Chapter Text
It was rare for Geta to get excited about much of anything anymore. Years of pursuing the extremes of the human experience had left him always yearning for more. More victories, more power, more bloodshed, More pleasures, more gold. Despite his status as one of the most powerful men in the known world Geta always yearned for more, his appetites were insatiable and ever changing. His interests in his shared Empire began and ended with using the power and wealth granted to him by the gods to further pursue his personal desires.
The Empire itself was unhealthy, his brother had taken over all campaign duties after Geta time and again had proven an incompetent general. Visigoths plundered the coasts and it seemed like with each passing month another city burst into uprising.The peasant mobs were easily crushed; often, just a few legions were sufficient to sweep through the affected cities and end the rebellion. However, this still diverted men and resources from defending the coasts.
After Geta’s plan to counter invade the Visigoth territories blew up in his face he was happy to give the reins to his brother and back away from military matters. Better to let him suffer the sharp sting of failure for once. While his brother campaigned, Geta languished in Rome. The young emperor now spent most of his time pretending to listen to senators squabbling amongst one another. His rare moments of excitement were often sought at the colosseum but even those have started to grow boring.
When did bloodshed become so… dull? It felt like it had been years since the gladiator matches made Geta feel anything more than mildly amused. It was wearisome, watching these rotating casts of men fight, gloat, cower and die before him and his subjects. They all had the same few predictable patterns.
Slave men who had never held a gladius before in their lives would almost always run and flee their better equipped and trained opponents. There were rare instances where one would hold their ground but they almost always ended with their superiors cutting them down within moments. Oh gods and slaves fighting slaves, it was like watching two toddlers pretend to be soldiers, pathetic.
Captured enemy soldiers were slightly more formidable. However, outside of their legions or warbands, they too often displayed cowardice in one-on-one combat, providing only marginally more entertainment than the slaves.
They hadn’t had a proper gladiator grace their arena in years. Vulpes taurus had been the last one of note. “The fox bull” named for his cunning tactics and ferocious strength. One of many captured soldiers brought back to Rome after his Africa campaign. Now there was a gladiator! Strong enough to break a man’s bones with a single heave of his gladius and bold enough to kick sand in his opponents eyes whenever he could. His original name was of no importance to Geta, it mattered little anyway, after a solid two months of victories the great bull met his end rather anticlimactically when a stone from a slave's slingshot struck him in the eye.
Today, Geta tried not to get his hopes up as he saw the first team of captive soldiers enter the arena. The last of a surrendered Carthaginian legion, they were made of tougher stuff but their tactics were dull, leaning more towards the use of heavy nets and spears. If Geta had his way he would ban such cowardly weapons, but his brother valued tradition and Geta tired of arguing with him about it.
The gates on the opposite end of the arena slowly clattered open, a handful of captives were pushed out. The crowds closer to the arena immediately broke into a rolling laughter upon seeing them. There were 6 slaves each one equipped with a single piece of armor, a gladius and a standard half tunic. Two bore the arms, two more the legs, one the breastplate, and one the helmet.
A single suit of armor for six men, a cruel prank the jail guards sometimes pulled on fresh captives. Even they seemed to have grown bored of the recent fights. When Greta had first seen this prank months ago he had joined the audience in braying laughter, now he only rolled his eyes.
Compared to the well armored and equipped Carthaginians these new unknown slaves looked absurd. While the Carthaginians stood in formation and stared straight at their opponents the slaves stood in a half circle gawking at the crowd and the grandeur of the stadium. Geta held his hand up, the horn bearer who signaled the start of each fight readied himself, the fight would only start on the emperor’s command. The crowd's shouts quieted slightly as thousands of eyes turned towards their emperor.
The Carthage men immediately kneeled before Geta in a practiced fluid motion, the slaves followed after, all except one. The man who was equipped with the single helmet stared up at Geta but stayed standing. Geta’s lip twitched, he was about to order his guards with bows to fire at this disobedient slave when one of the other kneeling slaves grasped the helmeted one by the arm and dragged him to his knees.
Semi-satisfied with this display Geta signaled for the fight to begin. Once the horn was blown immediately the slaves ran forward towards their enemies while the Carthaginians advanced slowly. Geta raised his eyebrows at this. Curious, usually when the battle started the slaves would huddle together like rats awaiting the inevitable.
