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Posted February xx, 2012.

SUMMARY: Harry finds himself injured amongst strangers, and quickly discovers none of his emergency devices work; using both spell and coin he takes up the offer of hospitality; and with the introduction of one particular individual in the household, Harry quickly learns exactly where he finds himself.

24: THE WIZARD, THE ROMAN, AND THE THRACIAN

September 1, 2006 / Dates Unknown

1 September, 2006

Undisclosed Location

Dumbledore did not fear the group of individuals he now found himself amongst. However, this sort of meeting most certainly ate away at part of his conscience. Sure, he did keep telling himself, 'It's for the greater good', but really. Whose 'greater good'?

"Gentlemen, good of you all to come. Tea and biscuits, if you like." He indicated the mentioned items at the centre of the table.

"We'll pass on the pleasantries," said a hooded figure, "Our organization is most curious as to why you, such a strong symbol of the light side, would contact us."

"Indeed, under normal circumstances, we would be facing each other on opposite sides of the battlefield," Dumbledore agreed, planting himself in one of the seats. "However, it does appear as though we both have a common enemy in the Commonwealth of Valicadia."

"Ah, yes, so it seems we do," said another figure, who claimed a seat on the opposite side of the table. They all wore hoods which obscured their faces. Dumbledore's first guess is that they had connections to a faction similar to the Department of Mysteries, if he was correctly reading the kind of magic they gave off.

"If my sources are correct, you have already caused the Commonwealth several headaches, most recently being a year and a half ago."

"I won't confirm nor deny that," said the first, "For all we know, this could be a rather elaborate setup. Do know that, there is much at stake."

"Oh, I do believe we can trust the old man," said a third individual, a female. "Perhaps the paragon of the light side isn't as lily-white as he would like to believe. Recall, this is the very same individual who did use rather questionable magic, to trap and hold a rather powerful young wizard at Hogwarts against his will."

"If you believe it so..." the first individual hissed.

"What I can offer, is resources. Naturally, this would be done without the knowledge of anyone outside this meeting," said Dumbledore.

"And what exactly do you wish to achieve by this... most unorthodox alliance?" questioned the woman.

"It's quite simple. To inflict as much damage and chaos as you can muster. During that time, the I.C.W. will launch an offensive of its own based on some rather inaccurate information. An ideal circumstance will result in the crippling of the Commonwealth in such a way they will cease to be a credible threat."

The woman leaned back in her seat, adjusting the hood to keep her anonymity.

"If everything goes according to plan," she spoke with finality, "An I.C.W. response will be unnecessary. But we most certainly do welcome other resources, as it can only further ensure the success of our plan—which, regretfully, you cannot know of further details."

"Naturally. I only make offer of resources," said Dumbledore.

"I still have trouble accepting that you would just... work with a group such as ours. Surely, you realize, we work to a similar end as the Dark Lord," said the first man.

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, and steeped his hands together.

"Then you also equally realize, we may indeed be on opposite sides of the battlefield one day. For now, as I mentioned at the beginning of this meeting, we do have a common enemy. One I would like to see squashed."

Unknown Location

As he slowly came back to semi-awareness, Harry could make out a number of voices gathered around him, speaking in low tones. The language was foreign, so it took him a few minutes to finally pick up what was being said. Harry thanked the Gods for the special translation charm the Commonwealth's Arcane Sciences Division had placed on him. It had been applied not long before Harry had been sent to Skyrim.

"English, or the Common language as they call it, isn't the only language spoken in Tamriel," Guardian Elaine had explained, "Unspeakable Orthos will be applying an advanced translation charm. It's commonly used by diplomats and other such representatives for when they work abroad."

"This will allow you to quickly pick up a foreign language and be able to speak it near-fluently within a matter of minutes."

"So far, there's been no language the charm has failed to translate," said Orthos, a rather short fellow in a deep-blue shaded robe. He also wore a matching hood which obscured his features.

The spell had felt funny, making his tongue and vocal chords tingle for several minutes. It had been very much worth it, though, certainly shocking more than a few individuals back in Skyrim. Meeting the goblins on one occasion had been entertaining as well, come to think of it. The translation wasn't perfect, but it most certainly caught the rather rude teller off guard.

Now, as he lay uncomfortably on what felt like a stone slab, the voices were making more sense... though it sounded as though they were about finished.

"...Continue to see to his injuries. I would break words with him when he wakes."

Harry could hear a gate opening to his left.

"Yes, Dominus."

