Chapter Text
The sun beats hot on Derek's dirt covered back, glinting harsh through the bars of the cart as he is pulled through the streets of Ostia. Rotten vegetables pelt the bars and more often than not they find their way through, coating him in a finger's width worth of filth.
Derek wonders how a life could change so quickly and abruptly. Only a few days past he taught his nephew the proper way to hold a gladius, now the child lies dead in the ruins of his family's villa and no respectful burial will ease his way into the afterlife. His small body will be left to rot along the roadside, serving as reminder of the consequences of betraying Rome.
Even when such betrayals are false.
Derek grew up the first and only son of a prominent Roman Senator. His father was one of the richest men in the Republic. A noble man, kind to his wife and children, but with mind sharp as flint when it came down to business. Derek's mother was the esteemed daughter of a Magistrate and a gentle woman, but with a sense of wit equal, if not greater, than his father's.
His family had everything: power, prestige, wealth. Derek never once thought he would be stripped of his position and reduced to mere a slave, his family slaughtered in front of him.
Once, he was intent on the position of Praetor. He was going to command an army, conquering territories for the Republic on the frontiers of Gaul. Once. Now, he is nothing but a slave, a despised one at that, he thinks, as a rotten piece of fish is flung into the cart, hitting him square in the face.
Derek should have died with the rest of his family. After being pulled from his bed and forced to fight for his life, he was cowardly cuffed across the back of head and thrust into unconsciousness, only to awaken in this cart, wounds days old, the last thing he remembers: a blade thrust into his sister's belly while their parents lay dead at her feet. Derek doesn't understand why he isn't dead, as unjust as it may be. At least then, he would be with those he loves in the afterlife. It would be a merciful fate.
The cart grinds to a halt and the gate is flung open with an awful creak. The chain attached to the rusting collar around his neck tugs and he stumbles from the cart onto the dusty ground. Earth rises in plumes as he shuffles tired feet forward, weak and hungry.
Glancing up, he squints into the sun, revealing the house where he is to spend the rest of his days. Recognizing the villa, his stomach sinks and everything suddenly clears.
Derek laughs, his shoulders shaking. The guard stares at him strangely as he is tugged along, but the laughter still falls from his lips like water fell from the sky the night his family was slaughtered in their beds and accused of being traitors. As it hasn't fallen since. The earth cracked and dry in drought, like his spirit.
This is his fate then? He is not to be made a slave toiling away in the mines, but a slave to the Argents, to the woman who lusted after him at any opportunity, the woman who would not take no for an answer.
Kate stands on the balcony above the entrance, her beautiful face twisted in a smirk cruel enough for even the most hardened soldier to quake in his boots. She licks her lips and Derek growls under his breath, furious. Gerard Argent would have had much to gain with the fall of his family, as would Kate. He would be hers to command, unwilling, but hers nonetheless. The House of Hale's downfall was orchestrated by the people his father once called friends, a betrayal of the worst kind.
Derek spits into the dry sand though his throat is parched, making certain to hold Kate's gaze even as he is backhanded across the face and flung to the ground.
By the time he rises, she is gone from the balcony.
***
Derek is thrust into a deep, dark hole in the ludus and is seemingly forgotten. He thinks it a blessing that he is not immediately called to Kate's bedchamber where her pleasure would be forced on him, even as his family lies not a fortnight dead.
The days are long and the air dry, impossible to breath easily. He stews in the filth he was left in, skin raw and dirty such as it has never been before. The hair he's always had removed from his chest begins to grow, a final jibe at what he has become, a slave with no right to groom his body such as is proper of a Roman citizen.
All Derek can do is count days, carving into the soft brick every time piecemeal bread and water is thrust through a slat in the door. He doesn't know what game Kate is playing, perhaps she plans on starving him until he cannot fight her advances. Perhaps she watches him through the same slat, taking pleasure in his suffering.
For all he may complain, it is better than being in her vile presence.
Derek met Kate Argent when he was but a boy of fifteen entering the cusp of manhood. His father had thrown a banquet, calling forth all the noble families of Ostia. From the moment Kate had walked into their villa and cast wanting eyes upon him, his fate was sealed. She had greeted him with a smile and congratulations, pressing a perfume scented kiss to his cheek. Derek had said what was required of him and moved on to the next guest, but she remained, lingering by his side throughout the whole night.
Even if Derek found her attractive, found her obsessed persistence charming, she was much too old for him. In her late-twenties at the time, and recently divorced.
