The Last Stand

The scorching heat of Ostia hung heavily in the air, filling the nostrils with salt and metal. Bruised and bloodied from their capture, Hanno and Jubartha were shoved into the cramped hold of a Roman transport ship. The stale, oppressive air reeked of sweat and despair. Around them, other prisoners groaned in pain, some succumbing to seasickness while others writhed in agony from untreated wounds.

Hanno scanned the dimly lit space until his eyes landed on Jubartha, slumped against the wooden planks, his breathing labored. Blood seeped from a deep gash on his arm, staining the torn remnants of his tunic. Without hesitation, Hanno made his way through the crowded hold and knelt beside his old friend.

"You're hurt," Hanno said quietly, pulling a jagged shard of wood from a nearby crate. "Let me help."

Jubartha grunted in protest but didn't resist as Hanno tore a strip of fabric from his own tunic. His hands worked quickly, securing the makeshift splint around Jubartha's injured arm.

"Rest, old friend. You need to save your strength," Hanno said, his voice tinged with concern.

Jubartha lifted his head, a weary, sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Rest? For men like us, there's no such thing."

Hanno leaned back, wiping the sweat from his brow as he looked toward the faint light filtering through the cracks above. The horizon, his homeland, felt like a distant memory slipping further from his grasp.

"Do you think…" Hanno hesitated, his voice faltering. "Do you think we'll survive this?"

A bitter laugh escaped Jubartha's cracked lips. "Survive? No. But we live until we're broken."

Hanno turned his gaze back to his friend, studying the lines of pain etched into Jubartha's face. Despite everything, there was a quiet strength in his voice, an unshakable resolve.

"You embraced everything we taught you," Jubartha said suddenly, his tone softer. "When I die, my ancestors will meet me in the next world. But who will meet you?"

The words struck Hanno like a blow. His chest tightened, the weight of his loneliness pressing down on him. Jubartha had always spoken of the spirits of his people, of the warriors who awaited him in the afterlife. For Hanno, there was no such comfort. His identity had been fractured, stolen by the Romans who now held him captive.

"I'll find my way," Hanno said after a moment, though the conviction in his voice faltered. He met Jubartha's gaze, searching for something—hope, perhaps—that he could cling to.

Jubartha gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable. "Hold on to that, Hanno. Hold on to whatever you have left."

The ship rocked violently, the groaning of the hull mingling with the moans of the prisoners. Hanno tightened the splint on Jubartha's arm, the knot in his chest growing tighter. He wasn't sure if they would survive the journey, but in this moment, he would do whatever he could to keep his friend alive.


The Pit of Death

The slaves were herded into the arena like cattle, their chains clinking with every step. The oppressive heat of Antium bore down on them, magnified by the roar of the Roman crowd above. The stench of sweat, blood, and fear filled the air as the captives were thrust into a cold, damp pit to await their fate. The walls were high, slick with moisture, and the faint light filtering in only deepened the sense of entrapment.

Hanno stood silently among the captives, his eyes scanning the pit. Across from him, Jubartha leaned against the stone wall, his face pale, his breaths shallow. Blood seeped through the crude bandage Hanno had tied on the ship.

The gates at the far end of the pit groaned open. A handler shoved a long spear into Hanno's hands, its shaft cracked and splintered. Others were handed rusted swords or dull blades—tools meant not to save but to prolong their suffering.

Above them, the Roman crowd roared with anticipation. The gates to the arena swung wide, and a pack of feral baboons charged in, their screeches echoing like the howls of demons.

Jubartha remained still, his back sliding down the wall until he sat on the ground. His gaze was steady, serene even, as he watched the animals close in.

"Jubartha," Hanno said, stepping closer. His voice was low but sharp with urgency. "Get up. You must fight."

The old chieftain shook his head slowly. "No, Hanno. Not today."

Hanno knelt beside him, gripping his arm. "You are a warrior. This is not how it ends."

Jubartha's lips twitched in a faint smile. "It is exactly how it ends. I have fought for decades—for my people, for my freedom. And for what? To die here, as a spectacle for these Romans?" He looked Hanno in the eye, his voice softer now. "Let them have their show. My battle is over."

The baboons were upon them. One lunged at Jubartha, its claws tearing into his bandaged arm. He winced but did not cry out. Another leapt at his chest, sinking its teeth into his neck. Blood sprayed across the sand, and Jubartha let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I have fought enough, Hanno... Enough," he murmured, his voice a fading whisper.

