103AD

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The Thracian was not from Thrace. Unless, of course, back there was Thrace, in which case perhaps he was; certainly it had changed him irrevocably. But the arena did not care about true origins, real names, or the realities of the hard life on the fringes of Pax Romana. The plebeians and Patricians of great Rome cared only for the spectacle, for the exhilarating fun of the arena. Spartacus, dead 130 years but memory still lingering, was a Thracian – or fought like one, at least. Spartacus was scary, evoking a reminder of a man who defied Rome. The mob liked to be scared, and calling himself a Thracian gave them something to fear.

Spartacus, though, was no Murmillo as he. The fine curves of the helmet hid the Italian sun’s powerful glare, but he still felt it burn and roast his exposed skin. He knew some of the crowd were staring at his muscles, powerful and toned, scarred from continuous combat, only a loincloth, manica and leg guards to protect his modesty. It was not a style he felt comfortable with; he had trained to manhood in a different style altogether.

It didn’t matter, he’d still win. He gripped his scutum tight, and with the other hand, raised his gladius.

The crowd went ecstatic. Thousands of the plebs crying out in unison, baying for vicious hurt and violence to erupt in the centre of the magnificent arena. The Amphitheatrum Flavium, started by Vespasian to end the blight of the Domus Aura… or so he understood. He was far too young, even after the decades of conflict, to remember.

Decades. Had it really been that long? Had it really taken years to escape that maze, that horror, that unworldly nightmare, and return to this?

He looked across at his opponent. Dimacharii, two vicious blades ready to cut and slice. Nimble, fast, agile; not a hulking monster as he. The crowd cheered once more, and, across the sand, his opponent began to move. He anchored his feet into the sand and began to calculate.

First, two steps to the right, so the blades could get an angle; one down toward the neck, the other up to the chest. The first blow would be parried, the second would cause him, the heavier, to stumble – an instant crowd-pleaser. Then the fight would begin in earnest. That’s how he’d do it.

He watched as the Dimacharii approached. He was famous throughout the Empire: Marcus Attilus. A legend, destined for the rudis. Until, of course, today.

Attilus swung. He didn’t parry with his shield. Instead, in a movement flowing, supernatural, irresistible, he simply absorbed the blow on his chest, in the process grabbing the opponent under his left arm, forcing him to release his grip on the sword. Then he kicked him in the groin and dropped him like a sack.

The crowd hushed in stunned silence. Beneath the gleaming gold of the helmet, he surveyed them all. He waited for it. He knew it would come. It had to come. The fight was an embarrassment: it had taken less than five seconds.

Then the answer came. Every fist in the arena called for blood; every man and woman showed the pollice verso to indicate death.

He smiled, and tilted his helmet up, just enough. Just enough so the other could see, could lock his eyes on the hellish creature he had become.

Marcus Attilus relished the exquisite fear on the face of his fetch. And then, in slashes, in thrusts, in vicious, endless swings, he watched the straw, and the dust, and the falseness of it fly out. He watched it die, making it pay for every second of life it had stole from him.

The mob saw only blood and gore. And they loved him for it.