Polarity
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Posts posted by Polarity
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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.
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Character name: Ambrosius
Associated Ludus: Dacicus
Experience: 2
Type of gladiator: Thraex
Death: N-
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What could she do? The inherent irony in his sister’s question was evident to Turi, as he had long asked that very question of himself. What could any of them do? The Romans were unrelenting and all-consuming, any attempt to live in ignorance of that fact was as redundant as his solitary sword against their insurmountable legions. What would their father have done? If only he knew, it may have provided some solace. “Just… forgive me,” was his ultimate request, delivered solemnly.
Their family had truly come leaps and bounds in the years since the misfortunes of a decade past and he had never wished to provide the splinter to his sister’s fulcrum. If Erea were the home and Calpornus the hearth, then Turi thought it appropriate to assume the bastion, so that Ardra may enjoy the luxury of being a bairn. Yet, from bastion to buttress is what she would rather see him be. So be it. He felt no need to fight her on this any longer, his point had been made. If she refused to accept what he had believed inevitable, he must be the one to acquiesce. She had never steered them wrong before, and he would at least be prepared to act should the worst come to pass. He could only hope that he was wrong and she was right, as usual, but he couldn’t shake the inner turmoil aroused by his premonitions.
Bracing once more on the door frame, Turi used it at leverage this time, pulling himself back into a standing position. Dusting off the dirt from the rear of his breeches and wiping his hands on his tunic, he extended his right hand out to assist Erea to her feet. “I should go see if Calpornus needs me. Though I’m sure we would’ve heard about it if he did,” he cracked wryly, with the small amount of humour he could still derive from their uncomfortable situation.
“I'd also better let Immin know that we’re not to train anymore. Unless of course, that's a discussion you wish to have?” Turi queried, seeking confirmation and approval to go about their separate ways.
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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.
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Turi's infantile display did little to prove his case for manhood. Perhaps his sister did had the right of it. His actions over the course of the day had served to exhaust him, physically and emotionally. As Erea reaffirmed her familial love for him in spite of the growing tension, Turi was filled with an enormous sense of regret. His harsh words had not diminished her care for him, despite his own wavering. He had failed to recognise her resilience in the face of adversity, one of her most endearing qualities and the foundation of his admiration of her. It was a trait he himself had never possessed and he was beginning to realise the hidden strength inherent of such a spirit. It may be that his sister had more to teach him about being a man than he had ever realised. "I... I love you too," he muttered in a whisper, straining his eyes to hold back tears and clenching his teeth to prevent an audible blubbering.
He no longer possessed the energy to construct arguments in favour of his point of view. He was no longer sure he even held the views he had begun arguing on behalf of. The longer their exchange dragged on, the more aspersions he formed of his belligerent ideals as a manifestation of his unconscious desire to return the father and the family he only retained in his memories. His past traumas continued to refuse him a better future.
"Enough. I'll stop... I swear," he declared dejectedly, bracing himself against the door frame of their house and descending to a sitting position. His mind continued to race with thoughts, but upon closing his eyes, each of his conceptions remained distorted and indistinct . He first needed to rest if he ever was to attempt to right the wrongs of today.
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You in the woods? You wouldn’t last a week. The island’s wolves are hardly as merciful as your ‘she-wolf’ of a sister.
He bit his tongue in an attempt to dull the sting of her words. Though small squabbles between the assorted personalities of their household were hardly uncommon, Turi was rarely prone to argue with Erea, more often preferring to defer to her in most cases. This was surely the worst of their infrequent disagreements, at least in terms of the potential repercussions. Would she truly see their family disown him? Perish the thought. His sister had presented an ultimatum, but Turi knew there was only one conceivable option.
“If that be your will, your highness,” he spat sarcastically. Tempting the dragon in his position could be described as ‘foolhardy’ at best, but the fire in his chest had been further sparked by her continued refusal to meet him part way. He had presumed his sister might share his views to some degree or at least held enough faith in him to not believe him so brainless as to naively endanger their family. He had long held a deep respect for Erea, but this exchange had begun to transform his childhood perceptions and he lamented that respect was not returned in her estimation of himself. Was he truly being unreasonable? He thought not.
