The Red Serpent [ alkaline & Andronica ]

[Fiadh]

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 Verus elevated their name through glorious victory. With a purse of denarii and a gladiator bloodied up but still breathing - 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 was 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, 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 the gladiator, there was a hesitance about Maelia. He was handsome to behold, yes, though many slaves were just as quick to fear Verus' prowess as they were to be in awe of him. For Maelia it was both.

Oriana's amber brown 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 latest and most uppity acquisition, Verus, 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 brought Verus to his current position, like it or not. Although, he was not a demigod among mere mortals. On occasion he too 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 gladiator's shoulder. Maelia nodded. "Good. The brute'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 Verus awaited.

 

[Alkaline]

Of all the horrors in Rome, Verus was starting to believe it was the relentless heat that he hated most. With a grunt, he forced his boot into the chest of his now dead comrade for leverage, a cleaver slipping from sweaty palms. The brute wiped his hand on the olive green loincloth wrapped at his waist, before trying again. This time, with a sickening crunch, he twisted the cleaver free, dislodging it from the fallen man’s skull, a fresh burst of blood pouring across the remains of his face.

“Gods be with you, Artorias.”

Verus, formerly Aidan of Clann Dohmnall, hadn’t truly been fond of the former gladiator, in fact he’d have even said he downright hated the man, had he been asked during the short few months he knew him, but even the most bitter of his enemies didn’t deserve this life. Kill or be killed. All for the sake of their entertainment.

Eyes rising up, the ringing in Verus’ ears finally began to stop, replaced by the roar of the crowd. They reveled in the bloodshed, chanting his name as if he was their greatest hero. Instead, he was nothing but a simple slave, a prisoner of war taken from the empire’s northern conquests. An unlucky bastard who lived through one too many battles rather than falling with his brothers in arms, condemned to a lifetime of violence, and one likely to end sooner rather than later.

Spitting on the ground, the gladiator stomped off the battlefield, eyes glancing up towards the seats where his owner was surely smiling down with a pleasant grin across his face. He’d cost a pittance, 300 denarii if the rumors were true, and was certain he’d won the man ten times that by now. He was now in demand even, the name carrying a real renown to it.

The Butcher.

It was the first step to freedom, at least. He’d be long dead before he had the chance, but a man had to dream.

-----------------------------​

It wasn’t until he’d collapsed in the tunnel that Verus’ even noticed the wound. Resting on one knee, a single hand pressed to his chest, fingers smeared with hot, warm blood. He could still hear the crowd chanting his name, echoing down the hall, but the man’s only focus was the searing pain now radiating from his pectoral.

“Shit.”

He grunted as a lone silhouette appeared at the end of the hall, drawing the gladiator’s icey blue eyes from the injury. The gash across his chest was a hands span in length, the skin tearing in opposite directions, muscle underneath even exposed. The worst he’d taken in his time fighting, that was for sure. The way his vision began to spin, the darkness closing in on him, he thought it might have been the last as well, the thought bringing a smile to his lips.

Freedom.

“Ah, that’s going to be a problem. Come Verus. Let’s get you to the medicus immediately. Some stitches should be enough though. That Doctore tends to think anything short of a lost limb is but a simple flesh wound.” A firm grip pulled at the gladiator, lifting him back to his feet by the armpit. The silhouette had revealed itself to be Marcellus, an older gentleman and one of Lucius’ favorite caretakers. Verus was already a large man, well clear of two meters tall, but next to the more diminutive caretaker, he was an absolute giant. “Come along, will need to return you to the ludus, and quickly,” he said, his voice a bit harsher, even with the soft pat on the back offing reassurance. "Wouldn't do to let you bleed out here. Oriana would have my head."

A short while later, and Verus found himself seated on a small stone stool, returned to his home beneath the estate. He leaned forward, elbows fallng to his knees for support. Marcellus had left him alone to notify the medicus of their current predicament, and the gladiator couldn’t help but give in to the exhaustion once more. His head drooped forward, causing his thick, shoulder length black hair to fall across his face, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

You should shave your fucking head.

Advice from an old friend, one sent back to the mud a long time back. He’d been right, of course. In the arena especially, no one fought with honor. And a fistful of hair was far easier to grab than a fist full of air. But Lucius demanded it not be touched now, only allowing it to be wrapped during fights at most. The crowd remembered him as that shaggy headed northern giant, and if the crowd remembered him as such, there’d be no changing it. Not unless his owner thought it would line his pockets with more gold. Of course, Artorias had seen fit to

“He'll be just inside. Please do call if you need assistance. He's our master's favorite after all...”

