Jane

Ah, yes. The boy’s tongue. Tarbus did not know what misfortune had befallen Azarion in the time that preceded his arrival in Rome, but he did not doubt, either, that it was an agonising ordeal. If Tarbus’s own suffering had been keen, both psychologically and physically, then he conceded that it was nothing set against Azarion’s terrible loss. His own scars would heal and perhaps one day he might wield a sword again; Azarion would surely not speak again. It did not surprise Tarbus that Azarion had found some solace in caring for the horses here: a shred of familiarity, perhaps, the likes of which Tarbus had been keen to retain himself. He followed the boy’s gaze. “The horses?” For a moment, Tarbus paused, attempting to parse his meaning. Was it not so bad because of the horses? Did it prevent him from working efficiently with them? He settled upon the latter. “I’m fortunate that it doesn’t affect my work with them. I’ve been around them since I was a boy. My father was the stable-master for our tribe. I s’pose I would’ve taken after him, if it weren’t for… Well.” He gave another shrug, his expression rather more grim this time. @Chevi

His life had been one marked by scars, though few of them had caused him as much anguish as the one that curled like a viper around his arm. When his fingers went to brush the leathered skin there, Tarbus endured in brutal flashes the day that had snatched his freedom away. Ferried around like a prized slab of meat, rather than a man. The bruises and nicks and wounds gained during the natural life of a warrior was nothing beside that great monstrosity, then. Tarbus supposed a fellow slave, even one as young as Azarion, must understand better than most. “My tribe was attacked,” he explained. That much was likely obvious. “By Romans. I tried to protect my family, to fight back, but… Well, this happened. I was brought here after that.” Those days had passed in a bleak, painful blur. Much of Tarbus’s time in Rome had eddied along in a similar manner, though much of the sting that he endued was the indignity of it all. The physical pain in his arm had abated, though the same could not be said for his pride. With that, Tarbus withdrew his arm and shrugged: a jaunty thing, aided by a crooked, sheepish smile. “It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said, though in truth he thought it far worse. @Chevi

Yes, that was it: Tarbus hadn’t liked the thought of being tied up, either. It struck him as a morbidly shrewd representation of what he felt in Rome anyway, without adding literal binds to the equation. Slaves bound to chariots, to horses, roaring towards a precarious victory (if they were so lucky). Were it not for his work with the horses, Tarbus would have scorned his own fate, working for the racing factions. Azarion, at least, understood that. Hadn’t been absorbed into that life with promises of riches and glory, or not yet, anyway. Tarbus followed the boy’s gaze towards the chariots. His brow furrowed. “I don’t think I could stand racing one of those,” Tarbus confessed. He could hold his own in one by the necessity of training the charioteers, but careening around the track in one, tied to his death, struck him as deeply alarming. “Besides,” he continued, “I’m not sure how good I’d be in the long run with this damned thing.” The short sleeves of his tunic fell back further as Tarbus lifted his right arm, displaying the vicious scars that wound like bands around his flesh. It was the reason he hadn’t been simply shoved into the colosseum, after all, and why he was reluctant to enter into those treacherous races, too. @Chevi

Tarbus knew little of the lad who stood before him. He knew, vaguely, that Azarion was young, though maltreatment had apparently stunted him. Not for the first time since arriving in Rome, then, Tarbus was grateful for the privilege that years of freedom had afforded him. Strange: he felt better equipped to fight, somehow, or to resist, even if both were impractical. Between himself and Azarion, Tarbus knew little of what they had in common. Perhaps that didn’t matter. The horses were apparently enough. “With great difficulty sometimes,” Tarbus replied with a grin to that final gesture. The four horses. How unnatural it had seemed to him, at first. Only by necessity had he grown accustomed to it. “I don’t understand why they can’t just ride the poor things properly. Race them properly. Why involve the chariots?” Still, they were easier to sabotage. But none of that. Not here. “It’s more difficult to feel the horses that way, but I think you have an advantage anyway, knowing them like you do,” Tarbus decided. Some of the charioteers who’d emerged, ready (or not, as the case often was) to be trained, were damned useless. @Chevi

February 75CE But for the steady huff of the horses’ breath in the heady air around him, Tarbus felt – as ever in these stables – that he was alone, a novel sensation in a city that swirled with intrigue and interference. By rights, his time was not his own these days. The shackles of ownership steered him, mostly, even if he had been released at least partially to the finer act of training horses and riders. Charioteers, rather. In truth, Tarbus did not understand the Romans’ compulsion toward chariots. They were dangerous, as most man-made things were in the end, and one could not feel the beast beneath him in those great, monstrous contraptions. Perhaps that was why Tarbus had resisted racing himself, though the pulse of promised glory lingered as a temptation. Training others and seeing, at least partially, his hand in their victory would suffice. For now. The crunch and rustle of footsteps amongst the hay drew his attention from the warm flank of the gelding to which he currently tended. In the illuminated light of the doorway stood the scrawny figure of the stable boy. Tarbus turned. “Azarion,” he piped up in greeting and lifted an eyebrow. “Had enough of racing the chariots, have we?” @Chevi