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I stood in the centre of the arena, my sandals sinking slightly into the blood-soaked sand. The roar of the crowd had faded to a distant hum, like the buzzing of insects on a summer day. Around me, my fellow gladiators were celebrating our victory, their voices hoarse from shouting and laughter. But I couldn't join in their revelry. Not yet.

My eyes scanned the arena, taking in the aftermath of our battle. Bodies lay strewn across the sand, some still, others groaning in pain. The visiting team from Hikma had fought bravely, but in the end, our experience and training had won out. We had emerged victorious, but at a cost. Tarsus had been carried off to the medicus with what looked like a broken arm and a vicious head wound, but he’d been luckier than Andus.

Andus hadn’t been one of our best, but he had been a skilled fighter and a loyal friend. Now he was gone. Another one leaving to walk the Eternal Fields. I felt a heaviness in my chest, a familiar ache that I had learned to push aside over the years.

"Marcus!" a voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned to see Lucius, one of our younger gladiators, approaching with a wide grin on his face. "We did it! We showed Hikma what real fighters look like!"

I nodded, forcing a small smile. "That we did, Lucius. You fought well today."

His chest puffed up with pride at my words. "Thanks to your training, Marcus. I used that feint you taught me last week. Caught that big brute right in the gut!"

"Good," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But remember, there's always room for improvement. We'll work on your footwork tomorrow."

Lucius' smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded eagerly. "Of course, Marcus. Whatever you say."

As he moved away to join the others, I caught sight of Drusus, our owner, making his way towards me. His expensive robes were pristine, untouched by the blood and grime that covered the rest of us. A reminder, as if I needed one, of the vast gulf between our stations.

"Well done, Marcus," Drusus said as he approached, his voice oily with satisfaction. "Another victory for our arena. The crowd was most impressed."

"Thank you, Dominus," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "The men fought bravely."

Drusus waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. But it was your leadership that won the day. The way you rallied the men when that Hikman nearly breached our left flank... magnificent."

I said nothing, merely inclining my head in acknowledgment. Drusus didn't need to know that the "rally" had been more desperation than strategy. In the heat of battle, with Andus fallen and our line wavering, I had acted on instinct, shouting encouragement and throwing myself into the fray.

"Of course," Drusus continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We did lose Andus. A shame. He was a crowd favourite, and he’s going to cost me quite a bit to replace"

"He died with honour," I said, unable to keep a hint of steel from my voice. "Fighting for the glory of your house."

Drusus studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Indeed. See that his body is given the proper rites. It wouldn't do to anger the gods, after all."

With that, he turned and strode away, no doubt eager to bask in the adulation of the crowd and count his winnings. I watched him go, feeling the familiar mix of resentment and resignation that had been my constant companion for the past twenty years.

Twenty years. Had it really been so long since I had last seen the rolling hills of my homeland? Since I had breathed the crisp mountain air and felt the warmth of a loving family? It seemed like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. That Marcus, the young soldier full of pride and dreams, had died on the battlefield when the Empire's legions had swept through foreign lands, burning and pillaging as we went. I pushed away the memories. That was another time, one best forgotten.

A commotion near the gates drew my attention. The arena slaves had arrived to begin the grim task of clearing the dead and wounded. Two approached Andus’ body, and I strode over to help them.

"I'll take him," I said.

The slaves looked at me with a mixture of surprise and relief. I bent down and lifted Andus' body, grunting with the effort. He had been a short but muscular man in life, and death had not made him any lighter. But I owed him this much, at least.

The pyre was out behind the arena, away from the living quarters and the animals. We kept a large variety of animals on hand, and many of them were predators. The smell of burning flesh could send them into a frenzy so the pyre was built on the other side of the land the arena stood on. It was permanent, a constant reminder to us all that seeing the sun rise the next day was never a guarantee in this life.

As I carried Andus' body towards the pyre, I felt the weight of more than just his physical form. Each step was a reminder of the countless lives I'd seen extinguished in this cursed arena. The smell of blood and death clung to me, a stench I knew would never truly wash away.

The pyre loomed before me, a grim sentinel against the darkening sky. The slaves had already begun stacking wood and kindling, preparing for the night's somber task. Three bodies already lay on the pyre, gladiators from Hikma, their eyes staring blindly up at the sky.

