My new story. Once again, non canon characters, but since this is a fanfic, I have to use at least a bit of the original story. So this is in the PJO universe, millennia before Percy Jackson's time.
If you're smart, that's good for you, and you know when this story is set.
Hopefully, I'll write a second chapter, and include a character from another of my stories.
Chapter 1
Caecilia
The Iron Gate stood in front of her, a door made of iron strips melded together, to make a weaving of a metal tapestry. The gate threw a speckling of shadows over her face, leaving one side of her face in the darkness, while another part was blinded in the hot noonday sun.
Caecilia stood behind the gate, her legs quivering in anxiety and nervousness. Her sweaty hands gripped the hilt of her sword, bleaching her knuckles a ghostly white. Her feet shifted on the sandy cobbles, and the sword in her hand tapped the floor; she was unable to hold her arm steady.
The sword was a gladius, a heavy, sturdy, bronze affair that gave her a name. It wasn't much of a name, but it wasn't the name of a miserable servant in the house of a plebian. Her name made her a slave: Gladiator.
Caeicilia belonged to the School, the largest in all of Rome. And today was to be her last fight.
Most fights she thought of as her last, because things were never certain here. She was never sure if she'd be here another day, perhaps hired by a local family as a guard or servant. But that had never happened to her, not in the seven years she had slaved here, stuck in the School.
There were no assurances at the school: Everything was hung from a tremulous thread, and you were taught to take everything you were given and not to ask questions. This was no different for Caecilia.
And this was definitely her last fight. Because she had faithfully served her seven years, as was required. And today, if she was lucky and won her match, then her name would be struck off the roll. And if she wasn't, then she'd be dead, and there wouldn't be any more matches to fight.
So few of the gladiators' names had been struck off the roll after their seven years of service. So very many had their names crossed off because they had been killed. Killed for the entertainment of the consul or dictator or whoever held the ever changing position of emperor.
But some part of Caecilia loved the fights. She loved the action, the dance of the swords, and the careful waltz of the sandaled feet. And the cheers of the crowd after another gladiator had been dispatched. She loved the admiration of the crowds, and the flowers and trinkets they threw at her. One fat, red faced man had thrown a gold brooch at her once. It was worth about an aureas, and that meant that the man had money.
And Caecilia watched through the holes in the Iron Gate, reminiscing, thinking about what might be and what might not, because there were no firm assurances in the School.
Caecilia jerked back to herself as the Iron Gate began to slowly lift upwards, like a portcullis. Her breathing started to get more erratic, and her palms covered the hilt of her sword in a thin film of sweat, making it slippery.
The Gate lifted up with a creak and the sound of stone on stone. There was a jingling of chain, and then the Gate was up fully up.
The shadows were gone from Caecilia's face, and her mouth was set in determination. This was always the most difficult part, the walk from the Gate to the sand covered pit that was the Circus Maximus.
The spectators were seated in rows about, and the sun was high in the sky, beating down with its oppressive heat. Caecilia walked, and her feet were slick with sweat, the buckler on her arm swinging.
She saw that figure on the opposite side of the amphitheater, a person leaving the recesses of the opposite gate, the Bronze Gate. And as the person reached the light, Caecilia finally saw her for who she was.
Aquila. She was Caecilia's best friend, who had brought her water when she had been stabbed in a fight. She bound Caecilia's wounds and shared her meat gruel and broke her bread.
There weren't very many real friendships at the School, just alliances based on need, and favors to be returned. But Aquila was a real friend, one who cared and who had served the seven years with Caecilia.
Dimly, Caecilia remembered that this was Aquila's Last Fight, the fight that could set a person free – or let her die in agony. But Caecilia needed to be out, to be in the sun with the papers of a free man – or woman. And to see the stars again, after seven years of being cooped up in the barracks, mess hall, or parade ground.
Caecilia walked forwards, going closer and closer to her fate, whatever that was. And her sword swung at her side. Aquila was nearing, too.
Her lips moved, but Caecilia was unable to hear over the voices of the crowd. They were excited to see a fight to the death, a fight advertised as one of two highly seasoned, well trained, seven year slaves.
But Caecilia could understand the gist of it. It was a few words of apology, and a bit of shame and anger at the Director who made them fight, just to gain a few sestertii. Caecilia felt the same way herself, and replied with a few soft words, unheard over the noise of the bloodthirsty spectators.
They circled each other, their footsteps assuming the age old practice steps. The steps that they had practiced for seven long years. They knew all of each other's weaknesses and strengths. This was a fight to death, and one that would make the other lose a valued friend.
Crack! Clash! Schlick!
Their swords met in a flurry of sparks. Caecilia held her buckler over her head, warding off a heavy blow from Aquila that numbed her arm and made her almost drop her sword. Step, step, step, turn, strike! Her feet automatically followed the practice routines, her sword swinging in harmonic deftness with Aquila's.
Aquilla feinted left, bringing Caecilia to cover her left side with her buckler. But she realized it was a trick, and with a cry, she just avoided a sharp cut to her right side.