“It seems I need not flee to the woods to find my oppressors. Bind my hands if it please,” he hissed at her admonishment and threw out his hands, mockingly bound. Stalking a few paces towards the discarded training swords, he picked them both up and placed one under his right arm. “But first, allow me,” he declared as he gripped one of the wooden instruments by either end and snapped it in half over his thigh. Throwing the two half-pieces to the side, he grasped the handle of remaining weapon that sat under his arm and threw it wildly upon the stone path that encircled their wattle and daub house. As it landed, it splintered in to several wooden shards. It would be safe to say that his irritation had developed in to a full blown tantrum.
“The offending items have been dealt with. I shall go bash my head against the wall to forget all that dangerous knowledge, if it please you,” he huffed and strode past his sister, refusing to look her in the eyes as he attempted to depart, in the hope of escaping a further tongue-lashing.
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His sister’s sharp rebukes and sorrowful eyes had caused Turi to find it increasingly difficult to persist on the bellicose course he had helmed throughout their exchange. Erea always had a knack for appearing to be the rational and sensible one in arguments. As much as he may want to disagree, he had to begrudgingly admit that she was also usually right. His tact would have to change if he wished to make any headway, against his headstrong sister.
“I understand the risks, but you can’t see the bigger picture,” he muttered through clenched teeth, in an attempt to temper the building irritability in his tone. If he had to begin to confront reality, she needed to face some harsh truths too.
“Will this family you desire call you ‘Mater’[1], for want of their mother-tongue? Will you be happy then? Because we used to do more than live. We used to be happy. We used to thrive. We didn’t just survive,” he slackened his furrowed brow and tried to dull the potency of his reproach. Turi didn’t wish to make his sister feel as if he blamed her in any way, but the defeatism imbued by her response grappled with his own sanguine position.
"I may not be a man yet, but I'm going to need to be one. Perhaps, sooner than you may think. I can't keep following in a shadow that my own overcasts so easily. I need to start making my own decisions," he expressed more gently then his prior discourse, but embraced an outwardly, steely resolve. He could only hope the façade wouldn't crumble upon exposure to her rebuttal.
Reader Advisory:
- [1] 'Mater' is the Latin word for 'Mother'
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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.
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"
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You and Immin against a legion? Ha! Even she thinks you’re a joke. Lost little lamb, thinks he’s a man.
“No,” Turi stropped sourly at Erea’s interrogation. He continued with a petulant declaration, “I can think for myself!”
That may have been a half-truth. Immin certainly hadn’t objected to the idea, but he didn’t inspire it. Furthermore, Turi never revealed the implicit disapproval that his sister had previously voiced at the prospect, but Immin had appeared to possess his own unspoken agenda as well. Nonetheless, his sister’s abject refusal to view him as less of a child and more of an equal would inspire additional bellowing from the disillusioned youth.
“Petuar has more Romans every time we visit. They’re taking the town without a fight and claiming all the land south, and north of Lindon[1]. Did you know they call it Lindum now? Are we all to become Romans now? The ones that survive anyhow. That’s not what our father fought for. He didn’t die so we could become his murderers,” his rant paused on this appeal to her sentimentality.
Hoping to double down on this approach, the delay would amount to the time it took to inhale before resuming, “I don’t propose charging headlong in to Roman cohorts, but I do intend to be able to fend off some legionaries who seek their retirement package in our home. I’d sooner see us die as free Britons, then live in chains to Romans; wouldn’t you?”
Surely his sister could see the rationale in learning how to defend oneself. He may be big and strong, but a fist is no match for a scutum[2] and a boxer’s chin is no armour against a gladius[3].
Reader Advisory:
- [1] The Roman colony of Lindum, known as Lindon to the local Britons, is located in the modern-day city of Lincoln, in Lincolnshire
- [2] The scutum is a type of shield used by Roman legionaries
- [3] The gladius (hispaniensis) is a type of sword used by Roman legionaries
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You don’t know any Étaín either. Where did you even come up with that name? You need to stop listening to that Hibernian man’s stories about the fair-folk. He meant your sister, you oaf!
Of course he did. This was a lesson. Immin had a way of recognising the obvious, but Turi need only recall their earlier conversation to understand the wider meaning. He needed to face his reality and he needed to begin now. “Don’t be angry with him. He’s right. You’re both right. I’m sorry,” he began meekly.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, gathering his resolve. “I’m sorry I wasn’t being honest with you, but I’m not a child anymore,” his voice beginning to rise in volume, as his determination climbed.