At the end of that night, she had smiled sweetly, promising to come back and see him. But Derek's mother had caught her words. She dashed any of Kate's hopes in one fell swoop, saying it wouldn't be proper, that Derek was officially a man.
But with the poisonous glare Kate sent his mother's way, Derek knew that nothing but the gods themselves could keep her away from possessing him. Over the years, Derek discovered just how true that was. His parents hosted many more parties, and the Argents were invited to all of them. Kate included.
Derek lies on the simple cot in his cell, the light from the moon shining directly upon him through the impossibly tiny window, higher than he could reach. The gods have forsaken him, he thinks, turning to face the wall, hoping that sleep in all her mercy cannot also evade him.
***
The door to the cell slams open and Derek startles awake. Pulling his hands into fists, he rises to his feet, standing resolutely. If they intends to drag him to Kate he won't go without a fight.
His brow furrows when instead of guards bearing Argents' colours, an older man appears, hair light brown like dust and lined with grey as his forehead is lined with wrinkles. Burnt into his forearm is a single A: the mark of the Argents, of brotherhood. A gladiator.
"Come, rise to your feet. A long day lies ahead." The gladiator strides forward, throwing a pair of simple throng sandals at Derek's feet.
Derek glares, remaining silent and refusing to give words. His hand is cautious as he reaches for the sandals. The reeds are blood and sweat stained, falling apart and worth less than shit. The leather sandals he owned when he was still a citizen were infinitely better than these, but Derek still dons them, any protection from sharp stones is better than no protection.
Derek stares suspiciously at the back of the gladiator's head as he is lead through the dim corridors of the ludus. Derek was never one to pass his days watching gladiatorial games in the arena, he much preferred honing his own craft. But still, he's seen enough games that if this man was well known, Derek would have recognized his face. Going by his age, he must be retired, probably fought in the arena before Derek's time.
Glancing into rooms as they pass, the men within stare at Derek as he passes. They are strong, muscles straining with power and seemingly better fed than he is. Derek is starving on the Argents' whims, their way of asserting dominance over him. Their way of declaring him property.
He is so bone weary and weak in hunger, he nearly runs into the gladiator but stops himself before the collision. The man isn't a guard, but he is strong, stronger than Derek is in his state. He doesn't want to be the object of his displeasure.
The gladiator knocks a knuckle against an open door and the occupants of the room look up, their heads still pulled together like lovers even as they are addressed in a language Derek does not recognize.
One of the men in the room catches Derek's attention. His skin is pale as milk, a feature praised by typically darken skinned Romans and emulated in makeup. He must be from the northern tribes: Gaul or Germania. Derek runs his gaze over coltish limbs, peeking from a short tunic. He is plucked of all hair but covered in constellations of moles, like Caelus himself reached down from the heavens and touched him in blessing.
This is no gladiator, this is a decorative house slave. Beautiful to look at, and even more pleasurable to fuck. The Hispanic man who sits opposite on the small cot must have requested him as reward for a major win in the arena. The Hispanic bears the brand of the Argents', marking him as a gladiator, further evidenced by a jaw crooked from being broken and healed. Derek recognizes him, but before he can put a name to a face, his attention is drawn to the feeling of eyes traversing his skin.
Looking back at the pale slave, Derek finds eyes golden as honey, bright and intelligent, openly studying him, eyes lingering on his abdomen as he tilts a fine neck to the side. "You are Roman." The man says with a voice low and husky, unexpected from a mouth so cherubic.
"A keen observation," Derek responds, even as he swore not to speak. There is something in the man's eyes making Derek's tongue loose and willing.
"One easy to reach. You bear no mark of a previous ludus, yet your body is toned as a soldier's. You cannot be a recently captured slave, you carry yourself as a Roman, arrogance in your very being." The man sneers, unafraid to show just how much he detests his masters.
Something tightens in his gut, displeasure at the words pouring from the man's mouth. It's a strange feeling. Derek was once proud to call himself Roman, that pride has since turned to dust.
"I am no Roman." Derek spits, just as the greying gladiator pulls him along. Not before he catches the look of surprise on the slave's face. Good. Derek thinks. He owes no loyalty or allegiance to the Republic, not anymore.
***
The gladiator leads him into a massive courtyard open to the elements. Training posts, etched with cuts from blades mark the sand.
