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The fight was, in its own way, impressive to watch. It was a choreographed dance of death and destruction. Swords clashing against swords, the metal of arrows and axes meeting armour. A cacophony of noise, a whirl of bodies moving so fluidly, so quickly that Evi could barely keep up with limbs and fabric flying.
The arena was a popular location in the city, purely for the spectacle of the shows and games seen there during the days. Gladiator fights were as common as the new show. The pleasures of the vulgar crowd were just that: loved by the many. Evi’s father, always willing to follow the wills of his daughters, had not imposed a gladiator fight on them when they came out to society. Only when Evi expressed a mild interest in the shows, he had offered to bring her to watch the spectacle.
She had read enough about them, about how armed combatants would entertain the masses in violent confrontations with wild animals, condemned criminals, or other gladiators. Some volunteered, risking their lives for a chance at higher social standing, but most of them were slaves, forced to fight until freed by their masters… or by death. But to fight and die well carried its own admiration from society as a whole. And as the games grew in popularity over the years, they had become more lavish, filled with a strange kind of showmanship that could not be found on a traditional stage.
It was a fickle mob, screaming names of their favoured champion between two fighting opponents, cheering them on, and then forgetting their name within the month of their sudden, often brutal and bloody, demise. To read about it and witness it were two very different things, however. Evi had expected a certain level of brutality. But she was worldly only insofar as the books she had read. The only wounds she had seen came from a cut from the edge of paper, or a thorned bush. This level of violence was completely unexpected, and unwelcome.
“Father,” she whispered, leaning across the armrest to speak into Alehandros’ ear, “Would you mind terribly if I were to leave with a servant?” The man glanced over, concern washing over his expression. He asked if she wanted him to join her. “No, of course not, I will be fine. It is just… more than I anticipated.” She attempted a weak smile. Alehandros nodded, kissing her gently on the cheek before releasing her into the care of a servant.
Once away from the stands, she was quick to hurry onwards away from the crowed, though, which appeared to cheer and boo in equal measure. No, definitely not what she expected. Not really sure which way she was heading, she waved away her servant’s attempts to gain her attention as she stumbled along the wide tunnels away from the noise. The young woman raised a hand to brush the hair out of her face, then lowered it to rest upon her stomach. Her other hand came out to her side, waving a silent command for the servant to stop, “Just give me a moment…”
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The fight was, in its own way, impressive to watch. It was a choreographed dance of death and destruction. Swords clashing against swords, the metal of arrows and axes meeting armour. A cacophony of noise, a whirl of bodies moving so fluidly, so quickly that Evi could barely keep up with limbs and fabric flying.
The arena was a popular location in the city, purely for the spectacle of the shows and games seen there during the days. Gladiator fights were as common as the new show. The pleasures of the vulgar crowd were just that: loved by the many. Evi’s father, always willing to follow the wills of his daughters, had not imposed a gladiator fight on them when they came out to society. Only when Evi expressed a mild interest in the shows, he had offered to bring her to watch the spectacle.
She had read enough about them, about how armed combatants would entertain the masses in violent confrontations with wild animals, condemned criminals, or other gladiators. Some volunteered, risking their lives for a chance at higher social standing, but most of them were slaves, forced to fight until freed by their masters… or by death. But to fight and die well carried its own admiration from society as a whole. And as the games grew in popularity over the years, they had become more lavish, filled with a strange kind of showmanship that could not be found on a traditional stage.
It was a fickle mob, screaming names of their favoured champion between two fighting opponents, cheering them on, and then forgetting their name within the month of their sudden, often brutal and bloody, demise. To read about it and witness it were two very different things, however. Evi had expected a certain level of brutality. But she was worldly only insofar as the books she had read. The only wounds she had seen came from a cut from the edge of paper, or a thorned bush. This level of violence was completely unexpected, and unwelcome.
“Father,” she whispered, leaning across the armrest to speak into Alehandros’ ear, “Would you mind terribly if I were to leave with a servant?” The man glanced over, concern washing over his expression. He asked if she wanted him to join her. “No, of course not, I will be fine. It is just… more than I anticipated.” She attempted a weak smile. Alehandros nodded, kissing her gently on the cheek before releasing her into the care of a servant.
Once away from the stands, she was quick to hurry onwards away from the crowed, though, which appeared to cheer and boo in equal measure. No, definitely not what she expected. Not really sure which way she was heading, she waved away her servant’s attempts to gain her attention as she stumbled along the wide tunnels away from the noise. The young woman raised a hand to brush the hair out of her face, then lowered it to rest upon her stomach. Her other hand came out to her side, waving a silent command for the servant to stop, “Just give me a moment…”
The fight was, in its own way, impressive to watch. It was a choreographed dance of death and destruction. Swords clashing against swords, the metal of arrows and axes meeting armour. A cacophony of noise, a whirl of bodies moving so fluidly, so quickly that Evi could barely keep up with limbs and fabric flying.
The arena was a popular location in the city, purely for the spectacle of the shows and games seen there during the days. Gladiator fights were as common as the new show. The pleasures of the vulgar crowd were just that: loved by the many. Evi’s father, always willing to follow the wills of his daughters, had not imposed a gladiator fight on them when they came out to society. Only when Evi expressed a mild interest in the shows, he had offered to bring her to watch the spectacle.
She had read enough about them, about how armed combatants would entertain the masses in violent confrontations with wild animals, condemned criminals, or other gladiators. Some volunteered, risking their lives for a chance at higher social standing, but most of them were slaves, forced to fight until freed by their masters… or by death. But to fight and die well carried its own admiration from society as a whole. And as the games grew in popularity over the years, they had become more lavish, filled with a strange kind of showmanship that could not be found on a traditional stage.
It was a fickle mob, screaming names of their favoured champion between two fighting opponents, cheering them on, and then forgetting their name within the month of their sudden, often brutal and bloody, demise. To read about it and witness it were two very different things, however. Evi had expected a certain level of brutality. But she was worldly only insofar as the books she had read. The only wounds she had seen came from a cut from the edge of paper, or a thorned bush. This level of violence was completely unexpected, and unwelcome.
“Father,” she whispered, leaning across the armrest to speak into Alehandros’ ear, “Would you mind terribly if I were to leave with a servant?” The man glanced over, concern washing over his expression. He asked if she wanted him to join her. “No, of course not, I will be fine. It is just… more than I anticipated.” She attempted a weak smile. Alehandros nodded, kissing her gently on the cheek before releasing her into the care of a servant.
Once away from the stands, she was quick to hurry onwards away from the crowed, though, which appeared to cheer and boo in equal measure. No, definitely not what she expected. Not really sure which way she was heading, she waved away her servant’s attempts to gain her attention as she stumbled along the wide tunnels away from the noise. The young woman raised a hand to brush the hair out of her face, then lowered it to rest upon her stomach. Her other hand came out to her side, waving a silent command for the servant to stop, “Just give me a moment…”
Lesley nearly always watched every fight he possibly could. Partly because he hated finding out after the fact that a friend had been injured or killed, partly because he knew he'd be facing those fighters eventually and was studying them all, and partly because he just enjoyed the sport. Still, he sometimes needed to walk away - which was not something he'd expected when he'd started training more than fighting. The younger boys, the ones he'd trained since their first day… those ones he cared about in an entirely new way, and he wasn't comfortable with it. He wasn't comfortable with how few of his contemporaries were still around to cross swords with, either. Every year it was more likely it would be one of the younger ones who did him in eventually. He hoped whoever killed him would understand how proud he'd be of them for managing it.
He sighed quietly to himself as he wandered aimlessly away from where the physicians were dealing with the immediate needs of those who stumbled out of the arena, and only realized where he'd gotten to when he spotted someone he didn't recognize. The next moment he realized he hadn't actually gotten as far as where he would expect to find random public. "Oh, hello. Are you looking for someone?" She didn’t look like she was, but that seemed a more polite opening than several other things he could have said.
The gladiator’s softly concerned - or possibly confused - look was at odds with his reputation, but the rest of his appearance wasn’t. His knee-length, sleeveless chiton was a dark enough blue-black to contrast sharply with relatively pale skin by mediterranian standards, almost rendering his tan invisible, and make the charcoal-black lines staining his arms pop out. A few scars stood out sharply as well, not least because with an artist’s eye he’d drawn his tattoos to draw attention to them. Not something he would likely do today, if he had the choice again, but in the years when he had not owned his own body, every deliberate marring of his skin had been born of poorly understood, angry defiance and a subconscious need to claim back his own self, even at the expense of himself. He wasn’t as self conscious about his appearance here as elsewhere; the arcus was home, and it was where he felt safest, socially at least.
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Lesley nearly always watched every fight he possibly could. Partly because he hated finding out after the fact that a friend had been injured or killed, partly because he knew he'd be facing those fighters eventually and was studying them all, and partly because he just enjoyed the sport. Still, he sometimes needed to walk away - which was not something he'd expected when he'd started training more than fighting. The younger boys, the ones he'd trained since their first day… those ones he cared about in an entirely new way, and he wasn't comfortable with it. He wasn't comfortable with how few of his contemporaries were still around to cross swords with, either. Every year it was more likely it would be one of the younger ones who did him in eventually. He hoped whoever killed him would understand how proud he'd be of them for managing it.
He sighed quietly to himself as he wandered aimlessly away from where the physicians were dealing with the immediate needs of those who stumbled out of the arena, and only realized where he'd gotten to when he spotted someone he didn't recognize. The next moment he realized he hadn't actually gotten as far as where he would expect to find random public. "Oh, hello. Are you looking for someone?" She didn’t look like she was, but that seemed a more polite opening than several other things he could have said.
The gladiator’s softly concerned - or possibly confused - look was at odds with his reputation, but the rest of his appearance wasn’t. His knee-length, sleeveless chiton was a dark enough blue-black to contrast sharply with relatively pale skin by mediterranian standards, almost rendering his tan invisible, and make the charcoal-black lines staining his arms pop out. A few scars stood out sharply as well, not least because with an artist’s eye he’d drawn his tattoos to draw attention to them. Not something he would likely do today, if he had the choice again, but in the years when he had not owned his own body, every deliberate marring of his skin had been born of poorly understood, angry defiance and a subconscious need to claim back his own self, even at the expense of himself. He wasn’t as self conscious about his appearance here as elsewhere; the arcus was home, and it was where he felt safest, socially at least.
Lesley nearly always watched every fight he possibly could. Partly because he hated finding out after the fact that a friend had been injured or killed, partly because he knew he'd be facing those fighters eventually and was studying them all, and partly because he just enjoyed the sport. Still, he sometimes needed to walk away - which was not something he'd expected when he'd started training more than fighting. The younger boys, the ones he'd trained since their first day… those ones he cared about in an entirely new way, and he wasn't comfortable with it. He wasn't comfortable with how few of his contemporaries were still around to cross swords with, either. Every year it was more likely it would be one of the younger ones who did him in eventually. He hoped whoever killed him would understand how proud he'd be of them for managing it.
He sighed quietly to himself as he wandered aimlessly away from where the physicians were dealing with the immediate needs of those who stumbled out of the arena, and only realized where he'd gotten to when he spotted someone he didn't recognize. The next moment he realized he hadn't actually gotten as far as where he would expect to find random public. "Oh, hello. Are you looking for someone?" She didn’t look like she was, but that seemed a more polite opening than several other things he could have said.