In my country, we would close the eyes of the dead, preparing them for their endless sleep until the gods awoke once more and raised their children back to eternal life, but in the Empire, the eyes were left open so the soul could see their way to the Eternal Fields. Twenty years and it still disturbed me a little.

Laying Andus' body gently on the pyre, I took a moment to straighten his limbs. It ate at me that a warrior was sent on his way without a weapon in his hand, but weapons were expensive and cost more than us the slaves that wielded them.

"You fought well, my friend," I murmured. "May the gods grant you peace in the Eternal Fields."

As I stepped back, I became aware of a presence beside me. It was Antonius. He was one of our veteran gladiators and a man I had come to respect over the years. He was a similar age to myself, another war captive from the northern kingdoms where the mountains touched the sky and for several months of the year, the world was covered in white. Or so he said.

"It's never easy," he said quietly, his eyes on Andus' still form. "No matter how many times we do this."

I grunted in agreement. "It's the life we lead."

Antonius turned to look at me, his weathered face serious. "You did well today, Marcus. Kept us together when things got rough."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "We all did our part."

"True enough," Antonius said with a nod. "But the men look to you. They trust you."

I didn't respond, unsure of what to say. It was true that over the years, I had become something of a leader among the gladiators. It wasn't a role I had sought, but one that had been thrust upon me by circumstance and necessity. Antonius did the same, but he was quieter, and although he was adept at teaching one on one, leading a group of fighters was not his preference. My imperial army training had proved useful in keeping us alive, and we’d made Drusus’s ludus famous in our corner of the empire.

"Come on," I said finally, turning away from the pyre. "We should clean up and eat."

As we walked back towards the centre of the arena, I could hear the sounds of celebration from the feasting hall. The other gladiators were gathering, passing around wineskins and recounting their exploits in the battle. Part of me wanted to join them, to lose myself in the camaraderie and forget, for a moment, the weight of responsibility that pressed down on me. Antonius waited at the door for me, but I shook my head and he gave a brief nod before disappearing inside. He knew me, and wouldn’t try to involve me in the merrymaking. As the celebrations continued around me, I slipped away, seeking a moment of solitude.

My feet carried me to a secluded corner of the arena, where the shadows were deep and the noise of revelry faded to a distant murmur. I leaned against the cool stone wall, closing my eyes and letting out a long, slow breath.

The adrenaline of battle had long since faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that seemed to seep into every part of my being. It wasn't just physical exhaustion – though there was plenty of that – but a mental fatigue that came from constantly being on guard, always watching, always ready.

The others dealt with it differently, much the same way as I had in the past. The adrenaline and blood fury of battle didn’t ebb away with the victory, instead it fizzed through your veins, hyping you up to want more, to do more. There were only three ways I knew of that dealt with the aftereffects. Drink, violence and sex. Drusus knew this too, and after every tournament in the arena, food and cheap wine flowed freely, and the slaves of the arena were sent to satisfy the fighters’ lust.

I would go in shortly, have some food and maybe a few drinks. The wine would help me sleep. Violence I’d had enough of for today, and the other... well. It had been many years since I took a woman to my bed, As a young man, I had been blind to what went on, believing in my naivety that the women that came to my bed were there by choice, but as I grew older, I began to notice the resignation or the haunted looks in their eyes. The way their smiles didn’t quite reach, the way their sighs sounded… wrong. And so I stopped asking anyone. I was a slave myself, even if I outranked them. A life lived at the whim of another, with no ownership of my own body, and I would be damned if I did that to another human being.

I opened my eyes, gazing up at the sliver of sky visible above the arena walls. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of gold and crimson. It reminded me of the sunsets back home, viewed from the hills where I'd spent my youth. For a moment, I allowed myself to remember: the scent of pine trees, the feel of cool grass beneath my feet, the sound of my mother's laughter carried on the evening breeze.

Those memories were from another life, one that had ended abruptly thirty years ago when the Empire's legions had marched across our borders to protect us from the Talfen and recruit us for the ongoing war against those demons from the north. I had been a young man then, barely more than a boy really, filled with pride and dreams of glory as I donned my armour and took up my sword to defend the empire.

