The noise was deafening, reverberating through the grand coliseum with a dissonance of joy and anger. The air was thick with anticipation, for this day was not just any ordinary day—it was the Roman Emperor's birthday. And on this momentous occasion, he held one of his most beloved games, a spectacle that would thrill the masses.
The crowd buzzed with excitement, many were placing their bets and eagerly awaiting the start of the games. High above them, the Emperor sat on his ornate throne, adorned in elegant robes that shimmered with opulence. In his hand, he held a cup crafted with intricate gold filigree, savoring the taste of wine that danced upon his tongue.
His gaze swept over the grand coliseum, chest puffed with pride. At the top bleachers, behind his throne, a flame burned brightly—a gift from the Greeks, reminiscent of the fire an ancient god once ignited in primal times. It was a symbol of power, of the divine, and it added an ethereal glow to the proceedings.
As the trumpets sounded, the gates slowly creaked open, revealing two formidable figures. Clad in nothing but a loincloth and leather slippers, their muscular frames glistened with sweat. The first was a Murmillo, taller and more imposing, wielding a gladius and a rectangular shield reminiscent of a legionnaire. The second was a Thraex, slightly shorter but no less dangerous, armed with a parmula and a sica sword.
With bated breath, the crowd watched as the gladiators locked eyes. The battle began, the clash of steel filling the air. Each strike was met with a swift parry, their defenses impenetrable, their skill evident. It seemed as though time itself stretched, the fight becoming an eternal struggle.
Minutes turned into an hour, and the Murmillo managed to disarm his opponent, his gladius clattering to the ground. But just as victory seemed within his grasp, the Thraex struck with a sudden ferocity, targeting the Murmillo's unprotected back.
A gasp swept through the coliseum, and the Emperor rose from his throne, his heart pounding with anticipation. The crowd mirrored his excitement, rising to their feet in a thunderous ovation.
The Thraex raised his sword, prepared to deliver the final blow when suddenly, a whirlwind of air materialized just a few feet away from the battling gladiators. The crowd fell into an awed silence as they watched the strange phenomenon unfold. The Emperor's fear grew, for the very flame he cherished, the symbol of his power, seemed threatened.
The whirlwind subsided, revealing four figures standing in its wake—a little girl no older than his own son, a red-headed barbarian, an Aithiopian woman, and a woman wearing white; they didn’t seem to be Roman, the emperor thought.
The red-headed barbarian wore a black dress. The Aithiopian woman, draped in a brown shawl and dark barbarian pants. The other Roman-looking woman wore an off-white dress.
Stolen novel; please report.
But it was the little girl who caught the Emperor's attention. Her hair was disheveled, her once vibrant gaze now dulled, and dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes. She wore a gray dress. She looked like his own son’s betrothed.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed as he observed these newcomers, their presence a mysterious twist in the fabric of the games. What were they doing here? And what did their arrival mean for the fate of the gladiators, for the very future of the coliseum itself? For his own birthday? It was a disgrace, he thought.
The Emperor's eyes widened in sheer disbelief, his fury boiling over as he barked his orders. "Kill them!" he roared, his voice echoing through the coliseum. The gladiators, their faces etched with uncertainty, prepared to carry out their ruler's command. But before they could make their move, The Roman-looking woman stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Let Alice take care of them," she suggested, her eyes glinting with a knowing glimmer.
The little girl, her body taut with tension, positioned herself in the center of the arena. Her right leg extended, sweeping the sand beneath her feet, a gesture that seemed to summon an invisible force. With her hands outstretched and her fists clenched, the emperor didn’t understand what she was doing, it was definitely not pankration.
As if under the weight of an invisible hand, the gladiators squirmed in their places, their movements restricted. The girl’s arms swung open wide, and with a sudden and forceful motion, the two men were sent hurtling through the air, soaring over the bleachers. Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd, their eyes transfixed on the extraordinary display of power. Even the emperor was not sure what happened. Witcraft? The emperor thought.
Amidst the chaos, dozens of soldiers flooded the arena, their weapons at the ready as they encircled the intruders. The citizens, torn between terror and curiosity, either fled in panic or remained, their eyes gleaming with morbid fascination. Whispers of bets being placed could be heard.
Undeterred by the presence of the militia, the little girl deftly maneuvered through their ranks, her movements fluid and precise. As the soldiers closed in, their swords gleaming menacingly, the little girl unleashed a surge of raw energy, sending the men hurtling through the air, their bodies crashing against the arena walls.
Amid the chaos, the red-headed barbarian materialized beside the Emperor, her presence a stark contrast to the man's cowardice. The Emperor, his face contorting with fear, scrambled to his feet, desperately attempting to escape. But as he did, an unseen force gripped his ankles, dragging him back and tossing him like a ragdoll toward the arena with an irresistible pull. Panic etched across his features, his fate sealed.
Meanwhile, another red-headed barbarian approached the silver tray that contained the flames of the gods. With a steady hand, she dipped a torch into the fiery depths, the flames dancing and flickering as they embraced the wood. The first red-head barbarian reached the Emperor who gasped in pain, however, the woman continued walking and grabbed the little girl's hand.
The Aithiopian woman couldn't contain her excitement, her applause ringing through the air. "Bravo, bravo!" she cheered, her voice filled with delight. The Emperor glared at her clenching his teeth as he went to his feet.
The air crackled and gusts of wind came crashing down in the middle of the arena. The little girl whispered words of power under her breath, her voice barely audible. A giant sundial, standing taller than the tallest gladiator, materialized next to her. Witchcraft? The Emperor thought again, more certain than ever.