The gladiator’s softly concerned - or possibly confused - look was at odds with his reputation, but the rest of his appearance wasn’t. His knee-length, sleeveless chiton was a dark enough blue-black to contrast sharply with relatively pale skin by mediterranian standards, almost rendering his tan invisible, and make the charcoal-black lines staining his arms pop out. A few scars stood out sharply as well, not least because with an artist’s eye he’d drawn his tattoos to draw attention to them. Not something he would likely do today, if he had the choice again, but in the years when he had not owned his own body, every deliberate marring of his skin had been born of poorly understood, angry defiance and a subconscious need to claim back his own self, even at the expense of himself. He wasn’t as self conscious about his appearance here as elsewhere; the arcus was home, and it was where he felt safest, socially at least.
The girl’s stomach was churning. She held onto the wall as if that was all that kept her upright. The servant lingered, unsure of what to do. He decided to do as his mistress had requested and wait quietly. Breathing deeply, Evi’s mind now wandered to what a fool she must have seemed to her father, to the other lords and ladies of Athenia’s nobility who sat close. A seventeen year old girl who had romanticised the gladiatorial arena and what went on inside it. She had always imagined beautifully choreographed fights, the hollers of fans from the stadium cheering on their favourite contender. She had pictured noble battles and deaths, clean and quick and silent.
There was, of course, some beauty to it, and the gladiators acted out scenes like it was art: keeping the crowds interested in their dance. Even the green and innocent girl could see that. What she had not expected was the visceral, primitive screams of the man who felt the blade slice through his arm, or the raw cries following a pierced abdomen. She didn’t want to watch any more. She didn’t want to know what noise came out from a man who was breathing his last.
Evi flinched violently at the sound of a voice behind her. She straightened and twisted, turning to see a sight that was far from comforting. At least she could be proud of the fact that her back didn’t hit the wall behind her. Attempting a smile (though Evi was sure it appeared more as a grimace than anything else), the young woman breathed out her response, “I... no,” she swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up, “I was just...” did she want to say ‘leaving’? Did she want to admit to this somewhat terrifying stranger that she had lasted mere minutes of the introductory battle and couldn’t stomach any more of the violence?
Not that she was ashamed of the fact, exactly... many did not enjoy the violence, and did not attend to watch the games. But attending the arena was a social enterprise, above all. And it was something she wanted to be a part of. Evi was never one to give in so easily. Surely she could try again? “It is the first time I have come to watch the games, you understand...” she finally admitted to the man, a self-depreciating smile now falling onto her face. “I am trying to understand and appreciate it, but it is hard.”
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The girl’s stomach was churning. She held onto the wall as if that was all that kept her upright. The servant lingered, unsure of what to do. He decided to do as his mistress had requested and wait quietly. Breathing deeply, Evi’s mind now wandered to what a fool she must have seemed to her father, to the other lords and ladies of Athenia’s nobility who sat close. A seventeen year old girl who had romanticised the gladiatorial arena and what went on inside it. She had always imagined beautifully choreographed fights, the hollers of fans from the stadium cheering on their favourite contender. She had pictured noble battles and deaths, clean and quick and silent.
There was, of course, some beauty to it, and the gladiators acted out scenes like it was art: keeping the crowds interested in their dance. Even the green and innocent girl could see that. What she had not expected was the visceral, primitive screams of the man who felt the blade slice through his arm, or the raw cries following a pierced abdomen. She didn’t want to watch any more. She didn’t want to know what noise came out from a man who was breathing his last.
Evi flinched violently at the sound of a voice behind her. She straightened and twisted, turning to see a sight that was far from comforting. At least she could be proud of the fact that her back didn’t hit the wall behind her. Attempting a smile (though Evi was sure it appeared more as a grimace than anything else), the young woman breathed out her response, “I... no,” she swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up, “I was just...” did she want to say ‘leaving’? Did she want to admit to this somewhat terrifying stranger that she had lasted mere minutes of the introductory battle and couldn’t stomach any more of the violence?
Not that she was ashamed of the fact, exactly... many did not enjoy the violence, and did not attend to watch the games. But attending the arena was a social enterprise, above all. And it was something she wanted to be a part of. Evi was never one to give in so easily. Surely she could try again? “It is the first time I have come to watch the games, you understand...” she finally admitted to the man, a self-depreciating smile now falling onto her face. “I am trying to understand and appreciate it, but it is hard.”
The girl’s stomach was churning. She held onto the wall as if that was all that kept her upright. The servant lingered, unsure of what to do. He decided to do as his mistress had requested and wait quietly. Breathing deeply, Evi’s mind now wandered to what a fool she must have seemed to her father, to the other lords and ladies of Athenia’s nobility who sat close. A seventeen year old girl who had romanticised the gladiatorial arena and what went on inside it. She had always imagined beautifully choreographed fights, the hollers of fans from the stadium cheering on their favourite contender. She had pictured noble battles and deaths, clean and quick and silent.
There was, of course, some beauty to it, and the gladiators acted out scenes like it was art: keeping the crowds interested in their dance. Even the green and innocent girl could see that. What she had not expected was the visceral, primitive screams of the man who felt the blade slice through his arm, or the raw cries following a pierced abdomen. She didn’t want to watch any more. She didn’t want to know what noise came out from a man who was breathing his last.
Evi flinched violently at the sound of a voice behind her. She straightened and twisted, turning to see a sight that was far from comforting. At least she could be proud of the fact that her back didn’t hit the wall behind her. Attempting a smile (though Evi was sure it appeared more as a grimace than anything else), the young woman breathed out her response, “I... no,” she swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up, “I was just...” did she want to say ‘leaving’? Did she want to admit to this somewhat terrifying stranger that she had lasted mere minutes of the introductory battle and couldn’t stomach any more of the violence?
Not that she was ashamed of the fact, exactly... many did not enjoy the violence, and did not attend to watch the games. But attending the arena was a social enterprise, above all. And it was something she wanted to be a part of. Evi was never one to give in so easily. Surely she could try again? “It is the first time I have come to watch the games, you understand...” she finally admitted to the man, a self-depreciating smile now falling onto her face. “I am trying to understand and appreciate it, but it is hard.”
"Mm." Lesley considered the girl in front of him for a moment. Just at the age where she straddled the line between cute and pretty, he wasn't quite sure what to think of her. "It's not for everyone." He stood relaxed and casual, watching her steadily with soft brown eyes. "I'm Lesley," he offered after a moment. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. Now that he'd stepped away and taken a few deep breaths, he found himself itching to go back; watching the younger men make stupid mistakes and pay for them was hard, but not knowing how they were doing was worse. He reminded himself that he knew who was in the arena right now, and he knew who would win - at least with enough confidence that he'd placed a large bet on it - and neither of them were dumb enough to die today.
"Did you have any questions?" he asked, unsure if the offer would help. She looked like she was struggling with the immediacy of seeing it in person, rather than being confused about following the action, but he wasn't sure how to address that, or whether a girl would be as touchy as a boy about any implication they were a pansy. "I don't think I should claim to know everything about the games, but after as long as I've been here I probably come close."
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"Mm." Lesley considered the girl in front of him for a moment. Just at the age where she straddled the line between cute and pretty, he wasn't quite sure what to think of her. "It's not for everyone." He stood relaxed and casual, watching her steadily with soft brown eyes. "I'm Lesley," he offered after a moment. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. Now that he'd stepped away and taken a few deep breaths, he found himself itching to go back; watching the younger men make stupid mistakes and pay for them was hard, but not knowing how they were doing was worse. He reminded himself that he knew who was in the arena right now, and he knew who would win - at least with enough confidence that he'd placed a large bet on it - and neither of them were dumb enough to die today.
"Did you have any questions?" he asked, unsure if the offer would help. She looked like she was struggling with the immediacy of seeing it in person, rather than being confused about following the action, but he wasn't sure how to address that, or whether a girl would be as touchy as a boy about any implication they were a pansy. "I don't think I should claim to know everything about the games, but after as long as I've been here I probably come close."
"Mm." Lesley considered the girl in front of him for a moment. Just at the age where she straddled the line between cute and pretty, he wasn't quite sure what to think of her. "It's not for everyone." He stood relaxed and casual, watching her steadily with soft brown eyes. "I'm Lesley," he offered after a moment. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. Now that he'd stepped away and taken a few deep breaths, he found himself itching to go back; watching the younger men make stupid mistakes and pay for them was hard, but not knowing how they were doing was worse. He reminded himself that he knew who was in the arena right now, and he knew who would win - at least with enough confidence that he'd placed a large bet on it - and neither of them were dumb enough to die today.
"Did you have any questions?" he asked, unsure if the offer would help. She looked like she was struggling with the immediacy of seeing it in person, rather than being confused about following the action, but he wasn't sure how to address that, or whether a girl would be as touchy as a boy about any implication they were a pansy. "I don't think I should claim to know everything about the games, but after as long as I've been here I probably come close."
“That’s an understatement and a half,” the girl replied with a self-depreciating giggle. It was a forced sound, one that didn’t quite seem natural, given the way Evi was still clutching at her stomach, as if she was moments from throwing up. “It seems the sport… if it can even be called that…” she paused, swallowing and taking a moment to steel herself. She didn’t know if it was weakness to have not been able to stomach the violence she had just been watching or not. “It seems the sport is definitely not for everyone.”
Feeling better, the girl stood up straight, taking in the strange man again. He seemed unsure of whether he wanted to be standing with her or not. He seemed like he was keen to return to the violence, something Evi could not understand. “Lesley,” she repeated, “A pleasure. I’m Evi… of Antonis.” She offered a hand in greeting, forcing a smile onto her face as she did when she met anyone new.
Despite his strange look, with the chiselled body covered in tattoos, Evi was still keen to be liked by the man. It was just her way, always wanting to make a connection with the people around her. Here was someone who was nothing like anyone she had met before. She was used to other members of the court, all of whom had a certain way about them. This was a man who looked like he belonged in the arena with the other gladiators. It was strange, but Evi felt oddly exhilarated by the chance to talk to someone completely brand new to her.
He confirmed to her that this was his world, that he belonged here, maybe he had been in the arena himself, fighting for his life and clearly winning, given that he was walking around. It was a little strange to her. Evi imagined that everyone who belonged in the arena was a slave, forced to fight (for why would anyone chose to potentially shorten their life like that?) But that would be rather rude of her, to ask such a think outright, even if he was a slave. “I guess… I mean it’s a show, isn’t it?” She asked, “It’s like any play they put on at court. It’s not just mindless violence, is it, they’re putting on a show for the spectators. Is it predetermined who gets injured, who dies?”
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“That’s an understatement and a half,” the girl replied with a self-depreciating giggle. It was a forced sound, one that didn’t quite seem natural, given the way Evi was still clutching at her stomach, as if she was moments from throwing up. “It seems the sport… if it can even be called that…” she paused, swallowing and taking a moment to steel herself. She didn’t know if it was weakness to have not been able to stomach the violence she had just been watching or not. “It seems the sport is definitely not for everyone.”
Feeling better, the girl stood up straight, taking in the strange man again. He seemed unsure of whether he wanted to be standing with her or not. He seemed like he was keen to return to the violence, something Evi could not understand. “Lesley,” she repeated, “A pleasure. I’m Evi… of Antonis.” She offered a hand in greeting, forcing a smile onto her face as she did when she met anyone new.
Despite his strange look, with the chiselled body covered in tattoos, Evi was still keen to be liked by the man. It was just her way, always wanting to make a connection with the people around her. Here was someone who was nothing like anyone she had met before. She was used to other members of the court, all of whom had a certain way about them. This was a man who looked like he belonged in the arena with the other gladiators. It was strange, but Evi felt oddly exhilarated by the chance to talk to someone completely brand new to her.