“Even Ardra will have to grow up sometime. You can’t protect us forever, but we can safeguard one another. Calpornus is always going to be a better blacksmith than me, he’s said so himself. Why marry a warrior just to watch him wither? I want to be your first line of defence, not the last. Now more than ever,” he hinted towards the direction that Immin had departed, in an effort to have her acknowledge the insinuated eventualities of her new relationship.
“When the Romans march north to divide our lands into latifundia[1] for their nobles, am I supposed to thank them for their generosity in sparing our lives? When they steal you away to sate their sadistic appetites, am I meant to plead with them for Ardra’s sake? No. I’ll be ready then and we need no longer live like dirt under the heel of a Roman sandal,” Turi spat out his words and each painful possibility with the vitriol of a person who’d lived through these myriad of potentials a hundred times in their mind.
Time is meant to be a healer, but the period between the present moment and the loss of his father had only cradled the evolving animosity of the young Briton towards his nation’s oppressors. It felt though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders as the confession escaped the confines of his lips. It would only give way to the great wait of time his nervous mind would perceive as he awaited her response.
Reader Advisory:
- [1] 'Latifundia' is the Latin term for extensive parcels of privately owned lands.
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Turi possessed neither the aptitude nor the temperament of an effective liar, especially in regards to his eldest sister. He could rationalise a white lie to Calpornus, on the grounds that his brother was among the harshest of taskmasters. He could accept an omission of truth when honesty could be perceived as an affront to the innocent sensibilities of their youngest sibling, Ardra. Yet, he struggled to come to terms with attempting to deceive Erea–the sister that had provided the bedrock of their family for nearly a decade now.
Wooden swords?! That was your best idea? You’re hopeless. Whatever happens, don’t look her in the eye. You’ll fold. Again. You always do.
The firm press of his sister’s delicate hands against the broadsides of his face would spurn to fruition that very fear. As if reading Turi’s mind, her grasp would force him to comply with her mandated gaze. Suddenly he felt–Guilt. He always felt guilty whenever she disapproved of his actions. If only he could make her understand that it was all for their benefit. Her benefit. At the very least, that’s what he believed to be certain. “Y-you don’t understand,” he began his nervous confession. “I was only try-“
“Trying to impress a young lass,” Immin dispensed a terse interruption, seeming to believe the implication was obvious.
The sudden interjection by their ‘so far, so quiet’ third-party had caused the hairs on the nape of Turi’s neck to stand on end. His eyes darted from the momentary attention of his periphery, back to the interrogative probes of Erea’s own. “What? No, I-I’m-” he hesitated, cutting the sentence short.
Was that meant to be of assistance? Maybe this is some kind of lesson. Maybe he just wants to watch you squirm. Maybe you shouldn’t have made fun of him earlier.
A dizzying array of thoughts swam through his mind as he hastened to find the one that would supply his expected response. Due to the many submissive qualities of his personality and an inherent degree of anxiety, Turi had been a relatively antisocial individual by nature. He certainly never had particular success with the opposite sex. The difficulties he faced in this regard would surely supply this duplicity with far more substance than the previous one. He inhaled sharply, before relenting, “Aye, it’s about a girl.”
“Her name is Étaín,” he offered a final revelation, hoping it might somehow startle his sister in to acquiescence. Turi believed it was unlikely to have the desired effect, but he was willing to try anything at this point in his effort to hide the facts of his true intentions. He tempered his expression of concern to convey a sense of embarrassment and his eyes pleaded with hers, silently asking her not to pry further. Would she buy it?
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Immin had been a great warrior, once. On his good days, he was still a capable fighter and on all the days that Turi had known him, he carried himself with a dignified mask that belied the wounded pride of his past vigour. Unfortunately, he had sacrificed greatly for the ideals of his youth; his body first and foremost.
It was a concern that had seemed inconsequential early on, when his young pupil possessed nought an ounce of skill. Due to his diligent tutelage, Immin now faced a flourishing strength that befit an adolescent male on the precipice of maturing into manhood, as well as an evolving and tactical mind characteristic of an experienced combatant. The challenging pace that been set by his ward, had caused Immin to exert himself to capacity during their clash.
"Well?” Erea asked, or more likely, demanded. Wincing at the bark in her tone, Turi stepped aside and dismounted from his anchored position above the aged veteran. Discarding his shield from the left arm, he assisted Immin to his feet and began to assess the damage to the elder Briton. It seemed mostly superficial, but he had assumed a noticeable limp. Whether that was from Turi’s cheap tactic or the ‘tender loving care’ of his spouse, they may never know.
