Burning Desire.

Chapter one.

Blood shed.

“In the end every fighter dies.”

~Seneca

Damian. 84 B.C.

“I wish you luck.” Metea says, her long brown hair tied back in a loose knot. Earlier this morning it had been a tight knot and looked almost professional, but then having spent the entire morning preparing me for the upcoming battle, it’s not a surprise that it’s begun to come undone. Her eyes use to shine a bright hazel, but in the recent years have changed to a dull brown.

She’s a small framed woman, and very simple. She keeps a positive outlook on life, and though she has much to hate, she chooses to love every small thing about life. However, everyone changes from the effects of war. Our families had been slaughtered before our eyes, and we ourselves have been stripped of our freedoms, forced to serve those who killed our homes.

Her usually upbeat personality has faded from happy to see me, too heartbroken to see me go. Her eyes, already, though I have not said good bye, are pooling with tears. She blinks rapidly to fight them off, though they still slide down her rosay cheeks.

“Please do not cry for me Metea,” I beg, turning away from her and look at myself in the mirror. All morning I have been preparing for this. For this dance with death, and all morning I have tried to think about anything else but that I may die today.

I stare into the mirror, Metea has rubbed olive oil on my hard muscles that seems to give my body shape and bulk, I’ve watched her shine my sword so that it shines in the sunlight, though not it’s only fire that dances from it’s silver handle. She’s cut my hair, so that not even sweat will let it obscure my vision. She’s done everything that she can for me, to make me appealing to the Romans who may end up deciding my fate.

But that’s all she can do, the rest is up to the gods. I look into my eyes through the mirrored reflection, they’ve always been my favorite physical trait. They are green like the leaves of trees, yet seem to have golden starbursts laced through them. Though them I can see my own soul, I can see my hate for the Romans for killing everything that I’ve ever loved, and I can see the despair at being a slave to them.

Metea, comes beside me and rests her head on my arm. She’s only as tall as my elbow, though I know that even to taller people I’m tall. Her tears are gone and she’s smiling at me gently through our reflection.

“It’s hard not to cry, at the possible loss of someone so beautiful.” She sighs, looking up at me. I don’t look down at her.

I just laugh, “Beautiful?” I run a hand through my golden stranded hair, “I’m glad you think I’m beautiful.”

She grins hugging me, “You’ve always looked like a god to me.”

“Let go of me, or you’re going to dull my shine.” I smile, though she only holds me tighter, and I realize with a heavy heart that she’s sobbing into my abs. I place my hand on the back on her head and try to comfort her. To comfort her about my own death.















The hot sun beats down on my bare back, making the sunburn that already sits there act as if flames have sparked on my flesh. The Roman soldier, armored and well prepared for battle, at least more so prepared than I. He stalks carefully forward, his feet clumsy in the sand as his inexperience seeps through the shingles of heavy armor.

The spectators, call and cheer each of them so absorbed in the moment that none of them can see the evil in their actions. Each and every one of them, tainted with the love of violence and death, blood shed and suffering, in a state of bitter and violent intoxication. They come for the feeling... The feeling of being like one of the gods, able to manipulate us as puppets and pit them against each other for show.

The soldier comes at me, his sword raised high and a look in his eye of fame. He to is just like them, only he enjoys being the one of the battlefield, eager to take another life, acting as if he cares nothing of his own. To protected by his money and freedom, to know what it’s like to have something to die for.

I dodge to the left, and he stumbles the way his sword leads him, like fool. In a quick motion I slash the leather straps of his shin guard, it falls off into the blood stained sand as his own blood starts to drip down.

Once again the idiot slashes forward, once again allowing his heavy sword to decide which direction he blindly follows. I hit his sword out of the way, and plough my sword into the gap in his armor, listening as the blade rips through the bare skin and into his arm. As quickly as it happens I pull it out and watch him.

He cries out and drops his sword, a stupid mistake to make in the arena, then places a hand on the wound trying to stop it’s bleeding. The spectators cheer and scream out as the blood seeps into the golden red sand. “Kill him!” They chant causing the hairs to rise up on the back of my neck.

The soldier seems to realize the danger in what he’s facing, and grapples for his sword. Trying to ignore the pain in his arm. I let him, weather to please the spectators for a longer period of time or to make it so I can sleep at night knowing I let him try. The answer though, I do not know.

He decides to take the defense, I can tell by the way he watches me. He knows me now, he knows I’m not a stupid slave sold into this hell. He knows that I’m a true warrior, raised in a time of war and fighting for my own freedom.

I do not let him down.

I jab forward, toward the strongest points in his armor, watching him flinch every time, watching him wear himself out. Finally he does what I want, and steps forward with his unarmored shin.