Hanno stood frozen for a heartbeat, the sight of his friend—his mentor—being torn apart searing into his mind. Something within him snapped. The grief was too much to contain, and it boiled over into a torrent of rage.

With a guttural roar, Hanno charged at the baboons. His cracked spear plunged into the nearest beast, its tip driving deep into the creature's side. Another baboon leapt onto his back, claws raking at his shoulders. Hanno spun, slamming the beast against the pit wall, breaking its neck with the sheer force of impact.

One baboon lunged at his legs, pulling him down. In the chaos, Hanno grabbed the creature's arm and sank his teeth into its flesh, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. He tightened his shackles around the beast's neck and pulled until its struggles ceased.

The crowd erupted in cheers at the display of savagery, oblivious to the personal anguish fueling it.

Above the din, Hanno knelt in the sand, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat and blood. His eyes darted toward Jubartha's lifeless form. A stillness had settled over his old friend's features, a strange kind of peace.

Hanno clenched his fists, his rage simmering beneath the surface. Jubartha's death felt like the final tie to his homeland being severed. The Romans had taken everything—his freedom, his people, and now the man who had been like a father to him.

From that moment on, Hanno vowed that his rage would be his weapon. He would not be broken, not yet. His vengeance would come. The Romans would pay for everything they had stolen.

Among the spectators was one man in particular: Macrinus.

Macrinus was a striking figure, dressed in colorful robes and adorned with gold jewelry that clinked with every movement. He was one of the largest suppliers to the Roman army, dealing in food, weapons, and oil. He even owned a stable of gladiators—the best fighters money could buy. His empire was built on gold and blood.

His sharp eyes remained fixed on Hanno, whose bloodied figure, though battered, radiated an unrelenting rage that captivated him.

Turning to the man beside him, the one tasked with selling the prisoners, Macrinus spoke in a calm, measured voice.

"This one is interesting. I'll buy him."

His smile was dazzling, but his eyes remained cold, calculating.

After the fight, the surviving prisoners were lined up, and Viggo, Macrinus' right-hand man, began his usual inspection. He opened the mouth of one prisoner and grunted.

"This one has worms."

When it came to Hanno's turn, Viggo scrutinized him carefully before speaking aloud, his voice ringing with mockery.

"I know this one...He eats monkeys!"

The entire group burst into laughter, but Hanno, his eyes dark and unwavering, did not flinch. He stood tall, unyielding.

Macrinus approached him slowly, his grin widening.

"Impressive… for a savage."

Hanno, still catching his breath, glared up at him, his muscles taut with fury.

Macrinus, intrigued, leaned closer, his voice soft but probing.

"You fight with the rage of a beast. What would you do with that rage, I wonder? Whose head would satisfy you?"

Hanno's voice was low, deadly.

"The head of the entire Roman army."

Macrinus chuckled, a sound sharp as a blade.

"Ha, ha, ha... Too much, my friend."

Hanno's eyes narrowed.

"Then the head of General Marcus Acacius will do."

Macrinus' smile faltered for a brief moment, but it quickly returned, more amused than ever.

"A bold claim. I will take you on as my gladiator, Hanno. Use your rage in my service, and who knows? You may yet have his head."

After a long pause, Macrinus finally spoke again.

"You've fought with fierce skill, Hanno. But I wonder—what is it that drives you? Where do you come from? What's your past?"

Hanno, his expression unreadable, stared at Macrinus. He leaned back slightly, his body tense but still.

"Why does my past matter if my future is to die for you in the arena?"

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Macrinus stared at him, taken aback by the cold indifference in Hanno's voice. It was as if the gladiator had already surrendered everything to the fate he had been forced into, as if there was no longer any hope for anything beyond the fight.

Macrinus, after a long silence, finally spoke again, his tone softer.

"Your future... is not set yet. You could choose a different path, Hanno. I can give you more than just the arena."

Later that day, Hanno was pulled from the pit, his body still stained with the blood of the baboons, and placed under the harsh light of Roman civilization. His fate had shifted from captive to gladiator, but with it came a new set of chains—chains of a different kind.

Hanno stood tall, his mind set on one thing: vengeance. For Jubartha. For Numidia. For everything he had lost.

And the Romans would soon learn that the rage of a broken man could be a weapon more deadly than anything they had ever known.