene would bring an end to the lengthy process and the beginning of a conversation.

“I, uh… Ambrosius… we… Parisi,” Ambrosius struggled to form a sentence in Latin, repeating it quietly several times before surrendering early in to the attempt. Despite the convenience of an interpreter, he was unsure of the appropriate protocol for reply when addressed by a Roman of distinction. He hadn’t much time for words whilst fending off the dregs of Roman society that tended to form legionary patrols and neither were the Romans in such a situation typically welcoming of any form of parley.

Turning his attention from the Roman opposite him, careful not to offer offence through this gesture, he began to converse in his native tongue with the kinswoman who had rendered the Praetor’s speech comprehensible, in a recognisable southern dialect. Whilst some words may only be loosely understood, as a result of the the transitory nature of the Brittonic tribes, the regional languages were fairly homogenised and interchangeable.

“I come from the north. I’m of the Parisi tribe… or I was,” Ambrosius hurriedly explained to the Interprex, as she simultaneously relayed the information to the Roman. A lull extended over their discussion as it was assumed he had more information to give. “We lived near Petuar^[4]. It lies on the bank of the Aber River^[5],” he continued upon noticing the expectation in his host’s eyes. Reflecting on his home in Britannia, he couldn’t help but recollect fondly of the pristine, blue waters of that estuary. Far cleaner than the cesspit they deem the ‘Tiber’. He would fight to retain whatever pride he could manifest, in spite of the beauty and opulence he had seen on his arrival.

“Why am I here? Aside from the medicine. You Romans don’t tend to be so considerate of your prisoners,” he asked, almost demanding an answer of his current captor, before remembering his insurmountable predicament. Perhaps he was more foolish than he believed, as his impertinence could easily jeopardise the recent improvement in station.

@The Young Pope

Reader Advisory:

• ^[1] Cubiculum is the Latin term for a private room within a domus.
• ^[2] Piscina is the Latin term for an outdoor pool or bath within a domus.
• ^[3] Strigil is a tool used by Romans to scrape off dirt and oil after bathing.
• ^[4] Petuar is the native Brittonic name for Petuaria.
• ^[5] The 'Aber River' is the Brittonic name (Latin: Abus River) for the Humber River, which forms a natural boundary between East Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, UK. 

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

Welcome @VVitch!

I'm still a relative newbie, but happy to have you here and excited for you to participate.

I hope you enjoy writing here. 

In the short period between the relaying of the directive and the arrival of the Praetor, Ambrosius had been allowed a few moments of solitude in his new confines to analyse the new surroundings he was experiencing. The cell he now occupied was embedded in to the clay structure of the prison, encompassing a row of similar constructs, located within a narrow alley between that aforementioned building and the record hall. This would allow the processing of new prisoners and captives in to the city to undergo this procedure, mostly away from the prying eyes of the public. Nevertheless, a multitude of people could be seen going about their business and making their way to and from the epicentre of the city, the Forum. Though he could understand simple phrases, brief sentences or words without context in the language of his captors, due to their close proximity and tenuous relations with his native tribe, he could make out a vast array of foreign languages and alien cultures being expressed, vocally and visually.

Ambrosius would be wrenched from his quiet observation by the mention of “a Briton”, closely followed by the Latin designation he had been assigned. Drawing his eyes away from the passersby, his gaze set upon the senior legionary of the detachment in charge of his supervision, now conversing with a more affluently dressed man, with a naturally autocratic bearing – the Praetor. His social distinction perhaps most recognisable by the two lictors^[1] holding fasces^[2], standing behind him – this Ambrosius could only interpret as servants, holding a strange bundle of wooden rods; perhaps some sort of kindling. Was he sent to Rome to be burnt alive? The act would provide some small mercy. At least then he could be rid of these damned Romans.

The exchange between the two Roman men was quickly becoming heated as the Praetor signalled towards him and barked orders at the reluctant legionary. Ambrosius’ nostrils flared at the movement towards his cell, but his expression remained stoic. He would not give his tormentors the satisfaction of showing fear. When the door to his iron cell sprung open, he would examine the cautionary movements of the Praetor as the Roman inched ever closer to his own upright position. Unsure if the Roman before him was planning malicious intent or simply closer examination, he was resigned to whatever fate were now to befall him. He could not bring back what he lost by waging attempting to wage a solitary war within this lone street, in the heart of enemy territory. It may be said that he possessed a penchant for fruitless endeavours, yet he was not nearly as foolish as that. Though his eldest sister would probably disagree… or, would probably have disagreed. He didn’t know now. He hadn’t known for several months. If only he had her knack for solutions. She’d know the right course from here. These thoughts provided cold comfort in this, his darkest hour.

