Fic: (SV) Munera - Part 1/?
Some months ago I was reading a SF novel about this gladiatrix (female gladiator) who was somehow cloned with all her memories intact and brought to life in Atlantis in the 24th century or some other futuristic-time. I forget the name of the novel. It wasn't spectacular reading, but it was the beginning of a plot bunny. Because it was a small plot bunny, however, and I am an occasionally cruel and petty person, I considered letting it die a slow and mewling death. Then I stumbled upon Robert Silverburg's Roma Eterna. Years ago I'd fallen in love with Silverburg's SF Letters from Atlantis (which is, by the way, an absolutely beautiful book about time travel, with ethereal illustrations; perfect as a bit of light dessert with substance -- *subtle mind control* Read it! ), and since Roma was the first of his books that I'd seen in a long time, I had to read it. Turned out Roma Eterna wasn't as light a reading fare, but it definitely fed the gladiator plot-bunny.
So I did a bit of google-reasearching on Rome, freaked out over the complex Roman nomenclature, borrowed a few books, made a whole complicated chart with the Roman names of most of the cast of Smallville, even decided on the patron deities for the Gens, realized I was going insane, realized that my plot bunny was in danger of dying from hysterical hiccups. It was all too much, since all I wanted was to see Lex being vulnerable, slightly menacing, and excelling in byzantine politics. Nevermind that there wouldn't be a Byzantine at the time. Lex had always been a bit before the curve.
I also wanted to see Clark take over the world while wearing bearskins.
But the story was being extremely contrary and increasingly muddlesome. So for right now, I'm just letting it do it's thing, and it rewards me with spasmodic bursts of writing now and then. This is the first coherent and chronologically logical part that I've been able to gather together.
SV: Munera - Part 1
In order of appearance:
Clark Kent = (currently nameless)
Pete Ross = Petrus
Lex Luthor = Aulus Lucilius Lutherius
* * *
Habet, hoc habet! Habet, hoc habet! -- He’s had it! He’s had it!
The cries of the spectators filled his head, drowned out the throbbing of blood in his ears. He had fallen on his side, the sand of the pit scouring his mouth and chafing the open wound just below his ribcage. With his face pressed against the sand, he could see only his opponent’s bare dust-covered feet. But even without looking upwards he knew the smooth-skinned Ethiop stood proud before him for the screaming crowd, his shield arm hanging useless by his side but his sword held high in victory. He remembered the Ethiop’s name. Petrus. But it was a Roman name, of course, given to him in a Romanized place by a Roman master. He himself had one such name, but which he refused to answer to. There were too many things he had lost. His mother's birth name would not be one.
His blood pooled thick beneath him. The thick iron collar, inscribed with the name of his master, dug into his neck and if he swallowed he could feel the old familiar stone wedged sharp against his throat, draining him to mortal weakness. Above, around, the noise of the crowd was falling off. With effort, he raised his head from the sands, and looked up into the Ethiop’s black stony face. "Grant me death," he rasped. "Before the crowd decides my fate - for the mercy of your gods!"
The Ethiop stared down impassively but made no move to lift his sword. "It is too late," he said. "The people have judged and the editor has made his decision. " His countenance softened in quiet pity. "You live."
Pain and hatred writhed uncontrolled through him then and for the first time that day he looked up into the podium where the affluent and powerful sat. He knew the man immediately; for all that the editor was barely into manhood, lithe, finely built and handsome in an almost feminine way, he gleamed with the quiet menace of a finely honed gladius. And oddest of all, he was completely hairless save for the brows above his eyes.
As though he felt his focus, the editor turned and met the gladiator’s gaze with cool appraising blue eyes.
It was a face, the gladiator realized suddenly, that he could easily hate for the remainder of his days.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon by the time Aulus Lucilius Lutherius left the stadium and the fawning of the local officials to return to his villa. Exiled though he was, Aulus was still the first-born son of one of the wealthiest equestrian families in the Empire; two female bodyguards, both freed gladiatrixes, trotted alongside his litter as slaves bore him to the villa that lay at the edge of the town.
The villa itself was of decent size, nearest the mountains, and actually belonged to a wealthy Greek merchant who had decided for the sake of his aging joints to spend the next few years on the warm coasts of Dalmatia. Aulus parted the litter curtains just in time to see the granite pillar that marked the entry of the estate pass him by. The sun loomed large and red now above the mountain horizon to the west. As the villa gardens appeared over the hills, he saw the deep russet sunset spilling across citrus groves and olive orchards. Slightly beyond that, he glimpsed the scarlet roof of the long Roman-styled house and the brilliant lights shining from open windows.
In his mind he began composing, as he was wont to do, a letter to his absent soldierly brother.
Here I am, Julian, in far-off Hispania Terraconensis, among the Phoenicians and the Greeks and the shaggy Iberian tribesmen and all the other dreary creatures that infest this backwater province. Aulus paused and smiled slightly to himself then, thinking of the cold fog-shrouded coasts of Britannia where his brother and his legions had last been stationed. Well, it might have been worse.
Aulus had been in the town of Lucus Augusti for a fortnight and had already spent much of his time and money familiarizing himself with the local power structure. There was a freedom here in the faraway reaches of the Empire that could not be found in central intrigue-ridden Roma.
Father would call me feeble, to be glad of the reprieve of Imperial politics. But then again, it is the senior Lutherius himself who has exiled me to this far-off place. Aulus wondered if news of his disgrace had yet reached his brother, and smiled grimly. You would have enjoyed the look on our father's face.
