New Kid in Town, (Branwen, Eppitacus)

[Sarah]

(Aeneas)

January 73AD

He'd been bought, and he'd been sold. He had an owner. Well, a new owner, though the various people who'd wrangled him before had really just been dealers, he understood. He'd dealt and sold ironwork both at home and on trading trips; it wasn't until the ware was being put it's intended purpose that it was really owned. So he was owned. It was a new experience, one of a great many over the last few months, and none of them pleasant.

But this, this was something different. He paused to look up at the strongly constructed buildings of the... actually, he didn't know what it was suposed to be. But it looked secure, and there were sounds of clashing wood and metal and occasional grunts and cries. The hesitation earned him a rough shove in the back. He knew from experience that the next one would be with the butt of a spear if he didn't move.

So he moved. What was this place? Would he die here? He didn't know, but he had yet to see any chance for escape, and so he moved, through a guarded archway and into an... arena? There were figures sparring with staves and blades on the sands, and further along people practicing with pells and other inert objects. Ah, a training grounds.

Another shove, and his keepers left him, whilst a burly man bustled up, untied his hands and yelled a stream of something presumably important at Aeneas. He'd picked up a fair few words of Latin on the way here, but whatever the man said was lost on him. His answer was the blank look and raised brows that his trader had come to understand meant that he was willing, but didn't understand what was being asked of him, but it only earned him a ringing slap up the back of the head, and another stream of incomprehensible words, this time even louder.

Ears ringing, Aeneas shrugged and shook his head. "Not got.. names." He realised he didn't have the word for 'word'. "I dinna understand whit yer saying." He added in heavily accented Brittonic. It earned him another cuff, this time harder.

[Sarah]

(Aeneas again)

The trainer sighed and shook his head. Another idiot barbarian, and not a word of Latin to him. He should be in with the others, given basic arms and armour and sent into the games as something for the more accomplished gladiators to demonstrate their skills on. Captives from conquered lands, in excessive quantities, they were the definition of expendable. But some lady had bought this one, and wanted to see him fight. Which meant that she didn't want to just see him die ignomiously, and if he wanted the trainer's fee he had to do something with the man in the short time before the games. Not a welcome prospect. Wearing a put-upon expression, the trainer glared at the newest slave and pointed emphatically in the direction of one of the training dummies.

That, at least, Aeneas could understand, and he walked in the direction the man pointed, pausing and glancing back in his direction when he reached the indicated spot. He was watched thoughtfully for a long moment, before the trainer turned to the weapons rack.

What to do with this one? There wasn't time to train him in any particularly unusual fighting style; so best to go with what was hopefully familiar to him. He would be a murmillo. The trainer grabbed a rectangular shield and blunt training sword from the rack and shoved them at the slave. "Scutum." He said. "Gladius". Deciding that he could worry about armour later, he watched with growing interest as the slave fitted the scutum to his right arm, and took up the gladius in a familiar grip in his left, moving both to test the weight of them. So the slave was left handed? Perhaps he might be worth the effort of training after all; left-handed gladiators could pose an interesting challenge to their opponents.

[Chris]

Eppitacus was lounging on a bench enjoying a very fresh apple when the new arrivals came into the ludus. The fingernail of his right index finger picked and pried between his teeth searching for the fleeting piece of apple that refused to come out, and all the while watched. Various groups of other fighters were sparring, some of them terribly; all of them attempting to appear both invested in training and uninterested in the new arrivals even as they stole glances.

Too far away to hear the exchange between the doctore and the new slave over the clang of swords, spears, and shields, Eppitacus initially had no guess as to the origins of the man. It wasn't until he saw Branwen shift her attention from her dummy and to the new arrival that he suspected the man was of their own lineage. Suddenly interested, Eppitacus took to his feet, still chomping away at his apple, and walked over to see how he might introduce himself.

"Doctore," he said.

"Eppitacus," Doctore turned to look upon him. "Maybe you can help with this one? From your island."

"Sure," he said between chomps of his apple. "Our language alright for now, doc?" The Doctore nodded and then walked away to resume his usual rounds of inspection.

He looked over the newcomer, glanced to Branwen, and then back to the newcomer. He switched to his native dialect. "What's your name?"

[Sarah]

His entrance drew glances, and all around him Aeneas could see others, armed similarly or differently, some exotic in their colouring, practicing against dummies or each other whilst being instructed, or yelled at, by various others with a distinctly Roman look. Instructors then, or trainers. This was a training grounds for fighters, the impression only strengthened when the sword and shield were thrust at him. No, the ‘gladius’ and ‘scutum’. He filed the two new words away for future reference.

None were allowed to let their attention drift for long, and Aeneas obediently squared up to the dummy that his trainer pointed him towards. As he did so he noticed movement off to one side, another who had been heading in roughly his direction, who then paused. Pale-skinned like himself, she was a woman in this arena of men, though clearly another warrior. As she took up against a nearby pell, her words drifted to him and he nodded silent thanks, resisting the urge to grumble. “Gods willin’.” He murmured. It was a frustrating process.

He wanted to ask her how she’d managed, how she’d come to be there, and above all how long she had been amongst the Romans. He wanted to ask her if she knew how to get home. It was plain however that idling would not be tolerated, as he received yet another cuff up the back of his head, presumably for his distraction.

The warrior woman wasn’t the only one whose attention he had garnered. Indeed he and the other new arrivals were widely regarded with mild interest, but one in particular wandered over. Were it not for his height and pale skin, burned and freckled by the hot sun, this man might have been mistaken for another Roman. Someone who, from the look of him, had aclimatised.

