Spartacus.
There's movement upon the path.
Ashur!
A man must accept his fate...
...or be destroyed by it.
Ashur. Ashur. Ashur.
Your life was forfeit upon Vesuvius,
taken by one to whom you have done grave injustice.
And now here you kneel, joining your domina and her child
among the dead in the Underworld.
At what measure of a man stood you
when heart beat within chest?
A Syrian
despised by all;
a slave to my husband, Batiatus...
a gladiator...
...ever so briefly upon the sands of the arena...
...elevated to trusted conspirator,
valued for your gifts of cunning and deceit.
And when the House of Batiatus fell
to the mad Thracian Spartacus and his rebels...
Kill them all!
...you turned against your brothers...
aiding Roman masters -
an attempt to bring rebellious slaves to heel.
And yet you had already fallen well in advance of Spartacus,
being struck from the world of the living by Roman spears.
Yet the Fates weave many threads.
Your untimely passing was but single path
of what might have been.
Do you desire to bear witness to another?
A new reality,
uncoupled from history...
where you did not perish upon Vesuvius,
where instead you aligned with mighty Crassus,
the richest man in all the Republic,
and his dog of war,
Gaius Julius Caesar.
A path where you hurled fatal spear
that claimed the life of Spartacus...
...and, in the act, saved Crassus,
who rewards you with patronage...
and all that once belonged to my noble husband.
Embrace the path the gods have set you upon.
Do you desire to know where that fate
would have led?
Awake, then...
The gods have brought you this far.
...and embrace a life that might have been.
I believe we are not done with you yet.
Wake!
Dominus?
Are you unwell?
A fleeting dream...
born of unfortunate meal in advance of slumber.
What did Morpheus reveal upon his shores?
It...
eludes grasp of waking mind.
A thing of no importance.
Bring food...
and wine.
I will greet morning sun.
And what fortunes it carries.
Ha!
Halt!
Second position.
Begin!
Watch footing, you fucking woman.
Watch tongue, you fucking cunt.
Logas!
Tarchon!
Use your mind!
Get him off!
Yes!
Doctore!
Form the men.
I would have words.
Attend.
You act as child
with shit running down your leg.
I act as my father would...
in his youth.
I should have never laid with your mother.
What... is beneath your feet?
Sacred ground watered with tears of blood.
No,
you simple fuck.
What lies beneath your feet is opportunity -
for coin,
and the respect such bounty presents.
And...
glory in the arena.
You stand but first crude brick laying foundation
to the rise of the House of Ashur!
To ascend, you must train absent mirth or breaking of laughter.
You must commit flesh to being forged into semblance
of the gods...
to honor the man
who brought down the mighty Spartacus himself.
You find issue in such thought?
Apologies, Dominus.
Break words, absent threat of reprisal.
Rumor bends ear.
Speak... and see it straightened.
That you
hurled spear at the bringer of rain
while his back was yet towards you.
Perhaps you think your dominus
unworthy
opponent.
Bring me gladius.
Dacus.
No.
I would see wood give way to steel.
Dominus strays from reason.
No.
He but corrects those beneath him.
Well?
Begin.
Advantage of size means little when countered with skill
and mind
fleet of purpose.
He shifts weight to right leg, signaling intent.
Agh!
He gathers breath before assault.
Again, signaling intent.
Give way to emotions,
and fall upon the sands of the arena,
presenting ass for fucking.
That...
was Falernian.
And I was deemed lowest among the Brotherhood
by most vexing doctore serving my own dominus, Batiatus.
Yet even the lowest of a gladiator
stands colossus
in regards to common men.
Grasp words to fucking breast...
or see heart torn from it.
Bury him where he lies so I may water grave
with pressing need of each morning's piss.
Grain delivery has been delayed.
Cilicians fell upon ship and transport.
I've instructed Messia to ration what we yet hold
while other arrangements can be secured.
What of dispatches from Rome? Have any been received?
No, Dominus.
See to the day's work, Hilara.
And inform delicate fucking artist
to finish labors by nightfall!
Or see hammer and chisel turn upon master.
Ashur!
I would have fucking words.
Have you lost fucking sense?! He was a man of great worth
who held promise towards fucking arena!
I will not be addressed in such tone, you fucking goat.
Cease tongue and see passions cool to more pleasing breeze.
Apologies. Yet words carry sting of truth.
The man's demise will be keenly felt.
So shall lesson imparted upon remaining stock.
There are less permanent ways of motivating them.
Then why have you not summoned
such mystical powers of persuasion?
My doctore opens mouth, yet shit spews forth.