They were at the door of the lamp-lit villa. Aulus stepped from the litter and stopped for a moment to enjoy the first cool breeze of the night. Overhead, the constellations of the night sky were at once strange and unfamiliar. Still, if a man in the northern reaches of Britannia looked up now, he would see the same sliver of moon in the sky. Julian, Aulus thought suddenly, today in the sand pit someone reminded me of you.
For a long while, he stared into the night sky, his two bodyguards silent and attentive beside him, before he finally turned and stepped into the villa.
TBC
So I did a bit of google-reasearching on Rome, freaked out over the complex Roman nomenclature, borrowed a few books, made a whole complicated chart with the Roman names of most of the cast of Smallville, even decided on the patron deities for the Gens, realized I was going insane, realized that my plot bunny was in danger of dying from hysterical hiccups. It was all too much, since all I wanted was to see Lex being vulnerable, slightly menacing, and excelling in byzantine politics. Nevermind that there wouldn't be a Byzantine at the time. Lex had always been a bit before the curve.
I also wanted to see Clark take over the world while wearing bearskins.
But the story was being extremely contrary and increasingly muddlesome. So for right now, I'm just letting it do it's thing, and it rewards me with spasmodic bursts of writing now and then. This is the first coherent and chronologically logical part that I've been able to gather together.
SV: Munera - Part 1
In order of appearance:
Clark Kent = (currently nameless)
Pete Ross = Petrus
Lex Luthor = Aulus Lucilius Lutherius
* * *
Habet, hoc habet! Habet, hoc habet! -- He’s had it! He’s had it!
The cries of the spectators filled his head, drowned out the throbbing of blood in his ears. He had fallen on his side, the sand of the pit scouring his mouth and chafing the open wound just below his ribcage. With his face pressed against the sand, he could see only his opponent’s bare dust-covered feet. But even without looking upwards he knew the smooth-skinned Ethiop stood proud before him for the screaming crowd, his shield arm hanging useless by his side but his sword held high in victory. He remembered the Ethiop’s name. Petrus. But it was a Roman name, of course, given to him in a Romanized place by a Roman master. He himself had one such name, but which he refused to answer to. There were too many things he had lost. His mother's birth name would not be one.
His blood pooled thick beneath him. The thick iron collar, inscribed with the name of his master, dug into his neck and if he swallowed he could feel the old familiar stone wedged sharp against his throat, draining him to mortal weakness. Above, around, the noise of the crowd was falling off. With effort, he raised his head from the sands, and looked up into the Ethiop’s black stony face. "Grant me death," he rasped. "Before the crowd decides my fate - for the mercy of your gods!"
The Ethiop stared down impassively but made no move to lift his sword. "It is too late," he said. "The people have judged and the editor has made his decision. " His countenance softened in quiet pity. "You live."
Pain and hatred writhed uncontrolled through him then and for the first time that day he looked up into the podium where the affluent and powerful sat. He knew the man immediately; for all that the editor was barely into manhood, lithe, finely built and handsome in an almost feminine way, he gleamed with the quiet menace of a finely honed gladius. And oddest of all, he was completely hairless save for the brows above his eyes.
As though he felt his focus, the editor turned and met the gladiator’s gaze with cool appraising blue eyes.
It was a face, the gladiator realized suddenly, that he could easily hate for the remainder of his days.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon by the time Aulus Lucilius Lutherius left the stadium and the fawning of the local officials to return to his villa. Exiled though he was, Aulus was still the first-born son of one of the wealthiest equestrian families in the Empire; two female bodyguards, both freed gladiatrixes, trotted alongside his litter as slaves bore him to the villa that lay at the edge of the town.
The villa itself was of decent size, nearest the mountains, and actually belonged to a wealthy Greek merchant who had decided for the sake of his aging joints to spend the next few years on the warm coasts of Dalmatia. Aulus parted the litter curtains just in time to see the granite pillar that marked the entry of the estate pass him by. The sun loomed large and red now above the mountain horizon to the west. As the villa gardens appeared over the hills, he saw the deep russet sunset spilling across citrus groves and olive orchards. Slightly beyond that, he glimpsed the scarlet roof of the long Roman-styled house and the brilliant lights shining from open windows.
In his mind he began composing, as he was wont to do, a letter to his absent soldierly brother.
Here I am, Julian, in far-off Hispania Terraconensis, among the Phoenicians and the Greeks and the shaggy Iberian tribesmen and all the other dreary creatures that infest this backwater province. Aulus paused and smiled slightly to himself then, thinking of the cold fog-shrouded coasts of Britannia where his brother and his legions had last been stationed. Well, it might have been worse.
Aulus had been in the town of Lucus Augusti for a fortnight and had already spent much of his time and money familiarizing himself with the local power structure. There was a freedom here in the faraway reaches of the Empire that could not be found in central intrigue-ridden Roma.
Father would call me feeble, to be glad of the reprieve of Imperial politics. But then again, it is the senior Lutherius himself who has exiled me to this far-off place. Aulus wondered if news of his disgrace had yet reached his brother, and smiled grimly. You would have enjoyed the look on our father's face.
They were at the door of the lamp-lit villa. Aulus stepped from the litter and stopped for a moment to enjoy the first cool breeze of the night. Overhead, the constellations of the night sky were at once strange and unfamiliar. Still, if a man in the northern reaches of Britannia looked up now, he would see the same sliver of moon in the sky. Julian, Aulus thought suddenly, today in the sand pit someone reminded me of you.
For a long while, he stared into the night sky, his two bodyguards silent and attentive beside him, before he finally turned and stepped into the villa.
TBC