Chapter 3
On the roof, the phoenix finished the song and the woman, hiding in the shadows under it, stood unmoved in the sands. Silence had descended upon the House of Batiatus. Hermione, now Estel Lasgalen Undomiel, witch in another life, disillusioned and invisible to all, smirked and pointed her wand at the sky. It began to rain. She frowned at the sudden quiet, which erupted into cheers or some sign of contentment from nearly everyone in the ground story of the house.
Everyone except the one who had been mocked.
Like most of the other men, he had a subligaria, shaped like some sort of men's boxers in rags. It suited them all, she giggled naughtily to herself. It did not leave much to the imagination, but oh well. What truly held her attention now, though, was the man's long face. He seemed furious, a while ago, and Hermione, Estel, that is, having been bullied once, understood why. Now, he was sad. She worked her magic, discreetly fashioned a little gift out a sliver of wood she found on the gound. Hermione had always loved transfiguration.
She couldn't just say nothing, so she stood close, but not too close to him, and undid the spell.
And so, there stood a figure in a cloak, with strange garments, the man saw, and with no weapon in hand.
"Who are you?", he whispered loudly. "I would hear answer."
"Do not let them feel any less than what you are.", the figure paused. It was not too tall, it resembled man of young years. How had it come into the ludus? "I despise bullies. You have something they don't, and it scares them."
"Ashur is not good enough." The whispered throaty voice, not high and not low, came again.
"Well, perhaps your strengths are different from theirs. Think about that. Turn to your friends."
"Ashur has no friends.", he confessed, humiliated and revolted.
"Have hope.", he laughed bitterly. What hope? He was a slave. A gladiator, and not a very good one either. Soon he would be fighting in the arena, and it might be not just the first, but also the last time he did so. He stared, the figure reached out, something in its hand. He stretched his hand, and nearly had it in his reach.
Someone from the ludus yelled his name. Who was that? Who had he been talking to? As Doctore approached, he turned in the sand, his foot positioned precisely, hiding what the cloaked figure had dropped. He lied through his teeth and was ordered into his cell. He took it, with a handful of sand and lied in the ground with others.
Patient, he waited until his cell companions had fallen asleep and opened his hand. Two thin strings of leather with a little amulet, shaped like a strange Roman Eagle. Someone had given a gift to Ashur! He smiled. The torches were gone, so their cell was dark.
He slept, dreaming of conquering glory in the arena, and of dark smallish figures whispering comforting words in the darkness.