[ immortal verse 001 ] when in rome...
Eames could remember and not remember many things. He had been in his nineteenth summer when the Romans had come, when they'd made their way to the small village in the marshes after his father and all the men in the village had disappeared to fight them. He could remember that he'd had a little brother and a mother that didn't survive, that even though he was an adult he had cried seeing the bloody battlefield where the soldiers had met the Roman horde and lost.
But he found it harder to remember what his mother had looked like, or what he'd been doing that day when the horde arrived. He did remember when they'd shoved him into this cell, given him an old set of armor and a sword and a shield and told him he was going to fight for his life or die.
Eames' father had trained him to fight, of course, but with broadswords and clubs, not the one-handed metal of the Roman sword. He had taken hits, that first fight, had barely survived but for the luck of a fall that gave him the perfect opportunity to slip the sword into the other's gut.
He had fought, tooth and nail, sword and shield, that first year as a slave in the Roman arena. And once he had carved out a space for himself he had set in it and fought to keep it.
That, of course, was six years ago.
Eames was currently sitting in his cell, arms resting on his knees. He was watching the metal barred door, curious as to what slave they would be "gifting" him with now that his last was dead. He was a slave himself still, but as a decorated gladiator now, they had been giving him helpers, usually other slaves. He'd had his last for four years.
The man, Bergan, with skin tanner than Eames' own, had died of older age, many years beyond Eames' age. He was a spry and intelligent man who had berated him constantly these last four years, but time had caught up and Eames needed a helper, being one of their best. And so he sat here and waited.
But he found it harder to remember what his mother had looked like, or what he'd been doing that day when the horde arrived. He did remember when they'd shoved him into this cell, given him an old set of armor and a sword and a shield and told him he was going to fight for his life or die.
Eames' father had trained him to fight, of course, but with broadswords and clubs, not the one-handed metal of the Roman sword. He had taken hits, that first fight, had barely survived but for the luck of a fall that gave him the perfect opportunity to slip the sword into the other's gut.
He had fought, tooth and nail, sword and shield, that first year as a slave in the Roman arena. And once he had carved out a space for himself he had set in it and fought to keep it.
That, of course, was six years ago.
Eames was currently sitting in his cell, arms resting on his knees. He was watching the metal barred door, curious as to what slave they would be "gifting" him with now that his last was dead. He was a slave himself still, but as a decorated gladiator now, they had been giving him helpers, usually other slaves. He'd had his last for four years.
The man, Bergan, with skin tanner than Eames' own, had died of older age, many years beyond Eames' age. He was a spry and intelligent man who had berated him constantly these last four years, but time had caught up and Eames needed a helper, being one of their best. And so he sat here and waited.