Immortal's Odyssey

Morning bled crimson.

We marched from the ludus under armed escort, iron collars around our necks, chains like brittle thread between us. But no one pulled. Not today. We moved like men headed to judgment.

The Arena Minora was older than the dirt beneath it. Its wood warped from sun and sweat, bleached grey by decades of screams. Unlike the Colosseum's marble grandeur, it offered no illusion of civilization. Just heat, piss, and flies.

We were the warm-up act.

The crowd was modest—merchants, freedmen, gamblers. They came to forget debts and wives. They came to cheer for blood.

We were happy to oblige.

Pulcher stood at the gate, arms folded.

"This is no drill," he barked. "No reset. No medic. You fall, you beg the gods you die quick."

He pointed at me, then Kesseph.

"You two—pair match. Two-on-two. Crowd likes choreography. Stay alive long enough, and you'll have a name worth shouting."

Then he turned to Brannos.

"You're up after. Make it fast. Don't die pretty."

Brannos grinned, sharp and hungry.

They stripped us to fighting leathers and short crimson sashes to mark our ludus. Bronze helmets, no faceplate. They wanted the crowd to see our pain.

I was handed twin blades—a matched pair of sicae, curved and clean, glinting with polish. I'd requested them quietly two nights ago.

Dimachaerus, the dual-wielder. Not common. Risky. Requires speed, nerve, control.

But I remembered.

Not from training. Not from books.

From lifetimes of killing.

We waited in the corridor behind the arena gate, our opponents already announced—two secutores from Ludus Flamma. Heavy armor, rounded helms, short gladii. Meant to break men through endurance, not finesse.

Kesseph whispered without looking at me.

"We strike opposite. You go low, I go high."

I nodded.

"If one falls, the other doesn't rescue. No heroics."

"No need," he said. "We're not brothers."

The gate creaked open.

Light and roar poured in.

We walked out like it meant nothing.

The crowd didn't cheer names. We had none yet.

They cheered blood.

And so we gave it.

The secutores advanced in practiced unison. Shields up, gladii angled. They'd fought together before. Trained for pair tactics.

That was their mistake.

They assumed we hadn't.

They came in hard.

One to each of us.

Mine lunged with a shield bash meant to knock me flat. I dropped—low, fast—and swept his leg with my left-hand blade. He staggered. My right blade carved into his calf.

He howled. Swung wild.

I stepped inside his arc. Slammed the hilt into his throat. He coughed blood. Tried to recover.

Too slow.

My right blade buried into his side beneath the rib. Not deep enough to kill. Not yet. But enough to make the crowd lean forward.

I stepped back.

Let him feel it.

To my left, Kesseph moved like smoke on fire. Fluid. Cold. His sica licked out in fast arcs. His opponent was larger, armored thicker—but Kesseph didn't fight him head-on.

He danced.

He bled him.

A slice across the thigh. Another behind the knee. Then a feint, a duck, and a clean slash across the lower back where the armor buckled at the waistline.

His enemy roared, turned too late.

And Kesseph stabbed him—deep, and final.

The man dropped.

Kesseph didn't look down.

I circled my opponent again. The crowd began chanting—something crude, something rhythmic.

He swung desperately.

I caught the strike between both blades. Locked it. Drove my boot into his gut.

He fell backward.

I let him scramble. Let the blood pool.

Then I cut his throat—not showy, not slow.

Clean.

Pulcher's voice rang out from the gate.

"Enough."

Kesseph's

The crowd faded. Noise turned to a dull fog. Kesseph sat in the shade of the wall, oiling his blade with slow, careful strokes.

He had killed before. In Egypt. In Carthage. In Rome. Men fought with anger. With pride. With desperation.

But Novus had fought like none of those.

He had moved like a man who'd done this more times than he could count.

Who had already seen the kill, before it happened.

And yet... he hadn't gloated. Hadn't shown hunger. Hadn't reached for the crowd.

That bothered Kesseph more than anything.

"You're hiding something," he whispered.

He remembered the moment Novus had paused before striking the final blow.

Not hesitation.

Calculation.

He knows what the crowd wants. He's thinking like a lanista already.

Kesseph looked at the blood drying on his hands. Not all curses come from gods.

Some wear faces.

Arena Corridor, Post-Fight

We were chained again, but lighter this time.

No one jeered. The guards kept a distance. Even Pulcher said nothing as we passed.

Brannos stood at the gate, watching us return.

He said nothing.

He walked into the arena like a god.

Senator Caelius

Lucius Caelius sat in the shade of the Curia, scribbling names into wax.