Once these bold slaves were close enough one of the carthaginians let loose their net, hoping to entangle an unlucky man, the helmeted slave immediately grabbed the net and pulled with a great heave. The carthaginian stumbled forward and tripped, landing face first into the red dirt. Immediately four of the slaves swarmed him and hacked away at his exposed back while two others kept the soldiers at bay with wild flails of their gladius.
The crowd cheered at this quick first blood, a rare treat. Even Geta sat forward, intrigued. He had never seen slaves adopt such a brutal strategy before. One of the carthaginians threw his spear, impaling a slave in his unprotected thigh, felling him. At this the attacking slaves backed away from the fallen soldier, but the damage was already done. The man was dead, Geta could even see some bone poking out stark white from the mess of gore that was once his backside.
Incredible, the man had only been on the ground for 10 seconds maximum but the slaves had reduced his back to mincemeat in that time. Without looking away from the battle Geta gestured to his attending general standing at his side.
“These men, are they common slaves?” Geta asked, slightly breathless.
“No, Emperor.” The general responded, standing at attention. “They’re from a small raiding party we caught in Ostia.”
“Visigoths?”
The general shook his head.
“Rebel Gauls.”
Gauls… A conquered people who had graciously been allowed to remain in their homelands under roman rule. Their domination had occurred decades prior under Geta’s predecessors, yet still in Geta’s age they were a nuisance. While rebellions were common under Geta’s reign the Gauls have been sowing seeds of discourse in Rome for as long as he could remember. Fitting, then that they fought so savagely and quickly.
Geta was snapped from his thoughts when the wounded slave lunged at and crashed into a soldier that had attempted to administer the killing blow. The soldier’s spear stabbed straight through the man’s stomach but still the doomed slave persisted and stabbed and clawed at the carthaginian viciously until both men lay still atop each other, their intermingled blood staining the sand.
Again Geta found himself in awe of these seemingly crazed rebel men, what passion to fight on even at the gates of death! The young Emperor stood, leaning forward on the marble railing. He wanted to get a good look at this fight, it was sure to be a memorable one. The remaining Carthaginians had abandoned their formation, changing their tactics; they now attempted to separate the rebels into one on one combat.
The first to take the bait was the helmet clad Gaul, taking a soldier's challenge for an equal fight. His stance was awkward and his strikes were easily predictable. Yet what he lacked in training he more than made up for with sheer brutality, every blow had to be deflected by the soldier leaving almost no room to counter strike. But still, the Gaul left himself open, the carthaginian took the advantage and lunged forward. In a move that seemed like sheer luck to Geta the Gaul sidestepped and avoided most of the blow, only getting grazed by the blade. The soldier had put all his strength in the desperate strike, now overextended he was unable to stop the slave from administering a vicious slash on his exposed neck. Immediately blood surged out and the crowd roared. The soldier collapsed, dropping his blade and writhing in the dirt as his life ended. Instead of giving him a dignified death the slave merely kicked the gladius out of reach and walked away, searching for another opponent.
Geta was ecstatic at this display, grinning so widely that it hurt he laughed as he watched the soldier writhe and squirm in such an unbecoming way. This helmeted rebel was quickly becoming his new favorite, despite his earlier disobedience. During this brief moment of inaction Geta took in his battle weary form. The rebel slave had a well toned body and sun kissed skin undoubtedly earned from weeks of forced labor for his crimes. His hairy chest was now a mess of sweat, dirt and blood. It rose and fell rapidly as he recovered from the clash.
The other rebels did not fare as well as their helmeted brother however, as Geta shifted his focus he counted five of them dead in the dirt. It seemed that the Carthaginian’s tactic of dividing the rebels had worked well, now it was just the helmeted one remaining against three soldiers. An inevitable death.
Geta was filled with a confusing mix of emotions. His prideful side felt gleeful at the demise of a disobedient rebel, yet he was also disappointed. The helmeted one had been so vicious and wild that Geta already mourned the loss of a new toy, even as the man still stood. He sighed and sank back into his throne, sulking.
