The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard as Hanno practiced his strikes against a wooden post, his movements relentless and precise. Sweat glistened on his muscular frame, each blow landing with a fury that sent splinters flying. Most of the other gladiators had finished their training for the day, but Hanno remained, pushing himself to the edge as though punishing the wood could somehow silence the turmoil within.
From the shadows, Viggo watched him with a mix of caution and respect. Finally, stepping into the light, he crossed his arms and called out, his voice calm but firm.
"You'll wear yourself out before tomorrow's fight if you keep this up."
Hanno didn't respond, his focus locked on the battered post. The sharp crack of wood splitting under his blade echoed in the empty yard, a wordless defiance.
Viggo stepped closer, undeterred.
"The medic wants to see you," he added, his tone more insistent. "Helena's orders. She needs to check your wounds before tomorrow."
At the mention of her name, Hanno froze mid-strike. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as his jaw clenched, the tension in his body palpable. With a sharp exhale, he lowered the blade and turned to face Viggo, his expression dark.
"I'm fine," he said curtly.
Viggo raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"You're bleeding through your bandages, and the last thing we need is you collapsing in the arena. Go. Don't make her come out here and drag you herself." He smirked faintly. "Though that might be entertaining to watch."
Hanno's glare could have cut steel, but after a beat of silence, he sheathed his sword and stalked toward the healing chamber, his steps heavy with irritation.
The chamber was dimly lit, its windows framing the last rays of the setting sun. Helena stood by one of them, her silhouette outlined in gold as she gazed at the fading sky. She seemed lost in thought, her hands resting idly on the windowsill. For a moment, Hanno simply observed her, noting the quiet strength in her stance, the way she carried herself with purpose even in stillness.
Finally, breaking the silence, he spoke, his voice low and uncharacteristically pensive.
"Do you dream of freedom too?"
Helena started slightly, turning to find him standing in the doorway. She studied him for a moment, as though weighing the question, before answering softly.
"Freedom?" she repeated, almost to herself. "Yes... I suppose I do. But freedom isn't simple, is it?"
Hanno stepped closer, his gaze unwavering.
"What do you dream of, then?"
Helena sighed, leaning against the windowsill as her eyes drifted back to the horizon.
"I dream of a better Rome," she admitted. "A place where people don't starve in the streets while the wealthy drown in excess. Where women aren't treated like possessions to be traded or discarded." She paused, her voice softening. "Sometimes I imagine running away from all this, to a life where I can make my own choices."
A faint, bitter smile crossed her lips.
"But that's just a fantasy. Rome doesn't change. The world doesn't change."
Her words lingered in the air, heavy with disillusionment. Hanno's chest tightened as he listened, recognizing the weight she carried. It wasn't the same as his, but it was just as suffocating.
"And you?" she asked suddenly, her gaze locking onto his. "What do you dream of, Hanno?"
The question caught him off guard. He hesitated, the truth clawing its way to the surface despite his reluctance. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw with anger.
"I dream of vengeance. Of killing General Acacius. Of destroying the Roman army. Of avenging my wife and everything they took from me."
Helena blinked, startled by the ferocity in his tone, but she didn't recoil. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her expression softening with curiosity.
"And if you succeed?" she asked quietly. "What will you do after you've had your vengeance?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered. Hanno's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find a response. He had never allowed himself to think beyond his rage, beyond the burning need for retribution. After a long silence, he finally muttered,
"Maybe then... I could dream of something else."
Helena took a step closer, her tone gentle but firm.
"Hanno, you can't live like this. Carrying all that anger—it will destroy you. You need to make peace with yourself. To find a way forward, not just... back."
Her words struck a nerve, and his eyes flashed with something between frustration and vulnerability.
"And how am I supposed to do that?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
"Start by reconnecting with who you are," she replied without hesitation. "Not the gladiator, not the slave, not the man consumed by vengeance. But the person you were before all this. You have to find him again. Accept your destiny, yes, but don't let it define you completely."
For a moment, neither spoke. Her words lingered, settling between them like the embers of a fire. Hanno didn't respond, but the hardness in his expression softened ever so slightly, his eyes searching hers for something he couldn't quite name.
Helena broke the tension with a faint smile, her tone lightening.
"You're not as terrifying as you pretend to be, you know. Though if you keep scowling like that, you might actually frighten the younger gladiators into behaving."
Hanno let out a quiet, reluctant chuckle, surprising himself.
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he replied.
"Or," she countered, her eyes glinting with mischief, "you could try smiling once in a while. That might shock them into submission."
He shook his head, a rare hint of amusement crossing his face.
"Don't count on it."
For a brief moment, the burdens they carried felt just a little lighter.
"Thank you," Hanno said softly, the unfamiliar warmth in his voice catching Helena off guard.
She tilted her head, smiling curiously.
"For what?"
"For reminding me there might be more to life than rage," he admitted. "Even if I don't believe it yet."
Helena didn't press him further. Instead, she gestured for him to sit so she could tend to his wounds. As she worked, they spoke of simpler things—the stars outside, the strange habits of their fellow gladiators, the weather.
And though the conversation seemed ordinary, it was the fragile beginning of trust between two souls who had long forgotten what it meant to hope.
Blood in the Water
As the morning light broke, the Colosseum had transformed overnight into something far more extraordinary. Its vast arena was flooded with water, now a shimmering sea, preparing to reenact the historic Battle of Salamis.
The central skirmish was a mock battle between the "Persians" and the "Athenians."
The audience was rapt, their cheers echoing around the grand amphitheater, lost in the spectacle unfolding before them. The bright sun cast an almost surreal brilliance over the scene, heightening the sense of drama.