Men stand to attention as he is brought forth. At first Derek thinks they are staring at him, but then he realizes it is not his form drawing their attention, but the greying gladiator as he deposits Derek amongst a group of men bearing no marks upon their forearms. The men appear nervous and fresh from the slave markets, wearing nothing but rags hanging off lean frames.
"Doctore!" A gladiator calls, addressing the greying gladiator with the title of a respected former champion, a man who no longer fights in the arena, but instead trains others to be Gods of the Arena as he once was. "These are the new recruits?"
So that is his fate. He is to become a gladiator, not a sex slave. Derek cannot help but feel some modicum of relief. At least now he will die at the end of a sword on his terms, not whenever Kate tires of him.
"Yes, these are the men who are to be your brothers." The Doctore waves at the group with one hand, with the other he draws a single tail whip from his belt, wrapping the strong leather cord around his fist.
"If they should last long enough!" A man shouts, and guffaws sound as the other gladiators laugh. One of them whips a stone at the man standing beside Derek, a massive Numidian with thighs like tree trunks and an expression of peaceful serenity, impressive considering all the others appear as if they are about to piss themselves. The stone bounces off the man and he doesn't even blink, but the gladiator who threw the stone huffs, impressed.
"Recruits!" The Doctore circles the group, his feet moving like a dance amongst the sand, Derek eyes him warily. "You will be pushed to your breaking point. You will be taunted by the men you wish to call you brothers. You will be humiliated..."
Derek's attention is drawn from the Doctore, eye catching movement in his peripheral. The Hispanic gladiator and the slave from before stand by the edge of the courtyard. The slave leans against a pillar, holding an apple in hand as the gladiator stands behind him, seemingly deferent.
The slave bites into the apple, watching Derek as juice runs down his arm. Derek tears his gaze away when the man moves to lick the juice, pink tongue darting from behind parted lips. His distraction nearly costs him grievous injury. He hears the crack of the whip just in time to dodge its path. It rises a cloud of dust as it carves a scar onto the earth, instead of the blood it would have found if it met its mark.
"Recruit," the Doctore says, his voice hushed. "Do you think you need no training? Did you come to us arena ready?" The Doctore's words spike laughter in the gathered gladiators, they jeer, expecting the Doctore to discipline him.
Derek tightens his jaw but says nothing, he simply raises his eyes, meeting the Doctore's.
"Stiles!" The Doctore shouts, eyes never leaving Derek's, even as Derek tears his away to watch the house slave snap to attention, "Fetch a wooden sword."
"Only one?" The house slave, no, Stiles quirks his brow.
"I think it only fair." The Doctore says, finger running delicately down the length of the whip.
Stiles smirks and runs into the ludus, retuning only a moment later, a chipped and roughly hewn sword in hand, handing it to Derek with a leer.
Derek weighs it in hand, making a face when he finds it light, it will splinter easily. He glares. A softwood practice sword has no use as anything but decoration. He should have been given a hardwood sword. Stiles catches his eyes, mouthing, 'it's only fair.'
Derek makes a face.
"Problem?" The Doctore asks but Derek just spins the light wood, getting used to a weight different from the dulled bronze blades he usually practices with.
Derek shakes his head, refusing to whine and moan, Stiles is playing a game with him, Derek might as well play along.
He moves into stance, legs braced and steady. Surprisingly, the Doctore folds his whip, tucking it back into his belt. What is he going to use if not that? The man did not ask for another blade, does he plan on fighting with his fists?
Apparently so, because the man yells and runs towards Derek. Derek swings the sword, but the Doctore dodges it, light on his feet, and jabs a hand right into Derek's torso. He gasps in air, winded. Shaking off the blow, Derek steps to the side, dodging the man's next attack.
Watching the Doctore's shoulders in anticipation for his next movements, Derek detects a dip and twirling around, he nearly catches him on the shoulder, but the man must be a cat, because he dodges the blow easily. Derek grits his teeth when his vision spins, the exertion of the fight getting to his thirsty and hungry brain. He blanks for a mere second and somehow finds himself on his back, his own blade pressed to throat by a hand not his.
Swallowing, his throat nudges the tip. Derek can palpably feel the smugness radiating off the Doctore.
"That is why Roman fighting techniques are useless in the arena." The Doctore reaches down, offering his hand. Derek clasps it, rising to his feet. Stiles has moved back to the Hispanic gladiator's side and Derek cannot help but shoot a glare his way. Stiles responds with a rude gesture. "Tell me, recruit, why did you fail?"
Derek lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing at his throat. "Because Romans are taught to fight in military formation, strategy is key and no man fights by himself or for himself."