I am not one of your fucking slaves
and shall not be treated as such.
I am a free man,
an honor earned by my victories in the arena.
No man is truly free if he yet finds himself in need of coin.
You are well paid for your services.
But if you hold belief a man of your advanced years
may obtain a better position in another ludus,
let us part
fucking ways.
I do not care for you.
Nor I you.
Yet we are bound
by need.
Let us see our fortunes rise as one
and forge a path
towards less tempestuous relations.
Your will, my hands.
Our hands.
Gather yourself. We attend the games.
We gain position to finally present our men?
No.
But words strike to heart of intent.
Yeah!
Fucking war hammer?!
Thraex should be paired against spear of hoplomachus
- or sword of murmillo. - Attend the crowd.
They give no shit towards tradition.
A fine showing,
yet the gods bless us
with even greater spectacle
for primus
to conclude the day,
to honor Capua
and most deserving citizens!
Good Opiter
has seen fit to present most glorious offering.
Come on!
Enter Pluton - hoplomachus!
Make it hurt!
Yeah!
Who shall face such formidable opponent?
There can stand only one!
- From the House of Proculus... - Ooooh...
...enter Ammonius -
murmillo!
Ha ha!
Your man is well received, Proculus!
He but claims laurels rightfully due.
Perhaps the House of Opiter
shall present surprising challenge.
Would that voice graced with such beauty entreat the heavens.
Mmm.
May the Gods
favor our offerings.
Begin!
See how Ammonius draws his opponent in, lending false hope.
Yes!
He wields not only strength but sharpened strategy.
Shall I seek to arrange for you to swallow his cock
upon contest's end?
The man stands unrivalled upon the sands.
It would be an honor to drink such potent a blessing.
He is of form.
If we can conjure an opponent of equal worth...
Oof!
Jupiter himself would have to grace us with champion
to give Ammonius slightest of pause.
Come. Let us set foot upon path
and see you proved short of fucking sight.
A most welcome diversion,
easing encumbrance of ill-natured concerns.
It lifts heart to hear it so, Cossutia. Let us--
Aedile!
Ah!
I would seize moment and beseech word.
You accost me in the street now, Syrian, as common cutpurse?
Apologies. I was unable to secure audience
through traditional means and took initiative
- through brighter prospects. - The man flaunts savage nature
and presents it as shrewd navigation.
Let us not stand in too harsh a reply.
Did the Syrian not help quell rebellion,
turning upon his own in the effort?
Such is said through parted lips and eager tongue.
I but serve the Republic.
As does my husband - at times, to distraction.
- His absence most deeply felt. - Mm.
Duties yet hold him in Rome?
He counsels Pompey in attempt to soothe inflamed relations
with Crassus.
Crassus yet stands your patron, does he not,
gifting you position and Batiatus' ludus?
I stand so blessed... for services rendered.
Then surely you have his ear in the matter.
I have dispatched messages regarding variety of
pressing concerns, not least among them
rebuilding once mighty arena brought to ruin
- by Spartacus and his rebel-- - Yes, a lofty ideal,
to be sure.
Please give Crassus our wishes for continued prosperity.
If you shout them loud enough,
perhaps they will reach all the way to Rome, hm?
Uvidus!
Aedile. I would broach subject for position in future games.
Position? Word travels upon wind of your men being... less than.
I assure you, they stand equal to any good Proculus
- could hope to offer. - Korris speaks out of turn...
yet breaks truth.
Let us grace the Syrian with reward equal to worth -
if not swayed by my desire, then in name of honored husband?
Very well.
One man... to be presented mid-month
upon festival of Liber Pater.
I eagerly await the day.
As do I.
Did I not tell you? We at last gain position!
If you'd bowed any lower, your mouth would be filled with dirt.
And I would gorge until bursting to gain advantage.
Who stands most well-honed among our men?
Rhodius, by wide fucking margin.
Rhodius? Which man is he?
The one you buried this morning.
You did not think to broach subject
before I fell the fucking man?!
I warned his absence would be keenly felt.
After deed had been done!
Oh, apologies... for not divining future where you
fell from reason and took life with jug of fucking wine!
We have opportunity, Korris, and we must seize it.
Pit man against man at break of dawn.
Whoever triumphs by fall of night shall stand
our champion in the arena.
- Your will-- - Go!
- Dominus. - What?!
Apologies.
I thought you might take food.
And perhaps warm bath.
To temper mood.
Is it so foul a creature?
For enraged bull?
- No. - Mm.
Lead way.
And I shall attempt not to gore
with errant horn.
What troubled thoughts lend burden?
None of worth.