Quickly I slice downward and stab my sword into the back flesh of his calf. He cries in pain and falls to his knees, defeated by a Greek. I hold my sword to his neck flesh and the crowd is already telling what instinct says I must do. I lean into the point and with a gurgling cry he dies, a fool for choosing this life and for thinking he’s indestructible. I throw my sword in the sand, and wait for the barred doors to open and let me out of the pit, knowing they won’t let me take a sword.

A door does open, but it’s not the one I had been expecting instead another rival comes out, holding a large mace in his massive bare arms and with a net tied at his waist. I spit in the sand and quickly grab my sword.

The man comes forward, with a gait of a warrior and a look in his eyes of war. I back up, knowing that I can move faster than he can, though there’s no where to run. I know that I can’t let him use that net, if that net traps me then today will be my last day.

He gets close enough to through the net on me, but that’s not what he goes for first, instead he watches me, daring me with his eyes to make the first move. I step on something and look down at the soldiers sword. With a smile and take my own sword and hold it back like a spear, aiming for his bare chest.

I launch the sword, and without watching it grab the soldiers sword. The man is silent, not the sound I thought I would hear, and when I turn I see him pulling the sword out of his foot. I shudder inwardly as he casts it aside, and steps forward and begins to run at me. Holding the mace in a such a way that I know he’s going to swing once he’s close enough.

I hold my ground, and when he does swing I roll the other way, putting myself on the ground, but away from him. He laughs and using the mace like a hammer he hits my calf. The pain of a broken limb shoots through my being, but I have no time to moan or cry, I know he’s coming again. I get to my feet, and put all of my weight on my right leg adding my own blood to the pit of death.

He moves forward, each step bloody from his foot, though he’s not shedding half as much blood as I. I duly notice as I look down at the puddle of blood by my feet.

“I must admit, Damian, you handle your wounds like a man.” He says in a hoarse voice polluted by the roman accent, while reaching for his net as I curse under my breath, or maybe out loud I’m thinking too fast to notice. “And just like all Greeks before you who have stepped on this field, you too will be killed before our gods.”

He throws the net, and with a grueling maneuver of my feet and torso, I jump backwards and roll to the right. The net hits me, but in such away I’m able to bunch it up for my own use. He glares at me, and starts running forward once again with the mace in his hands.

I blindly throw the net, and watch as the rocks wrap perfectly around his torso and make his movements limited. I smile and limp forward, plunging my sword into the holes in the net, over and over again until the man falls backwards. With my final ounce of strength, I plunge the sword into the mans chest, and leave it there.

I wait for the doors. Wait for the healers. Wait to get out of this pit of torture, to return to my cage and possibly Metea.



The night pools around me, and pins to me to bed telling me to sleep. Though the throbbing pain my calf keeps me awake, the healers wrapped it in cloth telling me that there was no point to stitching it up since the skin had been ripped off to decorate the end of a mace.

In silent agony I throw my arm over my eyes and breath in my skins scent, somehow it comforts me. “How you holding up?” Asks my brother in arms, as he looks through the gap between the bars.

“Well... If it weren’t for the exposed bone on my leg.” I smiles and turn to face him. “I hear your battle nearly cost you your life, Marcus.” I say, willing to have company. I look at as much as I can of him. From what I can tell, he’s been stabbed multiple times and has a black eye, for us... nothing out of the ordinary.

“That bastard, he played dirty tricks.” Marcus smiles, “But I still grappled him down.” His blue eyes dance in the moonlight, “I heard they sent two hellhounds on you.”

I nod, “One at a time, the first was a stupid brute, the second,” I gesture to my leg, “A true warrior.”

Marcus chuckles, “You've almost made it five years.... Haven’t you?”

I nod, once we serve our lanista for five years, then he has no choice but to give us freedom. As long as we are loyal to him, and obey every order, we are given our lives back. Though most never make it this long. I've sat here for 4 years and watched as my brothers in arms are replaced, nearly the day they are killed. My lanista only keeps two gladiators at a time, but in his his lifetime I’m sure he’s owned over 50.

Most of them die their first year, though Marcus has made it to his second year. I wouldn't be surprised if he never see’s the world through a freeman's eyes again. I may not even be so lucky.

“That’s right. Just two more battles left.” I say, looking down at my branding. Letters that had been burned into my skin, a sacred oath I had been forced to endure. The sacramentum gladiatorum, “uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari.” I wish I would have been wise enough to fight against them, instead of stupidly uneducated in what they had been saying. As witnessed by the gods I agreed to be burned, bound, beaten, and to be killed by the sword.

Even when I earn my freedom, and given a rudis, I still must uphold the oath. As a freeman my only career outlooks are to either fight in the arena for personal profit, train future gladiators in the ludi, or act as a personal guard to any royal that can afford me. No matter what happens today, tomorrow, or the next battle I’m fated to die by the hand of another.

