Thread: Sacramentum Gladiatorum (Machiavelli & Andronica)

Maximus Aelius might have had a relaxing life of relative luxury within the borders of Rome, if not for the Gallic Wars. Eight years of harsh battle had broken his mind from the comforts of civilization. He'd returned a shattered man, a man who could not maintain a normal life of socials and parties and polite talks over fruit and wine. After he nearly broke a man's neck after a drunken argument, the judex sentenced him to fifteen years of gladiatorial servitude. That, as it happened, offered him the perfect opportunity. He proved himself in combat time and time again, a ruthless killer who would slay any beast or man at a command. It was a new life, and in some ways, it was better than when he had been a free citizen of the city. The downfall was only in serving the pompous young men who had never seen combat, who knew only the soft comforts of home. He'd served two years of his sentence now, and the man who had purchased him originally had decided it was time to turn a profit on his most prized fighter. He had been sold to a new household, and escorted by their doctore to the private ludus of his new master. As expected, he was instantly prompted to prepare for a bout, in order to prove his worth to the assembled nobles, and to prove that he was money well spent. He was prepared for combat by a series of attending slaves who helped him into the leather armor. He fought with two siccae, a curved, wicked sword, forgoing the usual shield carried by many traditional gladiators. His weapons had already been prepared and waited on a wooden table across the room as oil was applied to his arms and legs, a linen loincloth concealing his groin. His feet wore only sandals. From the room just off the ludus, he heard the doctore begin announcing the coming show Noble masters, today I present to you Maximus Aelius, a fighter of known strength and speed, competing to prove his worth to you. I have selected only the best to test his mettle - Lucius Armicus, a veteran of this ludus. As the doctore spoke his name, Maximus crossed the room, taking up his swords and stepping through the doorway, out into the sunlit arena, spinning the weapons in his hands with the ease of a trained warrior. It was showy, flashy, but also a testament to his skill. From the other side of the field, a man stepped from another preparation room, suited in a similar leather armor. He carried a trident in one hand and a small, round shield in the other, a helm hiding his face from view. Maximus resisted the urge to spit a curse. The trident was long enough that it posed a difficult issue - how to get close enough to use his own weapons. Fight on! The doctore proclaimed, and the fight was indeed on. The other fighter clearly knew his advantage well, circling him, but keeping a safe distance. While he used the trident carefully, poking and prodding at Maximus' defenses, the space in the ludus allowed him plenty of room to dodge or parry the blows. The third time the trident jabbed out, Maximus decided it was time to stop playing safe. His left sword spun up to knock the stab aside, stepping into his opponent, his right sword cutting toward the man's shoulder. Up came the metal shield and the clash of metal on metal rang out as the trident-fighter jumped back, narrowly dodging the follow-up strike from the left sword. Now Maximus had the upper hand, sword flashing as he followed his opponent, keeping himself solidly inside the range of the man's longer weapon. Realizing the danger of his choice, he ducked away, skirting around the dual-wielding fighter to the other side of the area. The trident was hurled in his direction, a dangerous but ineffective throw as Maximus stepped aside, letting the weapon clatter against the wall. One tip left a little scrape on his upper arm as it sailed past, a wound that the man simply ignored. From behind his hip, the veteran fighter produced a gladius, and charged. A flurry of blows were exchanged, swords crashing together or against a shield as the weapons flashed in the sun. Each fighter took hits - Maximus dealt several cuts across the man's arms and shoulders, but sustained a hit to his ribs the leather deflected the cut, but the bruise would certainly linger and one across his forearm, a long cut that dropped blood to the sand. After his opponent took a step forward to take advantage of that blow, Maximus turned the tables on him. Darting to the right side, he kicked at the fighter's knee, dropping him to the ground. In a swift response, Maximus laid a foot down on his wrist, pinning the sword in the sand. With a flourish, his right sword spun in his hand and he raised it above his head, poised for the killing blow. Then his face lifted to the balcony. He was as handsome as the slaves had rumored, dark hair framing a chiseled face marked with a few scars. A rough stubble coated his jaw and chin, and dark eyes waited for the signal of death or mercy. There was no emotion in that gaze, just a waiting patience, the look of a man who cared not if he took another life. It would be one of many. Now that the oil had mixed with the sweat from the fight and his skin no longer shone so brightly in the sun, it was easier to note his darkened skin tone, cultivated by hours under that sun. His arms ripped with muscle that flowed as he moved, and he was a towering man. Clearly, he was a killer. Exactly what the doctore ordered.