Place them upon scale to be weighted by a less critical eye.
Many nights I would lay in my cell below us in the ludus,
dreaming...
of a day I would hold title of dominus.
Absent concern to onus such title carried.
Did former dominus share in reflection?
Batiatus?
The man stood constantly pressed,
believing the gods themselves spread cheeks
for frequent ramming.
And how did he survive?
Through cunning and deception.
Benefit of my aid
at every turn.
Then you shall rise
through conviction of your own counsel...
...as your cock
heralds way.
Ah!
Shall I summon Messia to join us?
No.
I have desire for sweeter nectar.
Wash day's bitter taste...
...from mouth.
Bless the gods. We...
are for the arena!
You are for fucking shit, Erato.
You fare no better.
Place lips upon hole so I may impart more cloying breath
than breaks from fucking mouth!
Oh, Tarchon.
Your boy stands absent sense or concern.
And you did not fall into quarrel during day's training?
Passions overwhelmed upon the moment.
I should not have lashed out at my brothers...
when true enemy stands Roman.
- Oooh. - Logas!
- Oh, let him speak. - Towards what end?
Of us fucking all
if whimpering growl reaches ear of our dominus.
- The Syrian? - Mm?
He stands a traitor to the Brotherhood -
something well known to Spartacus.
You would see us all nailed upon cross along Appian Way.
I would see us slip from beneath heel.
What Spartacus began lives in the spirit
of those who followed him. And rumors
the man himself
may yet live.
If he yet drew breath,
the Bringer of Rain would make presence known.
No, no, no. More likely the mad fuck
forever slumbers in unknown beds beneath fetid ground.
Tarchon,
fall to my side
and let us remove ourselves from such foolishness.
You clear fucking room.
We are better served in their absence.
The lesson of Spartacus is well learned...
for those who dare embrace it.
What fucking lesson? To die at the end of spear?
That freedom is worth any cost,
as is claiming the life of those who would oppress us.
Whoever stands upon the sands of the arena
will have the opportunity in victory
to shed the blood of our dominus
and every Roman cock he kneels to suck.
You have been granted the greatest of honor
to at last grace the sands of the arena!
To prove yourselves against the shit, Proculus, and his men.
Some...
would claim you've been
blessed by the gods.
Fuck the gods!
They give no shit towards the affairs of men,
a thing I have witnessed countless times as a gladiator,
as a soldier...
as a free man.
We forge our own fate
with our hands,
with our will,
and with our blood! Prove yourselves worthy -
not to Jupiter and his fucking cock
but to yourselves.
And to your dominus.
Doctore.
Salvius!
Hedylus.
Begin!
Illugorus. Firmus.
Logas. Helios.
Erato. Ephesius.
Celadus. Tarchon.
Celadus, Logas...
take position for final contest.
Mm.
So, you stand above all others in the House of Ashur.
Logas has proven himself worthy of the arena.
Were you not the one who spoke of sacred grounds
watered with tears of blood?
Yes, Dominus.
Place thought aside.
Proculus will not risk embarrassment.
He shall seek an opponent with deadly consequence,
perhaps even the champion Ammonius himself.
All those before me shall fall, regardless of name or title.
Mmm.
See it so.
And be rewarded for fucking effort.
The crowd again favors your wares, Proculus.
Gratitude. Yet I fear good Opiter may forfeit all coin
in attempts to restock his ludus.
Well, fortunes may yet shift
- in my favor. - As I would see it so.
Sun threatens zenith...
and, with it, promise of most anticipated contest.
May the gods grant spectacle to shake the very heavens.
Mm.
See our man ready...
and first victory of the House of fucking Ashur.
It is time to embrace your destiny.
A thing that I have long dreamt of.
Now I've imparted all I can in the days allowed us.
Bring honor to the name Logas.
And if the gods will it, embrace the afterlife
with a dignity befitting our brotherhood.
It is not I who shall fall this day.
- How stands our man? - Filled to overflowing
with lust for blood.
The gods may yet bless us this day.
I hold no stock in them,
yet I would gladly stroke Jupiter's cock to completion
if it held promise towards our favor.
The gods hear your plea.
Gabinius returns from Rome to bear witness to our efforts.
Gabinius. You grace us with unexpected presence.
I had not thought to see such a vision
for yet a handful of days.
Heart could not bear another fleeting moment...
- ...absent from your embrace. - Mm.
Apologies. What news from Rome?
None to lift heart.
I entreated Pompey to offer disbanding his army garrison
beyond city gates; in return, in kind from Crassus
and his forces equally positioned.
Well, a reasonable solution to ease mounting tension.