Messana. Lipara. Syracusae.

A Punic war was coming.

"We'll need something," he muttered. "A symbol. A story."

He hadn't heard of Novus yet.

But soon, someone would whisper the name into the wrong ear.

And the wheel would turn.

Brannos roared. Swung his falx like a mad god. His opponent sidestepped. Another jabbed.

Two quick punctures.

Blood sprayed.

Brannos fell to one knee.

The crowd laughed.

He stood again.

Swung wildly.

Slipped in his own blood.

They didn't kill him.

They humiliated him.

When they finally dragged him out, face-first, the sand soaked red behind him.

Pulcher shook his head once.

"Too heavy to dance. Too proud to kneel."

That night, in the barracks, Kesseph lay in silence.

Brannos didn't speak.

Novus sat in the dark, cleaning his blades.

Planning.

This is how it begins, I thought.

Not with triumph.

Not with glory.

But with a name, whispered between teeth.

Let them forget who I was.

Let them remember who I will become.

The Arena Minora stank worse the second time.

By now I knew the walk. The rhythm of the crowd's jeering. The way the blood dried into your ankles before you reached the gate. I didn't fear it. But I didn't worship it, either.

It was a tool.

And like any tool, it could be sharpened.

Three days after the trial bout, Pulcher called my name again. His tone didn't carry praise. Just expectation.

"You fight again. South arena. Four opponents. One at a time, if they follow orders. Together, if they don't."

I didn't ask why.

There were always reasons—favors owed, debts paid, vendettas purchased in coin.

Instead, I nodded. "What's the crowd expecting?"

Pulcher grunted. "You to die. Or dance."

I gave him what passed for a smile. "Then let them dance with me."

I didn't recognize the arena's name. A squalid pit behind a tavern near the Tiber. The sort of place where screams outnumber seats. A blood-ring, half-legal.

No sashes this time. No Ludus Varrus pride. Just me, my steel, and four men who wanted coin or revenge.

I stepped into the pit barefoot. Dust caked with blood clung to my soles.

The crowd jeered. Coins clinked. Someone shouted "Dumb bastard with two blades!" in Oscan.

I didn't answer.

I watched the gate.

They came out in a stagger.

Two light-armed thraex, small shields and curved blades. Fast, but jittery. One murmillo, big bastard with a face like cracked marble. And a hoplomachus—spear and dagger, bronze greaves, older than the rest.

I counted their spacing. The slight limp in the murmillo's gait. The twitch of the spear fighter's left wrist—scarred tendon, maybe.

The fight hadn't begun.

But it had already started.

The first thraex rushed me. Amateur mistake.

I sidestepped, slashed his knee. He fell forward, screamed.

I didn't kill him. Not yet.

The second came in smarter—feint low, strike neck. I ducked, reversed the sica in my right hand, and buried it in his stomach. Pulled sideways.

He dropped, gurgling.

I kicked the wounded one's blade out of reach.

Then turned, just as the murmillo closed.

He was stronger. Bigger. His shield alone weighed what both my blades did.

I didn't meet his charge.

I let him think I would.

Then I dove—angled left, rolled under his swing, and stabbed behind his knee as he turned.

He went down.

Cursing. Clawing the dust.

The spear came next.

The old one didn't rush.

He circled. Measured. Knew I was the threat now.

I kept my breath low. Moved light on the balls of my feet.

He lunged—sharp, precise.

I caught the shaft between both blades.

And broke it.

Then I slid in under his reach, slammed my shoulder into his chest.

He staggered.

I sliced once—ankle.

Twice—armpit.

He dropped to one knee.

I left him breathing.

And turned back to the crowd.

They didn't cheer.

Not yet.

But they watched.

And that was the start of power.

Later that night, Pulcher muttered something under his breath as I passed.

"You need a name."

The guards had been calling me "Two-Fangs" since the fight. A joke. I didn't mind.

But the crowd?

They started calling me "Gemini".

Twin blades. Twin faces.

One calm. One murderous.

It wasn't a name I chose.

But it would do.

In the barracks, Kesseph sat sharpening his sica.

He didn't look up.

"You made them love you."

"No. Not yet."

"But you want them to."

I didn't answer.

But he already knew.

He stood, walked to the corner.

Before he turned, he said one more thing.

"Just don't forget. Rome loves what it kills."

That night I lay awake, blood dried on my chest.

Four men. I remembered their eyes more than their blades.

But I wasn't thinking of them.

I was planning.

Not how to win.

How to last.

There are only two paths to power here.

Become a crowd favorite.

Or become too valuable to die.

And I intended to be both.