"Imperator!" The guide gasped, falling to his knees in a bow. Resent touched Gionoci's proud heart as he forced himself to follow suit, dropping his bloodied sword to the ground with a clatter.

"Rise," The man commanded emotionlessly, and the gladiator lifted his head, finally struck by the truth of the matter. His new master was not a slave dealer, not a gladiator trainer, not a rich senator. He had been bought by the Emperor himself. His mind whirled as he scraped together what little he knew about Roman Emperors. Don't make eye contact- or was it that you're not supposed to look away? No, no eye contact. You're not supposed to turn your back to him, right?

"What is your name?" The Emperor suddenly asked, the sharp quality of his voice waking the gladiator from his nervous internal dialogue.

"Gionoci, dominus."

"Let that be the last time you speak the name. It bores me- you will be something else from now on," he said, casting his eyes around and letting them fall on the carcass of the dog, "Cave canem." An amused smirk pulled at the corner of his stern lips. "Yes, that's what I'll call you. Canem." An angry prickle tore up the Celt's spine. A dog, was he?

"Ita, dominus." He said through gritted teeth, the tendons in his hand tightening as he clenched his fingers together. Gionoci might speak the words, but his mind and soul would never call anybody master. Fury boiled in his every breath, every exhalation a hiss of defiance. 'Let me keep my temper.' He prayed to himself, to whatever cruel god was weaving this thread of fate. 'I don't want to die.'

"Lucio, clean up this mess and show the gladiator back to his room. Enter him in the next open battle and place forty on his head. See that he doesn't lose." With that the leader of Rome turned and swept off to his cubiculum. Gionoci heaved a sigh of relief, and pulled of his helmet. Despite the fact that it was only morning and hadn't heated up yet, he felt hot, sticky, and rather claustrophobic with it on. He opened his mouth with a scowl, but the man identified as Lucio quickly cut him off.

"A single word against him is treason, gladiator. You would be wise to remember that."

"Ita vero," Gionoci said bitterly, and picked up his weapon with a wave of disgust racing through him. This armour, this sword, this arena: they didn't stand for anything. They didn't mean glory or honour of triumph or bravery. Everything, including himself, was just the whimsy of some rich bastard with too much time on his hands. The blade no longer looked beautiful and rare. It brought illness to his heart, and as he watched the lifeless flesh of his victim carted off, he realised there was some truth in what the Emperor had chosen to call him. In reality, he was no better than some prize hunting dog, bred up to look nice and fight energetically for someone else's gain. A rotten flavour nestled in the back of his throat, and he spat at the ground. When it did nothing to retaliate, Gionoci shouted vengefully in his native tongue and kicked the sand. Lucio returned to him, and said nothing.

"Back to my room, I guess?"

"Yes," he answered, an almost apologetic turn to his reply. "Tomorrow your training will start. One of the retired generals is going to be teaching you- I trust you can find your way back to the aream without me?"

"Yeah. What'll happen if I lose?" the gladiator asked warily.

"You'll be put to death, either by the sword of the other gladiator or at the sword of the Emperor's executioners." The chill of fear jumped from hair to hair down his arms and back, and Gionoci swallowed heavily.

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"And now on to the next battle!" The announcer bellowed, the crowds cheering in reply. "Introducing the renowned Greek warrior, possessed in strength by the mighty Neptune and wielding his ensign, the retiarius Cleisthenes! And his opponent, a more recent addition to the arena: the wild and untamable Celt from the north, the Emperor's very own Rex Canis!"

Even in his only escape, Gionoci felt the sting of insult. He direly longed to strike down that smug man and repeatedly introduce that oversized, flapping mouth to his fists. The only thing really stopping him was the roar of the spectators, and the desire to see them scream his name. 'Hell,' he though, walking to stand on his end of the distance pole, chin held high under his helmet, 'I don't even have a name anymore.'

"Pugna!"