I fear reason has taken wing.
Love lost between the two consuls in recent months
proves too great a divide to close with simple words.
Slightest spark of temperament may ignite civil war.
Replace concern of uncertain future
with more joyful present.
Wise counsel for all attending.
And well received.
Viridia did not accompany?
The games serve only to reopen old wounds.
I bear gifts from Rome
- to aid in their healing. - Mm.
Ah, let us not drag the day into morose reflection.
I am for wine...
- and the clash of swords. - Mm.
As I would see desires satisfied.
She at last finds fucking tongue.
Citizens of Capua,
honored guests and beloved husband...
Liber Pater -
benevolent god gracing us
with most welcome discovery of honey
and blessing us
with fertility,
harvest,
and wine...
...has also seen fit
to deliver most extraordinary spectacle...
...for those
of faithful worship.
For the first time
in all of history,
the House of Ashur presents upon the sands.
And who shall the Syrian put forth?
Enter...
um...
Logas.
Enter Logas -
murmillo!
A momentous reception.
The mob does not know what moves until motion has ceased.
They sound pretty fucking moved to me.
And who shall face such fearsome opponent?
Good Proculus has chosen carefully.
Enter...
the Brothers Ferox, thraex, murmillo and hoplomachus.
Three?!
Logas is to face three fucking men?
What is this fucking shit?!
Jest veers from proper contest.
'Tis but slight amusement.
See how the spirit of the crowd is so lifted by it.
Whoo!
What is that he wears upon his belt?
Trophies taken from the lives he's claimed within
the arena... and beyond.
Ah!
May your sacrifice find favor among the gods.
Begin!
Mm.
First blood to Satyrus.
Recall training! They are but men!
They are aborted demon,
belched from fucking cunt of the Underworld.
I pray the Syrian's man does not fall too quickly.
I would see moment prolonged.
Kill this cunt!
Yes!
Brother!
Balbus!
Come.
Let us see how you fare absent fucking brothers, little man.
Ha!
Is this the best that Proculus offers?!
Ha!
My cock stands larger threat.
Fuck.
One day...
Yes!
Yeah!
No man stands above us
when laid to fucking ground!
They laugh.
They fucking laugh at us.
There sit mother of fucking jest.
Regain your seat.
Would you have us sit and bathe in fucking mockery?
They desire us gone...
a satisfaction I would see denied.
Apologies, pressing concerns wrest me from position.
Cossutia.
Day is but half fallen, and I stand for Liber Pater.
- I would remain. - And I would not.
What turns such mood?
Surely not amusement at expense of the Syrian toad.
That toad is pet to Marcus fucking Crassus.
I make overtures to temper smoldering resentment
between the man and Pompey, only to find wife stoking flames!
Apologies, Gabinius. We did not think--
No, you did not.
If Crassus yet bore concern towards the Syrian,
intentions would have been made known. He is forsaken
and soon shall fade from Capua
as unpleasant memory upon passing of time.
I pray words hold truth.
Come.
Gratitude... for most enjoyable day.
Witness speed and ferocity unmatched upon the sands!
Little shit!
Oh!
Most honored guest at last arrives.
Behold the mighty Syrian -
Dominus of the House of Asses.
Pay him no heed. Satyrus drinks as man fully formed,
overfilling flyspeck vessel.
Voice so small to be barely of note.
Yet louder than your man in the arena with throat slit
by tiny hand.
I shall compensate for your loss
in hope that jest is received in manner intended.
- It has been taken as intended. - Ah. Sentiment well met.
I would not have Crassus believe otherwise.
I find no reason to concern him with such matters.
We are one in this regard.
Perhaps more common ground may yet be claimed.
Is the man incapable
of speaking plainly?
Apologies.
I should reduce words so base intellect may grasp intent.
I have born your jest absent complaint, yet
the House of Ashur has not yet been afforded proper contest.
You seek additional position in the arena?
Crowd turns weary of repeated meal.
They quench hunger by devouring new and unusual meat.
Perhaps if you acquired something novel to offer.
I shall redouble the effort to secure undiscovered spectacle
and see rematch upon a day.
A thing greatly anticipated.
Ah, good Herennius has arrived.
Let us greet him, lest Opiter bores the man to early grave.
Hm.
Herennius, I trust Opiter and noble wife have offered wine.
There stood a time such insult would have been paid in blood.
Would that sun reversed its course
and return us to fucking moment.
Come.
We must secure stock matching purpose to regain footing.
Are we to train men the size of children now?
I would force sword into hand of newborn babe
if the crowd desire such.