He confirmed to her that this was his world, that he belonged here, maybe he had been in the arena himself, fighting for his life and clearly winning, given that he was walking around. It was a little strange to her. Evi imagined that everyone who belonged in the arena was a slave, forced to fight (for why would anyone chose to potentially shorten their life like that?) But that would be rather rude of her, to ask such a think outright, even if he was a slave. “I guess… I mean it’s a show, isn’t it?” She asked, “It’s like any play they put on at court. It’s not just mindless violence, is it, they’re putting on a show for the spectators. Is it predetermined who gets injured, who dies?”
“That’s an understatement and a half,” the girl replied with a self-depreciating giggle. It was a forced sound, one that didn’t quite seem natural, given the way Evi was still clutching at her stomach, as if she was moments from throwing up. “It seems the sport… if it can even be called that…” she paused, swallowing and taking a moment to steel herself. She didn’t know if it was weakness to have not been able to stomach the violence she had just been watching or not. “It seems the sport is definitely not for everyone.”
Feeling better, the girl stood up straight, taking in the strange man again. He seemed unsure of whether he wanted to be standing with her or not. He seemed like he was keen to return to the violence, something Evi could not understand. “Lesley,” she repeated, “A pleasure. I’m Evi… of Antonis.” She offered a hand in greeting, forcing a smile onto her face as she did when she met anyone new.
Despite his strange look, with the chiselled body covered in tattoos, Evi was still keen to be liked by the man. It was just her way, always wanting to make a connection with the people around her. Here was someone who was nothing like anyone she had met before. She was used to other members of the court, all of whom had a certain way about them. This was a man who looked like he belonged in the arena with the other gladiators. It was strange, but Evi felt oddly exhilarated by the chance to talk to someone completely brand new to her.
He confirmed to her that this was his world, that he belonged here, maybe he had been in the arena himself, fighting for his life and clearly winning, given that he was walking around. It was a little strange to her. Evi imagined that everyone who belonged in the arena was a slave, forced to fight (for why would anyone chose to potentially shorten their life like that?) But that would be rather rude of her, to ask such a think outright, even if he was a slave. “I guess… I mean it’s a show, isn’t it?” She asked, “It’s like any play they put on at court. It’s not just mindless violence, is it, they’re putting on a show for the spectators. Is it predetermined who gets injured, who dies?”
"My lady." He responded to her admission of her family name by bowing over her hand rather than clasping it as he would have another commoner's, but while it was a shallower bow than she was probably used to, it didn't carry the hesitation of someone who wasn't quite sure what was expected. Lesley had manners, and was being casual on purpose. That hesitation had suggested she didn't want to stand on formality, but she wasn't comfortable with the chance of his assuming she might the rock-bottom social status implied by not having a byname. Her clothes would have been a dead giveaway as to that, Les thought, but she could also be concerned about how she'd be treated by a scarred and tattooed gladiator if it wasn't made clear there'd be consequences. One of the reasons he usually covered up, out there.
"Oh, it's definitely a show." Lesley grinned broadly at her question. "There's a lot of planning that goes into it, and it's absolutely not mindless, but no, it's not scripted like that either. It's a sport, not a performance. We get paid when we win." Sometimes there was a bit of a bonus for putting on a good show either way, but not reliably enough to be motivation. The simplified explanation seemed more appropriate at the moment.
The grin faded to something more serious, as he considered might be the source of what was bothering her. "We're mostly not trying to kill each other, even though it looks like it," he pointed out. "Aristides, the man who fell in the last fight - he'll be all right, probably. Any wound can turn bad, and he'll be a long while recovering, but he's young and our physician is good." Young enough to be stupid, to insist he was fine before he was. And he was a slave; whatever he said, the chances of being back in the arena while he was still at a disadvantage were high. The hint of worry on his face showed that the other man's condition was indeed serious, but then he shrugged. "That is, of course, assuming that he survives the beating I'm likely to give him for being a complete idiot and forgetting half of what I taught him." The twinkle in his eye and twitch of his lips showed it wasn't a serious threat. He probably would smack the boy at least once, but honestly he'd already gotten his lesson.
"But," he returned to her question, "while it's not scripted, sometimes it is, mm... planned out, I guess. There's more deaths at the festival of Ares than that of Athena, that's not by accident. But something like today, when it's just entertainment, it's pretty come-as-what-may." Which he preferred... well, lately. Stepping into the ring, knowing it was win or die, he'd been addicted to that, once. Eventually, he'd do it again. He didn't want whoever killed him in the end to feel guilty about it. Probably after his mother died, and before he lost more than just a keen edge to age, should he be lucky enough that things happened in that order. He didn't think about that far into the future much. Dwelling on hope just wasted time and annoyed the gods. "I find it more enjoyable to watch when I know it's an even fight," he continued, "would it help to know something of who is fighting and how much experience they have? I expect the one on one fights would be less confusing than the melees. I know all the fighters and I've..." He glanced up and over towards the sound as a loud cheer went up from the audience. "I bet five drachma on Alecto," he commented with a smile. "Shall we see if I was right?" A week's wages for a skilled craftsman or scribe, two weeks' or more for a common labourer, a seeming fortune for a slave - and on the other end, equally trivial for a noble. To Lesley, whose coin had always come in fits and starts and for more than half his life without much correlation to where his next meal was coming from, it was simply the amount he'd had in his pouch when he'd decided to place a bet, less enough to get drunk later, which was his only concession to the consideration of what if he was wrong.
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"My lady." He responded to her admission of her family name by bowing over her hand rather than clasping it as he would have another commoner's, but while it was a shallower bow than she was probably used to, it didn't carry the hesitation of someone who wasn't quite sure what was expected. Lesley had manners, and was being casual on purpose. That hesitation had suggested she didn't want to stand on formality, but she wasn't comfortable with the chance of his assuming she might the rock-bottom social status implied by not having a byname. Her clothes would have been a dead giveaway as to that, Les thought, but she could also be concerned about how she'd be treated by a scarred and tattooed gladiator if it wasn't made clear there'd be consequences. One of the reasons he usually covered up, out there.
"Oh, it's definitely a show." Lesley grinned broadly at her question. "There's a lot of planning that goes into it, and it's absolutely not mindless, but no, it's not scripted like that either. It's a sport, not a performance. We get paid when we win." Sometimes there was a bit of a bonus for putting on a good show either way, but not reliably enough to be motivation. The simplified explanation seemed more appropriate at the moment.
The grin faded to something more serious, as he considered might be the source of what was bothering her. "We're mostly not trying to kill each other, even though it looks like it," he pointed out. "Aristides, the man who fell in the last fight - he'll be all right, probably. Any wound can turn bad, and he'll be a long while recovering, but he's young and our physician is good." Young enough to be stupid, to insist he was fine before he was. And he was a slave; whatever he said, the chances of being back in the arena while he was still at a disadvantage were high. The hint of worry on his face showed that the other man's condition was indeed serious, but then he shrugged. "That is, of course, assuming that he survives the beating I'm likely to give him for being a complete idiot and forgetting half of what I taught him." The twinkle in his eye and twitch of his lips showed it wasn't a serious threat. He probably would smack the boy at least once, but honestly he'd already gotten his lesson.
"But," he returned to her question, "while it's not scripted, sometimes it is, mm... planned out, I guess. There's more deaths at the festival of Ares than that of Athena, that's not by accident. But something like today, when it's just entertainment, it's pretty come-as-what-may." Which he preferred... well, lately. Stepping into the ring, knowing it was win or die, he'd been addicted to that, once. Eventually, he'd do it again. He didn't want whoever killed him in the end to feel guilty about it. Probably after his mother died, and before he lost more than just a keen edge to age, should he be lucky enough that things happened in that order. He didn't think about that far into the future much. Dwelling on hope just wasted time and annoyed the gods. "I find it more enjoyable to watch when I know it's an even fight," he continued, "would it help to know something of who is fighting and how much experience they have? I expect the one on one fights would be less confusing than the melees. I know all the fighters and I've..." He glanced up and over towards the sound as a loud cheer went up from the audience. "I bet five drachma on Alecto," he commented with a smile. "Shall we see if I was right?" A week's wages for a skilled craftsman or scribe, two weeks' or more for a common labourer, a seeming fortune for a slave - and on the other end, equally trivial for a noble. To Lesley, whose coin had always come in fits and starts and for more than half his life without much correlation to where his next meal was coming from, it was simply the amount he'd had in his pouch when he'd decided to place a bet, less enough to get drunk later, which was his only concession to the consideration of what if he was wrong.
"My lady." He responded to her admission of her family name by bowing over her hand rather than clasping it as he would have another commoner's, but while it was a shallower bow than she was probably used to, it didn't carry the hesitation of someone who wasn't quite sure what was expected. Lesley had manners, and was being casual on purpose. That hesitation had suggested she didn't want to stand on formality, but she wasn't comfortable with the chance of his assuming she might the rock-bottom social status implied by not having a byname. Her clothes would have been a dead giveaway as to that, Les thought, but she could also be concerned about how she'd be treated by a scarred and tattooed gladiator if it wasn't made clear there'd be consequences. One of the reasons he usually covered up, out there.
"Oh, it's definitely a show." Lesley grinned broadly at her question. "There's a lot of planning that goes into it, and it's absolutely not mindless, but no, it's not scripted like that either. It's a sport, not a performance. We get paid when we win." Sometimes there was a bit of a bonus for putting on a good show either way, but not reliably enough to be motivation. The simplified explanation seemed more appropriate at the moment.
The grin faded to something more serious, as he considered might be the source of what was bothering her. "We're mostly not trying to kill each other, even though it looks like it," he pointed out. "Aristides, the man who fell in the last fight - he'll be all right, probably. Any wound can turn bad, and he'll be a long while recovering, but he's young and our physician is good." Young enough to be stupid, to insist he was fine before he was. And he was a slave; whatever he said, the chances of being back in the arena while he was still at a disadvantage were high. The hint of worry on his face showed that the other man's condition was indeed serious, but then he shrugged. "That is, of course, assuming that he survives the beating I'm likely to give him for being a complete idiot and forgetting half of what I taught him." The twinkle in his eye and twitch of his lips showed it wasn't a serious threat. He probably would smack the boy at least once, but honestly he'd already gotten his lesson.
"But," he returned to her question, "while it's not scripted, sometimes it is, mm... planned out, I guess. There's more deaths at the festival of Ares than that of Athena, that's not by accident. But something like today, when it's just entertainment, it's pretty come-as-what-may." Which he preferred... well, lately. Stepping into the ring, knowing it was win or die, he'd been addicted to that, once. Eventually, he'd do it again. He didn't want whoever killed him in the end to feel guilty about it. Probably after his mother died, and before he lost more than just a keen edge to age, should he be lucky enough that things happened in that order. He didn't think about that far into the future much. Dwelling on hope just wasted time and annoyed the gods. "I find it more enjoyable to watch when I know it's an even fight," he continued, "would it help to know something of who is fighting and how much experience they have? I expect the one on one fights would be less confusing than the melees. I know all the fighters and I've..." He glanced up and over towards the sound as a loud cheer went up from the audience. "I bet five drachma on Alecto," he commented with a smile. "Shall we see if I was right?" A week's wages for a skilled craftsman or scribe, two weeks' or more for a common labourer, a seeming fortune for a slave - and on the other end, equally trivial for a noble. To Lesley, whose coin had always come in fits and starts and for more than half his life without much correlation to where his next meal was coming from, it was simply the amount he'd had in his pouch when he'd decided to place a bet, less enough to get drunk later, which was his only concession to the consideration of what if he was wrong.
The girl blushed and smiled. She was used to people showing her the correct reverence her status afforded her but, for some unknown reason, it felt wrong coming from this man. She inclined her head, this signalled permission to deduct any superfluous bowing and scraping from the conversation going forward.
