EMBERS (Marcus Acacius)

XXV | The Gladiator's Pride

"This is the poet, is it not?" Geta called out, as his gladiator—Glyceo—pushed himself up from the ground. Every single one of the Numidian fighters were dead. All except for Hanno.

His brother shrugged, taking a large gulp of wine as I turned to eavesdrop quizzically. "I don't remember, brother." He responded, disinterest dripping from his lips. "That night was a blur."

Geta did not look amused. "The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth is the descent..." He paused for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "How does it go?"

Caracalla let out a sigh, not taking his eyes off of the gladiators below, who now circled each other menacingly. "Smooth is the descent..."

"Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way." My head whipped to face Lucilla, who's wide eyes were pinned on Hanno, as she recited the familiar words. She must have sensed my staring, for she tore her gaze away from the fighting, dragging it up to me. Her eyes were full of an emotion I couldn't pinpoint, and she stared at me—almost pleadingly. "It can't be..."

I pressed my lips together. "I've heard Hanno recite that poem many times." Lucilla swallowed harshly when I said Hanno, as if the name didn't quite register with her. "Are you alright, Lucilla?"

The woman nodded, returning her gaze to the sandy pit below. "The gladiator spoke them at Thraex' party," Geta continued, speaking abnormally loud, despite the fact that he was only talking to his brother, who sat right beside him. "Perhaps he can recite it for you after the games."

Caracalla chuckled darkly. "He won't live that long."

I could feel the breath—shallow and uneven— in my throat, as Hanno took blow after blow from Glyceo. The strong, highly-trained gladiator was beating Hanno's shield into a mangled, wooden mess. Chips of wood flew all around as he relentlessly swung his mace over and over again.

Suddenly, Hanno was on his knees, the pulp—that had once been his shield—lying on the sand beside him. Glyceo hovered over him and drew his sword, looking more like an executioner than a gladiator. I watched with bated breath as Hanno rose to one knee, bowing his head in preparation for death. His unwavering composure in the face of death was truly admirable.

"Shall we spare his life, brother?" Geta asked as Glyceo turned to look up at the emperor's box. He waited patiently, squeezing the hilt of the sword tightly. Hanno just kept his eyes on the ground, refusing to even acknowledge the emperor's, undeterred by the vice-like grip they held on his mortality. One word—one simple nod—and he was as good as dead.

Caracalla let out a low, breathy chuckle, slamming his goblet onto the armrest of his throne. "I wouldn't mind seeing some blood."

I gritted my teeth at the emperor's lack of humanity. He cared not for the lives of the people who entertained him. They meant nothing—the sole purpose of their measly existence was to beguile him. Whether they lived or died made not a shred of difference. If they lived, they lived to fight another day. If they died, their death was just an explosive climax to their great performance.

"Adriana?" I met Emperor Geta's eyes warily, bowing my head in a last-minute show of respect. "What do you think? Should we show mercy or let Glyceo have his way?"

I chanced a glance at Lucilla, who was watching me intently, desperation in her dark eyes. I immediately knew what my answer was. It seemed that she had finally come to the same conclusion as me. The nagging inkling I had harboured over Hanno's origins had occupied many of my thoughts—those that Acacius didn't inhabit, of course. Lucilla had finally pieced together the truth and a strange sense of responsibility washed over me. I turned back to Geta, who was watching me expectantly.