So it was something of a surprise when he was addressed in his native tongue, or at least the southern dialect with which he had become so accustomed of late. Blue eyes regarded the man curiously for a long moment. “Aonghus.” He said at last. “But they caw me ‘Aeneas’.” He added with a tip of the head in the retreating doctore’s direction, followed by a shrug.

“An’ yersel?” He asked in turn. “Ye soond like a Brigantean.” Those amongst whom Aeneas had been captured. He himself had an obvious northern burr.

[Chris]

Eppitacus grinned at the newcomer's thick northern accent. It had been some time since he heard a man with speech so unaltered by the Roman tongue. "Aonghus," He said more under his breath than to the man. He knew that in this world Aonghus would need to go by the name the Romans put on him. Eppitacus had been one of the few to maintain his name - though he was more often than not simply called 'Epp' by those who had come to know him well.

"Catuvellauni, actually," he said, after Aeneas commented on his dialect. "But I spent a good amount of time with the Brigantes." He paused, and sized the man up. Based on the way he was built he was sure to make a good fighter - at least for what the Romans would want from him. Eppitacus was sure there was a story to his capture, and a part of him wondered whether or not the northern tribes had started their own war with the Romans... but such questions would wait.

"You'll do good to learn the Romanach language as soon as you can. They'll respect you more for it."

 

[Sarah]

Catuvellauni; further south even that the Brigantes, it was a name Aeneas only recognised vaguely. The man said he'd spent a lot of time with the Brigantes, but he'd also obviously spent a lot of time with the Romans; not a captive of their final victory then.

"Caledonii." The northman replied, jerking a thumb at himself. This 'Eppitacus' as the doctore had called him, might be as close to a countryman as he would find here. Or so he thought, unaware that in a few weeks he'd meet another from much closer to home.

The man's advice was sound, and something he'd been thinking himself. "Aye, a'm tryin'." He said. "I ken 'stand up-sit down-come here-stay-there-eat that-shut up' weel enou'." The words were accompanied by a wry grin. "Tis harder tae pick up words whin they dinnae talk tae me much." He added more soberly. Communication was important, and Aeneas listened to every Latin conversation within earshot in the hope of learning more.

"Mibbie ye cuid hulp me?" He suggested, giving the man a shrewd look. "If I cuid learn a few wurds ilka day..." He had motivation, after all.

Eppitacus Branwen

[Chris]

Eppitacus nodded as the northerner pointed to himself and marked himself as a Caledonian. He had suspected as much, based on his features and his speech, and had his suspicions confirmed with the simple gesture. He wondered if the Romans had pushed so far north... or if this Aonghus' story of captivity had a different spark. He figured he would learn eventually, once there was a trust built between them.

A smirk spread across the Briton's mouth as his new acquaintance spoke to his growing vocabulary. "Sure," he added, "I can help... if you're worth the time." Eppitacus wasn't about to ruin his daily routine for a newcomer who couldn't hold his own. "Show me how well you can fight," he said, and walked to grab a nearby polearm he could use. "Attack when you're ready," Eppitacus goaded, spinning the pole about until he fell naturally and gracefully into a balanced stance.

Before an attack came, Eppitacus glanced to Branwen and shouted for her to join in if she felt so inclined. Their own little Britannia in the making.


Aeneas

[Sarah]

Nothing in life was free, unless it was freely taken. Not even the aid of a fellow countryman. So much for cohesion against the enemy. But then Eppitacus even looked like a Roman; perhaps he'd been here too long and had too much to lose. In which case, he would also have the most to offer.

Nodding, Aeneas lifted the shield and blunted practice sword which he'd been given, the closest weapons to those with which he was familiar, though the weights were all wrong; the sword too short and the shield too large. But needs must. He'd fought spearmen before, but the other man had the look of one well accustomed to the fighting arena; the Caledonii approached with caution, shield raised to just below eye height, sword held low and forward; it was a weapon made for stabbing rather than slashing like a broadsword.

Balanced on the balls of his feet, Aeneas advanced quickly, seeking to use the shield to defend himself from any blows Eppitacus might direct at him, the sword ready to come up from underneath.

Eppitacus

[Chris]

Eppitacus watched from a safe distance as the Caledonian adjusted to the difference in the Roman weapons. Britons were accustomed to a different sort of sword from the Roman gladius, and a smaller sort of shield from their scutum. In their match, Eppitacus would retain the advantage so long as he kept his distance, but as soon as the northerner closed the gap, he'd be forced to give up his footing. He wondered how long it would take his kinsman to realize the advantage of his armaments.

Apparently not long at all.

Eppitacus slid back on the toes of his feet as Aeneas advanced quickly toward him, and with a quick thrust threw the tip of his spear against the front of his partner's shield. It was a blow purposefully aimed at the shield to test the strength of the defender's arm, and the speed of his reflexes.

Aeneas

[Sarah]

A spearman had the advantage of reach over a swordsman; Aeneas had learned that in his battles against the Romans before he was captured and Eppitacus obviously knew that as well. The seasoned gladiator slid gracefully back as Aeneas advanced, keeping the gap between them open even as the northerner tried to close it. The shortness of the Roman weaponry didn’t help either, where Eppitacus might have just been in range of a longsword as he stabbed his spear into Aeneas’s shield, the gladius fell well short.

Bracing against the impact to the scutum, which he had to admit provided a great deal more protection than the lighter, round buckler, and for less movement, if one had the strength to hold it. Aeneas had been a smith, but he’d also lost a lot of muscle on the long walk to Rome. He braced his shield arm, resisting the instinctive reaction of raising the shield above eye height, knowing that it would block his vision. 

Instead, holding the shield steady, he pivoted and stabbed with the gladius towards Eppitacus; not at his body which was out of reach, but at the nearest hand which held the spear.

@Chris

Edited April 9, 2019 by Sarah