Bollocks! Okay, flattery didn’t work… divert, divert. Be funny.
“What can I say?” Turi inquired of his sister, affecting a sweetness to his tone. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength,” he continued, accompanying his feigned innocence with a signature Cheshire grin. “Maybe we should make Calpornus take a break from the forge, so Immin can have an easier opponent,” he finally quipped, adding to his daily sum of deflections.
O bugger, you fool! The forge; that’s where you should be. Calpornus is going to throttle you.
With beseeching eyes, he looked towards Immin, hoping he may interject some well-thought out excuse. Turi never did well at thinking on his ‘feet’. If today’s lesson was a demonstration of anything, it was that he was at his best when required to work from the ground up. His silent appeal fell on appropriately deaf ears and his mouth began to release words before he’d even had the time to consider them.
“Well, uh, you see… he, uh, Calpornus that is. He wanted us to check the balance of the swords?” Turi ended, what should’ve been a statement, with an upward inflection in his voice and a quizzical expression on his face.
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SEPTEMBER, 71 CE
Located near Roman Petuaria[1], Britannia
The weather had begun to adapt to the seasonal climate, but on days like today, with their tunics soaked in sweat, it was as if it were still mid-July. Immin was a new addition to the family, by way of his recent marriage to Turi’s[2] elder sister, Erea[3]. He was a strapping veteran of the conflicts with the Romans that had plagued the Parisi tribe over a decade past and Turi quickly grew enamoured of his new brother-in-law’s history fighting against the Romans–a people he had grown to revile since they slaughtered his father on that fateful day, near Petuar in the winter of 62 CE.
Their friendship, as well as Turi’s interest in swordsmanship, would result in Immin taking the enthusiastic youth under his wing, versing him in the ways of warfare. On this day they began after dawn, but by noon, that day’s regimen had been fairly exhaustive and presented a lull in the exercise, which had given way to a discussion concerning the boy’s late father.
“I remember, on the day he departed for Petuar… he was large enough to wrap all five of us in his arms as we bid him farewell,” Turi recollected fondly on the last impression his father ever imparted on his childhood memory. “Then again, maybe we were just small enough. A matter of perspective, I suppose,” Turi pondered aloud, as his sight dropped to the ground and he reflected inwardly on the rhetoric statement of his own design.
“Eyes up!” Immin ordered upon a successful break of his opponent’s tepid guard. “Stay focused,” he further instructed, recognizing his pupil’s wavering attention. Despite the stern vocalisation of his in-law, it would be the firm welt of Immin’s wooden sword upon his collarbone that would register with Turi’s cognisance. Ach! That’s going to hurt tomorrow.
He shrieked in pain and annoyance, “Oi! What was that?” Withdrawing a couple of paces from his current position and rolling his shoulders in an effort to dispel the discomfort, he sneered at his so-called tutor. Ignoring his student’s outburst, Immin began to address the issue at hand.
“Men don't fight for what they’ve lost; men fight for all the things they can still have. Take care you don’t abscond with your pleasant memories and childhood dreams. A man needs to face the realities of life in order to overcome them. Too many unprepared boys who believed themselves grown, have only to be found wanting,” he ended his protracted lecture on a pregnant pause, leaving his words to ruminate in his young ward’s mind.
Turi gawped at Immin in momentary stunned silence upon his surprising, almost regretful disclosure. The adolescent Briton had never been particularly good at reading social cues or interpreting body language. He attempted to deflect the serious turn of their conversation on a humorous note, “Has my sister married a Briton warrior or a Greek tragedian?”
“War shapes many things, my dear boy. Whether it be the men who fight them or the minds who suffer them. One need not be Greek nor Roman to recognise a particular poetry, certainly tragedy, in all our lives… now, raise your shield,” Immin concluded their discussion that abrupt note, ending the brief standstill and swinging his training sword overhead.
Turi took a step forward, heaving his circular shield above to accept the strike. The weight of the blow would cause his arm to quake and strain under the pressure. Without letting up on the assault, Immin followed up his overhead swing with a piercing lunge in to his pupil’s midsection. His thrust landed square, connecting with Turi’s chest and compelling him into a kneeling position, as air rapidly expelled from his lungs. Immin rested the flat side of his weapon under the boy’s chin, using the leverage to force eye contact. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, the senior Briton queried, “Yield?”
