Sacramentum Gladiatorum [ MrAdam & Andronica ]

[Andronica]

Sacramentum Gladiatorum

Villa of Lucius Quintillius - Capua​

The relentless heat of the midday sun was beaten back by the constant attention of slaves bearing fans down upon the nobility high above the arena. She had been there for the better part of the day with her husband, Lucius, and while she was intrigued by the blood sports immensely, the nagging humidity had begun to dampen her spirits. Despite the conditions Oriana was nothing short of lovely. Even when bearing the brunt of the sun and espying the onslaught through narrowed eyes shielded occasionally by her pale hand, the noblewoman always managed to look effortless doing so. One might think keeping up appearances was just as a deadly a game as the clashing of swords below.

It was well worth it, though, when yet again their Northerner elevated their name through glorious victory. With a purse of denarii and a gladiator bloodied up but still breathing - which was more than they could say for poor Atilius' Gallic brute who laid face down in the sands - she was glad to be rid of that exhausting place for now.

When they arrived back at the villa, Oriana was somewhat refreshed from the journey. She strode into her home expectantly while flanked by one of her body slaves, a young woman also with a rather pretty face, but who was understated on all accounts, purposefully, by being in the domina's presence. After all this time, Lucius still spoiled her with expensive outfits, jewellery and baubles that made her delight in their beauty. It was hard for anyone to stand out when compared to Oriana, swathed in a bright teal robe with golden trim as vibrant as the ornate necklace and rings that adored her person. Her hair, too, was fashionably twisted up around her head like coils of bronze.

"Must we spill more blood before the Gods see fit to grant us rain?" Oriana moaned in complaint. The words travelled along the faint breeze that wafted through the expansive villa.

Hesta, an older woman who was head of the domestic slaves, held a silver platter with refreshments prepared in advance for the dominus and domina. She came out from one of the halls adjacent to the atrium that Oriana passed through, trying to meet her long stride in the midst of her pointed walk. Without interrupting her stride, a cup of honeyed wine was seamlessly handed over. She slaked her thirst immediately with quick yet delicate sips that offered much needed rescue to the previously withering flower she'd become. Then, a smile spread across rosy lips freshly moistened from drink. It was common knowledge in the Quintillius household that the domina favoured taking the afternoon sun at the southern balcony, especially after the games, and the slaves were prepared from years of experience.

Behind the domina, a small army of slaves in muted hues followed like a column of soldiers. They kept pace with her from the atrium onward as she went to lounge at the shaded balcony connected to her apartments. Among them, a female slave draped in soft brown linen, with hands clasped over her front, caught the attention of a friend beside her.

"The Northerner returned from the games! Medicus is attending to him now," she said in a whisper. The second collared slave nodded with a giddy smirk as they exchanged lascivious whispers about the latest match's victor.

"I heard he is as strong as a wild animal when he is in the arena!" They witnessed him train in the ludus before but seeing him in the arena would be a different spectacle entirely. One only the domina and dominus' closest slaves had the privilege to witness on a regular basis.

A few paces ahead, the older slave woman cleared her throat. A single glance back at the gossiping girls quickly silenced them. Fortunately for the slaves, Oriana did not even notice the heated gossip in her shadow, but her mind was on similar matters. She offered hardly a cant of her delicate jaw to look at one of the other girls trailing along the outskirts of the group. Maelia was swathed in saffron yellow linen and a leather girdle that barely contained her feminine form. Her golden sun-kissed body was lean and petite; gifted with long legs, pert breasts and wide but not overly abundant hips.

"Maelia, you will assist the medicus presently." Words fell flat of the domina's usual lilting tone when issuing a command. Quiet in disposition and not as womanly of figure, Maelia found respite working with Hesta or the mediucus instead of being flaunted for use during fetes.

The slave girl's stormy green eyes peered up attentively, almost startled by the declaration. "Yes, domina," she replied, and at once broke away with the group to venture downstairs. Unlike the other slaves who seemed to fawn over him, Maelia was hesitant. He was handsome to behold, in a strange and savage way, though many slaves were just as quick to fear the man's prowess as they were to be in awe of him. For Maelia it was both.

Oriana's amber eyes turned ahead again to disengage with the other woman and carried on.

---

Below in the ludus, the medicus received the gladiators who fought that day. Their rising star, a brute from the north, was a rarity among them. The medicus noted how he withstood some injuries which might have felled a man of lesser talent and strength. So too did the doctore pick up on this resilience, and it was one of the things whispered into the dominus' ear which elevated the gladiator to his current position. Although, he was not a demigod among mere mortals. On occasion he also felt the sting of a blade opening his flesh or the heat of a bruise welling where the blunt edge of a shield struck him.