People were shuffling out, and if his perception was right, the only person left lay on a slab directly beside his own. Harry hoped his arrival wasn't the reason behind his stay. Even without opening his eyes, it was an easy guess as to where he was.

He lay there for several minutes, just to be sure, before finally opening his eyes. The room was dimly lit, with a number of torches casting only a flickering glow across it. His perception had not deceived him, and indeed, there was now only one occupant, laid out on the slab beside him. On a table in between the two slabs, rested a number of containers. Harry guessed they likely contained medicines.

Focusing back on himself, he made a quick assessment. His ribs really hurt—likely cracked—he knew the difference. Broken, it was damn near impossible to breathe without excruciating pain. A broken arm, if the rough excuse for a splint was any indication. His insides all hurt, and now... his head felt weird.

That lead to only one explanation. He'd been slammed into something with great force—likely the ground, given what he'd been doing just before. The book had worked something like a port key—at least that was Harry's assumption. The question, then: what had happened to send him so far off course? Yes, the books were the property of a Daedric Prince. Thing was, Hermaeus Mora had given Harry a task, and so it was unlikely said Daedric Prince would immediately put him in harm's way.

The immediate concern was the injuries. A few healing charms would fix things enough for him to access his chest and the healing potions inside, which would most certainly do a better job. He worked quickly, and within a minute, he was able to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the slab, and stand up. The world was still a little sideways, but Harry fished in his rucksack—once again thanking the gods for the charms which prevented its removal—and retrieved his miniaturized chest. It was placed in an open corner, and returned to proper size.

Once inside, he retreated to his room, and accessed the potions cabinet. Within a few minutes, a few healing potions had done the job, and he no longer felt the ringing sensation about the head. Now, he could concentrate on the more pressing matter.

'The guys are probably in a right state about now,' he thought to himself, as he pulled out his mobile, with the intention of contacting Mazhe first. Unfortunately, the dreaded 'no service' message greeted him. So he was outside of Skyrim altogether, then? But no, that wouldn't make sense either. According to Justin, the cellular system worked through magic, and therefore should work just about anywhere in Tamriel—even underground, something the mundane system did not do well. Perhaps, something was interfering with the connection there, then. It was the best reason Harry could come up with at the time being.

'Plan B, then,' he thought, reaching to press the red button which activated the emergency port key. He loathed the idea of returning to the Commonwealth—he was still furious with the lot, given what they'd done to Tommy. It would be a long time before he would consider forgiving them. He knew he would eventually need to get back to the world he belonged in, but for now... they could all hang. He would return to the HMS Ragnar (the port key's programmed destination), then find a way back to Skyrim.

Unfortunately, the port key refused to fire, causing even more alarm. According to Justin, the port keys were programmed by the Arcane Sciences Division, the Commonwealth's equivalent to the English Department of Mysteries. The port key was guaranteed to work from any place, ignoring wards, even. Only thing that could interrupt it, was something which completely suppressed all magic in the area.

Just to be sure, he cast a light charm—then shook his head, realizing he was being stupid. Suppression of all magic in the area, would have broken a good number of things, including just about everything in his chest. He didn't know about such ward, but it was a fair guess that it would require an enormous amount of power to cast, likely from a number of individuals. No way a single person could cast such magic.

"Tempus," he whispered, and '5:21 a' briefly appeared at the end of his index finger. Near dawn, then. He wouldn't have time to look around. For now, he decided to return to the slab he'd been laying on. He would get his answers on where he was then.

He returned to the slab just in time, hearing voices approaching the room. Now that he was in a somewhat better state, he didn't pretend to be asleep, simply laying there with hands folded across his chest. Perhaps he might have been better to just listen for a while, but no, he needed to know where he was, so he could get back to where he belonged. 'Gods, they're probably going absolutely nuts about now,' he thought.

Only seconds after, a pair of individuals entered the room. One for some reason reminded him of Filch, oily and weedy-looking. The other had skin as dark as the night, and virtually screamed, 'mess with me at your peril.' The weedy man seemed somewhere between surprised and alarmed that Harry was awake already.

"Your eyes should not have opened," he said.

"I never cared for long stays in the hospital," Harry answered, attempting to sit up. The weedy man put a hand on his chest, holding him down.

"You must remain at rest."

"Trust me, my injuries were easily treated. Your initial treatments were much appreciated." Harry flexed his now fully healed arm. "I've suffered far worse injury than what I suffered when I arrived here. That's the first question—I do hope my arrival isn't the reason for the man laying injured on the other table."

"No, his injuries were sustained in the arena," answered the dark-skinned man. "You simply fell out of the sky to land in the midst of our training square."