With a grunt, the man pushed himself upright, arms straightening and elbows locking for support as his eyes lifted towards the voices coming from the nearby hall. His previously pale flesh, by southern standards, was now a rough and rugged tan, dark chest hair still standing out in contrast where scars did not interrupt it. The cut across his chest left blood running down his torso, trails of red curling around and outlining every groove and indentation where the muscle pressed outward, tracing all the way down to the deep lines at his hips that dipped into the loincloth.

With his gaze focused towards the shadows shifting in the doorway, the gladiator likely cast a rather intimidating stare, and wouldn’t have blamed anyone for thinking him a monster. The pain twisted his face into a scowl, and certainly didn’t help him look any friendlier. He had no intention of pretending to be kind though either, and he’d found it far easier to survive the slave pits by scaring everyone else away.

"Come. I won't fucking bite," he finally growled, his fingers tapping at his knee in impatience. While he had a higher threshold for pain than any other he'd met, he wasn't one to claim immunity to it. The sooner this was over with, the better.

 

[Fiadh]

Maelia came down the hall bidden by the doctore as he rounded the threshold to check that Verus was present, and, as he suspected, in a poor mood. The man seemed to always exude that darkness which swiftly gained him a reputation for being cruel not only in the arena but without as well. As the slave girl joined him and made to peer into the adjoining room she suddenly felt a hand on her forearm. The doctor's rough calloused hand pulled her back with a sharp yank, catching her by surprise so that not even a little sound managed to form in her throat aside from a sudden inhale of shock. Her back was pressed to the cool stone wall as doctore loomed over her and spoke in a quiet tone.

The man commanded dozens of gladiators and trained them in the ideal style for their form, never with a kind word on his lips. He was the epitome of the grit of the arena and had a hardened look to match. When he spoke softly it instilled fear and Maelia was not exempt from this.

"If he bleeds out, dominus will not bat an eye throwing you into the pits. Nor will I," warned the doctore harshly in that deceptively quiet, smooth baritone. Maelia paled beneath his gaze as she stood pressed against the wall until he was satisfied with her diminutive response of a mere nod, eyes forward, and finally released his grip on the slave. Then he walked away leaving her with him. She took a quick breath and rounded the open doorway into one of the handful of rooms often occupied by the gladiator medicus was tending, stepping down the small threshold with familiarity.

Normally she didn't try to get a good look at the fighters. They were often crude and loud, and issued the same treatment right back when doctore had them training under the blistering sun. Bloodsports did not endear her the same way it did their masters and those men who let the glory of the arena fatten their heads. Others who survived did so partly because they enjoyed killing, and she was sure this dark and gruff man was among their lot if the gossip in the villa was to be believed.

Maelia swallowed hard as she approached him, padding 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 in hue, 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.

She dipped her chin at his biting demand. "Apologies," murmured the slave, hurrying to his side and doing her best to combat the discomfort rolling in her stomach.

She placed the items down on the bench beside him 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 dipped the end of a rag into it. Due to her stature and Verus' being vastly different, the slave was able to remain standing beside him and could easily tend his wound that way only slightly hunched over as she did so. Maelia began to dab the moist cloth against the fresh wound, attempting to clean the hand-length laceration gently - although she would be surer to abate briefly if he showed signs of discomfort.

Once cleaned, she out down the rag in favour of the needle. Maelia took her other hand to gently brace it against the bottom edge of his chest wound. Beneath her palm 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 him from afar occasional training in the ludus did no justice to Verus in the flesh, frightening as he was to behold. With the needle prepared hovering over his bloodied chest, Maelia quickly exchanged a look with the gladiator 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 tried to move quickly as she could given the breadth of the wound, but ended up taking her time to ensure it was sealed securely. Eventually, she pulled away. Her delicate fingertips looked rusted with blood as she took up the rag heavily laden with wine and herbs was once again dabbed the length of the cut.

 

[Alkaline]

Verus couldn't hide the surprise, eyebrow cocking upward when the young woman, rather than the typical medicus, entered the room. His gaze followed her quick, silent motions, brow furrowing in intensity as he pondering whether his own intimidation tactics were going to be the death of him. She seemed nothing more than a handmaiden, hardly equipped to deal with the injury as it was. While certainly not fatal in most cases, he'd seen enough of his brethren die from infection to know no wound was ever worth ignoring.