Maelia padded down the hall and entered almost soundlessly to the medicus' rooms that were always flooded with the strong scent of herbs. There, she found the medicus hovering over a gladiator who grunted through the pain of having his dislocated shoulder returned to place. Doctore watched from nearby and easily melded into the shadows where sunlight from the entrance to the ludus did not reach.

"Medicus, the domina sent me to --"

"Fetch my supplies from that drawer. A needle and strong wine," the medicus interrupted. He was a slim man with who spoke little, but it was usually curt when he did. Doctore tilted his head toward a small chest of drawers upon which several herbs and salves were assorted in jars, along with bandages. Maelia's eyes hovered over the writhing man as he grit his teeth to will the pain away. The needle was not for that man, she realized. None the less, the slave hurriedly obliged and procured the items.

"Can you stitch?" asked the medicus without looking up from the other gladiator's mangled shoulder. Maelia nodded. "Good. The Northerner's wound is small. See it done."

Doctore pushed off the wall and gestured to Maelia. She followed him to the adjoining open room where he awaited.

 

[MrAdam]

‘Aquilone’ was restless, antsy. He’d fought, fought well, and killed the Gallic bastard, just like they’d told him to. They had all seemed to enjoy it well enough, and the Dominus had collected his first return on his purchase price. Everyone seemed happy with him, which was good. And yet, and yet... this Gaul was supposed to be good, supposed to be a challenge. That’s what he’d been told. Warned.

So he’d taken him seriously, called on the ancestors and channelled and focus the rage within. Perhaps once he might have needed it, but his opponent had gone soft… too much time spent tupping bored Roman matrons and bibbing wine and troughing fancy Roman food, and not enough training. But he hadn’t, not really, and now… now he felt messed up, all nervous energy, half summoned but unspent and half come down from an adrenaline high that he hadn’t quite reached.

He was pacing up and down the room, or perhaps prowling would be a better description. He felt caged. His mind raced. The appearance of the smug little Greek Doctore, without the things he’d asked for, was too much to bear in his current state of mind.

Aquilone turned and glared at the man. He picked up the discarded leather shield arm armour that he’d left on a bench, and hurled it at him with a curse and a frustrated roar. Fortunately for both, he threw to miss, and it flew just over the startled Doctore’s head. He yelled something in his own barbaric tongue, belatedly remembering that he wouldn’t be understood. The act of having to find the words in latin had the effect of distracting him, channelling his frustration in another direction.

“Beer to drink” he snapped, miming each phrase as if the Doctore was hard of thinking, “water to wash. Sun is hot. Arena is dirty. Enemy is… dead. Aquilone is angry.”

Belatedly, he caught sight of the slavegirl trailing in the Doctore’s wake, holding a needle and thread. He paused from lecturing the Doctore, distracted, and looked her up and down. He knew better than to mess with any master’s slavegirls without very specific permission, but the Dominus wasn’t here, and it didn’t hurt to look. And he liked what he saw… long legs, fine curves, golden skin… he grinned a wolfish grin of appreciation. He gave her a wolf howl, but shorter and quieter than was the custom serenade among the young men of his tribe, out of deference to his new culture. A girl like that, dressed like that, deserved the full moon wolf howl serenade, but he’d learnt a few things about the Romans, and one was that they didn’t do this. He felt sorry for their womenfolk – they must feel so underappreciated.

Aquilone was a mountain of a man. He was tall even by the standards of the northern tribes of barbarians, and towered head and shoulders over nearly every Roman, his shoulders half again as broad. He had removed his armour and now wore only an undercloth tied around his waist. His near-nudity appeared not to bother or embarrass him one jot, even in the presence of the slavegirl.

His bare torso was a grimy mess of sweat, dust, sand, woad. He’d wiped off most of the gore from the fight, the blood that wasn’t his. There was a small but deep cut in his shield arm, where he’d not quite blocked a wild swing from the Gallic bastard, but he hardly felt it. His body was covered in small scars from similar incidents, with a more lurid arrowhead scar in his right flank, just below his ribcage, and a spear thrust mark on his left shoulder. He had some faded tribal tattoos on his left breast, swirly circular patterns in blue, and the Roman numerals IX on his left shoulder. On his back was a large but crude wolf tattoo, and some faded marks from a flogging or two.

He was ruggedly handsome in a battered, lived-in kind of way. His skin was still fairer than Romans, in spite of his time spent in the sun. His long, braided blond hair had been sun-bleached even paler, as had a light full beard. His searching eyes were a deep blue, ever watchful. Watching her.

“Sonnenblume!”, he said, looking at her yellow dress, forgetting that she wouldn’t understand him. “Uh… “ he realised that he didn’t know the Latin for what he was looking for. He felt foolish for only a moment, but soon rallied and went for the nearest words he did know. “Flower! Pretty flower!” He smiled.