Huh, the gladiators got paid, and this one was wandering around outside of the arena. They must not all be slaves or prisoners like Evi had initially thought. The idea that people were forced to fight in the arena made the whole thing seem much more barbaric. But if, like Lesley was implying, there was an element of choice in whether or not one became a gladiator… then the whole thing didn’t seem so bad. She was still morbidly curious about why anyone would chose such a life, especially when there was the chance of death or serious injury from it… but she was a woman, maybe it was implicit in her gender that she was not meant to understand. She hadn’t seen any females down in the arena anyway.
“He looked like he sustained quite a serious injury, though. Are you sure he will be okay?” The girl asked, biting her lower lip in concern for the man, Aristides, who had fallen in the arena just before Evi had decided she had had enough of the sport. “you’re going to do what to the poor man?!” Evi asked, her tone rising an octave or two as she took a step back, both in awe and in fright. Then she recognised the glint in his eye and the twitch of his lips and realised he wasn’t being serious. “Oh, you’re joking, right?” Evi waved off the servant, who was still watching patiently and had approached when he had seen his mistress in distress.
“So… you… you must train the young men who fight, then?” Evi deduced from what he said. “Is that why you were watching from up here? Did you used to fight in the arena? Do you ever fight now?” He must be very good at it, if he was now training other gladiators to fight in the arena.
“Yes, I’d quite agree. The melees seem quite overwhelming. I can’t really follow what’s going on, everything seems to happen so fast,” she agreed, following his gaze as the shouts were heard from the audience watching the match. “I wonder if it would make it easier to watch the match if I knew what was going on.” Internally, she debated whether that would be the case. But gladiator fights were such a large part of society that she probably needed to learn how to stomach them. Steeling herself, she agreed to follow the man back to the seating area that surrounded the arena. The servant followed obediently behind, still there to chaperone Evi while she was apart from her father.
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The girl blushed and smiled. She was used to people showing her the correct reverence her status afforded her but, for some unknown reason, it felt wrong coming from this man. She inclined her head, this signalled permission to deduct any superfluous bowing and scraping from the conversation going forward.
Huh, the gladiators got paid, and this one was wandering around outside of the arena. They must not all be slaves or prisoners like Evi had initially thought. The idea that people were forced to fight in the arena made the whole thing seem much more barbaric. But if, like Lesley was implying, there was an element of choice in whether or not one became a gladiator… then the whole thing didn’t seem so bad. She was still morbidly curious about why anyone would chose such a life, especially when there was the chance of death or serious injury from it… but she was a woman, maybe it was implicit in her gender that she was not meant to understand. She hadn’t seen any females down in the arena anyway.
“He looked like he sustained quite a serious injury, though. Are you sure he will be okay?” The girl asked, biting her lower lip in concern for the man, Aristides, who had fallen in the arena just before Evi had decided she had had enough of the sport. “you’re going to do what to the poor man?!” Evi asked, her tone rising an octave or two as she took a step back, both in awe and in fright. Then she recognised the glint in his eye and the twitch of his lips and realised he wasn’t being serious. “Oh, you’re joking, right?” Evi waved off the servant, who was still watching patiently and had approached when he had seen his mistress in distress.
“So… you… you must train the young men who fight, then?” Evi deduced from what he said. “Is that why you were watching from up here? Did you used to fight in the arena? Do you ever fight now?” He must be very good at it, if he was now training other gladiators to fight in the arena.
“Yes, I’d quite agree. The melees seem quite overwhelming. I can’t really follow what’s going on, everything seems to happen so fast,” she agreed, following his gaze as the shouts were heard from the audience watching the match. “I wonder if it would make it easier to watch the match if I knew what was going on.” Internally, she debated whether that would be the case. But gladiator fights were such a large part of society that she probably needed to learn how to stomach them. Steeling herself, she agreed to follow the man back to the seating area that surrounded the arena. The servant followed obediently behind, still there to chaperone Evi while she was apart from her father.
The girl blushed and smiled. She was used to people showing her the correct reverence her status afforded her but, for some unknown reason, it felt wrong coming from this man. She inclined her head, this signalled permission to deduct any superfluous bowing and scraping from the conversation going forward.
Huh, the gladiators got paid, and this one was wandering around outside of the arena. They must not all be slaves or prisoners like Evi had initially thought. The idea that people were forced to fight in the arena made the whole thing seem much more barbaric. But if, like Lesley was implying, there was an element of choice in whether or not one became a gladiator… then the whole thing didn’t seem so bad. She was still morbidly curious about why anyone would chose such a life, especially when there was the chance of death or serious injury from it… but she was a woman, maybe it was implicit in her gender that she was not meant to understand. She hadn’t seen any females down in the arena anyway.
“He looked like he sustained quite a serious injury, though. Are you sure he will be okay?” The girl asked, biting her lower lip in concern for the man, Aristides, who had fallen in the arena just before Evi had decided she had had enough of the sport. “you’re going to do what to the poor man?!” Evi asked, her tone rising an octave or two as she took a step back, both in awe and in fright. Then she recognised the glint in his eye and the twitch of his lips and realised he wasn’t being serious. “Oh, you’re joking, right?” Evi waved off the servant, who was still watching patiently and had approached when he had seen his mistress in distress.
“So… you… you must train the young men who fight, then?” Evi deduced from what he said. “Is that why you were watching from up here? Did you used to fight in the arena? Do you ever fight now?” He must be very good at it, if he was now training other gladiators to fight in the arena.
“Yes, I’d quite agree. The melees seem quite overwhelming. I can’t really follow what’s going on, everything seems to happen so fast,” she agreed, following his gaze as the shouts were heard from the audience watching the match. “I wonder if it would make it easier to watch the match if I knew what was going on.” Internally, she debated whether that would be the case. But gladiator fights were such a large part of society that she probably needed to learn how to stomach them. Steeling herself, she agreed to follow the man back to the seating area that surrounded the arena. The servant followed obediently behind, still there to chaperone Evi while she was apart from her father.
"Nothing is certain," Lesley admitted in the face of her worry, "But I have survived similar wounds, myself." Not exactly the same wounds, but he'd been carried out unconscious, or nearly, from blood loss more than once. Not often... but no gladiator could go a decade undefeated. Lesley might consider himself to be the best, but best still wasn't perfect. Fatherless he might be, but demigod hero he certainly was not.
"Yes to all three," he answered the next questions. "I fought as a slave for over ten years, mostly I only fight at the festivals now, but..." He laughed, not unkindly, at her expression, "Don't feel sorry for me, m'lady. It's not for everyone, but I happen to like my life." Despite that claim, his expression shifted as he slipped through the entrance to the stadium seating, and leaned up against the low railing separating the contestants from the audience. "There's enough of my blood spilled in here I think my soul soaked into this ground, too." He shook his head sharply. "Bah, you don't want to hear my maudlin ramblings," he apologized. "Raudis! Who won the last?"
The referee a few feet away grinned back at him. "Alecto," he admitted. "He actually pulled off that left-handed feint you've been trying to teach him."
"Hah!" Lesley's self-satisfied smirk had the other man rolling his eyes as he turned away again. You could never count on one trick to win a fight, but Alecto had been right at that point where a number of things Lesley had been trying to teach him were almost reflex... and he'd been right that it just took that extra focus of a real fight for it to all click into place for him.
"Okay, so the next match is Erastos and Anatolios," Lesley informed the lady beside him. "This will be good - they're both tactical thinkers, so it won't be just a couple big guys beating on each other - that'll be the next lot, they've got a five-way scheduled and lucky if there's a dram of self-preservation in the lot of them." Fun to watch in another way, Lesley thought, and likelier than not to end up with at least one death, since the first to fall would still need to wait until the end of the fight to get any help - plenty of time to bleed out, depending.
The referee glanced back up towards the trainer. "Lesley, is that an actual woman with you?!"
"Shut up and do your job, Theo." Les rolled his eyes, and then added, "Right, so also, Theo's the raudis for this fight, often there's two, their job is to keep the fighters to the rules - they decide when the fight's over, and they stay between the fighters and the audience in case anyone gets ideas. Sometimes prisoners can get a little vengeful, and when they know they're going to die anyway..." he shrugged, then grinned. "Life around here isn't boring, at least."
Erastos and Anatolios were no more likely to cause trouble than Lesley himself - considerably less, actually - thus only the one referee, with neither armour nor a weapon beyond his staff of office. When the fighters were expected to be unruly, like as not it was Lesley in that role - taking on a swordsman with a quarterstaff could be done, but it took both skill and unflinching confidence. Having the sort of reputation that convinced men not to try it in the first place only helped.
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"Nothing is certain," Lesley admitted in the face of her worry, "But I have survived similar wounds, myself." Not exactly the same wounds, but he'd been carried out unconscious, or nearly, from blood loss more than once. Not often... but no gladiator could go a decade undefeated. Lesley might consider himself to be the best, but best still wasn't perfect. Fatherless he might be, but demigod hero he certainly was not.
"Yes to all three," he answered the next questions. "I fought as a slave for over ten years, mostly I only fight at the festivals now, but..." He laughed, not unkindly, at her expression, "Don't feel sorry for me, m'lady. It's not for everyone, but I happen to like my life." Despite that claim, his expression shifted as he slipped through the entrance to the stadium seating, and leaned up against the low railing separating the contestants from the audience. "There's enough of my blood spilled in here I think my soul soaked into this ground, too." He shook his head sharply. "Bah, you don't want to hear my maudlin ramblings," he apologized. "Raudis! Who won the last?"
The referee a few feet away grinned back at him. "Alecto," he admitted. "He actually pulled off that left-handed feint you've been trying to teach him."
"Hah!" Lesley's self-satisfied smirk had the other man rolling his eyes as he turned away again. You could never count on one trick to win a fight, but Alecto had been right at that point where a number of things Lesley had been trying to teach him were almost reflex... and he'd been right that it just took that extra focus of a real fight for it to all click into place for him.
"Okay, so the next match is Erastos and Anatolios," Lesley informed the lady beside him. "This will be good - they're both tactical thinkers, so it won't be just a couple big guys beating on each other - that'll be the next lot, they've got a five-way scheduled and lucky if there's a dram of self-preservation in the lot of them." Fun to watch in another way, Lesley thought, and likelier than not to end up with at least one death, since the first to fall would still need to wait until the end of the fight to get any help - plenty of time to bleed out, depending.
The referee glanced back up towards the trainer. "Lesley, is that an actual woman with you?!"
"Shut up and do your job, Theo." Les rolled his eyes, and then added, "Right, so also, Theo's the raudis for this fight, often there's two, their job is to keep the fighters to the rules - they decide when the fight's over, and they stay between the fighters and the audience in case anyone gets ideas. Sometimes prisoners can get a little vengeful, and when they know they're going to die anyway..." he shrugged, then grinned. "Life around here isn't boring, at least."
Erastos and Anatolios were no more likely to cause trouble than Lesley himself - considerably less, actually - thus only the one referee, with neither armour nor a weapon beyond his staff of office. When the fighters were expected to be unruly, like as not it was Lesley in that role - taking on a swordsman with a quarterstaff could be done, but it took both skill and unflinching confidence. Having the sort of reputation that convinced men not to try it in the first place only helped.
"Nothing is certain," Lesley admitted in the face of her worry, "But I have survived similar wounds, myself." Not exactly the same wounds, but he'd been carried out unconscious, or nearly, from blood loss more than once. Not often... but no gladiator could go a decade undefeated. Lesley might consider himself to be the best, but best still wasn't perfect. Fatherless he might be, but demigod hero he certainly was not.
