Chapter 2: Chapter 1 – Emperor, Those About To Die Salute You

A deafening roar echoed through the Grand Amphitheater as the heavy gates lifted. Aster walked with a confident step, and his sandals trod the sand of the arena. His brown eyes narrowed slightly. The sun was shining brightly.

His gaze fell briefly on the crowded bleachers. The entire city of Massalia seemed to have gathered to celebrate the start of the games. These festivities marked the arrival of summer each year. It was the second time Aster had taken part in it but the first time he was in the opening ceremony. Several battles had already taken place during the day, including a remarkable spectacle of big cats, and scarlet traces still smeared the sand here and there.

Now the afternoon was coming to an end, and it would end with his victory or his death.

Opposing him, his adversary was walking just as quietly. One of his hands held a short sword, while the other carried a large shield. Aster tightened his hold on his trident and with a few long strides reached the center of the Great Amphitheater. A gentle breeze rippled his brown hair. His opponent was only a few steps away from him. They turned to the bleachers. On the lower benches was the place of the Emperor.

He sat peacefully in the shade, his golden laurel wreath resting on his salt-and-pepper hair. Several slaves took care to cool him with large fans; the heat was terrible at this time of year. This vision particularly annoyed Aster, so much so that his gaze wandered to the side. The emperor was surrounded by senators and great patrician families. Many were chatting while keeping a watchful eye on the center of the arena. A few laughs reached Aster from time to time, through the effervescence of the population. There were waves of laughter filled with hypocrisy he judged contemptuously.

As he still looked around the crowd of nobles, the sun reflected off a metallic object and dazzled him for a moment. He blinked. It was not a metallic object. A young patrician sat at the edge of the bleachers, where the plebeians flocked. His strange silver hair stood out from the rest of the population. In Massallia, dark hair prevailed, except for certain slaves whose hair was light brown or blond. But Aster had never seen this amazing lunar tint.

Standing, just behind the young man, was a female slave. This immediately irritated Aster, and he looked back at the Emperor.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

The Emperor nodded slightly. Immediately, the two gladiators took several steps away and positioned themselves face to face. Aster didn't know his opponent. No doubt he came from another gladiator school. But, it didn't matter at this moment. Aster had to defeat him. It was the only way open to him if he wanted to regain his freedom.

His fingers tightened their grip on the trident even more. His skin was slightly clammy, probably because of the heat. His heartbeat suddenly quickened and echoed in his temples. The screams in the stands seemed to subside. Only his opponent remained, their weapons ready to clash and the sand burning under their feet.

They watched each other without moving; their bodies tense with apprehension. Aster couldn't see his opponent's face, not even his eyes. Only two fine slits dug in the metal. So when the signal announcing the start of the fight sounded, he had no trouble leaping forward. His trident slammed into his opponent's large shield so hard that he gritted his teeth as the shock rippled through his arm. The man tried to strike him a powerful blow with his sword, but Aster had already had time to fall back on his side. His trident slammed into his opponent's legs, forcing him to take several steps back. He rushed forward with a speed that would make the best gladiators green with envy, his weapon whirling around him.

He left a long gash on his opponent's arm, and the latter emitted a low groan. With a swing of his shield, he pushed the trident away and lunged forward. But Aster twirled skillfully. His weapon struck the man's back, tripping him with a well-placed thrust. He turned around abruptly, but his sword only grazed Aster.

In the bleachers, the cries grew in power. The insatiable crowd was screaming for blood to flow. The trident traced a new scarlet furrow, on the thigh of his adversary this time. Aster felt him weaken and waver. His large shield couldn't parry the blows fast enough. The cuts multiplied. A blazing fire ran through his veins, animating him with a power he only felt in such moments.

Finally, the trident pierced his opponent's leg, and he fell to the ground with a muffled cry. With a kick in the arm, Aster forced him to let go of his shield, and it crashed into the sand with a thud. A moment later, his weapon stopped inches from the man's throat. He didn't make a sound, but he raised a hand to ask for mercy, as tradition demanded.

Aster didn't move, waiting for the crowd's verdict. The hands were already up, thumb pointing down. He turned his head towards the emperor. Slowly, he, in turn, lowered his thumb.

Aster looked back at his opponent. Ignoring the pang that gripped his heart for a moment, he let his trident fly. Blood spurted out, spilling across the sand in long scarlet streaks.

***

Raviel saw the gladiator's body crumble. He tried to remain impassive in the face of the enthusiastic reactions of the crowd, which chanted the name of the winner with force. Ferox. The latter planted his trident in the sand, and the sun reflected on the metal. Raviel wasn't close enough to see his face in detail, but he guessed his cheeky expression. Suddenly, the gaze of the gladiator turned to him.

An unbearable pain suddenly pierced his head, and he bit his lip violently. He put a hand to his temple, but nothing could stop the blurry images from surging through his mind.

He saw blood.

Raviel faltered.

He felt a magical power.

His free hand tightened its grip on the bench he was sitting on.

Raviel saw in his vision the young man's trident stopped despite its momentum, but the power and fury that overflowed around him did not subside. He turned his head towards him, and his lips formed a word that Raviel did not understand. He was suddenly deafened by the explosion of magic.

Raviel abruptly regained his footing with reality, panting. His toga seemed to stick to his moist, hot skin.

“Master!”