“You will mend me?” he asked, sceptically, “With your little, little fingers?” He doubted she’d be strong enough.
“Drink first. Wash first” he reiterated. "Then mend me, pretty flower."

 

[Andronica]

Maelia walked in the Doctore's shadow as he took her to Aquilone's cell. The dark haired slave padded quietly into the room with hardly a sound due to her soft lambskin sandals. Though muted in the dim light of the cell, what sunlight did stream in from the two small windows made the deep saffron hue of her slave's attire appear more golden, complimenting the exposed olive tone of her flesh that was hardly hidden under the loosely draped cloth. The way it was bound to her with that strapped leather girdle left little to the imagination either regarding her slender yet womanly form.

In her hands she held a small bowl of herbs close to her body along with the suturing equipment, and a bottle of rather strong wine as per the medicus' instruction. Coming into the northerner's space was something that she should have prepared herself for, however, as the gladiator had a different air about him than the other fighters she'd tended to before. He was a bear of a man with flaxen hair and tattoos the likes of which she'd never seen, which only served to make him a more fearsome enigma in the arena. He also had a loud voice to match and his disgruntled tone quickly flooded the room as he directed frustrations at the Doctore, who motioned for her to come around into view. The trainer was not phased by Aquilone's tirade, probably having endured it many times before.

Then his proclamation came to an abrupt halt. She could feel his gaze burning on her but she kept her head down slightly to avoid looking at his face. She walked over slowly as if approaching an animal and set her things down on the stone bench nearby.

“Sonnenblume!”

He sounded... in better spirits than a moment ago. Maelia looked up then, her brow bunched together at the strange language while he paused to find the right words. Maelia was surprised at his little compliment, and heard Doctore chuckle behind her.

"I will get your beer," he finally told Aquilone, exasperated. Then he pointed to the slave girl with a warning. "Mend him well."

Maelia simply nodded as Doctore left them alone, and she turned her attention back to the big blond man. "I am just as proficient with the needle as the medicus," she explained, hoping that he wouldn't consider a new face to mean inexperience or clumsiness. If he understood her, anyway. Although she did grow a bit hesitant when he insisted on drinking first, and being washed. Maelia chewed the inside of her cheek and looked back at the cell entrance hoping for Doctore's swift return.

In the mean time, she placed the items down and tipped the wine vessel so a bit of the liquid would mix with the medicus' herbal concoction. Using her small finger she combined the mixture quickly and then wafted the fragrant scent of it toward her nose.

Fortunately, Doctore returned swiftly with a skin of beer in hand. He chucked it toward Aquilone expecting the gladiator to catch it.

Maelia waited for him to take a drink so she could begin. Already she was dipping the rest of the rag in the herbal water and wringing it out to apply to his skin. With everything prepared, she was eager to get on with her work and not linger there.

 

[MrAdam]

Aquilone sent the Doctore on his way with a burst of invective in his own language and a peculiar two-fingered gesture performed with the middle and index fingers of both hands which was unlikely to be complementary.

After the Doctore scurried out of sight, the barbarian’s attentions switched back to Maelia. He frowned, not understanding her words immediately and trying to puzzle it out from context… needle… medicus. And something else that he didn’t get, but she was telling him something… that the Medicus would be doing the stitching, and that she… he wasn’t sure. He’d wait to find out, but no-one was touching him until he got his beer.

He watched the girl mix the wine and the herbs. She looked like she knew what she was doing, though she looked less than excited to be doing it. She seemed nervous. Of him, probably. He tried smiling at her, but he suspected that the smile she was seeing on his face was less reassuring and less friendly than the one he intended to transmit. He gave up and settled for watching her. She was very, very watchable.

When he made his fortune and earned his freedom, he’d buy himself a girl like her. To keep his house, to attend to his every need. To look pretty. To buy dresses and jewellery for, to dress up. And to dress down. That’s what he’d do… freedom, his own ludus, his own slavegirl. Like this one, or as like as he could afford… dark hair, tanned skin, petite but feminine, lovely long legs. Fuck, yes. He smiled to himself as he watched her, imagining.

The Doctore returned, to the girl’s evidence relief, and threw the beerskin dismissively towards Aquilone. He plucked it from the air and opened it with one easy motion, threw his head back, and downed it in one, swallowing rapidly as he poured the beer down his throat, easily keeping pace without choking. When it was finished, he exhaled loudly with satisfaction before tipping the last few drops into his mouth.

When he was sure it was empty, he suddenly hurled it at the Doctore with far more force and venom than the little Greek had managed, even with the full skin. This time, Aquilone threw to hit, but an empty beerskin is a poor projectile weapon, and however fast he was, the Doctore had clearly suspected he’d do this, and skipped out of the room.