Turi groaned at the prospect of having lost yet another bout to the more experienced combatant, since he’d thought he had substantially improved of late. When Immin removed the point of his sword from the neck of his student, Turi saw an opportunity and seized upon it. When the elder man reached out his hand, presumably to assist the boy to his feet, Turi swung wildly at Immin’s ankles and swept him to floor. The younger man quickly ascended to a standing overlook, resting one of his feet on the trunk of his tutor. Mimicking his assailant only moments ago, Turi rested the flat of his sword on his opponent’s chin and repeated Immin’s inquiry in a sarcastic tone, “Yield?”
Their swordplay was interrupted by the sound of footsteps upon the stone path that encircled the house. “Uh, er- Erea!” Turi stammered in his sudden alarm. He struggled to find the words to explain their predicament, since Erea had long voiced her disapproval at the prospect of Turi wielding weapons. Since they lost their father so many years ago, with Rome’s might had proving indomitable.
“Um… welcome home, dearest Sister. Back so soon? How was your day?” He attempted to diffuse the situation with a quick succession of questions, once again detracting from the more serious matter at hand.
Reader Advisory:
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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.”
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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.”
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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.
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Update!
Character(s) added:
- Ambrosius, formerly known as Turi and the younger brother of Charis.
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Ambrosius
17 | Autumn 57 CE | Slave | Gladiator | Heteroflexible | Wanted | Gavin Drea
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Personality
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As a contemplative and introspective individual, Ambrosius is often “away with the fairies”, as his mother would regularly explain of his taciturn demeanour. He has exhibited a tendency towards obsessive compulsive behaviour from a young age, which has intensified as he has grown older. The deaths and losses of his family members has cemented a degree of anxiety within his psyche, occasionally manifesting in Palilalia, a neurotic tic involving the repetition of words and phrases.
Before a multitude of tragedies struck his family, Ambrosius was a sensitive and empathetic boy, but as time tempered the assorted personalities of his family, he has adopted an outwardly stoic façade that masks an addled and embittered mind. As a relatively passive and complacent youth by nature, it is perhaps only by the nurture of close conflict with the encroaching Romans, as well as the family profession in the preparation of arms, that he asserts any degree of belligerence. This trait is perpetually emboldened by his deepening anguish and the necessities of the circumstances of which he now finds himself.
Pragmatism is the characteristic which most defines his personality going forward, as Ambrosius must embrace caution and care in his future endeavours; as he manoeuvres the intricacies of his newfound, alien environment and attempts to reclaim some semblance of what he lost.
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Appearance
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At a standing height of around 5’9” (180cm), Ambrosius’ growth has yet to plateau and there exists potential for extant development. His weight of 175 lbs (79 kg) fills out his broad frame and his 14-inch biceps are a by-product of the intensive labour of blacksmithing. His robust physique and piercing gaze project an intimidating visage.
His eyes exude an attractive shade of aquamarine, strongly delineated by prominent limbal rings. Above his eyes rests a set of dark, full eyebrows, demonstrating a distinctive furrow when he is lost in thought, as he often is.
A square jaw accords him a solid boxer’s chin, indicating a suitability for the brutal physicality of close quarter combat. His chin, cheeks and upper lip are often covered by a thin mantle of stubble. His head is blanketed by a short mop of dense, dark hair that subtly curls at the tips. His hairstyle bundles in to a braided knot at the back, culturally fashionable among young men of many Celtic tribes.
The only item that remains in his possession since his enslavement is a woven cloak of an umber hue, which was a gift from his mother. Due to the coarseness of the material and holding mere sentimental value, he has been able to retain it and continues to wear it often.
He received a deep wound to the thigh upon his capture, which was given minimal time to heal before being sent to Rome; as the day's exertions wear on, he may assume a noticeable limp.
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Family
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Immediate Family
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Father:
- Ninian; deceased, died in battle (d. Feb 62 CE)
Mother:
- Letinie; presumed taken as a slave, ultimate fate unknown
Sibling(s):
- Calpornus; elder brother, deceased, killed by Roman legionaries (d. May 73 CE)
- Charis, a.k.a. Erea (b. Summer 54 CE); elder sister, alive, slave of Tertius Quinctilius Varus
- Ardra; younger sister, fate unknown
Spouse:
- None; Single
Children:
- None
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Extended Family
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Via Charis:
- Immin (b. 44 CE); brother-in-law, presumed deceased
Via Parisii, tribe of Britannia:
- Multiple relations; six degrees of separation, fates unknown
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History
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Timeline
- In Aut of 57 CE – Turi is born as the second son and third child of Ninian and Letinie of the Parisi tribe in Britannia.