I snorted softly, shaking my head at my own youthful naivety. Our land had been absorbed into the Empire almost overnight, and at fifteen I’d fought in my first battle against the black eyed minions of Inferi. No one knew exactly where they came from, Inferi itself many believed, but the war had gone on for several generations. Their raids had become more frequent, more desperate, and the Emperor had ordered us to go on the offensive, invading their territory, raiding their villages and towns. They fought like the demons the rumours said they were descended from, but even their dragons and dark sorcerers were no match for the disciplined might of the Empire. I could still remember the chaos of those, the screams of the dying, the acrid smell of smoke and blood, the crying of the women and children... The night I had stood my ground and spoken out from the one shred of conscience I had left. The night I refused to obey orders and became a prisoner of the Empire I had served for ten storms.

Since then, my life had been defined by the sands of the arena. I had fought, bled, and nearly died countless times for the entertainment of the crowds. I had seen friends fall and enemies triumph. I had learned to harden my heart and focus only on survival.

And yet... and yet a small part of me still clung to hope. Hope for freedom, hope for a life beyond these walls. I closed my eyes again, allowing myself to imagine it: a small farm on a quiet hillside, fields of wheat swaying in the breeze, a modest house with smoke curling from the chimney. A wife to share my days, children to carry on my name. Peace. Simplicity. A life lived on my own terms.

But such dreams were dangerous. They made a man soft, made him lose focus. And in the arena, loss of focus meant death. I pushed the images away, locking them back in the deepest recesses of my heart where they couldn't distract me. One day I would do enough to earn my freedom, but right now, that day seemed very far away.

With a sigh, I straightened up. There was one more duty I had to perform before I could rest. I made my way towards the small temple that stood at the edge of the arena grounds, my steps heavy but purposeful. The temple was a modest structure, nothing like the grand edifices that dotted the city. But it served its purpose, providing a place for gladiators and spectators alike to offer prayers to the gods. Before a fight, it could be busy, with little space to offer supplication or prayers, but now it stood empty and shadowed. A couple of torches burned on the walls and I made my way to the main shrine.

The shrine wasn’t dedicated to any god in particular, there were too many faiths in this town. Not far from the north western border and on a half decent trade route, we got a variety of people here and the gladiators themselves were a mixed bunch, hailing from all over the Empire and beyond.

Kneeling before the shrine, I lit a small candle, watching as the flame flickered to life. For a moment, I simply stared at it, mesmerised by its dance. Then, closing my eyes, I began to pray.

"Great Gods of the Empire and beyond," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, "I come before you to ask for your aid. Andus, a warrior of great skill and courage, has fallen in battle. I ask that you guide his soul to the Eternal Fields, where he may find the peace and honour he so richly deserves. Guide him to his ancestors, may he find his family and freedom in death, as it was taken from him in life."

I paused, swallowing hard against the unexpected lump in my throat. Andus had been more than just a fellow gladiator. He had been a friend, one of the few I had allowed myself to grow close to over the years. His loss left a void that would not easily be filled.

"Your will is beyond my understanding. For myself, I ask only that you continue to grant me strength in battle, and... and if it is your will, that you might guide me towards the path to freedom."

I remained there for a long moment, head bowed, listening to the soft crackle of the torches. Despite my best efforts, I could feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. Here, in the dim light of the temple, with the scent of incense heavy in the air, it was harder to maintain the stoic facade I presented to the world.

Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself. I opened my eyes, gazing once more at the flickering candle.

"Watch over us all," I murmured, offering one final prayer before rising to my feet. “Glory and long life to the Emperor.”

I probably could have not said the last part. There was no one here to overhear, but it had been drilled into me for so many years. Many times since I’d become a gladiator, I had endured beatings for not saying those words, wishing defeat and death to the man who had ravaged so many lands for his own glory and riches, but even the strongest man can be beaten down and broken eventually, and now the words tumbled from my lips as easily as any others.

As I turned to leave the temple, I caught sight of my reflection in a polished bronze plate hanging on the wall. The face that looked back at me was that of a stranger – older, harder, with eyes that had seen too much and a mouth set in a grim line. Where had the young soldier gone, the one who had dreamed of glory and honour? He was long dead, I realised, as surely as if he had fallen on the battlefield all those years ago.

I straightened my shoulders, pushing away the moment of melancholy. There was no use dwelling on the past or dreaming of a future that might never come. All that mattered was the present – the next fight, the next victory, the next step towards freedom. With that thought firmly in mind, I strode out of the temple and back into the night, ready to face whatever challenges tomorrow might bring.