"Fall from height. Yeah, that would do it. Not the first time."

"And what circumstance would present itself, for you to be at such a height?"

"It's complicated," Harry answered, "Circumstances I'm yet not really able to understand myself at this point. Given my experiences up to now, it really doesn't surprise me."

He sat up. The room was becoming brighter, as the morning light was now brighter than the number of torches in the room. The room was sparse, with earthen walls, and heavy wood beams forming the ceiling. There were two doors on opposite walls, one which led outside.

"How is it you have managed to recover from such injuries in such a short time?" the weedy-looking man questioned.

"That too, is complicated. The only thing I can tell you, is that I have certain abilities that allow me to heal myself. If not, I would have been dead a long time ago. I'm Harry, by the way."

Further conversation was interrupted, as two people entered the room. One was dressed somewhat like an Imperial soldier—though the armour was different than what he'd seen in the past. A different part of the continent, then? The empire certainly had its reach, even fractured as it was.

The other man was a little shorter than the first, sporting several days' growth. He wore very little, save for a cloth which covered up his private parts, and a tattered sash draped over his shoulder, held in place by a leather strap. He wore some sort of brace on his right leg, and walked with a limp.

"Dominus asks of the man's condition," he said.

'Dominus,' Harry thought. A very old term, one of which he couldn't remember the meaning. Hermione would know. But she wasn't exactly here at the moment, now, was she?

"You can tell them I'm perfectly fine," Harry answered, causing the newcomer to nearly jump in surprise. "I gather the person who asks of my condition is someone in charge?"

"He is our Dominus, the owner of this ludus," the dark-skinned man answered.

'Ludus', Harry repeated in his head. Yet another term, this one he'd not heard before.

"I'll need to speak with him as soon as possible."

"Go. Inform Dominus of this." It was more of an order this time, and the newcomer was escorted out. The interaction was not lost on Harry, as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Dominus... Dominae... dominate. These people were slaves.

A half-hour later, Harry found himself escorted by another soldier and the dark-skinned man up to what was clearly an office, decorated much more lavishly than the lower part of the house—Harry assumed it was a house. The man standing on the opposite side of the table wore an expensive set of robes. He was older, perhaps middle age, but definitely not elderly, and Harry's initial read of the man painted him as a man in love with his coin. Clearly, whatever he did, made him lots of it.

"Our unexpected guest at last joins us," he said, evenly, seeming to appraise the man who had somehow fell from the sky late the previous afternoon.

"It's Harry, uh, sir," Harry answered, unsure how to address the man. He let out a sigh. "My apologies for the bizarre arrival yesterday. Gods... stuff like this could only happen to me. I have the worst luck at times."

"Your arrival was most certainly... unusual," the dark-skinned man agreed.

"If not for your injuries, we would be having this discussion in a cell," said the well dressed man.

"Given I am a stranger, that would be understandable. Again, my apologies. Gods... my friends are likely going spare about now. I've been here since yesterday afternoon?"

"It is so."

"Where do I now find myself?"

"I am Quintus Lintulus Batiatus. You find yourself in my villa, in my ludus, the finest in the republic," the man answered, dramatically sweeping an arm wide.

"Thank you for the hospitality. As I have already thanked your healer. Yet, I can see you might be a little more appreciative, if I offer some sort of compensation for the disruption."

Harry reached into his rucksack—noting the guards' hands all reached down to the hilts secured to their waist belts—and withdrew two gold ingots, placing them on the counting table that separated the two men.

"I know your currency is likely not mine, but this should clear up your idea of where I might fit in terms of wealth—though this truly means nothing to me.."

Batiatus was most definitely surprised, as he picked up one of the ingots.

"Solid gold?"

"With few impurities," Harry answered, "The smelting facilities I have access to aren't sophisticated enough to make one hundred percent pure ingots."

Batiatus simply waved a hand.

"It's a negligible argument that is not worth pursuing. How can House Batiatus be of assistance?"

"With a bit of luck, I won't be here long. I'm actually quite self-sufficient, so I won't need to intrude on your hospitality—"

"I would have you join us—no, I insist," said Batiatus, "My villa is open to you for as long as required."

"Your offer is much appreciated, sir."

Batiatus gestured to a barely clothed woman nearby. "Show him to a guest room and attend."

"Yes, Dominus."

Sometime later, as Harry sat at a table, writing out a letter to his likely worried friends, Batiatus appeared, along with the dark-skinned man, and the one with the limp.

"We go to visit the market. Perhaps, you might like to come along," Batiatus offered.