"In the arena it is every man for himself." The Doctore nods to Derek, and he moves back to the Numidian's side, dismissed. "Unless you are fighting an opponent in conjunction with your brothers, expecting another to defend your back will have you dead within a moment. You fight for yourself. To keep yourself alive, so that one day you might be free."
Derek's jaw tenses at those words, he looks away, staring at the reed sandals covering his feet. Even if he manages to forget years of tuition in Roman battle techniques and wins all his battles in the arena, as a traitor to the Republic, he won't ever be allowed to buy his freedom. Derek will die amongst spilled blood and sand. Such is his fate.
***
"What is your name?" Derek asks the Numidian when the Doctore assigns them to practice techniques against each other. It is only respectful to know the name of the man at the end of his sword, something instructed to him at a young age.
The Numidian says nothing as he stares, and Derek begins to wonder if he even knows Latin. Eventually his mouth moves and, "Boyd," pours from his lips, swinging his blade clumsily like he's never held one before in his life. "I was a farmer, not a warrior."
"I can see that." Derek remarks, easily blocking the strike. "You keep your body open to attack, here and here." Derek points to his neck and belly. "Do not think your size accords you an advantage, even a child could strike you down the way you are now."
Boyd huffs, and shifts his stance according to Derek's instruction.
"Good." Derek waves him forward again.
Stiles had disappeared after the Doctore's show, assumingly to return to whatever duties he must hold when he is not expected to pleasure the Hispanic gladiator. Derek feels a mixed sense of relief and a pang of disappointment in his absence. The slave's gaze is unnerving, but it spikes something in Derek. A desire to show off, to prove himself someone Stiles would cheer on, not mock and trick.
It's strange, but Derek has never felt this way before for a man. When Paige was invited to their villa by his sisters, he may have flexed his muscles more than necessary in an effort to garner her attention, but she was a potential wife, a woman, someone he wanted to impress. Stiles is most definitely not.
Stiles is a man, and Derek has never been attracted to a man before. Roman men never fuck other citizens. Being penetrated is something left to slaves and women, a good Roman citizen only places his cock in things, not the other way around.
Derek was never one to take his pleasure in slaves, not with the way Kate looked at him, and eventually grew bold enough to touch him. He knows what it is to be on the receiving end of an unwanted touch, and he never wanted to inflict that upon a slave, no matter how much it is encouraged by Roman society.
If Derek had told anyone about Kate, he would have been laughed at. He should have been glad a beautiful woman wanted him, thankful even. Saying that he was afraid of her and what she is capable of would have erased his masculinity and the position of Praetor would have become a farfetched dream. So he kept his mouth still, even as meandering hands had dipped beneath his robes. In the end, his suffered silence was for naught.
Derek shakes himself out of melancholic thought and concentrates on teaching Boyd. He catches the Doctore sending him a pleased nod and Derek feels himself swell with pride. Derek respects the older man. Their sparring was a refreshing breath of air, since he hadn't been defeated in practice in a very long time. Derek looks forward to fighting the man again.
Midway through the day, with the sun high in the sky, he pulls water from a vessel. Thirstily gulping it down, Derek rotates his neck and shoulders, aching from gripping a practice blade all day, when a flash of colour catches his eye.
Kate stands on the balcony above the courtyard wearing a familiar blue silk dress he last saw on Laura weeks ago. Derek drops the terra cotta cup back into the vessel, water splashing over the lip. Righteous fury thrums in his bones as he stares at the dress, his vision tinted red. Kate catches his eye and waves her carmine stained fingers, smiling like the she-wolf she is. Her teeth bare in victory, knowing she received the reaction she so desired from Derek.
Suddenly he hopes she calls on him, he hopes he is summoned to her rooms, right to the foot of her very bed, because he is going to snap her neck. He is going to kill her before she can lay her cold, vile hands upon him again.
***
Days pass into weeks and yet Kate remains absent from sight. He looks for her, seeks her out, but if she is still spying on him, she evades his gaze.
She never summons him as he hoped, the woman may be insane, but she is not stupid. She knows what Derek will do to her, and she holds no leverage preventing him from taking his revenge.
So Derek spends his days amongst the sands of the courtyard, absorbing techniques and forms from the Doctore, more than what his expensive tutors ever managed to impart.