"What, the medicus or doctore afraid to face me now?" He growled, though the question was clearly retorical, his eyes finally breaking away and staring at the ceiling. With his back straightening as he prepared for whatever clumsy help was surely coming his way, he couldn't help but find his attention drawn back to the petite woman's figure. For whatever lack of experience she may have had with medicine, he couldn't deny she provided a far more appealing presence then the older man, and a pleasant diversion from the other brutes he was used to training with day in and day out.

A deep exhale escaped as he watched the woman prepare the wash, surprised to see her displaying far more competence then he would have initially expected. As she stepped close, he instinctively turned away, as if refusing to let her see any pain that might have flashed across his face. The delicate touch was far softer than he was used to, but even then a soft hiss escaped between gritted teeth, muscles flexing across his chest as the wine stung at the exposed flesh. Unlike the others, she seemed to pull back at his own grimace, flaring his temper just a bit in response.

"Don't treat me like a child. Better to do it quickly. I can handle "

The words were sharp, but he kept his gaze away from the woman, eyes focused on the wall until he felt her hand rest softly on his chest. Turning back, he noticed the needle, grunting and meeting her eyes for the brief moment before she broke and plunged the tip through his skin. His breath hitched, but he refused to show any further signs of pain, his fingers bunching into a small fist as she worked the needle and thread through the skin. It was a wonder that he'd hardly felt the original cut, but the smallest prick of a pin was enough to make his vision blur. The only saving grace was the servants delicate touch, her free hand pressed to his chest providing a comforting distraction until the stitching was finished.

With her pulling away, he finally glanced down himself, his eyes following her bloody fingers to the rag, before they moved back to the wound as she cleaned it once more. A small grunt of appreciation was offered when he saw the stitching, his shoulders noticably relaxing at the surprise of a job well done. His eyes flickered towards hers once more, then off into the distance instead, one hand reaching up and grabbing her wrist, lowering it down and pushing her away.

"That's enough. You've done well..." Pausing, he stood up, testing his strength as legs wobbled underneath him. One hand briefly rested on the woman's shoulder for balance, but when he was stable, he pushed forward towards a small trough of water in the corner, scooping his hands in and drinking from his palms.

"Thank you," he offered reluctantly after his first sip, unable to bring himself to truly face her as he said it though. Clearly she was no more than he was, a possession of another, and he couldn't help but feel some level of commraderie with her that the doctore never would have offered.

"What's your name? You belong to Lucius as well?"

Taking one more sip, he then splashed the water across his face, clearing some of the blood and grime from his skin. Droplets of pink returned, dripping from his beard as he caught them in his palm, rubbing fingertips together as he wondered if it was even his own blood, before he flung his hands to shake the water free. Turning, he walked back towards the woman, dropping heavily into the seat once more, his eyes seemingly locked with hers as if challenging her to speak back to him, rather than offering a comforting permission that it would be okay to do so.

 

[Fiadh]

Maelia hadn't expected him to get up so soon or roll his shoulder to test the spot she sewed up on his chest. Normally she might whisper caution but the slave woman felt her words die in her throat when the man took hold of her hand and practically peeled it off his chest. Those once nimble fingertips bracing his wound were cast aside like a deterrent blocking him from wading through the space toward the water source across the room. She said nothing but kept her mouth agape in mild surprise at his callousness. Not that Maelia expected anything else from a man who was rumoured to be a beast in the arena as well as in the ludus.

She shifted away from her previous spot on the stone bench as the compliment floated through her. It was hard to tell from his reaction otherwise that he was pleased aside from the grunt of approval on his features. While his back was turned to her only briefly, the slave took in the sight of his thick corded muscle that adorned his tall form. He was intimidating up close just as he was when she spied him every so often during training.

When the gladiator finishing drinking his fill and washing up the dried grime and blood from his visage, he would turn to find that the yellow clad woman was now standing up. She was pivoted slightly away from him and clutched the bowl of wine and herb mixture in hand, and in the other she clasped the cloth she used to clean him. It dripped freely to the sandy ground from being soaked thoroughly through the course of its use. The way Maelia turned to look back at him with a sharp inhale made it seem as though his question caught her off guard. She wasn't used to such a deep rumbling voice beseeching her, and her stormy eyes followed him to the bench where he sat.

"Maelia," she answered him briskly. She was beginning to feel uneasy in his presence but pressed through it and held her chin high. "My mother was a slave to dominus' father. I was born here," explained the dark haired woman with a modicum of pride behind it. Her eyes took a pause to flutter over the man's skin with its new battle scars and his wild black hair.