"Thank you for the offer, but, I, uh... it's better if I stay close to the house. My friends will surely be looking for me by now."

"Ah, understood."

With that, the three of them turned and headed off, though Harry could hear the dark-skinned man questioning whether it was wise to leave a stranger in the house. Harry could understand the point. In Batiatus' shoes, he would be, too. Then again, the place was clearly well-protected (not that their protection would really stop Harry, if he were to become a threat).

Harry turned back to his letter. How again had something like this happened? He was obviously not only outside of Skyrim, but outside of Tamriel altogether. The people he found himself among were from Earth. This much he was certain of... Romans. Pre-common-era... if his history was right.

His thoughts were interrupted, as a woman stepped into the room, being attended by servants. Her hair was a deep red, and she bore aristocratic features. Obviously an important member of the household—ah, Batiatus' wife, Harry quickly learned, picking up some of her thoughts. His Occlumency training had progressed to the point that he was learning its reciprocal, Legilimency. Against someone who was trained in Occlumency was still proving very difficult; against someone who was not (or in this case, someone who was not magical), on the other hand, was a piece of cake.

His subtle dive into her thoughts during the conversation actually made him uncomfortable. Though she was married to Quintus, her thoughts lingered on the man laying injured in the infirmary. She'd been to visit him several times already, and more alarming, she'd invited him into her bed on numerous occasions before he came to be injured. Harry silently muttered to himself. The woman was not there just for conversation.

Luckily, an opportunity presented itself for him to escape, in this instance, the necessity to visit a chamber pot. Lucretia was only happy to show him the way, and Harry mentally groaned at the unwanted attention. The idea was to escape her clutches, sooner rather than later.

Her personal servant, a woman named Naevia, somewhat saved the day, drawing her away to another part of the villa. Harry made a note to somehow thank the young woman in the future. After the encounter with Lucretia, Harry felt the sudden urge to go drown in the shower. Gods, the woman was old enough to be his grandmother!

With that interaction and the resulting discomfort, Harry decided he would rather return to the infirmary, rather than endure more unwanted attention from Batiatus' wife. Last thing he wanted to do was cause undue friction, or offend people in the villa.

Since it was still raining heavily outside, Harry was content to set up in a corner of the infirmary, though he at first took the opportunity to look in on the injured man, which he now knew his name: Crixus, the former champion of the arena. Now that he'd gotten a good look at the man, he was startled, as he realized it was one of the men from the dream he had not long ago. This was the man with the red shield, the wounds the result of the terrible slashes from the giant. Indeed, it was a miracle he still lived.

Seeing no one was around—the healer seemed to be elsewhere at the moment, Harry cast the strongest healing magic he knew of. There was no way he could completely heal the injuries, given the severity. However, the spells would certainly go a long way to helping things along.

With the initial shock wearing off, Harry resumed penning a lengthy letter updating his friends on what was going on. At first, Harry considered this might still be some sort of plan or game hatched by Hermaeus Mora. After all, it had been during the strange dream of Crixus' fight that the Daedric prince had appeared.

Then again, he mused, it still didn't make a lot of sense. What benefit would Hermaeus Mora get in sending him thousands of years into the past, outside of Tamriel—back to Harry's own world, if he considered it? No, something else was at play here. He really needed his friends' opinion on things. A second note needed to be sent; maybe either Tolfdir or Urag might have some perspective on the situation.

He ended up writing three different letters. One to Mazhe, one to Justin, while the last one went to Urag, with the request to show it to Tolfdir and the other experienced mages at the College. Of course, the other letters specified to get help from whatever sources they might think of. Harry was not getting anything accomplished trapped two thousand years into the past.

Once again making sure no one was around (at least no one conscious—Crixus didn't count at this point), Harry retrieved the special post box he'd bought several years earlier, and dropped the letters inside. The twin had been left with Brynjolf now, since most of their time was spent in and about the Guild these days. Thing was, Brynjolf had a mobile, and would be able to get in contact with the others. Justin would be able to make a port key and get everyone back to the Guild, and things would go from there. With luck, he would be back where he belonged in a matter of hours.

Much to his relief, the three letters instantly vanished, meaning the connection still worked. He shrunk the box down and stowed it away. Now he just had to wait. With that in mind, he pulled out a level four Arithmency textbook. Stuck in the past or not, he still had an education to keep up with. Justin had already started laying out the course plan for the tenth grade, as well as his level six magic, thanks to Sir Malcolm Davis institute. He was interrupted briefly a short time later, when the healer returned. The weedy man only cast a glance in Harry's direction, before attending to Crixus.

