Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Midsummer, 53 BC

These Romans know how to party. I was never one for going out. Even during my college years, I wasn't much of a partier. But if it was anything like this—which I doubt—I either missed out on a lot, or it's the only reason I'm still alive.

The first half of the night was respectable enough, the conversation mostly political in nature. The wine was watered and all we were expected to do was make sure plates were never emptied and glasses kept sufficiently full. Gifts were given and eventually the children were put to bed. The tables were cleared of dinner and laden with grapes and cheese and a dozen other small things for the guests to snack on.

Then the real party began. Musicians and entertainers filtered through the room, giving the guests plenty to gawk at. The wine became steadily richer and the guests steadily more inebriated. 

I did my best to keep my back to the wall as often as possible, head down and unassuming as I could possibly be. When I was forced to make my way through the laughing, shouting crowds of highborn men and women, I could only grit my teeth against the freely wandering hands.

As midnight approached, music echoed through the halls, a quick trill that brought a hush in its wake. Then the guests burst into excited chatter, everyone moving toward the atrium.

I heaved a sigh through my nose and followed after them, picking my way carefully through the spilled wine and whatever else the guests had lost control of. I didn't envy the slaves expected to clean up after everyone.

The atrium blazed in the light of more than a dozen torches and under the baleful glare of a full moon. The guests all filed in and again quieted, an excited energy buzzing around the space. I wedged myself in beside one of the columns, staring at the tiles I had spent a good portion of yesterday polishing.

The master had taken a leaf out of Julius Caesar's book to politics.

We all watched as a portly man with wavy dark hair stepped into the middle of the atrium and began extolling the virtues of their host. I quickly lost interest and instead began to watch the man in question. His face was red with drink and he wavered unsteadily on his feet, grinning like a fool. A full glass of wine sloshed in his hand, making me sigh in relief. I'd made a point to stay nearby, ignoring his wandering hands in order to keep him drinking. 

Then suddenly there was a great cheer and a gladiator stepped into the cleared space. I sucked in a surprised breath. The master really had spared no expense.

The first gladiator was a brawny man with a thick, barrel chest and arms as big around as an oak branch. He saluted the crowd, his face hidden by the bronze grill of his helmet. He made a show of twirling the gladius he carried in his right hand, slinging the large, rectangular shield he carried on the other arm with ease. The armor protecting his right shoulder glittered in the torchlight. The crowd whistled and cheered its appreciation.

Then the announcer roared something else I couldn't make out above the crowd. The cheers rose into a crescendo that rattled my teeth as a second gladiator strode into the middle of the atrium.

They were in for a treat tonight. A rare display of skill.

This gladiator was thinner than his opponent, more rangy, and the only armor he had was a simple helmet, greaves and metal vambraces that protected his forearms. Across his back were sheathed two swords, a hilt rising above each shoulder.

A dimachaerus. Even I knew they were one of the rarest classes of gladiator. Survival in the arena took a great degree of skill when one went that lightly armored. Not many of them could attain such skill, and those who were given the double swords rarely lived long enough to earn their freedom.