“Thank the gods the battles are spread out between the seasons.” He smiles at me, a twinkle in his eye, “It could be much worse, we could have to fight everyday of our lives...” He pauses, “For survival, practice doesn't count.”

I chuckle, every vibration causes my leg more pain, I fight it off. “I hope death brings us peace brother. May we be deemed pure enough to wander through Elysium and drink from the pool of Mnemosyne.” I smile, wishing I could predict which level of the underworld the judges would condemn my soul to.

“If our gods even care for us anymore.” Marcus says dryly as he sits on his bed, a stone slab with a large bag of straw fitted to it and a few wool blankets. “Goodnight brother, I hope you can get some rest.”

I nod, “Same for you.”

The cells are once again silent, and I try to listen to something, anything in the silent world that can take my attention off of the pain. I’ve been able to see my own bones before, I’ve probably seen more of my insides then I’ve seen of anyone else, but this wound seems to be the worst. Normal wounds allow you to walk around to make the pain lighter, but this one. Every movement of my body causes it to throb painfully, that I dare to even move when the bedding doesn’t fit to my body’s needs. I suck in a deep breath and roll over onto my back and stare at my ceiling.

The night passes by slowly, and I fall in and out of sleep. Images of my family dance in the haze between sleep and restlessness until the sunlight pours through the windows and makes it impossible to sleep.

I feel incredibly hot, and know that the wound must be infected for me to feel so ill. I take deep steadying breaths to calm the thoughts of my death, though it doesn’t do anything for me. When I look over at Marcus, I see him watching me, concern written all over his face. I force a smile, and feel the sweat on my face as it drips down my neck. I force myself to sit up so that I can take a look at my wound.

My wound hurts even more so than the night before, and when I take off the bandage my fear of infection seems to be reality. I curse under my breath studying the red and inflamed skin around the gaping wound, and deep inside the wound I see the split bone covered in pus and the blood doesn’t look healthy.

I looks out the window into the sunlight and close my eyes, wishing I had something to sacrifice to the gods. I force myself out of my bed, Marcus looks at me and we silently agree to pray. He falls to his knees, and I gingerly fall onto mine. Marcus starts and I join the familiar prayer.

“Fair Apollo, son of thundering Zeus who holds

in his hands the order of the world, golden god

who parcels health and illness to all as is fit,

who holds the door against disease or lets it in,

all at your will. Apollo, we thank you for health,

we thank you for the gifts of modern medicine

and the gifts of traditional cures and healing.

We thank you a world in which plague and pandemic

are uncommon. Yet what is rare still exists,

O Paean, and is as deadly as ever it was.

Great Apollo, kind-hearted god, I pray to you,

protect us from all ill. Keep from our gates infirmity

and affliction, turn away the epidemic and the blight.

Apollo, mighty one in whose power it lies

to bless us with relief from all maladies,

to end a pestilence, I pray for your favor.”



We continue the prayer until Echion, my lanista, steps in and leans silently against the far wall. In his hands new clothes and bandages. His eyes are the color of mud, and his hair the color of sun dried dirt. I loathe him, but as my oath to the gods, I must obey him.

I stop and use the bars of my cage to help me stand.

“I did not realize your wound was so serious.” He says, looking at me sadly. I’m his asset, for every kill I make he makes a fortune. I know he will try to save me for the next battle, he’s never had a gladiator make it quite this far in the rings.

He opens my cell and steps in wordlessly, “Let me see it.” I don’t know how to make it more visible. So I turn, and feel myself shake as I put my hands to the bars and let him run his fingers over the wound.

He makes clicking sounds with his tongue, and then steps back. By this time I’m breathing heavily and am seeing spots in my vision. “I think you need to stay in my personal home. It’s cleaner there, and I don’t want you to die from something like this.” He looks over at Marcus whose wounds aren’t nearly as deep and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain. “Marcus I’ll send a guard to get you cleaned and ready for the biddings.”

Echion looks at me, “Can you make it to the road?”

I nod. I wish I could say no, wish I could tell him to let me stay here in the filth and rest, to allow me to die somewhere I call home. But that’s not an option, wordlessly I limp out of the cell. And bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out at every step. Echion watches sadly, he knows what I know. When and if this wound heals I’ll be half the warrior, half the skill. I’ll never be able to use this leg as I once had, it’s been cut to the bone where it’s even broken the bone in half.

But at least my death in the arena, will make him profit. So instead of killing me himself, he’ll heal me, train me as well as he can. And then, my blood spilt on the arena floor will be his source of income to buy another from the ludi. Another soul forced to die for the cold gods of Rome.