Another interruption came a short time later, when Lucretia practically barged into the room, Naevia and a pair of guards following in her wake. She cast a glance toward Harry, but made a hasty path toward the slab where Crixus lay.

"Should his eyes not be opened?" she questioned, glancing toward the healer.

"Calm is needed to heal the wound. I keep him at rest with herb," the healer answered, evenly, indicating a table beside the slab. There were a number of jars containing various medicines and herbs.

"Will he recover?"

"I have done what I can. It rests in the hands of the gods."

"No," Lucretia snapped, becoming predatory, "His life now rests in your hands. And I will see them parted from your fucking body should he die."

Harry arched an eyebrow as she swept out of the room. He had no doubt she could back up her words with action. Lucretia was now beyond imposing to Harry; she was bordering on scary, and for the wrong reasons.

Naevia lingered a little longer, casting a worried glance toward Crixus.

"He will be just fine," Harry dared say, "He just needs time."

"Gratitude," said Naevia, giving a weak smile, before she hastily left to catch up with her mistress.

Harry, meanwhile, closed up his textbook and stuffed it back in his rucksack. Since it was clear Lucretia had an interest in hanging around, perhaps it was better to find yet another spot to study. He ventured through the outer door, which led out into the square, where the men were training, even in the near torrential rain. There was an overhang from the balcony which provided some shelter from the rain, and ample room to sit and study. Perhaps now he wouldn't be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the activity in the square in itself was a distraction. All of the men were more than fit, and more than capable fighters. Of course, being the nature of gladiators, it was that, or die, rather simple. Though his coverage of the period had been brief, he did remember covering the topic. It had been a long-standing staple within the republic. Owners of a ludus were incredibly wealthy, although rather low on the opinion poll.

His thoughts were interrupted, as a young dark-skinned young man approached him.

"Water, if you please," he said, offering a flask.

"Thank you."

"I was sent to attend to your needs."

"Well, uh, thank you... though I really don't require anything. I'm Harry."

"Pietros," said the boy. Harry guessed he was perhaps a couple of years older than himself at best. Definitely not a gladiator, then. A servant.

"Do you fight?"

"I can. Though I haven't fought in the style of your friends here. And yes, if you're wondering, I've most definitely seen combat. I know what it's like to be in a fight for your life. How come you don't train with them?" Harry asked.

"I see to the gladiators' needs."

"Ah. I see."

"Pietros! Water!" came a shout from the opposite side of the square. Harry zeroed in on the source, noting it was a balking man with a malicious smirk across his face.

"Look after your friend. But I'd love to talk more later. Come find me when you're not busy."

"I would like that."

Sometime later, the gates to the square were opened by the guards, admitting Batiatus, the dark-skinned man from much earlier, the one with the limp, and another man, who was dressed in a rather unique set of armour. The chest plate featured a set of opposing serpents. As Harry stood up, they locked eyes, and he could see the intensity blazing behind them. Whoever this was, he'd most certainly earned the armour he now wore.

"Harry, most opportune we find you here," said Batiatus, warmly, "I would introduce to you the new champion of Capua, Spartacus!"

Harry hid his shock well. Now, he knew exactly where, and more importantly when, he found himself in. Over two thousand years into the past, 73 or 74 before common era. When did the third Servile war happen again? 73 BCE. Likely then, it was the summer of 73 BCE. Wonderful, he snarked in his head, as he offered a hand in the traditional way of a handshake.

"I'm Harry."

Spartacus looked at the hand, momentarily confused at what the stranger was doing. Then it dawned on him, and he corrected the gesture (gripping forearm to forearm).

"Forgive the confusion, my brothers tell me you suffered severe injury from your fall."

"I have unique ways in dealing with my wounds," Harry answered, coolly, as the group moved toward the entrance to the lower part of the house.

"Come with us," said Batiatus, "We will be entertaining the magistrate and his son, there are preparations to make."

"Oh, uh, sure." Harry mentally cursed himself, knowing he would once again have to bear the uncomfortable gaze of Lucretia.

The magistrate and his son actually didn't arrive until the early evening, the sun already sitting low in the western sky. A discreet tempus charm revealed it was nearing 8 o'clock. Batiatus had wasted no time introducing Harry to Calavius, Capua's magistrate. He was a tall, elderly man with thinning, white hair. His son, Numerius, was a gangly teenager who would see his 15th birthday in the months ahead.