"Where did they find you?" Maelia dared to ask. Her voice was still timid yet she held her ground a few paces away from the bench as though contemplating taking her leave.

 

[Alkaline]

Maelia.

It was a difficult word, for him, considering his native tongue. Something about it didn't quite flow naturally, but he offered a somewhat stern, brutish smile in response anyway. He'd luckily learned enough Latin to survive, but he was certain it carried a heavy accent that most looked down upon. No doubt it reinforced the barbarian stereotype, at the least. A single eyebrow cocked in curiosity at the woman's pride though, and he leaned forward a bit more, elbows resting on knees, fingers interlacing together as she proclaimed herself a slave, born and raised.

"I suppose it's better that way. You don't know freedom then. Simply the way life is, and nothing could be better, right? The master... He treats you well enough too, I imagine?"

Verus had heard some didn't truly mind the arrangement, but when one was thrown in the pits, it was hard to imagine life could be somewhat enjoyable as a slave. Not that he assumed it was easy for the woman. She was beautiful, and that came with its own dangers. If it hadn't happened already, he assumed some man would come to claim her as his possession someday. A friend crept across his lips at the thought, and he went to stand once more, stalking a few steps closer to her, casting her in his shadow as he towered above.

"As for me... They found me in the northern islands. My clan did not submit to the Empire and we were conquered as a result. Unfortunately I did not die on the field that day, as many of my clansmen and family did. So they took me here, and insisted I relive that battle again and again."

Gently, he reached up and set a hand on Maelia's shoulder, using her to support himself while he struggled with his somewhat wobbly knees, and then pushing past her as he did. The gladiator could see the indecision in her posture as well, and turned over his shoulder as he walked to the water basin once more. "If you're waiting for permission to leave, you're free to do so. The stitching will hold for now." His hand waved in the air, casually. No need to pretend she wanted to talk to him anymore than she had to as well. Likely, he figured she might even fear him to be one of those that would take her himself. He'd not be punished for it, if he did, considering the wealth he brought his master. His cock perked up, briefly, at the thought alone, and he felt his stomach knot in guilty anguish.

"So go, tell the doctore I'm well taken care of. Unless there's something more you need of me, that is..."

 

[Fiadh]

The callousness in the gladiators remark did not go unheard by the slave. Many looked past the slaves who inhabited the villas of the Roman elite, believing them to be nothing more than simpletons or tools who kept their luxurious houses in order so that their masters would never want for anything. Maelia did not yet know if she ought to be a little offended when the brutish man seemed to have her life envisioned perfectly - from his perspective.

"I suppose..." came her hesitant reply. "The dominus and domina have never treated me poorly," rebutted Maelia. Though perhaps he was still right. In her ignorance of knowing no other life she very well could have been neglected without ever realizing it. After all, she had never been afforded another type of life than servitude.

The small slave woman was easily eclipsed by the gladiator on his approach. Her stormy eyes flicked across his features like she was searching for an answer, or perhaps questioning without words just what he thought he was doing... Her entire figure was clad in shadows under his intimidating form, and his prowess did not escape her. Some men had tried to curry favour with the dominus before in exchange for a night with the docile woman. Though their efforts were thwarted before they could even think up a counter offer. There had been guards who were more bold, too, but Maelia was fortunate that no one ravaged her. It was a bittersweet thought to recall the women who suffered that fate here.

As quickly as that pall cast itself over her face, it was gone just as soon. Conversation flowed to the man's origin and it allowed Maelia a moment of respite where she let out a soft exhale of relief. His hand upon her shoulder, however, unseated her stability a bit and the petite woman tried to remain firm under the weight of him helping himself along.

"Be careful," Maelia said, quicker than her mind could catch up with her tongue for speaking the warning. She was a kind at heart and even in the face of this rough, foreign creature she could not help her own nature. The slave swallowed softly when he passed and bade her to leave.

"No. Nothing more." Her words were firmer this time, surprising the slave just as it may have surprised him to hear the emotion behind her formerly soft voice. With his 'permission' to depart, Maelia turned swiftly on her sandal clad foot. But first...

She paused at the doorway of the small room. Maelia peered across her shoulder but did not seek out his face. "Do not reopen your wound." It sounded like she was a hen mother come to peck at her brood. Though the skittish slave heard many stories of this one's fiery temperament.

"I will not be so gentle if I must stitch it again."

Then, satsified with her return to his casual barbs, Maelia departed back to the doctore.