The sounds of clashing steel echoed down the dim corridor, rivaled in intensity only by the boisterous chanting of men and woman wildly cheering. A man stood within this hallway gripping an iron short sword made by his own two hands. He gripped it loosely and relaxed as sweat dripped from his pores and down his brow. The salty liquid falling and collecting upon his worn down leather armor that had been carved and scratched with decorations of twin horses standing towards a nonexistent sky. His tunic was extremely thin under the protection and was stained with the crimson blood of previous brawls. The nameless warrior raised his head, but kept his eyes fixed upon the ground while he turned towards the stone wall adjacent from him. His mind void of all thoughts as he reached outwards, running his scarred and leathery palm along the brick and mortar. Feeling every single crevice, crack, and cold pebble protruding out, whispering to himself as he did so just like any of his other matches.
"I am a slave. My shackles, both physical and spiritual, will never be and never have been of my own doing. There is a tyrant sitting upon the shoulders of fools. His power are leaves that grow from ignorant roots that smile while he causes the trunk to wither and die. I will be the sword that cuts him down. I will spill the blood that will replenish and revive the roots that is Rome. I am a slave. For now."
The metal on metal symphony was abruptly silence as the crowds cheering had escalated to a full out roar. That was the universal signal that their had been a victor declared within the coliseum. A slave-no, a man was murdered for the entertainment of a nation. The nameless fighter had never blamed them for his misfortune, but the tyrant that played with the lives of others to distract a dying nation from their own decomposition.
"Gladiator"
He turned his head to the gated ramp that lead to his battle with an enormous man standing at it's mouth. The man gave the warrior a slight nod as he pulled on a rusted chain that slowly raised the exit.
"Send them to Hades, Brother."
He refused to acknowledge the violent words of motivation. He despised this life of iron and blood that he had been thrusted into since birth. The son of a slave was still a slave. He had no memory of his parents as they had both died when he was still an infant. This violence and bloodshed was all he had ever known, Yet he had always dreamt of bigger and brighter things. For himself, for his fellow men condemned to fight, and for those under the fists of the oppressors. The howls of hungry spectators were finally quelled as a hoarse voice thundered over them.
"Our next gladiator has yet to be defeated! A warrior of the empire, here to kill and die for your entertainment! You know him as the Miilitant with Mercy! The Fool of Forgiveness! Welcome him for his final fight!"
A final nod from the gatekeeper as the rusted fence began to rise steadily before him and the bright sun heated down upon him while his sandals patted against the dust and into the arena of desecration. Twirling his sword in his hand and feeling it's grooves, remembering the deaths at his hands with a strong sense of remorse. The chanting picked up once again as he peacefully sauntered to the center of the stadium where his massive opponent waited with hungry eyes. Patrious he was called as he lived and breathed for everything that was rome.
Foolish
His body was enormous and muscular compared to the nameless gladiator. Adorned with less scars, however, but filed with much more hate and desire for death, Patrious was chosen as his final opponent so that the renown fighter for compassion could finally be brought down before his pardon.
A simple nod between the adversaries was all that was needed before they abruptly began their quarrel. It lasted for one long, bloody, and violent hour. Both had fought ruthlessly with their lives hanging in the balance while the audience cheered a insatiable craving for more. It ended just as many had predicted. With Patrious laying upon the floor and his heart quickly pierced. A clean and easy death that any warrior could hope for.
A single tear ran down the nameless fighter's eye, as he could see his freedom looming over the horizon and within arms reach. The crowd had silenced themselves once again as the nefarious and corrupt emperor cooly walked down his podium and closer to the victor's immediate area, royal guard in tow. His fat body covered in sweat and a golden civic crown that upon his head that didn't quite fit. A red and lavish sash barely holding onto his overweight frame while his left hand carried a large goblet of expensive wine and his right held the rudiarius. The symbol of his liberation.
"Gladiator! Your life has amused me since I was a young man. Now you stand before me as one of the most prestigious fighters this coliseum has ever known."
The words were like salt being rubbed into a wound that would never heal. Poison being spat from the mouth of a snake into his already deceased food. There was nothing he could do. Not now at least, so instead of responding, he grit his teeth to relieve the tension building within himself.
"I offer you now that you champions have sought since you have been aware of it's power. I offer you this rudiarius, the indication of your emancipation and claim here and now, thy name."
Extending his arm with the handle facing the slave, he had no hesitation in responding. Taking the handle and gripping the smooth oak he spoke in a thunderous and proud voice filled with both resentment and relief.
"I, Aquila Aurelius, accept my road to salvation."
The tyrant raised an eyebrow in amazement, contemplating the name he had chosen. Considering the meaning behind it.
"Aquila you say? The eagle. A symbol of roman patriotism I assume?"
The Aquila was a powerful representation of Roman power throughout the world and it's golden figure had adorned many banners and flags, but that was not the ideology behind it being chosen.
"Yes, My Liege."
He lied through his teeth. He had embraced the eagle over it's true meaning. Freedom, strength, and triumph over evil. He rose from his knee had bowed, acting as the modest free man he had become. This was only the beginning. He would leave Rome for now, but when he returned…He would not be a slave turned citizen. No. He would be a figure of the helpless and become the image of their liberty. Soon.
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