Now, the boy sparred with Spartacus while the rest of the adults hovered around food and drink. A few guards were close at hand, but all were relaxed, seemingly equally entertained by the sparring session. He was somewhat clumsy with the wooden sword in his hand, and as he attempted to parry he missed, the sword rattling across the floor, coming to rest at Harry's feet.

"I have no hand in this!" Numerius cried, frustrated.

Spartacus nodded toward the boy's cumbersome belt.

"Your belt and adornments. They hinder your purpose."

"Your armour is heavy and yet you move swiftly," Numerius challenged.

"In time, so will you. But a true warrior needs only a sword to cleave his fate."

"Armour does help, but Spartacus is correct," Harry agreed, "Leave your things at my feet, I will watch over them for you."

"Gratitude," said Numerius, as he undid the belt, and left it at Harry's feet. Harry passed him back the wooden sword.

"Are we right?"

"I see your meaning," Numerius agreed, turning his eyes back to Spartacus, "Let us go again. Play Theokoles, and I will attempt to bring the rains..."

Harry could only give a sad smile, seeing the boy act out a fantasy with someone he saw as a hero. Though in reality, to be in such a fight was no laughing matter. He quietly lamented the fact that even as a boy, Harry had fought for real. It was likely that Numerius had never witnessed real combat, or been in a situation where it was kill or be killed.

He was pulled out of his musing as Naevia offering him a goblet of wine.

"Thank you."

"And how have you come to be in the company of Batiatus?" Calavius questioned.

"A most unusual accident, sir. Something that I myself have difficulty explaining. Batiatus has been most accommodating given the circumstances. I am much appreciative." He glanced toward the boy. "Your son's picking up the art of the sword rather quickly. He might make a fine warrior one day."

"Born of a fascination with gladiators. His fifteenth birthday approaches, and my ears are assaulted with request for a pair to show demonstration at his party. I had thought to engage Solonius' men, but his wares have fallen from fashion since..." he turned eyes toward Batiatus, "Spartacus' victory over Theokoles."

"It seems your son has a taste for what is in favour," Batiatus commented.

"And I would see him well fed."

"Come, then. Let us negotiate a price of the meal."

The pair were about to move off into the business office, but they were intercepted by two guards escorting a messenger.

"Begging pardon, Dominus. I bring word of great import to Magistrate Calavius."

He passed over a sealed scroll to the magistrate. Calavius cracked open the seal, and read the message quietly to himself.

"An important man, seldom out of reach of public matters," Batiatus commented.

Calavius, meanwhile, stiffened, clearly upset by the message.

"The matter strikes more personal. Ovidius' boy yet lives!"

At that, the room grew quiet, Numerius breaking off the sparring session.

"Is it true?" the boy asked, his eyes full of excitement.

"The news is fantastic. How can it be?" Lucretia shared a concerned look with her husband, something not lost on Harry. If anything, this news seemed to upset them. Why would they want the boy dead?

"By Jupiter's blessing. He was discovered miles north of Capua, wandering the road!" Calavius declared.

"What of his words? Did he describe the horrors? How he came to survive—"

"Details not yet clear," Calavius answered hastily, "Numerius, come!"

Numerius, obviously overjoyed by the news, hastily made to follow.

"Do not forget your things," Spartacus reminded him, stooping down to collect the belt and adornments for the boy.

"Gratitude for the lesson, it was an honour—"

"Numerius!"

Harry watched the pair leave, being escorted by the two guards. And, while Batiatus and his wife retreated to the office, another guard stepped forward to escort Spartacus back down to the ludus. Harry decided to follow, rather than find out exactly what was going on. Being displaced two thousand years into the past, he knew he had to be careful. The Commonwealth had been very careful in explaining the dangers of such things when he obtained a certain device a couple of years prior.

The ludus appeared to be much busier than it had been earlier, with a lot more people around. Rather scantily-clad, come to think of it. And wine. There were casks of wine, and everyone seemed to have cups in their hands.

"A celebration of some sort?"

"In celebration of my victory in the arena against Theokoles," Spartacus answered, as the gate up to the house was locked behind them.

"The white giant? Gods, your fight was truly impressive. Unfortunate Crixus was injured so badly. I've lent a bit of my, uh... skill so he should heal a little faster."

"Gratitude. We do not yet meet eyes, yet I still call him brother."

Harry frowned a moment, catching a glimpse of the plot Spartacus was hatching.

"The wine and, uh, lady friends are not just for celebration though. Not that I would ever get in the way of your plot—" He held up a hand, forestalling argument. "I have ways of knowing things I shouldn't. Equally, I don't thing any one man is better than another. To have people treated like common slaves, Gods..."

"Gratitude."

