I love ancient Rome and I love Star Wars. They make for a fun combo! Read and review!
Chapter 1: Dreams on a Distant Shore
The guttural scream that he ripped from his opponent's throat satisfied the crowds, whose roaring filled the arena and drowned out the commentary of the announcer. Anakin Skywalker jerked the vibro-ax out of the Rodian's central nervous system and watched the green body slide jerking and twitching to the sandy dirt. The young human stood from his crouch and waved to his audience, a jaunty motion that sent over a dozen Naboo women swooning in the arms of their companions. He smirked at the sight.
Putty in my hands.
Half a dozen droid cams circled around his head like gigantic pollinators. Being a gladiator wasn't so bad, when one got past the whole killing and dying thing. A lot like racing, actually. He tossed the vibro-ax into the waiting hands of his keeper and stepped into the shadows of the arena chute. Outside, the indistinct roar fragmented into a distinct cheer. "Skywalker! Skywalker! Skywalker!"
"Someday they'll get tired of loving you, squirt, and then you'll be sorry," his keeper grinned, a massive Yinchorri with more nose than brains.
"Tired of loving me? Loving the Chosen One?" Anakin laughed. He reached for a particle-disruptor towel on the low shelf and began scrubbing away the layers of grime and blood on his forearms. He would need a bath after this round. "Nah, I keep them too entertained."
"You're getting high and mighty now," Nuvok warned cheerfully. "Twenty-three last month. Getting' old for a gladiator, you know. You start forgetting you're just a slave, just like the rest of - "
He didn't finish his sentence, because his throat constricted to a painful degree under Anakin's metallic fist, the durasteel fingers flexing when he squeaked in pain.
"You know I don't like you saying that, Nu."
The Yinchorri gasped and whined until the powerful young gladiator released his throat and stalked down the chute. "You should really be nicer to me!" he called after his retreating form. "I do a lot of things for you."
Anakin snorted and muttered under his breath, "Because I keep you in a job. Without me, you'd be on the auction block in seconds." He and Nuvok had a long history together, from nearly the beginning of Anakin's forced induction into Watto's gladiatorial troop. Nuvok, a rare retired gladiator, had been his guide for lack of anything better. True, the old Yinchorri had been a crowd-pleaser in his days, but he had let the muscle go to fat in his belly. Over time, the open hostility between the two morphed into a friendly banter, albeit a cautious one. Very few beings led long lives in the bloodsport business, and Nuvok as a trainer was under no illusions about Anakin's chances.
Of course, he didn't know about Anakin's true ally, about the fiery strength that poured into his limbs in the heat of battle, about the whispers that caressed his mind before danger struck, about the gift he had for muddling the minds of his enemies. No one knew but Anakin. Anakin did not know what to call it either, but it was enough that he knew. He also knew that abilities like his were loathed and mistrusted in the Naboo culture.
Once, he had seen a fellow gladiator use his powers to get himself out of a deadly situation, only to be sacrificed to the Naboo gods to the thrilled screams of his former admirers. Anakin shivered as he stepped into the containment field at the end of the chute and began removing the layers of Mandalorian-forged armor. No, he would not end up that way. He was too careful, too jaded.
Dumping the armor into the self-cleaning storage bins, he paced into the small, gleaming white room that had been his home for the last three years. On the far side of the chamber, a slot machine set into the wall emitted a series of beeps, and a small credit chip slid out into the waiting tray. His meager percentage of the earnings from the fight… Anakin scooped up the small chip and pocketed it. Some gladiators preferred to keep their funds in a bank account. Anakin didn't trust Watto enough to keep his filthy hands out, so he asked for physical chips. They were a pain, but at least he could rustle them in his pockets and imagine that he might someday have enough.
Enough to be free…
Always, the thought took him back to a kind face, a calloused face, and his empty promise – I'll free us, Mom, someday, somehow, wait for me – He shoved the thought away along with the anger that instantly followed. This lousy planet, these lousy animals that called themselves people, that ripped apart other worlds for sport and laughed about it… Someday they would learn just how horrible it felt to have everything torn away in a heartbeat of time.
Just not soon enough. The distant and self-important Galactic Alliance was too cowardly and fractured to ever challenge the might of the Naboo Republic, if one listened to the hushed whispers of the space pilots. Anakin compressed a panel on the right wall, and his cot dropped out of the ceiling to hover on anti-grav thrusters. He sank onto the bed with a soft sigh, unheeding of the caked filth still clinging to his arms and legs. At least as a gladiator, he received many of the comforts of life. An aurodium slave in a golden cage, worth so much more than the ones who physically toiled in the plasma mines or looked after the Shaak herds.
His communicator suddenly jangled in his chest pocket, and he pulled it out. "What's up, Watto?" he grunted in Huttese. "I just finished a match. I'm tired."
Like always, his master ignored his flippant response. "Ani, my boy, it was well done, I think, too, hm? Yah, you keepa pleasing me like that and we'll go far together."
"Yeah, okay."
Watto was silent for a brief moment on the other end. "You know the Annual Games are coming up soon in Theed."
"Sure I do," Anakin sat up on the cot and rubbed at the back of his neck. In truth, he already felt the excitement traveling up his spine. The Games, when even a slave could pretend to be free for a little while, when the wind moved the hair and stirred the dead soul. He swallowed, trying to hold back his enthusiasm.
"Well, I'ma thinking of putting you in the races, boy."
"But I crashed last time."
Watto cleared his throat. "That you did, but you paid off the speeder in docked pay, and I've come into another one. You're good, boy. You do me another four matches, you bring in the money like you brought it in today, and I'll put you in." Watto was a unique master. He knew how to dangle both the stick and the Shurra fruit. It was all an illusion of choice anyway. He could just make Anakin fight and race, but his methods routinely got better results than other masters who simply bludgeoned their way through their raw talent. Other masters spent slaves; Watto kept slaves.
Anakin realized that the line had gone dead. "Master?"
"What do you say, Ani?"
He grinned. "I say four more heads will be rolling in the dust before long."
Watto chuckled and cut the connection. Anakin reclined back on the bed, his eyes gleaming with undisguised delight. His heart pounded. I'm going to race again.