Aquilone looked at the girl again, and decided to try to be friendly. He shifted position to allow her to clean his arm.
“He’s a little cunt” he said, brightly, smiling, his expression innocent of the vulgarity of the word he’d just used. “Medicus is a cunt, too. You’re not, though, pretty flower.”

 

[Andronica]

Maelia's eyes went wide as she watched the big blond man down the skin of beer as if it were water to a weary traveller. She could smell the strong scent of the mead even beside him, and its mildly bitter honeyed notes baffled her senses. Though she'd seen other gladiators drink just as heavily with ease, wine as well, and was satisfied that with this drink he would finally let her settle into the task at hand.

The slave tried not to take notice of the Doctore slinking away to avoid the beerskin being thrown at him, thus leaving them alone again...

Her mouth was agape at his comment. She wasn't sure what to say as he made his almost gleeful observation about the two men, who he must have dealt with frequently given the accuracy of the medius' constantly surly mood. Maelia drew her mouth into a firm line attempting not to chuckle. Although she did deign him a small smirk, at least.

"Thank you," she eventually responded, and went back to preparing the first stitch. She peered up at him and opened her hand, palm facing him, for emphasis. "Stay still," the slave girl advised.

Maelia still couldn't tell if he understood her or not but it was worth the forewarning. She reached out beginning to dab the moist cloth against the fresh wound, a small laceration that had clotted well already, and cleaned it with little force. Putting the rag down in place of the needle which she had carefully prepared, Maelia took her other hand to gently brace the other side of his wound. Beneath her hand his skin felt hot, and the hardness of his musculature truly was akin to being carved from marble. Doctore's regimen was ruthless in its efficiency and seeing the gladiators train from afar did no justice to one in the flesh.

The dark haired slave girl quickly exchanged a look with the warrior to wordlessly announce that she would begin. No sooner had her stormy eyes flicked down did the needle puncture the edge of his wound. She moved quickly, or as well as she could, considering his arm was taut and hard. Given the size of the wound left by the gladius, she was finished in short order. The rag heavily laden with wine and herbs was once again wiped gently over the spot. Task complete, Maelia placed the needle down and went ahead dabbing the rapidly cooling cloth along his arm.

 

[MrAdam]

When Aquilone faced down another gladiator, armed and armoured, rivals for a prize that only one could win, and perhaps rivals for the right to continue to live, he felt no fear of pain. He felt only the excitement, the elation, the rage beginning to surge through him. The prospect of a deadly warrior with a deadly weapon and a deadly desire to impale him with it did not phase him. But afterwards, a slip of a slavegirl with a needle and thread made him apprehensive.

Why was that? Was it that once the rage was spent and the excitement and energy all gone, he had nothing? Or was it the lack of control? At least he could stop his rival gladiator from piecing his flesh - indeed, that was largely the point. But this was a loss of control… true, he could resist, but he knew it needed to be done. He needed to sit and let it happen, just as she was telling him.

Sonnenblume might have had little fingers, but she seemed to Aquilone to know what to do with them. He watched her in silence, impressed, as she cleaned out the wound. Usually there were two options – gentle or thorough, and because he didn’t want to die of gangrene, he would always prefer thorough, however much it hurt. The girl was no butcher, but neither was the type to faint at the sight of blood, or waft a dressing at the wound from ten paces away. Also – and perhaps this was just compared to the stench of sweat and blood – she smelled really, really good. Fresh. Clean. He envied that.

He looked away when it was time to sew him up. He didn’t want to see the needle going in and out. If he couldn’t see it, it hurt less. Once the stitching was done, she cleaned the area once more.

“Thank you, Sonnenblume” he said. He gingerly moved his arm, slowly testing the range of movements, alert for any tightness or tension.
“Good” he said, “Good.”

The pretty slavegirl had worked quickly and efficiently, and he sensed that she wanted to be gone. Perhaps he shouldn’t have criticised the medicus and the doctore – probably they were in charge and perhaps she worked for them. He had yet to figure all this out properly – he’d not been with them for long enough. She’d looked shocked, but then gave him a little smile. Humouring him, probably.

“Mouth is good” he said, “throat is good. Beer. Arm is good. Arm is mended. But I still have arena dirt. See?”
He stood up and stepped closer to her, indicated his grime-streaked torso, inviting her to look… a wall of muscle, tough, scarred skin, a covering of light hair, now smeared with blue dye, sand, sweat, oil, and the gods knew what else.

“I need to be clean after battle, Sonnenblume. To honour the… grandfather spirits… or they will not be with me in my next battle.”