"Yes to all three," he answered the next questions. "I fought as a slave for over ten years, mostly I only fight at the festivals now, but..." He laughed, not unkindly, at her expression, "Don't feel sorry for me, m'lady. It's not for everyone, but I happen to like my life." Despite that claim, his expression shifted as he slipped through the entrance to the stadium seating, and leaned up against the low railing separating the contestants from the audience. "There's enough of my blood spilled in here I think my soul soaked into this ground, too." He shook his head sharply. "Bah, you don't want to hear my maudlin ramblings," he apologized. "Raudis! Who won the last?"
The referee a few feet away grinned back at him. "Alecto," he admitted. "He actually pulled off that left-handed feint you've been trying to teach him."
"Hah!" Lesley's self-satisfied smirk had the other man rolling his eyes as he turned away again. You could never count on one trick to win a fight, but Alecto had been right at that point where a number of things Lesley had been trying to teach him were almost reflex... and he'd been right that it just took that extra focus of a real fight for it to all click into place for him.
"Okay, so the next match is Erastos and Anatolios," Lesley informed the lady beside him. "This will be good - they're both tactical thinkers, so it won't be just a couple big guys beating on each other - that'll be the next lot, they've got a five-way scheduled and lucky if there's a dram of self-preservation in the lot of them." Fun to watch in another way, Lesley thought, and likelier than not to end up with at least one death, since the first to fall would still need to wait until the end of the fight to get any help - plenty of time to bleed out, depending.
The referee glanced back up towards the trainer. "Lesley, is that an actual woman with you?!"
"Shut up and do your job, Theo." Les rolled his eyes, and then added, "Right, so also, Theo's the raudis for this fight, often there's two, their job is to keep the fighters to the rules - they decide when the fight's over, and they stay between the fighters and the audience in case anyone gets ideas. Sometimes prisoners can get a little vengeful, and when they know they're going to die anyway..." he shrugged, then grinned. "Life around here isn't boring, at least."
Erastos and Anatolios were no more likely to cause trouble than Lesley himself - considerably less, actually - thus only the one referee, with neither armour nor a weapon beyond his staff of office. When the fighters were expected to be unruly, like as not it was Lesley in that role - taking on a swordsman with a quarterstaff could be done, but it took both skill and unflinching confidence. Having the sort of reputation that convinced men not to try it in the first place only helped.
However pleased she was that Lesley wasn’t sugar coating the events happening in the arena, Evi blanched at the idea that the fighter might die from his wounds. She was a girl of simple pursuits, born and raised in lavish luxury. She couldn’t imagine the life of even a soldier fighting for his nation, let alone one fighting for the pure pleasure of an audience. It was beyond her, why such a thing could be called a sport. But she took comfort in Lesley’s admission that he had survived similar injuries. She bet there was no recompense for the pain he had suffered though.
The knowledge that the man had, in fact, been a slave too was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t pity that filled her eyes, nor disgust that she was talking to someone of such a low station. But she felt sorrow that a man had to experience what he did at all. Lesley didn’t seem put off from her expression though, even going as far as to laugh gently at it. She conjured a smile from her facial arsenal and plastered it across her face. He clearly didn’t seem to mind his roots, so why should she?
“Oh, so did your master set you free for being good in the arena then?” It was the only possible explanation that seemed to make sense in her mind. “You must be quite something down there if you now train others to fight in these matches. I should have liked to see you in action.” It was a lie, she wondered at the prospect of actually knowing the names, of having spoken to someone who would be fighting. It made the whole thing so much more personal and, by extension, so much worse to fathom. “Why do you enjoy your life? Is it the adrenaline of the fight? The cheers of the crowd?” She supposed some of the men must be famous, in their own way.
They had approached the arena properly now, and Evi fell silent as Lesley exchanged words with another man. She looked out to the battleground, where two man were now approaching the centre, ready to start their fight. The girl swallowed: she had barely been able to sit through the first fight, why had she come back in to watch more. The conversation between the two men turned to her, and Evi flushed scarlet. She turned to her unlikely companion, tattooed and scared as he was. He really did make a frightful sight, yet he also held himself in a confident way. This was his home.
“Do… do fighters often attack the audience?” The girl asked fretfully as her eyes darted back to the two men getting ready to fight. She was closer to the arena now than she had been when sitting with her father. The idea of being attacked wasn’t a pleasant one. “What are they fighting for, anyway? So that man, the raudis, he decides if the fight is to the death or not? Is it based on the crowd’s reaction at all, who lives and who dies?” The crowd had grown mostly quiet before the start of the match, but as the two men started moving, circling each other like vultures, the crowds livened up a bit, clearly ready for the bloodshed.
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However pleased she was that Lesley wasn’t sugar coating the events happening in the arena, Evi blanched at the idea that the fighter might die from his wounds. She was a girl of simple pursuits, born and raised in lavish luxury. She couldn’t imagine the life of even a soldier fighting for his nation, let alone one fighting for the pure pleasure of an audience. It was beyond her, why such a thing could be called a sport. But she took comfort in Lesley’s admission that he had survived similar injuries. She bet there was no recompense for the pain he had suffered though.
The knowledge that the man had, in fact, been a slave too was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t pity that filled her eyes, nor disgust that she was talking to someone of such a low station. But she felt sorrow that a man had to experience what he did at all. Lesley didn’t seem put off from her expression though, even going as far as to laugh gently at it. She conjured a smile from her facial arsenal and plastered it across her face. He clearly didn’t seem to mind his roots, so why should she?
“Oh, so did your master set you free for being good in the arena then?” It was the only possible explanation that seemed to make sense in her mind. “You must be quite something down there if you now train others to fight in these matches. I should have liked to see you in action.” It was a lie, she wondered at the prospect of actually knowing the names, of having spoken to someone who would be fighting. It made the whole thing so much more personal and, by extension, so much worse to fathom. “Why do you enjoy your life? Is it the adrenaline of the fight? The cheers of the crowd?” She supposed some of the men must be famous, in their own way.
They had approached the arena properly now, and Evi fell silent as Lesley exchanged words with another man. She looked out to the battleground, where two man were now approaching the centre, ready to start their fight. The girl swallowed: she had barely been able to sit through the first fight, why had she come back in to watch more. The conversation between the two men turned to her, and Evi flushed scarlet. She turned to her unlikely companion, tattooed and scared as he was. He really did make a frightful sight, yet he also held himself in a confident way. This was his home.
“Do… do fighters often attack the audience?” The girl asked fretfully as her eyes darted back to the two men getting ready to fight. She was closer to the arena now than she had been when sitting with her father. The idea of being attacked wasn’t a pleasant one. “What are they fighting for, anyway? So that man, the raudis, he decides if the fight is to the death or not? Is it based on the crowd’s reaction at all, who lives and who dies?” The crowd had grown mostly quiet before the start of the match, but as the two men started moving, circling each other like vultures, the crowds livened up a bit, clearly ready for the bloodshed.
However pleased she was that Lesley wasn’t sugar coating the events happening in the arena, Evi blanched at the idea that the fighter might die from his wounds. She was a girl of simple pursuits, born and raised in lavish luxury. She couldn’t imagine the life of even a soldier fighting for his nation, let alone one fighting for the pure pleasure of an audience. It was beyond her, why such a thing could be called a sport. But she took comfort in Lesley’s admission that he had survived similar injuries. She bet there was no recompense for the pain he had suffered though.
The knowledge that the man had, in fact, been a slave too was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t pity that filled her eyes, nor disgust that she was talking to someone of such a low station. But she felt sorrow that a man had to experience what he did at all. Lesley didn’t seem put off from her expression though, even going as far as to laugh gently at it. She conjured a smile from her facial arsenal and plastered it across her face. He clearly didn’t seem to mind his roots, so why should she?
“Oh, so did your master set you free for being good in the arena then?” It was the only possible explanation that seemed to make sense in her mind. “You must be quite something down there if you now train others to fight in these matches. I should have liked to see you in action.” It was a lie, she wondered at the prospect of actually knowing the names, of having spoken to someone who would be fighting. It made the whole thing so much more personal and, by extension, so much worse to fathom. “Why do you enjoy your life? Is it the adrenaline of the fight? The cheers of the crowd?” She supposed some of the men must be famous, in their own way.
They had approached the arena properly now, and Evi fell silent as Lesley exchanged words with another man. She looked out to the battleground, where two man were now approaching the centre, ready to start their fight. The girl swallowed: she had barely been able to sit through the first fight, why had she come back in to watch more. The conversation between the two men turned to her, and Evi flushed scarlet. She turned to her unlikely companion, tattooed and scared as he was. He really did make a frightful sight, yet he also held himself in a confident way. This was his home.
“Do… do fighters often attack the audience?” The girl asked fretfully as her eyes darted back to the two men getting ready to fight. She was closer to the arena now than she had been when sitting with her father. The idea of being attacked wasn’t a pleasant one. “What are they fighting for, anyway? So that man, the raudis, he decides if the fight is to the death or not? Is it based on the crowd’s reaction at all, who lives and who dies?” The crowd had grown mostly quiet before the start of the match, but as the two men started moving, circling each other like vultures, the crowds livened up a bit, clearly ready for the bloodshed.
Lesley wrinkled his nose at the question of why he'd been set free. "In a way. I'd finished paying off the debt. Sold m'self when, eh, when I was about eighteen. Weren't no other jobs I was qualified for." He shrugged. The details of why he'd needed a large lump sum at eighteen and how his damned owner had managed to keep him for an extra two years by adding on excuses and extra expenses and general bullshit weren't what he wanted to share at the moment. He took the compliment, guessed at the polite lie, and decided not to answer it beyond a smile.
"I guess all of that," he answered the next question, "but remember the fights themselves are only a small part of a gladiator's life. It's mostly training, admittedly, but we manage to make it fun, and none of the privations of a soldier's life. I've more friends here than I ever had before, good food, good wine..." he grinned. "Oh, a slave is still a slave, but there's a world of difference between the care given to a poor man's packhorse and a rich charioteer's best team." He fell silent for a heartbeat or two, and then found himself leaning up against the barrier, being maudlin.
"Oh, hah, no," the gladiator answered her serious question. "I think... twice that I can remember? That's in twenty years. And neither got far." To her question about the role of the raudis, Lesley replied, "It's a... bit more complicated than that. Like I said, the fights are planned a bit - but in the middle of a fight when you're busy trying not to die it's easy to mistake an injury or surrender for a feint, so having someone who's not overcome with the heat of battle and hasn't been hit in the head recently supervising keeps things from getting worse than they need to, usually. But yes, they are also taking what the crowd wants into consideration."
He gestured into the arena where the two fighters had made a couple feints at each other, but hadn't gotten seriously into it yet. "Erastos has only been training with me for six months, and this is his second real fight, but he's quick, he's sharp, and he doesn't hesitate. He also has more endurance than Anatolios. And Toli fights defensively, which means theoretically Erastos just needs to drag it out and wear him down - but, Toli's got over a year's experience more, so if Erastos makes any mistakes, he can expect to be soundly pummeled for them." He pointed to each man in turn, showing which was which.
"Oh, that's interesting," he added as the fighters came together for the first really serious clash and separated again. "See how Erastos is holding his shield out further than Anatolios is. He's nervous. I wouldn't, Anatolios always waits for -" The more experienced gladiator moved first, and Lesley made a surprised noise. "Huh. On the other hand, I have been telling him he needs to be more aggressive," he commented thoughtfully.
He looked sideways at Evi, trying to judge how comfortable or uncomfortable she was feeling. He judged this fight wouldn't end in a death, or even a near-death - both fighters were decent enough not to do stupid things, and neither was good enough to scare the other into being desperately aggressive.
