Thread: Sacramentum Gladiatorum (Machiavelli & Andronica)

Maximus quickly tired of holding the threatening position, blade raised. His muscles tensed, itching to finish the fight. Then, finally he got a signal, the signal to stand aside and spare the man on the ground. With a soft hiss of displeasure, he held the position for one more second, glancing down at the prone warrior. With pursed lips, he gave him a curt nod. Then, swallowing his desire for the kill, he uttered two words Bene pugnavit. Dark eyes rose to Cassian, master of the house, dominus, as he commented on Maximus' capability in the fight. With just a nod, Maximus acknowledged the praise quietly. His eyes then snapped to the attractive woman as she ordered the losing fighter to the medicus annd the doctore instantly followed her orders. Those dark eyes lingered on her for just a moment, before she pushed away the balcony and strode away. Peculiar. He too was soon dismissed by the dominus, clearly satisfied with his service for the afternoon, and he returned to the small room off the ludus to be tended to. He was stripped down, the oil and sweat scraped from his body carefully, and as he returned the swords to their place on the weapons rack. They would be attended to as well, at a later time. His role today was done. He integrated into life in his new household with relative ease. There were glances passed to him by the household staff, knowing his reputation, but he cared little. He'd found a place in life, and while he wasn't necessarily happy, at least he still had a role to play. Any of those staff whose eyes lingered long were quickly frightened away when his eyes reached theirs, frightened away by his dark gaze. Every day, he trained in the ludus with other fighters. He was a rough opponent, not holding any blows, thought they fought with wooden weapons. His opponents were left bruised, and he took a few blows, but ultimately stood strong. He fought on a battlefield - he knew how to survive, to fight, to kill. Training was merely a safe alternative, one that bored him. Instead, he entertained himself by berating his opponent, teaching them the errors of their ways with sharp strikes to exposed ribs, arms, shoulders. Those strikes often came with curt, mocking Watch your guard, stultus. The fourth day of the week, or perhaps the fifth - there was little to be gained from knowing the date when it did not affect your life - training proceeded as usual. But this time, the domina watched. She was present on the balcony, her husband absent. This too was unusual. It seemed that the man of the house found no other way to spend his time than observing the fights, as if his only business was violence. Maximus cared little, of course - he was a tool for the man, and he had no delusions otherwise. He'd already seen how easily praise could be garnered from the man, and how quickly it could leave. On this day, he was paired with a younger fighter, a fresh-faced youth. Clumsy and slow, in comparison. One who had never seen real combat. The training began, and Maximus began to beat him soundly. One quick flash of a wooden sword cracking across the young gladiator's ribs, and he dropped to the ground, Maximus standing over him, clearly bored. Stand. Guard your ribs. He mocked. His opponent staggered back to his feet, squared off, and they fought again. Over eager, the fool quickly overextended and left his guard down. A wooden sword cracked over his skull, dropping him again. You're dead. Now get up so I can kill you again. Maximus almost spat. I'm going to kill you eventually, the least you can do is make it interesting.