- In Feb of 62 CE – Ninian, is killed in battle near Petuar; Letinie, begins to withdraw due to grief; Erea (Charis) and Calpornus attempt to restore the family’s stability.
- In Aut of 64 CE – Turi begins a blacksmithing apprenticeship, under the tutelage of his elder brother, Calpornus.
- In Sum of 71 CE – Erea (Charis) marries Immin; Turi requests Immin’s aid in improving his martial prowess.
- In May of 73 CE – Calpornus is killed by Roman legionaries; Letinie is presumed to be enslaved.
- In Jan of 74 CE – Erea (Charis) is enslaved; Immin is presumed to be killed; Ardra is missing.
- In Mar of 74 CE – Turi runs a shortly-lived guerrilla campaign against Roman patrols in retribution; a summary defeat at Eboracum leads to his enslavement.
- In May of 74 CE – Turi is given the name, Ambrosius, shipped to Rome and begins his training as a gladiator.
Childhood [0-10]
In Autumn of 57 CE – Ambrosius, or Turi as he was known, was born the second son and third child into a family of the Parisi tribe in Britannia in the autumn of 57 CE. Although his exact date of birth is unknown, he believes it to be around October. The first few years of his life would be fairly unremarkable, but for the excess of love and care imparted by the growing family he had inherited.
In February of 62 CE – Turi’s father, Ninian, was killed in battle with the Romans at Petuar and his mother, Letinie, began to emotionally withdraw. These events would send the family in to a spiral, causing Erea to adopt a more matronly role in an effort to pick up the pieces and Calpornus to attempt to restore the family fortunes by way of the forge. His elder sister’s steadfast ability to find effective solutions or intelligent compromises to their problems would result in Turi holding a great deal of admiration towards her, for her enduring perseverance. As he got older, Turi would frequently follow in her shadow, seeking her attention or approval.
In Autumn of 64 CE – At the approval of Calpornus, Turi began to apprentice to his brother in the forge, earnestly hoping to continue the family trade. Though he had been previously aiding his sister, Erea, with the book-keeping, his brother had now deemed Turi of adequate strength to start fashioning small arms and tools.
Adolescence [10-15]
In Summer of 71 CE – Erea married Immin shortly after her seventeenth birthday and Turi fostered a friendship with her new spouse. Intrigued with his history of fighting the Romans, a people he had grown to loathe for their constant provocations and the death of his father at their hands, he quietly requested Immin’s instruction in improving his combat skills, so as to better protect their family in the future.
Young Adulthood [15-17]
In May of 73 CE – Erea and Immin had taken Turi and Ardra to a neighbouring settlement. They returned to find their elder brother, Calpornus, butchered by Roman legionaries and their mother, Letinie, was missing, believed to have been taken as a slave.
In January of 74 CE – Turi returned home to find the house and forge ransacked, with neither Erea or Immin in sight. He spent the night in that ramshackle hovel, in the fleeting hope that his lost family members might return, but when the morning light that passed through the rafters jolted him awake, the realisation of his situation dawned. Turi recovered some stored armaments from a loose floorboard that the Romans had failed to uncover and resolved to wage a campaign of retribution.
In March of 74 CE – The past months had seen Turi brooding on the grief and despair over the loss and disunion of his family. Compelled by a desire for vengeance, he would join a small band of Britons, who had been similarly disaffected, in a plot to assault the budding Roman outpost of Eboracum. The guerrilla tactics and raids utilised by his group of Britons in those preceding weeks had earned him the moniker, Ambrosius. In typical Roman fashion, it was a method of mocking Turi’s self-perceived immortality when confronted with the devastating power of Rome. In truth, he had simply grown accustomed to death. An early pilum through his thigh in the initial sortie would see him decommissioned from the fight, to be later captured and enslaved by Rome.
In May of 74 CE – Turi, now styled, Ambrosius, by his Roman captors, had been given minimal time to heal from his wounds before they had shipped him to Rome. As the sole survivor of the raid on the Roman outpost, Turi had acquired a degree of local speculation on his combat prowess. Though the recent tales of his martial abilities may be spurious, his physique aligns with the Roman expectation of a fierce and capable warrior and Ambrosius is sent to be trained in a school for gladiators.