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Lesley wrinkled his nose at the question of why he'd been set free. "In a way. I'd finished paying off the debt. Sold m'self when, eh, when I was about eighteen. Weren't no other jobs I was qualified for." He shrugged. The details of why he'd needed a large lump sum at eighteen and how his damned owner had managed to keep him for an extra two years by adding on excuses and extra expenses and general bullshit weren't what he wanted to share at the moment. He took the compliment, guessed at the polite lie, and decided not to answer it beyond a smile.
"I guess all of that," he answered the next question, "but remember the fights themselves are only a small part of a gladiator's life. It's mostly training, admittedly, but we manage to make it fun, and none of the privations of a soldier's life. I've more friends here than I ever had before, good food, good wine..." he grinned. "Oh, a slave is still a slave, but there's a world of difference between the care given to a poor man's packhorse and a rich charioteer's best team." He fell silent for a heartbeat or two, and then found himself leaning up against the barrier, being maudlin.
"Oh, hah, no," the gladiator answered her serious question. "I think... twice that I can remember? That's in twenty years. And neither got far." To her question about the role of the raudis, Lesley replied, "It's a... bit more complicated than that. Like I said, the fights are planned a bit - but in the middle of a fight when you're busy trying not to die it's easy to mistake an injury or surrender for a feint, so having someone who's not overcome with the heat of battle and hasn't been hit in the head recently supervising keeps things from getting worse than they need to, usually. But yes, they are also taking what the crowd wants into consideration."
He gestured into the arena where the two fighters had made a couple feints at each other, but hadn't gotten seriously into it yet. "Erastos has only been training with me for six months, and this is his second real fight, but he's quick, he's sharp, and he doesn't hesitate. He also has more endurance than Anatolios. And Toli fights defensively, which means theoretically Erastos just needs to drag it out and wear him down - but, Toli's got over a year's experience more, so if Erastos makes any mistakes, he can expect to be soundly pummeled for them." He pointed to each man in turn, showing which was which.
"Oh, that's interesting," he added as the fighters came together for the first really serious clash and separated again. "See how Erastos is holding his shield out further than Anatolios is. He's nervous. I wouldn't, Anatolios always waits for -" The more experienced gladiator moved first, and Lesley made a surprised noise. "Huh. On the other hand, I have been telling him he needs to be more aggressive," he commented thoughtfully.
He looked sideways at Evi, trying to judge how comfortable or uncomfortable she was feeling. He judged this fight wouldn't end in a death, or even a near-death - both fighters were decent enough not to do stupid things, and neither was good enough to scare the other into being desperately aggressive.
Lesley wrinkled his nose at the question of why he'd been set free. "In a way. I'd finished paying off the debt. Sold m'self when, eh, when I was about eighteen. Weren't no other jobs I was qualified for." He shrugged. The details of why he'd needed a large lump sum at eighteen and how his damned owner had managed to keep him for an extra two years by adding on excuses and extra expenses and general bullshit weren't what he wanted to share at the moment. He took the compliment, guessed at the polite lie, and decided not to answer it beyond a smile.
"I guess all of that," he answered the next question, "but remember the fights themselves are only a small part of a gladiator's life. It's mostly training, admittedly, but we manage to make it fun, and none of the privations of a soldier's life. I've more friends here than I ever had before, good food, good wine..." he grinned. "Oh, a slave is still a slave, but there's a world of difference between the care given to a poor man's packhorse and a rich charioteer's best team." He fell silent for a heartbeat or two, and then found himself leaning up against the barrier, being maudlin.
"Oh, hah, no," the gladiator answered her serious question. "I think... twice that I can remember? That's in twenty years. And neither got far." To her question about the role of the raudis, Lesley replied, "It's a... bit more complicated than that. Like I said, the fights are planned a bit - but in the middle of a fight when you're busy trying not to die it's easy to mistake an injury or surrender for a feint, so having someone who's not overcome with the heat of battle and hasn't been hit in the head recently supervising keeps things from getting worse than they need to, usually. But yes, they are also taking what the crowd wants into consideration."
He gestured into the arena where the two fighters had made a couple feints at each other, but hadn't gotten seriously into it yet. "Erastos has only been training with me for six months, and this is his second real fight, but he's quick, he's sharp, and he doesn't hesitate. He also has more endurance than Anatolios. And Toli fights defensively, which means theoretically Erastos just needs to drag it out and wear him down - but, Toli's got over a year's experience more, so if Erastos makes any mistakes, he can expect to be soundly pummeled for them." He pointed to each man in turn, showing which was which.
"Oh, that's interesting," he added as the fighters came together for the first really serious clash and separated again. "See how Erastos is holding his shield out further than Anatolios is. He's nervous. I wouldn't, Anatolios always waits for -" The more experienced gladiator moved first, and Lesley made a surprised noise. "Huh. On the other hand, I have been telling him he needs to be more aggressive," he commented thoughtfully.
He looked sideways at Evi, trying to judge how comfortable or uncomfortable she was feeling. He judged this fight wouldn't end in a death, or even a near-death - both fighters were decent enough not to do stupid things, and neither was good enough to scare the other into being desperately aggressive.
Evi couldn’t imagine a life where someone would chose to sell himself into slavery… much less into something so dangerous where your life could be forfeit at the swish of a blade against your skin. She had thought Lesley to have been born into slavery, his life already not his own by the laws of Greece. But he had sold himself, by his own admission. Evi had no idea what to say in response to the tattooed man’s words. Lesley was, if possible, becoming more and more intimidating the more Evi learned about him.
“Oh, I think I understand,” and she really did think she was beginning to. It was just so foreign to her that she was a little confused, but the way the man talked about it, it didn’t sound so bad. She imagined they needed good food at least, else they would all look emaciated - instead, they were all muscular, as well fed as any commoner it seemed, if not better. And Lesley had said they were fed better than the average soldier. That surprised the girl, but she nodded all the same, “yes, so gladiators are treated well, is what you’re saying. I am glad of it.”
Evi’s world was one brought to her on the back of slave labour, and she knew no different. Slaves surrounded her on a daily basis; the Antonis family held a fair number of slaves, all who were there to see to her every whim. Evi had never given much thought to what it was to be a slave - to have no identity of your own and to be entirely at the mercy of the whims of your masters. Even now, she couldn’t quite grasp it. She was… not kind to her slaves, but they were not maltreated. They were merely dehumanised, so she was surprised to hear about how well gladiatorial slaves were treated.
“Ah that makes sense. I would imagine it is hard to keep your head when you are in the middle of the battle, what with all the noise of support from the crowds, the heat from the sun’s rays… the wounds you might have gained.” She nodded again, turning to watch the fighters in the middle of the arena. “I never knew that about these battles. I just assumed the only bit of planning that went into the battles was matching the two opponents well and then just… hoping for the best. I didn’t realise there was more to it. That seems really quite clever.” She was genuinely impressed by the man’s words, finding out how much planning actually went into a single battle.
Evi was silently nodding as she watched the two fighters move against each other, as if in a dance, each moving forward and backwards, circling. There was no hint yet who had the upper hand in the battle. She listened to Lesley speaking about the two men, learning more about the combat styles of each one. She squinted, trying to see what Lesley was explaining to her. It was hard, at the speed the pair were moving, for her untrained eye to see a shield being held further away from the body, or how a movement was more aggressive than normal.
Even so, she was finding herself enjoying the fighting a little bit more, now that someone was explaining to her what was going on. “Surely that means this… Erastos will win, if he fights more offensively and has more endurance. If all goes to plan? Though six months doesn’t sound like a long time to be training. Maybe Anatolios will win.” Privately, she quite liked the look of the more experienced gladiator, and hoped that he would win.
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Evi couldn’t imagine a life where someone would chose to sell himself into slavery… much less into something so dangerous where your life could be forfeit at the swish of a blade against your skin. She had thought Lesley to have been born into slavery, his life already not his own by the laws of Greece. But he had sold himself, by his own admission. Evi had no idea what to say in response to the tattooed man’s words. Lesley was, if possible, becoming more and more intimidating the more Evi learned about him.
“Oh, I think I understand,” and she really did think she was beginning to. It was just so foreign to her that she was a little confused, but the way the man talked about it, it didn’t sound so bad. She imagined they needed good food at least, else they would all look emaciated - instead, they were all muscular, as well fed as any commoner it seemed, if not better. And Lesley had said they were fed better than the average soldier. That surprised the girl, but she nodded all the same, “yes, so gladiators are treated well, is what you’re saying. I am glad of it.”
Evi’s world was one brought to her on the back of slave labour, and she knew no different. Slaves surrounded her on a daily basis; the Antonis family held a fair number of slaves, all who were there to see to her every whim. Evi had never given much thought to what it was to be a slave - to have no identity of your own and to be entirely at the mercy of the whims of your masters. Even now, she couldn’t quite grasp it. She was… not kind to her slaves, but they were not maltreated. They were merely dehumanised, so she was surprised to hear about how well gladiatorial slaves were treated.
“Ah that makes sense. I would imagine it is hard to keep your head when you are in the middle of the battle, what with all the noise of support from the crowds, the heat from the sun’s rays… the wounds you might have gained.” She nodded again, turning to watch the fighters in the middle of the arena. “I never knew that about these battles. I just assumed the only bit of planning that went into the battles was matching the two opponents well and then just… hoping for the best. I didn’t realise there was more to it. That seems really quite clever.” She was genuinely impressed by the man’s words, finding out how much planning actually went into a single battle.
Evi was silently nodding as she watched the two fighters move against each other, as if in a dance, each moving forward and backwards, circling. There was no hint yet who had the upper hand in the battle. She listened to Lesley speaking about the two men, learning more about the combat styles of each one. She squinted, trying to see what Lesley was explaining to her. It was hard, at the speed the pair were moving, for her untrained eye to see a shield being held further away from the body, or how a movement was more aggressive than normal.
Even so, she was finding herself enjoying the fighting a little bit more, now that someone was explaining to her what was going on. “Surely that means this… Erastos will win, if he fights more offensively and has more endurance. If all goes to plan? Though six months doesn’t sound like a long time to be training. Maybe Anatolios will win.” Privately, she quite liked the look of the more experienced gladiator, and hoped that he would win.
Evi couldn’t imagine a life where someone would chose to sell himself into slavery… much less into something so dangerous where your life could be forfeit at the swish of a blade against your skin. She had thought Lesley to have been born into slavery, his life already not his own by the laws of Greece. But he had sold himself, by his own admission. Evi had no idea what to say in response to the tattooed man’s words. Lesley was, if possible, becoming more and more intimidating the more Evi learned about him.
“Oh, I think I understand,” and she really did think she was beginning to. It was just so foreign to her that she was a little confused, but the way the man talked about it, it didn’t sound so bad. She imagined they needed good food at least, else they would all look emaciated - instead, they were all muscular, as well fed as any commoner it seemed, if not better. And Lesley had said they were fed better than the average soldier. That surprised the girl, but she nodded all the same, “yes, so gladiators are treated well, is what you’re saying. I am glad of it.”
Evi’s world was one brought to her on the back of slave labour, and she knew no different. Slaves surrounded her on a daily basis; the Antonis family held a fair number of slaves, all who were there to see to her every whim. Evi had never given much thought to what it was to be a slave - to have no identity of your own and to be entirely at the mercy of the whims of your masters. Even now, she couldn’t quite grasp it. She was… not kind to her slaves, but they were not maltreated. They were merely dehumanised, so she was surprised to hear about how well gladiatorial slaves were treated.
“Ah that makes sense. I would imagine it is hard to keep your head when you are in the middle of the battle, what with all the noise of support from the crowds, the heat from the sun’s rays… the wounds you might have gained.” She nodded again, turning to watch the fighters in the middle of the arena. “I never knew that about these battles. I just assumed the only bit of planning that went into the battles was matching the two opponents well and then just… hoping for the best. I didn’t realise there was more to it. That seems really quite clever.” She was genuinely impressed by the man’s words, finding out how much planning actually went into a single battle.