Step, step, duck, step. Their feet scuffed up the sandy floor of the amphitheater, avoiding the clumps of red sand stained by blood. That stand was slippery and if one was not cautious, it could bring a gladiator to her knees, to receive the death blow.
Step, step, step, right, riposte! Caecilia swung at Aquila, but she already knew her routine, sending a counter riposte back. They fought together, their bronze swords weaving a mesh of coppery silver.
The spectators leaned forwards expectantly, every time one of them almost got the other. They groaned with disappointment when Aquila missed a jab at Caecilia.
But after a few minutes of fighting, sweat dripped from their brows and stung their eyes, making them itch terribly. Caecilia's arm was visibly shaking from taking all those blows with her buckler. And Aquila was growing more weary: her steps weren't as vigorous as before – she began to skip steps.
And when Aquila grew more careless with her exhaustion, Caecilia knew that she was at her end, too. So she decided to risk it, because she knew she couldn't go on forever.
So she let Aquila get her in the leg, let Aquila cut her deeply with her gladius. And Caecilia almost regretted her decision, with that awful pain and the warm trickle of blood that dripped down her greaves.
But she let her desperation wash away her fear and pain. Caecilia made her limp seem more pronounced than it really was. It wasn't all that deep, but Aquila wouldn't know.
She hobbled forwards, and the crowd leaned closer to them, their eyes bright, waiting for Aquila to finish her off.
But Caecilia saw that Aquila was walking forwards, her legs trembling with just the effort of keeping her up.
"I'm sorry, Caecilia. But one of us has to…" Aquila smiled, a sad smile that showed the mental agony she was trapped in. She had to kill her best friend.
Caecilia's head was bent down, and her heavy bronze helmet obscured her face. As Aquila walked forwards, she swung her leg out, the leg that supposedly was cut and bleeding and broken.
Caecilia gritted her teeth; swinging that leg out took effort and concentration, to get it exactly right. She had never done this trick before, but Dusan, a former gladiator now freed, had said she had her Last Fight with this. Dusan was now a lanista, a gladiator manager.
And it worked the way Dusan had described at the mess hall. Aquila was tired and she tumbled down, her body hitting the stained sand with a muffled thump. Half of the audience began to groan; their bets with the School bursar were now lost.
Caecilia stood over Aquila, leaning on her gladius for support. Aquila sprawled on the ground in an untidy heap, too exhausted to even attempt to get up.
"Come on, Cec, end me!" she whispered. "You deserve it. You won. I never anticipated Dirty Dusan's trick."
And Caecilia, with just a hit of guilt and the goading of the Mercuries in the corner, decapitated her one and only true friend.
The crowd roared, and the man in the toga in the best seat in the house looked attentive for once. A few enameled bracelets found their way onto the sand, and a gold necklace hit the ground in front of Caecilia. She picked it up with a churning stomach, but pocketed it. Another rule in the Ludus Magnus School: Always take what you're given and ask for more.
So she picked up the bracelets; they could be pawned for some extra coins. She watched in silence as the Mercuries, with their hooked staffs, pulled Aquila's body out of the ring. A few of them raced into the arena to rake the sand and make it more presentable for the next group of gladiators, the fighters of the tridents and nets.
Dusan called to her from the Iron Gate. But Caecilia couldn't hear her words over the crowd, who was now leaving the stands to receive the money they had won from bets, to get snacks, to relieve themselves, and to make some new bets on the retiarii, the net fighters.
Dusan gestured with her hands, and Caecilia nodded, walking toward her, her buckler cradled limply in her tired hands. She had seen and done this so many times. After a win, she'd get washed up at a bathhouse and get extra barley at supper. But since this was her Last Fight, things would probably be different.
She followed Dusan inside, to the Master's office. And then Dusan opened the door that she had never had opened for Caecilia in seven years, and pushed her in, taking her helmet, gladius, and buckler.
Caecilia stood in the office, watching the Master's scribbling quill cross a sheet of heavy, expensive parchment.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, the Master looked up, his dark eyes and patrician nose staring down at her. Even if he was sitting at a heavy cedar wood desk, and she was standing up.
"You have won your Wooden Foil of graduation." He sighed, and then picked up the sheet of parchment, waving it in the air to let the ink dry. "Your personal belongings have already been packed by Dusan, and you'll be out by the end of the day. You have won this for your service-" He tossed a small bag of coins to her "-and I expect you won't grace our halls with your presence. In fact, I would prefer it that way."
He folded the parchment up and handed it to me. "Dusan will be outside with your foil. Good luck."
Caecilia walked outside, the coins and sheet of parchment gripped tightly in her hands. Dusan handed her a bag of her scanty possessions, and the Wooden Foil.
"Good bye, gladiatrix," she said, her large callused hands patting Caecilia on her shoulder.
And so Caecilia left the Ludus Magnus, never to return again. She decided to travel: After all, what should one do with one's life, when one is poor with low caste? And thus begins Caecilia's adventures to far off lands, which shall be further explored in possible future chapters.
Author's Note: Finally finished! I have a few other stories that I need to put down into words. It always pains me to condense the movie in my head into mere words.
But hopefully, another story will have canon characters.