And it began. Gionoci had seen Eugi take down huge men with the careful aim of his net and the advantage of his long trident; this man had more experience, and he was bound to be well-versed in tactics against murmillo. This Cleisthenes wasted no time, and swung the knotted mesh at Gionoci's head. Panic quickly rose in his chest and Gionoci knew, in that split second that he had to react, that his life would depend on whether or not his helmet became entangled in the retiarius's net. His huge shield came up and buffeted away the fronds that spelled certain doom. He had saved himself- for the moment.

"Canis est ignavus!" The onlookers shouted, pelting him with invisible abuse. A feral snarl ripped through him, and the murmillo lashed out heavily with his sword. Surprised, the opponent had no time to turn his shoulder-guard to the blade and took a vicious score across the collar. Gionoci made to swing again, his weapon bouncing back with a metallic pang as the prongs of the Greek's trident intercepted it. His own breath echoed around his ears, trapped inside the helmet, as he bowled the other man over with his shoulder. Wary of the alert referee, Gionoci skipped back a distance while the retiarius struggled to his feet. The crowd appraised and condemned his mercy, but all cheered unanimously with bestial enthusiasm when Cleisthenes stabbed two of three prongs through the meat of the other gladiator's arm. A shout of pain escaped him, and his temper bubbled dangerously. Fine- if they wanted a wild dog of the north, he would be a wild dog of the north. He would show them how pathetic their warriors were. He would hear them cry his name.

Sand flew up around his feet as he launched himself at his opponent, bashing aside the trident with his huge shield and bringing the sword down again, but vertically. The weapon began to sing again as it cut a trail through the pectorals and gashed down the stomach, pulling away at the navel. It hummed in the air as he jumped back, catching the bridge of the unarmored man's nose. The sword began to look beautiful again.

"Rex Canis! Rex Canis! Rex Canis!" They chanted.

Blood spattered Gionoci's knuckles, spotted his face like morbid freckles. The net came again, erratically and desperately this time. The wrist of his weapon-hand caught in its tangled embrace, and he turned left and right, jerking to bring it free. Soon the sword too became ensnared. Gionoci cringed and spat blood, feeling a twinge of agony and knowing too late that the retiarius's weapon had pierced his lower abdomen. 'If I don't die here, I'll die for losing. I want to live. I have to live!'

With an upsurge of adrenaline, the Celt ignored the biting pain in his gut and swung his shield, catching Cleisthenes across the jaw with the big metal studs in its center. His opponent fell to the ground clutching his face, and Gionoci threw down his armored plate and drew the trident's barbs from his own flesh. The crowd was pleased. Cleisthenes slowly began to get up, and the murmillo felt no pity. Turning the own man's weapon downwards, he drove its prongs deep into the Greek's thigh. A gasping, tortured bellow of hurt passed through his lungs, and he threw up his arm in surrender. The mob erupted in a loud, orgasmic cry of delight.

"Canis! Canis! Canis! Canis!"

It wasn't his name, but it might as well have been. Shudders raced though Gionoci as he dropped the trident and shook his arm free of the net. His weapon began to throb between his fingers, telling him to kill, to slay, to drive the air from this foolish southerner's lungs. He turned his eyes to the sky, and then to the people, jumping up and down, beckoning he do what his sword longed for. The gladiator's gaze went to the sponsor for reference. Death, his hand gestured. Death to the loser. Circling the fallen prey, he saw the fear in Cleisthenes's eyes. What did it matter? He feared death the same as Gionoci did. Jealousy flared in his nostrils, and blood soaked his palate. This man had a name. He did not- he was a beast. What should he care?

"Canis! Canis!"

Killing brought glory and fame and recognition. It was repugnant, distasteful, and morbid. And so it seemed morbidly appropriate that the victor of the battle, Rex Canis, let loose a howl of triumph as he plunged his beautiful, bloody blade into the heart of his opponent.

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Imperator – Emperor

Dominus – Master

Cave canem – Beware of the dog

Canem / Canis – Dog

Ita – Yes

Cubiculum – Bedroom

Ita vero – Sure, yes (sarcastic)

Aream – Courtyard

Rex Canis – King of Dogs

Pugna! – Fight!

Canis est ignavus – The dog is cowardly