Evi was silently nodding as she watched the two fighters move against each other, as if in a dance, each moving forward and backwards, circling. There was no hint yet who had the upper hand in the battle. She listened to Lesley speaking about the two men, learning more about the combat styles of each one. She squinted, trying to see what Lesley was explaining to her. It was hard, at the speed the pair were moving, for her untrained eye to see a shield being held further away from the body, or how a movement was more aggressive than normal.
Even so, she was finding herself enjoying the fighting a little bit more, now that someone was explaining to her what was going on. “Surely that means this… Erastos will win, if he fights more offensively and has more endurance. If all goes to plan? Though six months doesn’t sound like a long time to be training. Maybe Anatolios will win.” Privately, she quite liked the look of the more experienced gladiator, and hoped that he would win.
"Mm." The noncommittal grunt that followed Evi's assertion that gladiators were treated well didn't stop him from sounding cheerful enough as he offered the rest of his explanation, but he could have argued with it if he chose. Gladiators who won, consistently, those who brought crowds flocking to the stadium - those were treated well enough. Lesley, sadistic and enthusiastic and always eager to fight, had been treated almost like a free man, or at least a high-ranking, trusted servant-slave, allowed to come and go and enjoy his little luxuries, since it was obvious he had no intention of running away. For those without his skill, or who had to be compelled to fight, life was a good deal worse.
"He knew which end of the sword to hold when he showed up, at least," Lesley commented in response to her last question, and shrugged. "There's no point training someone to the highest level if they don't have the temperament to handle it," he pointed out. "Most people can't, especially at first. And it doesn't matter anyway as long as they're well matched. A fight between two masters is usually either boring or short." He shrugged again. "At least, if they haven't learned how to make it look exciting. That's harder to teach. My friend Dima, poor sap, got thrown against me the day after he was bought. That was fun."
He watched the fighters for another moment, assessingly, then commented, "I think Anatolios might. He knows he needs to, and he needs to do it properly. Caution makes for a boring fight against a weaker opponent, and a longer fight against a strong one. If he can't get the crowd excited he's going to have a short career getting the shit kicked out of him. Oh, there's some blood. Finally." As he'd suggested, Erastus had made a mistake, and Antolios had been quick to take advantage. In response, the more hotheaded man slammed his shield edge-on into the other, unfortunately without paying enough attention to where his opponent's sword was right at that moment. There was a quick, messy shuffle, as the one man tried to avoid having his face caved in and the other tried to avoid having his guts cut out, and both only partially successful. Since he managed to catch it on his helmet, and didn't get knocked out, Lesley rated a moderate concussion less impediment than a gut wound. You needed those muscles to fight.
"Endurance is useless if you're impatient," Lesley pointed out. "And he's not faster."
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"Mm." The noncommittal grunt that followed Evi's assertion that gladiators were treated well didn't stop him from sounding cheerful enough as he offered the rest of his explanation, but he could have argued with it if he chose. Gladiators who won, consistently, those who brought crowds flocking to the stadium - those were treated well enough. Lesley, sadistic and enthusiastic and always eager to fight, had been treated almost like a free man, or at least a high-ranking, trusted servant-slave, allowed to come and go and enjoy his little luxuries, since it was obvious he had no intention of running away. For those without his skill, or who had to be compelled to fight, life was a good deal worse.
"He knew which end of the sword to hold when he showed up, at least," Lesley commented in response to her last question, and shrugged. "There's no point training someone to the highest level if they don't have the temperament to handle it," he pointed out. "Most people can't, especially at first. And it doesn't matter anyway as long as they're well matched. A fight between two masters is usually either boring or short." He shrugged again. "At least, if they haven't learned how to make it look exciting. That's harder to teach. My friend Dima, poor sap, got thrown against me the day after he was bought. That was fun."
He watched the fighters for another moment, assessingly, then commented, "I think Anatolios might. He knows he needs to, and he needs to do it properly. Caution makes for a boring fight against a weaker opponent, and a longer fight against a strong one. If he can't get the crowd excited he's going to have a short career getting the shit kicked out of him. Oh, there's some blood. Finally." As he'd suggested, Erastus had made a mistake, and Antolios had been quick to take advantage. In response, the more hotheaded man slammed his shield edge-on into the other, unfortunately without paying enough attention to where his opponent's sword was right at that moment. There was a quick, messy shuffle, as the one man tried to avoid having his face caved in and the other tried to avoid having his guts cut out, and both only partially successful. Since he managed to catch it on his helmet, and didn't get knocked out, Lesley rated a moderate concussion less impediment than a gut wound. You needed those muscles to fight.
"Endurance is useless if you're impatient," Lesley pointed out. "And he's not faster."
"Mm." The noncommittal grunt that followed Evi's assertion that gladiators were treated well didn't stop him from sounding cheerful enough as he offered the rest of his explanation, but he could have argued with it if he chose. Gladiators who won, consistently, those who brought crowds flocking to the stadium - those were treated well enough. Lesley, sadistic and enthusiastic and always eager to fight, had been treated almost like a free man, or at least a high-ranking, trusted servant-slave, allowed to come and go and enjoy his little luxuries, since it was obvious he had no intention of running away. For those without his skill, or who had to be compelled to fight, life was a good deal worse.
"He knew which end of the sword to hold when he showed up, at least," Lesley commented in response to her last question, and shrugged. "There's no point training someone to the highest level if they don't have the temperament to handle it," he pointed out. "Most people can't, especially at first. And it doesn't matter anyway as long as they're well matched. A fight between two masters is usually either boring or short." He shrugged again. "At least, if they haven't learned how to make it look exciting. That's harder to teach. My friend Dima, poor sap, got thrown against me the day after he was bought. That was fun."
He watched the fighters for another moment, assessingly, then commented, "I think Anatolios might. He knows he needs to, and he needs to do it properly. Caution makes for a boring fight against a weaker opponent, and a longer fight against a strong one. If he can't get the crowd excited he's going to have a short career getting the shit kicked out of him. Oh, there's some blood. Finally." As he'd suggested, Erastus had made a mistake, and Antolios had been quick to take advantage. In response, the more hotheaded man slammed his shield edge-on into the other, unfortunately without paying enough attention to where his opponent's sword was right at that moment. There was a quick, messy shuffle, as the one man tried to avoid having his face caved in and the other tried to avoid having his guts cut out, and both only partially successful. Since he managed to catch it on his helmet, and didn't get knocked out, Lesley rated a moderate concussion less impediment than a gut wound. You needed those muscles to fight.
"Endurance is useless if you're impatient," Lesley pointed out. "And he's not faster."
“Yes that’s definitely a benefit,” the young woman giggled, assuming Lesley was joking about holding the right end of a sword. Surely that would be obvious enough… even Evi knew to hold the hilt and not the sharp end. Not that she’d ever held a weapon before, much less a huge sword like the two the gladiators were currently waving around. The two gladiators were well into their battle now, the melee moving fast as the men danced around each other, each trying to gain some purchase in the fight. Neither seemed to gain any significant ground and the crowds were going wild for it, loving each swish, booking, jeering and cheering at various moments in the fight.
“Surely a fight between two master fighters would be especially exciting,” Evi argued against what Lesley had just said. She knew nothing of gladiator fights, that much was obvious, but she still disagreed. “At least, it would be more exciting than watching two novice fighters clash swords. That seems like it would be particularly dull.”
Evi listened to Lesley continue to comment on what made a good fight happen. All the while her eyes stayed glued to the two gladiators down in the pit. The moved against each other like it was almost choreographed. Both swinging swords in a seemingly overly controlled manner. It was rather majestic to watch, if she was honest with herself. Then she winced. Blood was drawn as Erastus (at least she thought he was the one Lesley had called Erastus) wasn’t quite as fast as his opponent. A blow to his non-sword arm had drawn a significant amount of blood. More surprising was Lesley’s response to the violence. He almost seemed happy that it had ‘finally’ happened. Excited, even.
Evi swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. She would not wimp out again, especially next to this strange, and slightly intimidating, man. “Oh, that could have been so much worse,” Evi noted, forcing out the words as she noticed how close one of the swords came to the torso of one of the fighters. “So is it the plan that both men survive this fight? What if one of them suffers a mortal wound when it wasn’t planned? Does that often happen?” She asked nervously, wringing her hands in front of her as she tore her eyes away from the battle to look at Lesley. “How many people die… there can’t be that many gladiators, can there? They must need to keep most of them alive so they can fight in other battles?”
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“Yes that’s definitely a benefit,” the young woman giggled, assuming Lesley was joking about holding the right end of a sword. Surely that would be obvious enough… even Evi knew to hold the hilt and not the sharp end. Not that she’d ever held a weapon before, much less a huge sword like the two the gladiators were currently waving around. The two gladiators were well into their battle now, the melee moving fast as the men danced around each other, each trying to gain some purchase in the fight. Neither seemed to gain any significant ground and the crowds were going wild for it, loving each swish, booking, jeering and cheering at various moments in the fight.
“Surely a fight between two master fighters would be especially exciting,” Evi argued against what Lesley had just said. She knew nothing of gladiator fights, that much was obvious, but she still disagreed. “At least, it would be more exciting than watching two novice fighters clash swords. That seems like it would be particularly dull.”
Evi listened to Lesley continue to comment on what made a good fight happen. All the while her eyes stayed glued to the two gladiators down in the pit. The moved against each other like it was almost choreographed. Both swinging swords in a seemingly overly controlled manner. It was rather majestic to watch, if she was honest with herself. Then she winced. Blood was drawn as Erastus (at least she thought he was the one Lesley had called Erastus) wasn’t quite as fast as his opponent. A blow to his non-sword arm had drawn a significant amount of blood. More surprising was Lesley’s response to the violence. He almost seemed happy that it had ‘finally’ happened. Excited, even.
Evi swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. She would not wimp out again, especially next to this strange, and slightly intimidating, man. “Oh, that could have been so much worse,” Evi noted, forcing out the words as she noticed how close one of the swords came to the torso of one of the fighters. “So is it the plan that both men survive this fight? What if one of them suffers a mortal wound when it wasn’t planned? Does that often happen?” She asked nervously, wringing her hands in front of her as she tore her eyes away from the battle to look at Lesley. “How many people die… there can’t be that many gladiators, can there? They must need to keep most of them alive so they can fight in other battles?”
“Yes that’s definitely a benefit,” the young woman giggled, assuming Lesley was joking about holding the right end of a sword. Surely that would be obvious enough… even Evi knew to hold the hilt and not the sharp end. Not that she’d ever held a weapon before, much less a huge sword like the two the gladiators were currently waving around. The two gladiators were well into their battle now, the melee moving fast as the men danced around each other, each trying to gain some purchase in the fight. Neither seemed to gain any significant ground and the crowds were going wild for it, loving each swish, booking, jeering and cheering at various moments in the fight.
“Surely a fight between two master fighters would be especially exciting,” Evi argued against what Lesley had just said. She knew nothing of gladiator fights, that much was obvious, but she still disagreed. “At least, it would be more exciting than watching two novice fighters clash swords. That seems like it would be particularly dull.”
Evi listened to Lesley continue to comment on what made a good fight happen. All the while her eyes stayed glued to the two gladiators down in the pit. The moved against each other like it was almost choreographed. Both swinging swords in a seemingly overly controlled manner. It was rather majestic to watch, if she was honest with herself. Then she winced. Blood was drawn as Erastus (at least she thought he was the one Lesley had called Erastus) wasn’t quite as fast as his opponent. A blow to his non-sword arm had drawn a significant amount of blood. More surprising was Lesley’s response to the violence. He almost seemed happy that it had ‘finally’ happened. Excited, even.