‘What a waste…’
The three soldiers began encircling the lone rebel, who stood with his gladius at his side. With each measured step, they slowly tightened the circle. In the blink of an eye, the battle began. A soldier lunged forward, aiming his spear at the rebel’s side. The rebel dodged the attack and swung his gladius hard against the wooden handle of the spear, snapping it in two. Without missing a beat, he shifted his momentum, his sword finding its mark in the exposed neck of the armor he had now familiarized himself with. The soldier fell, clawing at his neck.
The remaining two backed away slightly, hardening with newfound respect and wariness. This time the rebel lunged forward, knocking away the gladius of the man on his right. The soldier at his left side swung his mace with all his strength, aiming to crush the Gaul’s exposed shoulder. The rebel dropped his own gladius, using the now free hand he grabbed the wrist of the rightmost soldier to pull him forward and in front of him. The mace wielding soldier, unable to stop the momentum, could only watch as the head of the mace slammed into his partner’s skull. The protection of the helmet did little to cushion the blow and the soldier crumpled into the red sand, instantly lifeless. The mace, now firmly stuck in the man’s head, was yanked out of the final soldier’s grip, disarming him.
The rebel quickly picked his gladius back up and pointed the end right at the unarmed soldier’s face. The two men stood stock still, even the audience was breathless for a moment before exploding into a roar of cheers. The rebel slave had won.
Geta burst up from his throne and joined the audience in a unified exclamation. Incredible! absolutely incredible! This…dog had outsmarted some of Rome’s most well trained enemies. Geta laughed wildly as he held out his thumb to the side. The audience quickly hushed and all eyes were back on the Emperor.
The helmeted rebel looked up at Geta, his expression unreadable from under the ornate metal. Geta always liked to keep his audience in anticipation of his final mercy decision, it made for a good show. And Geta just loved to have these thousands of souls all looking up at him, waiting with bated brea—
Suddenly the rebel tackled his defeated opponent, straddling him. Before Geta could even think, the Gaul began stabbing wildly at every bit of exposed flesh he could find. The crowd gasped collectively, all were stunned. Geta stood frozen, his thumb still pointed to the side. He watched in shocked silence as the man eviscerated the last soldier, continuing to stab long after the man had died.
Saving face Geta quickly flipped his thumb down, as if that was always his plan. The crowd erupted into a confused cacophony of jeers, claps and cheers. Geta sunk back into his chair, cheeks hot. He could feel his general and senators side eyeing him but he dared not look at them. Instead focusing on this…stupid disobedient dog who didn’t know how to wait before having his meal. That’s the second time the Gaul had embarrassed him, and it would be his last.
Geta resisted the urge to have his archers fire upon the champion now. He was enraged but he was not stupid, to lose such an entertaining toy would be wasteful. But still, he couldn't let this stand. The slave stood up, now practically soaked in the fallen soldier's blood. He tore off his helmet and launched it towards Geta, it bounced harmlessly off the stone wall below the Emperor’s feet. Once again the crowd gasped, this time Geta only smiled as he leaned forward and took in the rebel’s features.
He was handsome. Shoulder length brown hair framed a stern looking face with a strong square jaw. The slave glared up at Geta, with teeth bared he took in great heaving breaths. Geta was relieved he had not given in to his base urges for once. To waste such an able body and handsome face would have been a crime he could never forgive himself for. Geta’s smile morphed into an ugly sneer, he knew exactly what he was going to do with the rebel dog now.
“General, have the guard disarm him and bring him to my quarters. I wish to congratulate our new champion personally.” Geta yawned as he stood. He stretched and put on a performance of nonchalance, even as rage boiled in his chest.
The general nodded and waved a hand to one of the attending guards, who left without a word. Geta walked away from the arena, his robes flowing behind him. He could feel his new pet’s eyes burning holes into him. The emperor stopped mid-step, and turned towards his general again.
“Oh, and bring the palace blacksmith to my chambers first, I have an order I must place with him…posthaste.” Geta smiled stiffly, then continued walking, followed by an entourage of attendants, guards and senators.
The general grimly observed the young emperor saunter away, well aware of the man’s proclivities. He shifted his focus back to the arena, where over a dozen guards surrounded the rebel and closed in on him with their shields, leaving no room for escape as the man futilely resisted. Despite himself, the general couldn't help but pity him; it would have been better to die a warrior's death than to become another victim of Emperor Geta’s unending appetite.