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Polarity | GMT +10 (AEST) | PM & Discord - Polarity#0939
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Thanks for the replies. I'm certainly interested and have sent both of you PMs with my initial thoughts. Will hopefully get some more expanded ideas to you soon as well.
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I WANT YOU
for the FACTIONIS CAERULEUM
ENLIST NOW
Who to contact: @Polarity
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Charioteers
Aurigae
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Andronicus
- Suggested Face claim: Left to player discretion.
- Age & Birth Position: 25-32 years old, further information left to player's discretion.
- Position: Slave of the faction
- Parents: Left to player discretion.
- Other family: Left to player discretion.
- Personality: Narcissistic, lustful, greedy and ruthlessly competitive.
- History: A colleague of Manius since his time in Greece and one of Athens' most prized charioteers.
- Ultimate Goal: To earn enough money to purchase his manumission.
- Other information: He could be of Greek descent or just a slave with a Greek-inspired name.
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Praetorianus
- Suggested Face claim: Left to player discretion.
- Age & Birth Position: 18-25 years old, firstborn son.
- Position: From a family of Equites.
- Parents: Father is a retired praetorian, further information left to player discretion.
- Other family: Left to player discretion.
- Personality: Honest competitor and staunch imperialist. A lifelong fan of the blue faction–racing for them is a dream come true.
- History: Followed in father's footsteps by becoming a Praetorian, but left in order to pursue his love of chariot-racing.
- Ultimate Goal: Redeem himself and the stain he caused on his family's honour by becoming a star of the Circus Maximus.
- Other information: 'Praetorianus' is a racing moniker or cognomen, used to disguise and reduce the stain on their family name. Praenomen and gens is left to player discretion.
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More Charioteers Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Trainer
Doctore
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More Trainers Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Physician
Medicus
- Pyrogenus; a brilliant mind and revolutionary medical man, he comes highly recommended from the schools of Alexandria. Probably a snooty personality, by way of feeling intellectually superior to the uneducated mass of slaves and freedmen he is required to work with. He is of mixed Greco-Egyptian descent and might be between 35-50 years old.
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More Physicians Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Veterinarian
Veterinaria
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More Veterinarians Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Stablehands & Grooms
Stratores
Typically slaves of the faction or charioteers in training. This is where most charioteers begin their career, learning how to care and control the horses. As the lowest rung of charioteer sub-divisions, they are often obligated to perform the most menial and labourious of tasks.
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More Stablehands & Grooms Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Guards & Security
Custos
The custodians of the stables are responsible for ensuring the safety of the horses and property. May also be used for the more underhanded side of faction politics.
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More Guards & Security Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Cartwright
Carpentarius
A skilled woodsmith tasked with the construction and maintenance of the teams chariots, as well as the implementation of innovative enhancements (e.g. Messala's chariot in 1959's Ben-Hur).
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More Cartwrights Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Leather Worker
Operarius Corium
A craftsman skilled at the making and mending of harnesses for the horses, as well as the fabrication of protective gear.
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More Leather Workers Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Scout
Speculator/Speculatrix
An individual tasked with travelling the provinces and stadiums of the Roman Empire in search of talented charioteers or promising horses.
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More Scouts Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Cook
Magirus
The people responsible for feeding the troupe of charioteers, slaves and associates. Should you feel charitable, you may even give the horses a look in.
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More Cooks Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
Seamstress/Weaver
Netrix/Textrix
A maker of cloth and weaver of garments, particularly factional outfits for large spectacles and the everyday wear of slaves owned by the factions.
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More Seamstresses/Weavers Wanted!
- Open to any and all potential characters.
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Andronicus
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Briton Slave of the Parisi | Gladiator-in-training
Ambrosius, or Turi as his parents named him, was born as a free Briton to the Parisi tribe and brother to Charis & Nymphias.
After a multitude of conflicts with the occupying Roman forces that culminated in the deaths and division of his family members had left him without security or purpose, he waged a short-lived campaign against his conquerors. He was subsequently wounded and enslaved, being a recent arrival to Rome where he met and became a recent slave of Lucius Furius Pontius Thracius Minor. He occasionally exhibits a noticeable limp as a result of these actions.
He has spent the last few months in training to become a gladiator, which has caused him to adopt a stoic and pragmatic outlook as he struggles to come to terms with his new environment. This only masks a deeper anxiety and even neurotic personality that increases to surface as his mind attempts to move past the traumas of his youth.
