The first time Kristoff saw her she was being herded towards the arena along with the other prisoners. Feeding the lions gave the mob a taste of blood before the main event, which the big blond barbarian was preparing for. But unlike the other condemned who cringed and cowered and wailed as they shuffled off to their fate, she walked silently, ramrod straight with a carefully blank mask of a face. Her coppery hair caught his attention and the haunted, furious look bleeding through her mask piqued his curiosity, but he gave her little thought as he saw to his weapons. The lions were always thorough, and he knew he would never see her again.
Kristoff was a gladiator, and a good one at that. His place at the top of the gladiator upper class was earned with years of effort. And blood. Normally non-Romans could not attain such a rank, especially barbarians captured from the far north like Kristoff. But his prowess in the arena was unmatched, and his large size and exotic coloring made him a crowd favorite, so the rank could not be denied him.
The second time Kristoff saw her was a shock, and not only because he expected to see her dead in a lion's maw. The tall gladiator stood at the portcullis awaiting his turn in the arena. Instead of the usual murmured, bated anticipation, the crowd shrieked animatedly, so something must have been different. Kristoff glanced about, assessing the arena floor with cool brown eyes. The prisoners were dead; the lions dragging their corpses back to their cages at the goading of a score of whip-wielding lorarii, or handlers. But the redhead still stood, and that was definitely different. She was holding a pair of small, rusty, bloodied siccae, low and loose like she knew how to use them.
Where'd she find those? he wondered. Seven lorarii circled her while an eighth lay writhing at her feet, clutching at his ruined neck. Kristoff smirked; the lorarii were cocky above their station in his eyes. Their lax upkeep of the arena was the obvious source of the redhead's blades, so they deserved whatever became of them. One got too close to the young woman, and she lashed out like a striking viper. He fell squealing, clutching at the entrails boiling out of his gut. Now only six lorarii circled her, warily, and Kristoff grinned, impressed.
Anna was terrified, exhausted, but most of all, angry. She would be damned if she let these low-born dirt grubbers so much as touch her. She had to stay alive! Too much depended on her not dying. The prisoners had bolted like rabbits once the lions were let loose in the arena. The beasts quickly gave chase, and easily ran down their terrified victims.
But not all ran. One spritely fellow managed to climb halfway up the portcullis before a huge black-maned beast plucked him off like an overripe fig. Anna ran too, but with a purpose. A glint of metal caught her eye earlier when she was pushed to the center of the arena. She prayed to the gods she doubted even existed that it was more than a scrap of old armor. She ducked around a screaming plebian and grabbed at the glint, and smiled when her fist came up with an old sica. It was small curved blade, made to slash and produce a lot of blood but do relatively minor damage, unless you knew how to use it. She ran back towards the center of the arena, bending over once more to grasp at another glint and coming up with a second sica. She grinned, keeping the lions in sight while she searched for a way out of the arena. Two blades were always better than one, her old teacher Kai had often said.
The lions knew well enough to stay away from her and seek easier prey, and they did so with brutal efficiency. But the handlers were a different story. It wasn't long before the whip-wielding lorarii flooded the arena floor to clear it for the main event, and they had no qualms against attacking the one prisoner left standing. But it wasn't as easy as they anticipated. Two lay dead or dying at the redhead's feet, while six still surrounded her, herding her towards the portcullis. She snarled, ignoring the blood and the pain, keeping her blades low and ready to strike. The mob roared, thrilled by the unusual spectacle.
Kristoff was surprised he was holding his breath as he watched her, even more surprised that he couldn't make himself look away. Two of the handlers feinted with their whips, attempting to throw her off-balance. She ignored them expertly, lunging at a third and raking her sica down his exposed face. He screamed, blood pouring from his ruined eye. The fourth cracked his whip at her, and she jumped back with a hiss as it bloodied her upper arm. She recovered enough to viciously slash at an exposed wrist, but the others hurled their nets over her. She shrieked in defiance, trying to cut herself loose before they swarmed her under. But it was too late. One pulled on the net lines and yanked her off her feet while the rest rushed in to knock her blades away and pummel her with their fists and feet.
The portcullis opened, and the four remaining handlers dragged her past the waiting Kristoff. He glanced down and saw she was a bruised, bloody mess, but still alive. He smiled; for some strange reason this pleased him. But there was no time to dwell on such odd thoughts, he had his own fight to win. He stepped out onto the arena floor to the sounds of the roaring crowd. He deliberately walked over to the fallen lorarii. The one with the slashed wrist had already bled out, to his surprise, while the newly one-eyed handler cursed and stumbled his way back down into the pit. The little copper-haired one has some fight in her, Kristoff grinned. So did he. He adjusted his rectangular scuta and raised his polished gladius in salute. It was time to take another step down his own path, one that someday would lead him away from this bloody pit. One that would lead him back home. But until then, let the games begin.