The conversation was interrupted, as another gladiator approached them, two cups in hand. He was very fair skinned, with white-blond hair. Harry remembered seeing him in his dream as well.

"Varro... this is Harry."

"Uh, pleasure," Harry grinned, offering a forearm, remembering the proper greeting. It was reciprocated.

"You have recovered from your fall yesterday?"

"Completely, yes."

"Harry seems to be able to discover things he should not."

"He knows about—"

"I know why the ladies and wine are present, yes. But it's not my business to interfere with your plans. You do know that, if you're caught, it will likely mean a painful death."

"My plans do not involve Varro's help, nor yours," said Spartacus, rather firmly, with resolve. "I will see myself and my wife free of this place."

"Or die trying," said Varro, darkly, "Tomorrow the men will be slow from drink." He cast his eyes toward a group of guards, also consuming drinks. "Half the guards with them."

"Gods... where I come from, it would mean dismissal. Drinking on the clock, I think my friend called it."

"There is one that does not partake in your joyous offerings..."

Both Spartacus and Harry followed Varro's eyes to the dark-skined man, who wandered the hall without either drink or company.

"A man of higher principle, not so easily distracted."

Harry sighed, reaching into his satchel. "I'm probably damning myself to the ninth circle of hell, but... here. A few drops from this vial should do the trick. He won't be seen for at least ten hours or so. Just a few drops are needed—any more and you might actually kill him... and I doubt you actually want to do that. Bring me back what remains, it's all I have."

"Gratitude."

Spartacus gave Harry a grateful nod, then hastily left, in search of the black man.

"You should not aid his plot, it will only end in death."

"Perhaps," Harry agreed, "But perhaps not. I'm able to help in a small way, and wish him the best of luck. May the gods watch over him with a ready sword. For now, let's find some of that wine..."

Sometime later, Harry was barely able to keep his eyes open, and everything seemed to be spinning. The wine had been rather cheap, but by the gods, it packed one hell of a punch. He found another cup pressed into his hand, and a rather lewd song reached his ears:

"The blood rains down from an angry sky;
His cock rages on, his cock rages on;
'till death is found, his sword swinging hot;
His cock standing hard, his cock standing hard;"

Harry regained consciousness just after dawn, though his head immediately protested the waking reality. The world was still sideways, and Harry realized the first thing he needed was an anti-hangover draught. He rummaged around in his satchel, locating the required bottle, and consumed the nasty contents inside. It didn't seem to matter which world the potion came from, they always tasted nasty, some worse than others. In particular, the anti-hangover draught. Perhaps it was meant as a deterrent for getting into such a state in the first place. Harry shrugged mentally, and got to his feet.

If the corridor was any indication, the entire ludus was in disarray. Men were passed out in many corners, as were a good number of guards. Cups, and the remains of food littered the ground, spills, stains, blood... Dobby would have a field day if he were present...

Wait.

"Dobby," Harry called, to no one in particular.

Unfortunately, several minutes ticked by without the elf showing up, so Harry realized that indeed, he was truly cut off from everyone he knew. With that depressing fact, he made his way outside into the square. It was most frustrating.

Outside, he saw a man collecting a number of the ladies, and a few men, loading them onto several carts. It was likely they were slaves as well, the man handling them likely the owner.

Spotting Spartacus and Varro standing at the edge of the cliff, the only open side of the square, he joined them.

"You're looking well," said Varro, "Jupiter's cock, my head..."

"Here. This should help, though I warn you, it tastes like... well... it's awful, but it works," Harry grinned, producing a second vial of anti-hangover draught. Varro accepted the vial, popped the lid, and drank the contents, only to make a disgusted face.

"You tell no lie. I fear for asking what might be in it."

That drew a wicked smirk from the boy.

"No. You don't want to know. But... how's your head now?"

"Cured of that which ailed me. Gratitude. Though one might believe that sort of thing designs to discourage the action it is intended to alleviate."

Harry snickered.

"My thoughts exactly. Though, I won't be offering any further potions. The ludus is in chaos this morning. I doubt very many people will be up and about with any hurry before noon."

He glanced around, seeing a few men just coming to, but not having a lot of interest in moving. The last of the prostitutes were making their way out through the gate—which had no guards on duty.

"You could quite literally walk out the gate, and I doubt anyone would notice."

"I wait for the arrival of my wife," Spartacus answered, "She comes by cart this morning. Only then do I move to purpose."

"And now it becomes a little more clear."

"Even should you ride beyond the gates, the guards will pursue," said Varro.

"They will be commanded against such action," Spartacus answered firmly.