He is fairly tall and broad of build and deceptively strong, when one pauses to consider a sensitive ego beyond his frame and piercing eyes. He rationalises the deeds he must perform to the delight of Romans as part of a grander plan to reclaim what he lost, but time has a way of taking its toll.
Looking for:
- Friends/Allies – At this early stage, the most likely possible friends and allies are other slaves, but I'm open to any ideas you may have.
- Enemies/Rivals – Any good Gladiator needs a rival, so I'm happy to entertain any thoughts in that regard. An antagonistic between his owner or trainer is also possible.
Freedman of the Equestrian Class | Leader of the Blue Chariot Faction
Manius Magnus (as he is colloquially known) is a former-slave turned charioteer with a respectable career that began at the age of twelve. He was granted his manumission over a decade ago and as the last descendant of his mother's Etruscan line, became the inheritor and custodian of the gens Carisia.
He has been recently appointed by Caesar Alexander as the leader of the blue faction for Rome's chariot scene. As a past recipient of the emperor's benevolent magnanimity and the faithful spouse of Caesar's illegitimate daughter, this would hardly be an offer he could refuse. In an effort to maintain the prestige of the imperial family through their connections and patronage of his faction, Manius will do whatever it takes to maintain the preeminence of the blue team.
Looking for:
- Friends/Allies – Manius is very loyal and steadfast friend. Relatively famous, fairly wealthy and possessing minor social/political connections, Manius could make a potentially valuable ally/pawn. As a former slave and despite his advanced social status, Manius holds a degree of disdain for those who believe themselves superior to others, but also acknowledges the precariousness of his own position.
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Enemies/Rivals –Manius masks a paranoid and dangerous, even deadly personality; any threats to the security of his family, his prestige, or his faction will invoke these characteristics. Other charioteers need not apply, 'tis a given.
Even as a member of the equestrian class, Manius carries the stain of infamia to his dignitas that most slaves, freedman and occupants of similar professions are forced to bear; as a result, he is not particularly hesitant about staining it further, should the benefits outweigh the costs.
- Blue Faction Members – Wanted Page Here – Open to all potential ideas.
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Come To Me, All Who Are Weary And Burdened
in RP threads
Posted · Edited by Polarity
MAY, 74 CE
Ambrosius had been given less than three weeks to heal on a painfully, sheer bed of thin straw, on the ground of a stone floor, during his captivity with his Roman subjugators in his homeland of Britannia. Four walls and a roof provided the only redeeming feature of his imprisonment and a begrudgingly welcome change from the preceding months, exposed to the elements.
It had taken almost a month to reach Burdigala[1] from the port in Petuaria[2], as the seas had proven treacherous around the Britannic coast. Despite his injuries, his robust frame and strong arms would be deemed indispensable at the oar, with the lash of his captors ensuring he remained aware of that fact. Calmer waters would meet them on the Mediterranean and ensure smoother sailing from Narbo[3] towards Ostia, where Ambrosius would once again be forced to limp on his lame leg, when the caravan of soldiers and slaves marched towards the capital.
He had been allowed to rest for mere moments as they had arrived at the modest entrance to the pomerium[4], having travelled upon the Via Ostiensis[5] past the Circus Maximus and coming to a halt in the Forum, betwixt the Tabularium[6] and the Tullianum[7]. The imposing façade of the record hall only added to the dichotomy of the dank recess of the neighbouring carcer[8]; dwarfed in grandeur, yet unparalleled in prompting visceral sensations to those in such a precarious position. The myriad of emotions that raced through his mind, as he absorbed and analysed the unfamiliar surroundings that he would now be required by circumstance to call ‘home’, would not shake the immovable and impassive expression that he had adopted months before his present predicament.
“Go find the Praetor,” the commanding officer of the detachment ordered of a subordinate legionary. Ambrosius had understood the Roman’s short directive well enough, but this would be the first time he had encountered the term ‘praetor’. He would soon come face to the face with the man who held such a foreign title, but for now he could rest again. Along with his newfound and circumstantial compatriots, they would be placed in to separate and temporary, three-walled holding cells, jutting out from the exterior wall of the prison. He planted his shoulder in to the clay edifice and propped himself up, hoping to ensure stability in spite of the pervading adversity resulting from his weak and aching left leg.
@The Young Pope
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