The pyre burned bright against the darkening sky, flames licking hungrily at the wood and the bodies laid upon it. I stood a short distance away, watching as the fire consumed Andus and the other fallen gladiators. The heat pressed against my face, but I didn't step back. This was part of our life - or rather, our death - as gladiators. To turn away would be to deny the reality of our existence.

Around me, the slaves who had built the pyre gathered in respectful silence, and a couple of gladiators who had known Andus the best. Some muttered prayers, others simply stared into the flames with haunted eyes. I could see the weight of mortality heavy on their shoulders.

I paused, looking at each face in turn. Some were veterans like myself, their bodies marked with the scars of countless battles. Others were younger, still filled with the fire of youth and dreams of glory. A couple of them looked over to me, and I realised they were seeking reassurance. My heart ached, knowing no words could explain his loss, or the knowledge that more would die tomorrow, or the day after that.

"Andus was a brave fighter," I said. More looked up at my words. "He never backed down from a challenge, never hesitated to help a comrade in need. We will remember his bravery, his loyalty, his laughter. And we will honour his memory by fighting as he did - with all our hearts, until the very end."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered gladiators. I saw heads nodding, backs straightening. Good. They needed this reminder of our brotherhood, our shared purpose. It would help carry them through the dark nights ahead.

"Rest well, brothers," I murmured, bowing my head towards the pyre. "We who still live will carry on your legacy."

As the others dispersed, returning to their celebrations or seeking the solace of sleep, I remained by the pyre. The flames were beginning to die down now, the bodies nothing more than charred remains. Soon, there would be nothing left but ashes to be scattered to the winds.

Such was the transient nature of a gladiator's life. We burned bright and fierce, capturing the imagination of the crowds, but in the end, we were as insubstantial as smoke. How many had I seen fall over the years? How many names and faces had been consigned to the flames and then to forgetfulness?

And yet, we fought on. For glory, for the roar of the crowd, for the slim chance of earning our freedom. I had seen it happen, rarely. A gladiator who pleased the Emperor or a wealthy patron might be granted their freedom, allowed to leave the arena behind and start a new life.

It was a dream I clung to, even after all these years. I allowed myself another moment to imagine it: walking out of the arena for the last time, a free man. I would travel south, back to the rolling hills of my homeland. Find a plot of land, build a small house with my own hands. Plant crops, tend animals. Wake each morning to the sound of birdsong instead of clashing swords.

Perhaps I would find a woman willing to share my life, to look past the scars. A woman who would crave my body and my protection, whose touch would chase away the nightmares. Who’s love would quicken my soul once again. We would have children, boys and girls with my eyes and her smile. I would teach them to work the land, to respect the old ways. They would grow up free, never knowing the weight of chains or the sting of the lash.

It was a beautiful dream. I shook my head, banishing the images. My reality was here, in the arena. My family was my fellow gladiators. My future extended only as far as the next fight.

As I made my way back to the gladiators' quarters, I could hear the sounds of ongoing celebration. Some of the men were still awake, their voices carrying through the night air, and with them the sounds of pleasure. I didn't join them. Instead, I headed straight for my small, private room - a privilege earned through years of victories.

Closing the door behind me, I felt the weight of the day settle fully onto my shoulders. I removed my tunic, wincing at the fresh bruises and cuts that marked my body. Another set of scars to add to my collection.

I washed quickly with the water from the jug beside my bed, the cool liquid soothing against my skin. Then, with a groan, I lowered myself onto the narrow cot. The straw mattress crinkled beneath me, a familiar discomfort.

Lying there in the darkness, I found my thoughts drifting once again to the future. Not the dream of freedom this time, but the more immediate concerns of tomorrow and the days to come. We had lost Andus, one of our strongest fighters. The dynamics of our team would shift, roles would need to be reassigned. And there were always new gladiators coming in, young men and women full of fire and ambition who needed to be moulded into effective fighters.

It was a never-ending cycle. Train, fight, survive. Train the next generation, watch them fight, mourn those who fell. And through it all, maintain the delicate balance between hope and realism, between dreaming of freedom and accepting the chains of our reality.

I closed my eyes, feeling the pull of exhaustion. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. For now, I needed rest.