The rusted shackles rub on the bound man's wrists and ankles, clinking loudly enough to make the guards stir nervously outside. Stretching as far as the chains allow, Spartacus begins his ritual for preparing for yet another game. His calm mind flashes back to scenes from years ago, yesterday, and that morning in random order. Breathing deeply he reminds himself of the past injuries both physical and psychological that he has faced and can feel his heart begin to pump his hot blood faster. Why do I fight? His homeland of Thrace seems almost to replace the dark cell hole with a forest of evergreens. Whom do I fight? As he stretches out his body, faces flash across his consciousness-traitors, cowards. What is freedom? He looks up at the stone wall before him where five letters have been etched. Death. Spartacus shakes his head as if to clear it from morbid thoughts and finishing his stretches, sits cross-legged on the ground. Then glancing through the bars into the dank hallway, Spartacus inspects the occupants of the cell across from his. Rome has not been kind in its selection of victims, for the damp cell holds an older man and a child. Almost hidden in the dark corner and trying futilely to get into a painless position, the aged man shifts on the rough, blood-stained stones. Opposite him sits a small child curled into a fetal position and rocking against the ground, causing a constant irritating scraping noise. With his long oily hair covering his face, the child's only distinguishing features are his long skinny legs and loose dirty clothing. A guard outside taps on the wall with his sword, roughly grunting with a thick foreign accent, "Five minutes, all prisoners." The whimper of the starving boy greets this news as the child begins rocking more violently. The old man spits vehemently in the direction of the door, his spittle catching in his scraggly beard which only adds to his demented look. Ravaged with sores and whip lashes, his body has seen the limits of cruelty. Spartacus looks on him with only pity, thinking of his own nourished, strong body that taunts others as it shows the favor he has received from the emperor already. He whispers, "You will end well, fighting. A noble death." The man's eyes go wide at the sound of Spartacus's voice and he begins screaming incoherently, throwing his face into his hands and clawing at his hair. "Silence!" A guard yells back, then glancing at a candle in the hall shrugs. "It's time anyway." He pulls out his keys and begins unlocking Spartacus's door first, pointing his sword threateningly toward him. Raising his shackled hands to show cooperation, Spartacus rises. He is soon joined in the hall by many others, some whom he recognizes from his training and others unfortunately condemned by an unjust government. The scrawny bodies providing a glaring contrast to the well-muscled bodies of the gladiators, the guards quickly separate the two groups and prod the condemned down a branching corridor. Noting the unusually large number of guards left to only a handful of men, Spartacus mumbles to himself, "A guard of ten?" Near him a burly soldier who appears to be second-in-command responds bitterly, "It would seem your reputation precedes you, Spartacus." Spartacus glares at the man challenging him to continue, but says nothing. After being ordered to move, the group travels down the corridor in silence until the leader barks out for the prisoners to be taken to their separate gates. A large man covered in dark exotic markings across his body catches Spartacus's eye and winks at him before smirking. Nodding and pausing to watch the man being led away, Spartacus is shoved roughly from behind, causing him to stumble on the uneven ground. A young soldier from the back grumbles to his friend, "Dunno why we gotta have so many of us around for this one, I mean he seems-" The boy is suddenly cut off by an elbow to the ribs from another man who watches his commander with wide eyes. But, it's too late, the general has heard. "Bardus, is it?" The commander sharply asks. The youth stands taller while his countenance seems to weaken. Stumbling over his words, he barely coughs out, "Y-Yes, General."
"Bardus, I can only hope that you will not live up to your unfortunate name. Another word from you, and you will be taking the place of our charge." and turning away, the commander yells out, "Onward." As he is marched further under the Colosseum, Spartacus almost smiles at the hidden joke, a piece of humanity in the belly of the beast. Finally the group reaches a door which leads to a dark room with two more soldiers posted at a gate on the far side. The commander motions for Spartacus to enter and follows him in, nodding for the others to leave the room. The door softly closes on Spartacus and the commander, the former sitting with his back against a wall. "Spartacus, you will not enter with a weapon today." Suddenly looking weary in the dim torch light, the rough general sighs. Spartacus glances up, his fierce features made more prominent from his intensity, but pressing his lips tightly together says nothing. The commander resumes, "I tried to convince the Emperor otherwise, but no matter, you have trained well enough. Just remember, your duties must come before your loyalties, even if-" At this, the inert gladiator rises quickly and silently, facing the general. "Do not speak to me of loyalties," he whispers, "Lucius." The name is spat out into the gloom, echoing and dragging out past memories. Lucius flinches, understanding what he has done to ruin his own former commander. The man who was once worshiped as a genius in battle is now fought over like an exotic animal, an animal that could make one rich beyond all belief. Spartacus's eyes gleam with fury and his hands shake with uncontrollable emotion. "You are what I fight against in this arena. You, and all that you stand for." The declaration is made softly, but bitterly. Spartacus remains standing as moments drag by with only the muted rumble of the crowd keeping complete silence at bay. And as a fist pounds on the door, the spell is broken. Lucius pushes open the door, not bothering to glance back as he calls over his shoulder, "Today you die, gladiator." Left in the darkness, Spartacus whispers to himself, "Yes, today I will be free."
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