The gladiators were on the boat, just in front of the closed gates of the arena. They could hear the voices of the Romans filling the stands, their excitement palpable. Hanno, who had taken on the role of leader ever since he had saved them with his advice in previous battles, stood up and addressed them, his voice strong and determined:
"We fight for more than just the emperor's amusement. We fight for our honor. Remember this: where we are, death is not. Where death is, we are not!"
His words echoed in the minds of his comrades, bolstering the crew. Then, the gates of the Colosseum opened, and their boat was pushed forward into the fray.
The boats bobbed on the waves, their hulls creaking under the strain as gladiators labored at the oars. Sweat glistened on their muscular bodies, every movement revealing the effort of rowing beneath the hot sun.
Hanno stood at the helm of the boat, commanding his team with precise authority. His eyes were sharp, calculating, but his gaze wasn't fixed on the battle unfolding ahead. It was on the pulvinar—the imperial box where the emperors watched from above.
As the gladiators rowed in perfect unison, the weight of the moment settled over them. Far above, Emperor Geta and General Acacius reclined in the luxury of shaded canopies, observing the staged battle below.
Meanwhile, Thraex leaned against the balustrade, his face twisted in frustration. Each wager he placed drew him deeper into debt with Macrinus. The man's sly, calculating grin only stoked Thraex's growing desperation.
—"Another round, Thraex?" Macrinus asked, his tone deceptively light.
Thraex glared at him, knowing he was being baited but too consumed by the chance to win back his losses to resist. — "Double or nothing," he spat.
Macrinus chuckled.
The crowd's bloodlust reached new heights as sharks were released into the waters beneath the combatants.
Back in the flooded arena, the battle began with a deafening roar. The Persians, led by Hanno, moved in perfect sync, their oars striking the water with powerful, rhythmic strokes. They propelled their boat toward the enemy vessel, the warriors' faces set in grim determination. The tension in the air was palpable, each gladiator bracing for what was to come. With a loud crash, their boat slammed into the enemy's, splintering wood and sending a shower of water into the air.
In the chaos of the collision, Hanno was the first to leap onto the enemy ship, his trident raised high. The rest of his men followed, springing onto the deck with a ferocity that sent the enemy scrambling. They were met with resistance, but Hanno's forces were relentless, moving as one. He thrust his trident forward, striking down the first opponent with a precise thrust to the chest. The man crumpled to the deck, and without a pause, Hanno spun around to face the next adversary, his movements fluid and deadly.
The clash of weapons rang out, the sound of steel against steel and the cries of the wounded filling the air. Hanno's eyes were wild with the thrill of battle, but his focus remained sharp. He was a whirlwind of destruction, moving through the enemy lines with surgical precision. His trident was an extension of his will, each strike calculated, each movement purposeful.
Amidst the frenzy, his gaze flickered upwards, as it had so many times before, toward the imperial box. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding in frustration as he saw the emperor and general watching, indifferent to the bloodshed below. He fought harder, faster, his anger fueling his strikes.
On the deck, the battle raged on. Persians and Romans fought side by side, their swords flashing as they cut down enemies with brutal efficiency. One of Hanno's men was thrown into the water, struggling against the current as sharks swam nearby. A warrior on the enemy boat swung a heavy axe toward Hanno, but he parried it effortlessly, before disarming him with a swift blow to the wrist.
The fight grew more chaotic as the enemy's numbers dwindled. The blood of the fallen stained the deck, mixing with the seawater. Hanno's men were relentless, but the Romans fought fiercely, their pride and survival instincts spurring them on.
Hanno stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving with exertion. His trident was slick with blood, and he wiped the sweat and grime from his face, but his eyes remained fixed on the imperial box. As chaos reigned on the artificial sea, Hanno saw his chance.
In the confusion, he seized a crossbow from a fallen gladiator, his heart pounding as he loaded the bolt. The memory of Arishat's screams, and the loss of everything Rome had taken from him, burned in his mind.
He raised the weapon, steadying his aim on Acacius's chest.
But at the last moment, a lurch in the boat threw off his shot. The bolt whistled through the air and embedded itself in the column just inches from Geta.
The arena erupted in chaos.
The Praetorian Guard scrambled to shield the emperors, their swords drawn as they scanned the crowd for more threats.
Acacius grabbed his wife's hand, pulling her away from the danger, as the Praetorian Guard quickly ushered them to safety.
The emperors were escorted out, their safety ensured by the guards.
Hanno dropped the crossbow, knowing he'd blown his chance. The sharks, agitated by the renewed commotion, thrashed closer to the boats, their fins slicing through the water like knives.
From his vantage point, Macrinus observed the commotion with narrowed eyes. His lips curled into a smirk as he watched Hanno, now surrounded by blood and carnage.
For Macrinus, the gladiator was more than just an asset; he was a means to an end.
As the guards restored order and the games resumed, Macrinus felt the weight of the offers piling up.
Senators and wealthy patricians were already vying to purchase Hanno, their bids growing increasingly extravagant. Yet Macrinus refused them all.
In a symbolic moment, Macrinus got one hand on the throne, his fingers brushing its edge as he murmured to himself,
"Hanno will lead me to power."
Hanno, surrounded by fallen bodies and circling sharks, locked eyes with Helena in the stands. For a brief moment, their gaze held. She was there—though she never watched the games. Her presence was a shock, a reminder of everything he was fighting for—and against. Her expression was unreadable, but in her eyes, he saw both comfort and the weight of his choices.
The moment passed, and he turned back to the battle, unable to shake the feeling that she had just altered something within him.