Raviel turned to Mel and tried to give her a reassuring smile. But it must have looked more like a grimace because a gleam of concern darkened the young woman's gaze.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

"Fine, don't worry," he replied softly.

Mel accepted the lie but didn't take her eyes off him when he brought back his astonishing grey irises towards the center of the arena. She knew his every expression and judging by his slightly clenched jaw, the pain must still be sharp. Raviel's visions could prove to be particularly tiring and, unfortunately, nothing allowed him to control them. She saw him frown.

"Can you convey to the Emperor that I would like to speak to him?"

He mastered the tone of his voice perfectly, and Mel felt a hint of admiration for him.

“I am going right now!”

Raviel nodded, like a silent thank you. But his gaze still seemed clouded by what he had seen. The excitement of the crowd appeared distant to him. He hardly paid any attention to it. In fact, at this moment, all his thoughts were on the gladiator standing on the sand of the Grand Amphitheater. He couldn't make out his features, but he was pretty sure it was the young man he had seen in his vision.

Was it related to this strange feeling he felt since the beginning of the fight? Something had bothered him about the gladiator's way of fighting. The man looked like a beast. There was an astonishing fluidity and extraordinary speed in his movements, which evoked in Raviel a feeling of deja vu that made him uncomfortable.

But he didn't believe in coincidences. His visions were often too blurry for him to grasp their meaning, but nothing prevented him from trying to unravel the mystery.

“Raviel, it's rare to see you here.”

Raviel closed his eyes briefly, then put on his most hypocritical face and slowly turned around. A man dressed in a perfectly fitted white toga faced him. His features were beginning to bear the marks of time, and fine wrinkles underlined his sardonic gaze. But his hair retained its dark color. A few steps behind him, two slaves kept their heads bowed.

“Rufus, you know very well that I am not fond of this kind of event.”

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"Then what is the reason for honoring us of your presence?"

Raviel's face lost its fake smile. He climbed the step that separated them to find himself at the same height as his interlocutor, or almost. Unfortunately, he lacked a few centimeters for this.

“My father hasn’t come back from his last campaign. So he asked me to attend the opening of the games on behalf of our family.”

It was a common occurrence, and Rufus knew it perfectly well.

“How are you? Better I hope…”

Raviel tensed. The conversation was heading down a particularly slippery slope.

“Master.”

Raviel relaxed imperceptibly when Mel stopped a few steps from him, and he turned his head towards her.

“I did what you asked me to do.”

“Good.”

He looked back at Rufus.

"Thank you for inquiring about my well-being," he said coldly. “But I have to leave you.”

“Oh ... Remember to say hello to your mother for me then.”

Raviel glared at him. And without wasting any more time in meaningless greetings, he turned on his heels, dragging Mel after him. She waited until they were gone to announce:

"The Emperor can see you tomorrow, in the morning."

Raviel finally released the pressure on his fingers. He hadn't realized it, but he had clenched his fists during his discussion with Rufus, so much so that his knuckles had whitened.

“Thank you for pulling me out of that conversation,” he sighed.

“I came as quickly as I could when I saw him start the conversation with you.”

A shadow of a smile appeared on Raviel's lips. He was fortunate to be able to count on Mel.

“Let's go back. I've shown myself enough for today.”

***

Aster undid the straps that held the armband around his left arm, then he removed the shoulder pad that partially protected his neck and his head. He contented himself with keeping his loincloth, held in place by a wide belt and his sandals. He approached one of the fountains installed at the four corners of the vast courtyard of the gladiator school and splashed water on his face. Sweat and dust had made his skin clammy and sticky. Not to mention his opponent's blood that had splattered on his arms and chest. He struggled to remove it, pretending to ignore the remorse that threatened to assail him.

It had been his daily life for two years. To fight, kill, disregard his remorse, and push back his memories. Too painful memories.

“You fought well.”

Aster half turned his head towards Mordax, the notable figure of the school. A former gladiator who had worked his way up to retirement. He now owned and trained the school’s slaves. He was tall with broad-shouldered. The scars on his face hinted at his past in the arena and gave him a tough look.

“You are progressing at a remarkable speed.”

Aster distinctly perceived the accusatory tone. Mordax seemed to have an ambivalent opinion of him. Occasionally admiring his talent, sometimes wary of his rapid progress. He probably suspected him of concealing some fighting qualities.

“It's in your interest, that's why you bought me,” Aster replied, on the borderline between impassiveness and effrontery.

A slight smirk appeared on Mordax's face.

“You're right. You're making me a lot of money through your victories.”

Aster didn't answer and continued to remove the grime that had accumulated on his body.

“You might end up being in my position one day.”

He knew Mordax was testing him. It wasn't the first time this had happened. Aster was only twenty-two years old, but his master probably thought that his dazzling victories could inspire a few recruits in several years. Assuming Aster stayed alive.

"Why not?" The gladiator finally blurted out.

In reality, it didn't interest him in the least. Training future gladiators only instilled in him a deep disgust. He did not want to subject others to the ordeal he was going through. On the other hand, he intended to accumulate victories and reach the top. He had no other choice if he hoped to regain his freedom. Mordax seemed content with this half-hearted answer.

"You're fighting again in two days; I'm counting on you," he informed him.

And he left him there. Aster briefly interrupted his movement, and the water ran down his arms as he found himself alone in the yard. This place was his prison, and each day brought a new opportunity to die.

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