Varro actually laughed. "You really expect them to obey you?"

"No. I expect them to obey their master," said Spartacus, seeming to be swept into a momentary daydream. "While I have a blade pressed to his throat. I will release him when we are in the cover of the mountains."

"Spartacus!"

The three of them turned to see Batiatus looking down at them from the balcony, smiling broadly.

"Your wife's cart appears upon the road. I will join you presently!"

He turned, and stepped back inside, and it was only then Varro let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I urge you to reconsider one last time."

"Sura will be free. In this life, or the one after, with her husband by her side."

"May the gods see you both upon the plains of Thrace," Varro answered, as they gripped forearms. He then did the same with Harry.

"I'll seal the gate leading up into the villa once Batiatus comes down. May the gods watch over you with a ready sword, friend."

The pair of them watched as Spartacus crossed the square for his cell, for perhaps the final time.

"You provide aid yet again."

"If only to increase the odds in his favour. There are things that will happen in the future that in many ways depend on his survival."

"You know the future?"

"I have seen things. But I can't tell you exactly what, or how. Doing so could be disastrous. Just as much as him being killed here and now could be disastrous."

Varro furrowed his brow, appearing confused.

"You should see to the gate."

"Right."

Harry could see a cart approaching the gate. A pair of guards had taken up station there, but neither of them appeared to be in any shape to really do anything if the situation called for it. Spartacus would easily escape, Batiatus providing the unwitting means. It was bold, insane, and brilliant, all rolled in one.

Stepping into the mess hall filled with half-asleep, hungover men, Harry disillusioned himself, and followed the corridors back to the gate leading up into the villa. Batiatus was just coming down, along with a single guard. He let them step through, before casting a strong locking charm on the lock. They would need tools to get it open—and most definitely slow any sort of reinforcements from causing a problem.

Perhaps, it could be viewed as interference, but Harry knew from what little history he knew of the man, Spartacus had to escape the ludus. Of course, at this point, he was unaware that escape actually happened much further down the road, as the time line went. So it was, he lent his support to see the operation through.

His promise of assistance now completed, Harry followed silently behind as Batiatus made his way out to the cart, which had come to a stop in the square. Still disillusioned, Harry made his way to the cart, and it became very apparent that something was terribly wrong.

Equally alarming, the dark-skinned man was crossing the square with purpose—how in the world had he managed to withstand the powerful sleeping potion? He moved to intercept Spartacus, who was also crossing the square, but was intercepted by Varro, if momentarily. He simply shoved the fair-skinned man out of the way, but the distraction had already served its purpose.

Thing was, Spartacus was also realizing something was wrong, pausing from drawing something from his forearm guard—a knife, likely. Batiatus was already talking to the injured driver.

"Attacked on the road," he was muttering, "They came out of nowhere."

But Spartacus was no longer focused on Batiatus and the injured driver. He was instantly at the back of the cart—Harry had followed, cancelling the disillusionment charm.

"Gods..." he muttered, seeing the carnage that lay concealed by the cover. Everyone, be it slave or guards, lay slaughtered inside. Only one remained alive... the single individual the operation had centred around.

"Here... let's get her on the ground."

Spartacus looked numb and stricken, as they pulled the terribly injured woman from the cart, and lay her on the ground. Her throat had been slashed, among other terrible injuries. No matter the amount of skill Harry had, there was absolutely nothing he could do for her.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, simply, as Spartacus cradled his wife's head in his lap. She managed to reach up and touch his cheek, but she had been forever silenced, unable to speak his name.

"Kynareth watch over you this day as you pass through her realm. May the gods bless you and keep you," Harry whispered. She smiled at his words, but her eyes found her husband one last time, as the life drained out of her. Her arm fell to the ground. She was gone.

UP NEXT: A funeral is held for Spartacus' wife; Harry receives training of a different sort; a visit to Capua's arena; ...and the villa has some unwanted guests, putting Harry's magical knowledge to the test.

CHAPTER NOTES: Why Spartacus? Why not? I need not say, that yes, most definitely, there is a reason I've dropped Harry here. Now, although Spartacus most certainly existed (as did many of the people so far mentioned), I draw from the STARZ original series, "Spartacus: Blood and Sand". Suffice to say, there will be a fair bit of coarse language, and some violence (though descriptions and such will be kept to a minimum—the show was incredibly violent, and I'd rather not press things and end up having to boost the story rating).

As to how long Harry's actually here, it might be a while. Again, there is a few things he has to accomplish, and most certainly, there are a few lessons he needs to learn.