The slaver Rusonius here in Capua
holds none of exotic nature.
We shall seek further abroad, to Neapolis or Cumae,
and pray the gods you're forever moaning about
at last present fucking selves.
You shall behold no finer specimens within Republic.
Each man stands fresh from journey across Tyrrhenian Sea.
Breathe in intoxicating scent of future triumphs upon the sands.
I have conjured more worthy shits from troubled bowels.
What of the Gaul? He cuts a form towards promise.
We possess a dozen yet carved in the man's image.
We must present unknown delights to ignite the crowd
and gain attention of fucking Aedile.
- When's the next shipment due? - By month's end. Perhaps then--
You fill cup with warm piss and expect request for more?
Let us to Cumae and hopes of more fragrant opportunity.
You grasp gold from a sow's arse.
And will plunge to fucking shoulders in the seeking of it.
Cumae will provide even less for consideration.
We should return to Capua...
- Halt! - ...and then--
- Aargh! - Seize her!
- Ah! - Aargh!
Aargh!
- Aargh! - Aah!
Move...
and see life fucking forfeit.
Halt!
Ah!
This one seems to have presented unfortunate complications
to your day. I would remove her from concern,
lest further embarrassment arise.
She struck a Roman.
I'll see her removed from this fucking life.
Let us not fall to bloody disagreement.
Give way, you fucking shit.
This fucking shit holds favor of Marcus Licinius Crassus,
Co-Consul of Rome,
and I, his man in Capua.
Lay hand upon me or those in my employ,
and word shall reach him of offense.
You are his Syrian,
who aided the Republic against the rebel Spartacus.
I stand the same.
I believe this should more than balm wounded pride.
We stand for Crassus against the butcher, Pompey.
Relay allegiance if opportunity arises.
Fall to fucking form! Move!
You waste coin on another fucking house slave?
No.
The gods I do not believe in manifest unexpected gift,
one I would see towards advantage.
Move.
You have truly fallen from fucking sense!
I but rise above lesser minds.
You would have me train a woman to stand in the arena.
A woman? Upon the sands?
The very notion of fucking perversion.
Perversion not yet tasted by ravenous crowd.
One that shall gain notice impossible to ignore.
Hilara would present equal challenge
pitted against fucking gladiator.
I have witnessed many of breast and cunt
far more deadly than their opposite.
Among rank of Spartacus and his rebels,
they stood as fierce as any possessed of cock and balls.
Ha ha!
You are set upon course?
Mm.
Have her bathed and brought to office chambers.
Let us gaze upon glorious future.
Ha!
- Has she taken food? - As jackal upon wounded prey.
Who could lay blame?
Journey through the belly of a slave ship
offers few comforts,
as any who have survived such may attest.
See this dispatched to Rome at first light to be delivered
into no other hand than possessed of Crassus himself.
Yes, Dominus.
Are you able to break common tongue?
Close gap. I would have closer inspection.
Come. I bear no teeth...
and would be greeted in kind.
What name do you carry?
Neferet.
Neferet?
Most pleasing upon tongue.
Yet not upon Roman ear. They desire more familiar personage.
Yes, one stirring reflection of ancient legends
and impossible exploits
of lore.
Achillia.
The name you will bear from this day forward -
Achillia.
Imagine the crowd chanting such,
the sound assaulting the very heavens in your honor.
Crowd?
You're not without skill in way of combat,
evident keenly presented upon shores of Neapolis,
yet you stand as newly forged blade.
Sound of steel...
yet dull of edge.
I will have you honed to deadly advantage
and unleashed upon the sands of the arena...
to the roar
of the crowd.
And you may reap benefits...
such adulation provides.
Do such benefits promise more wine?
Ha!
Enough to drown the gods if you so desire.
You but need to fall to command--
Ugh!
Move and see his fucking life forfeit.
Hold ground. Hold... fucking ground.
- Release him! - You cannot slip these walls.
Then we fall from this world entwined.
I will not die a fucking slave to men such as you.
We are all of us but slaves to those of means and position
who move us upon board, pieces in game,
sacrificed upon whim or need--
Speak clearly while you yet have thought to form words.
Even if you slip these walls, you will never be truly free.
They will hunt you down for such offense and see life ended.
A fate more desirable than one bound in chains.
There is another way.
Pledge oath. Call me dominus and fight in the arena.
Earn your freedom upon the sands.
A freedom the Romans can never seize
from you.
Such a thing is possible?
I stand proof it is so.
Let us,
uncouple from history,
and embrace,
unknown tomorrow.
Leave her!
We struck a bargain.
Have we not?
Dominus.