Evi swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. She would not wimp out again, especially next to this strange, and slightly intimidating, man. “Oh, that could have been so much worse,” Evi noted, forcing out the words as she noticed how close one of the swords came to the torso of one of the fighters. “So is it the plan that both men survive this fight? What if one of them suffers a mortal wound when it wasn’t planned? Does that often happen?” She asked nervously, wringing her hands in front of her as she tore her eyes away from the battle to look at Lesley. “How many people die… there can’t be that many gladiators, can there? They must need to keep most of them alive so they can fight in other battles?”
Lesley shrugged in answer to her questions. "They weren't told to fight to the death," he answered, seemingly unprepared to guess at the likelihood of it happening anyway. "Mm. Experienced gladiators are worth preserving - but they're better at keeping themselves in one piece, too. It's getting the experience that's the trick." He shrugged again. "Novices either prove themselves or die. They're easily enough replaced at the auction block." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. Sometimes he forgot other people's aversion to dying. Not that he was going to be put down easily - but Lesley was possessed of an inability to surrender rather than a fear of death.
"Someone'll be upset when I die, that's for sure," he chuckled drily. "But if they're not used to me being an uncooperative sot by now I can't help them." Because there was no way - no way at all - that Lesley was going to let old age cripple him. Dying in his prime, by definition, meant dying when he still had more fights left in him. "Hah! Oh, nice block." He whooped with the crowd, as a quick flurry of blows resulted in Erastus stumbling and falling. Lesley was taut as a drawn bowstring. "Come on... no? pah." The younger gladiator, it seemed, was willing to accept his loss rather than push the fight further. Most people, even adrenaline-drunk young men, wanted to live more than they wanted to win. Paradoxically, the opposite attitude was what led to the really good gladiators' longer lives. That was the missing piece that couldn't be taught, that determined whether they were worth carefully cultivating or not.
The referee stepped in, and both men managed to make their way out under their own power. "Nothing fatal there," Lesley assured Evi, once again the relaxed, knowledgeable guide, perfectly at ease in this often-deadly environment but his own bloodlust once again hidden from view. "Erastus is going to hate the exercises to keep that wound from turning into a permanent limp, though." He gave the young lady a curious look. "You all right?"
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Lesley shrugged in answer to her questions. "They weren't told to fight to the death," he answered, seemingly unprepared to guess at the likelihood of it happening anyway. "Mm. Experienced gladiators are worth preserving - but they're better at keeping themselves in one piece, too. It's getting the experience that's the trick." He shrugged again. "Novices either prove themselves or die. They're easily enough replaced at the auction block." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. Sometimes he forgot other people's aversion to dying. Not that he was going to be put down easily - but Lesley was possessed of an inability to surrender rather than a fear of death.
"Someone'll be upset when I die, that's for sure," he chuckled drily. "But if they're not used to me being an uncooperative sot by now I can't help them." Because there was no way - no way at all - that Lesley was going to let old age cripple him. Dying in his prime, by definition, meant dying when he still had more fights left in him. "Hah! Oh, nice block." He whooped with the crowd, as a quick flurry of blows resulted in Erastus stumbling and falling. Lesley was taut as a drawn bowstring. "Come on... no? pah." The younger gladiator, it seemed, was willing to accept his loss rather than push the fight further. Most people, even adrenaline-drunk young men, wanted to live more than they wanted to win. Paradoxically, the opposite attitude was what led to the really good gladiators' longer lives. That was the missing piece that couldn't be taught, that determined whether they were worth carefully cultivating or not.
The referee stepped in, and both men managed to make their way out under their own power. "Nothing fatal there," Lesley assured Evi, once again the relaxed, knowledgeable guide, perfectly at ease in this often-deadly environment but his own bloodlust once again hidden from view. "Erastus is going to hate the exercises to keep that wound from turning into a permanent limp, though." He gave the young lady a curious look. "You all right?"
Lesley shrugged in answer to her questions. "They weren't told to fight to the death," he answered, seemingly unprepared to guess at the likelihood of it happening anyway. "Mm. Experienced gladiators are worth preserving - but they're better at keeping themselves in one piece, too. It's getting the experience that's the trick." He shrugged again. "Novices either prove themselves or die. They're easily enough replaced at the auction block." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. Sometimes he forgot other people's aversion to dying. Not that he was going to be put down easily - but Lesley was possessed of an inability to surrender rather than a fear of death.
"Someone'll be upset when I die, that's for sure," he chuckled drily. "But if they're not used to me being an uncooperative sot by now I can't help them." Because there was no way - no way at all - that Lesley was going to let old age cripple him. Dying in his prime, by definition, meant dying when he still had more fights left in him. "Hah! Oh, nice block." He whooped with the crowd, as a quick flurry of blows resulted in Erastus stumbling and falling. Lesley was taut as a drawn bowstring. "Come on... no? pah." The younger gladiator, it seemed, was willing to accept his loss rather than push the fight further. Most people, even adrenaline-drunk young men, wanted to live more than they wanted to win. Paradoxically, the opposite attitude was what led to the really good gladiators' longer lives. That was the missing piece that couldn't be taught, that determined whether they were worth carefully cultivating or not.
The referee stepped in, and both men managed to make their way out under their own power. "Nothing fatal there," Lesley assured Evi, once again the relaxed, knowledgeable guide, perfectly at ease in this often-deadly environment but his own bloodlust once again hidden from view. "Erastus is going to hate the exercises to keep that wound from turning into a permanent limp, though." He gave the young lady a curious look. "You all right?"
Evi was beginning to understand, slowly, that gladiator fights were not mindless acts of violence between two, or more, people. They were choreographed to a limit, and so the dangers she saw in front of her weren’t always real dangers. It put her at ease, just a little bit, to know that these men were unlikely to die in their fight, even if they got wounded, like one of the men had been. “I think it’s a good thing my first gladiator match was one where they had been told not to die, then.” She did not think she wanted to watch anyone die. That would make it all a little too real for her.
But Lesley spoke of death with such callous disregard for the finality of it. Evi imagined he had to - his life was tied to the arena, and the young lady could barely comprehend it herself. To walk into the arena knowing it might be the last time you ever did must be terrifying… unless you squash it down with all the bravado this man seemed to. “Someone being upset meaning… your masters? Or the crowd?” She asked quietly at the same time as the painted man shouted out a positive heckle down to the men in the arena. She was trying to understand - they were generally only slaves after all, those in the arena who fought day in day out.
The battle continued before her: flashes as the swords caught the sun and blinded her momentarily, clashes of metal hitting metal, sweating men dancing back and forth smiling and grimacing in equal measure as they continued their little show for the audience. “If neither of them are to die, how do you know when it is over?” Evi asked next, her hands still tightly clasped in her lap as she leaned forward a little to crane her head as if it would help her see the fight all the more easily. Then the referee stepped in and her question was answered, “Oh…”
She watched the two men leaving the arena, clapping along with everyone else, though she did not cheer or boo like others were want to do. “It’s over,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. She had survived her first gladiator match. It wasn’t so bad after all, though she wasn’t sure if she would be making a regular appearance in the gladiator stadium. When Lesley asked her a question she didn’t answer immediately, first doing a silence wellbeing check of herself. Then she replied, “I… yes, I suppose I am.” She turned and offered a small smile to the large man. He was still intimidating, but there was something very calm about his facial expression that made him somehow less frightening. “I want to thank you. For…” she searched for the right words, “I’m glad I experienced a gladiator fight, thank you for explaining it to me.”
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Evi was beginning to understand, slowly, that gladiator fights were not mindless acts of violence between two, or more, people. They were choreographed to a limit, and so the dangers she saw in front of her weren’t always real dangers. It put her at ease, just a little bit, to know that these men were unlikely to die in their fight, even if they got wounded, like one of the men had been. “I think it’s a good thing my first gladiator match was one where they had been told not to die, then.” She did not think she wanted to watch anyone die. That would make it all a little too real for her.
But Lesley spoke of death with such callous disregard for the finality of it. Evi imagined he had to - his life was tied to the arena, and the young lady could barely comprehend it herself. To walk into the arena knowing it might be the last time you ever did must be terrifying… unless you squash it down with all the bravado this man seemed to. “Someone being upset meaning… your masters? Or the crowd?” She asked quietly at the same time as the painted man shouted out a positive heckle down to the men in the arena. She was trying to understand - they were generally only slaves after all, those in the arena who fought day in day out.
The battle continued before her: flashes as the swords caught the sun and blinded her momentarily, clashes of metal hitting metal, sweating men dancing back and forth smiling and grimacing in equal measure as they continued their little show for the audience. “If neither of them are to die, how do you know when it is over?” Evi asked next, her hands still tightly clasped in her lap as she leaned forward a little to crane her head as if it would help her see the fight all the more easily. Then the referee stepped in and her question was answered, “Oh…”
She watched the two men leaving the arena, clapping along with everyone else, though she did not cheer or boo like others were want to do. “It’s over,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. She had survived her first gladiator match. It wasn’t so bad after all, though she wasn’t sure if she would be making a regular appearance in the gladiator stadium. When Lesley asked her a question she didn’t answer immediately, first doing a silence wellbeing check of herself. Then she replied, “I… yes, I suppose I am.” She turned and offered a small smile to the large man. He was still intimidating, but there was something very calm about his facial expression that made him somehow less frightening. “I want to thank you. For…” she searched for the right words, “I’m glad I experienced a gladiator fight, thank you for explaining it to me.”
Evi was beginning to understand, slowly, that gladiator fights were not mindless acts of violence between two, or more, people. They were choreographed to a limit, and so the dangers she saw in front of her weren’t always real dangers. It put her at ease, just a little bit, to know that these men were unlikely to die in their fight, even if they got wounded, like one of the men had been. “I think it’s a good thing my first gladiator match was one where they had been told not to die, then.” She did not think she wanted to watch anyone die. That would make it all a little too real for her.
But Lesley spoke of death with such callous disregard for the finality of it. Evi imagined he had to - his life was tied to the arena, and the young lady could barely comprehend it herself. To walk into the arena knowing it might be the last time you ever did must be terrifying… unless you squash it down with all the bravado this man seemed to. “Someone being upset meaning… your masters? Or the crowd?” She asked quietly at the same time as the painted man shouted out a positive heckle down to the men in the arena. She was trying to understand - they were generally only slaves after all, those in the arena who fought day in day out.
The battle continued before her: flashes as the swords caught the sun and blinded her momentarily, clashes of metal hitting metal, sweating men dancing back and forth smiling and grimacing in equal measure as they continued their little show for the audience. “If neither of them are to die, how do you know when it is over?” Evi asked next, her hands still tightly clasped in her lap as she leaned forward a little to crane her head as if it would help her see the fight all the more easily. Then the referee stepped in and her question was answered, “Oh…”
She watched the two men leaving the arena, clapping along with everyone else, though she did not cheer or boo like others were want to do. “It’s over,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. She had survived her first gladiator match. It wasn’t so bad after all, though she wasn’t sure if she would be making a regular appearance in the gladiator stadium. When Lesley asked her a question she didn’t answer immediately, first doing a silence wellbeing check of herself. Then she replied, “I… yes, I suppose I am.” She turned and offered a small smile to the large man. He was still intimidating, but there was something very calm about his facial expression that made him somehow less frightening. “I want to thank you. For…” she searched for the right words, “I’m glad I experienced a gladiator fight, thank you for explaining it to me.”