The wealthy Roman addressed Ambrosius directly as he stalked ever closer, but the Briton lad’s limited understanding of Latin, as well as his exhaustion, would only allow deciphering of bits and pieces. “Don’t…friend…look…more…less”, these were words of the litany that he was most familiar with, in his dealings trading wares to Romans in Petuaria. The word “friend” was a word that the Romans seemed far too liberal with. As they pillaged and murdered their way across the ancestral homelands of their subjugated nations, enslave their peoples and then presume to use such terms of endearment to address their captives in their blustering rhetoric. Had he a ‘leg to stand on’, he may be inclined to give this man a swift kick, yet he was no closer to discerning the tangible meaning of the Praetor’s words.

As if reading Ambrosius’ mind, the Praetor knelt down and grasped the lame leg he had been sporting, forcing him to clutch the metal frame of his cell for balance. He had become very concerned as the Roman appraised his leg, uncertain as to the direction this was heading. The awkwardness of his current position would force a nervous lump to rise in his throat, disabling him from offering any interjection as the act played out. This momentary display would end in another round of rowdy discussion between the Praetor and the senior legionary, before the latter went about the order he had been assigned and the former returned to his prior standing position.

“Everything… to an end… I swear… family… honor,” the Praetor had whispered to Ambrosius, but the young Briton could once again only distinguish the most familiar of Latin. The ambiguity inherent in these few recognisable terms did little to raise his expectations that his situation may yet improve. To his mind, the possibility that he would die today was still more likely than he would live to see another and may still prove more appealing. Only time would tell.

@The Young Pope

Reader Advisory:

• ^[1] Lictors are civil servants and bodyguards, attending to magistrates of the Roman senate.
• ^[2] Fasces are bound bundles of wooden rods, with an axe whilst outside the sanctity of the pomerium, held by lictors. A symbol of the authority afforded to the accompanied magistrate.

Upon watching her depart the scene, Turi reflected on the stilted manner in which she proffered her forgiveness of his antics. Feelings of dread and regret hung over him like a cloud, as he considered the damage that may have been caused by his childish outbursts. Today had strained the sole, harmonious relationship he retained with any of his family members and succeeded in emboldening the deep-seeded sense of loss that permeated through his subconscious. The dependant relationship he had established with his eldest sister, since the volatility of their childhood, had provided the only anchor for a youth who would have rather retreated in to the vacuum of his mind, stagnating in the comfort of his fond memories. How was he to abide by the whims and wishes of a sibling to whom he owed so much, yet strive towards his own aspirations and become his own person? A question that would inspire many months of contemplation.

Turi inevitably made his way to the forge, picking up the splintered pieces of the shattered training swords along the way. He would cross paths with a returning Immin, making his own way back to the matrimonial house that existed in a state of construction. “She wants to speak with you,” Turi stated sheepishly, gesturing towards his brother-in-law in an effort to bring him to a halt.

“Could you make it sound any more menacing?” Immin quirked a brow in reply, evidently curious as to the nature of the discussion. “If you don’t hear from me in an hour, it was nice knowing you, kid,” he smirked as he continued. Turi’s eyes were aimed towards the ground, demonstrating obvious signs of hesitancy in replying to the elder man’s subtle inquiry. “We’re not to train anymore. Erea made herself quite clear,” he explained, hoping he could not sense disappointment in his mentor’s gaze.

A brief pause between the two would give way to a sigh from Immin. “I suspected as much. Very well. We’d be fools to risk her ire,” he replied, somewhat surprisingly. Immin placed a firm, right palm on the younger Briton’s right shoulder as he passed. “I’m not the only one who could teach you,” he divulged, casting a conspiratorial glance over to the hut that Erea had withdrawn to. “I have some… old friends, you may wish to meet,” he offered as a parting note, before continuing on his journey. Turi was forced to wonder how much either he or his sister really knew of her new husband. He was certainly peculiar.

FINISHED

@Sara