Eventually, he learns the name of the Hispanic gladiator with the crooked jaw. Scott, the reigning champion of the ludus, born and raised amongst the sands of the arena, the son of a gladiator and house slave, his father killed in the arena soon after his birth. He was raised by the Doctore, who was granted permission to take Scott's mother, Melissa, as wife due to his elevated status.
Scott, Derek soon discovers, is of the talkative sort. Friendly and amicable, a strange personality, considering the amount of men he must have slaughtered to don his worthy title.
Most nights Derek lies awake, wondering of things that might have been. If he was still a citizen, would Paige have accepted his proposal? Would they have been happy together? As a slave, Derek will never know the feeling of another in his arms, he will never know what it is to hold his own begotten child. So much is forever lost to him.
***
Stiles is a constant presence in the ludus, whether it be wandering the halls, or cooped up in Scott's room with heads pulled together, talking in secret. Scott must be spending most of his gladiatorial winnings on Stiles' constant presence, especially considering he's not a mere prostitute, but the Argents' own house slave.
They must be in love. Or at least Scott must be, Derek finds it incredibly difficult to read Stiles from the few glances he sneaks of the man. He has the most incredible mask of apathy Derek has ever seen in his life. It makes him want to know more. What Stiles likes, what he wants, his hopes, his desires, what it would take to shatter that mask, revealing the real man underneath.
At the midday meal, Derek stands by the gruel pot spooning some into his bowl when he catches sight of Stiles and Scott sitting together. Scott eats his gruel with one arm casually draped around Stiles' shoulders, but his concentration is held by another gladiator, arms waving as he relates a tale of his win the previous day. Stiles scoops up his last bit of gruel and Derek almost drops his bowl when Stiles' cheeks hollow, sucking and licking fingers clean.
Derek tears his gaze away, intent on focusing on his task. The next thing he knows, Stiles is standing close, reaching for the ladle in Derek's hand.
"Are you done?" Stiles asks, gaze rising so honeyed eyes meet Derek's, "It's as if you're trying to contemplate Aristotle's syllogisms through the medium of gruel. Overcooked food is disgusting, this gruel is overcooked, therefore gruel is disgusting." Stiles makes a distasteful expression at the pot, even though here he is, intent on helping himself to a second helping of the 'disgusting' gruel.
"You read Aristotle?" Derek asks, curious.
Stiles scoffs. "I am a slave, I've always been a slave. What do you think?"
"And yet you know of him."
Stiles scoffs. "There is a nary a man who knows not of Aristotle."
"You speak as if you know of his writings."
Stiles glares, "Enough of this tedious talk, give me the damned ladle or I will sack you in the balls, I swear it."
Derek quickly hands over the ladle, knowing the battle is lost. Disgruntled, he joins Boyd at his table. Thankfully the man says nothing about Derek's unresponsive reaction to an open challenge of ball kicking. Any other gladiator would not have walked away from an insult without spilling blood, but Derek isn't a gladiator and he wishes no harm on Stiles' person, no matter how mouthy the man happens to be.
Derek is not yet a gladiator, but initiation is in but a few weeks.
***
The next time Derek sees Stiles, a purplish bruise darkens his left eye. Something primal roars inside Derek, anger coursing through his veins. As he passes Stiles in the hallway, Derek quickly grabs his arm, pulling him into an open room and shutting the door behind them.
"What the hell are you doing?" Stiles demands angrily, his eyes showing no fear. Derek lifts his hand from Stiles' arm and the man pulls it to his chest, rubbing the skin as if to remove all traces of Derek's presence.
"I simply wish to speak, no harm will befall you at my hands." Derek looks into Stiles' eyes trying to project reassurance, until the anger is replaced with suspicion and a hint of curiosity.
"What do you want from me?" A trace of vulnerability creeps into Stiles' tone, but he manages to keep his mask intact.
Derek raises his palms up. "I have no intention towards anything you are unwilling to give."
Stiles' eyes narrow and his lips stretch into a thin line. "Then I am unwilling to give, will you take it now?"
"No." Derek whispers hurriedly. "I just wanted to know if Scott was treating you well." Derek's eyes trace over the bruise.
"As well as always." Stiles tips his head to the side, brow creased, seemingly not understanding that Derek is asking if Scott hurt him.
"Is he rough with you...?" Derek searches Stiles' face for any hint of distress, but the man quirks a brow, smiling fondly, a reaction Derek was not expecting.
"He's always been rough with me, ever since we were children."
Derek flares his nostrils, and digs his nails into palms, keeping his anger in check as not to frighten Stiles. He believed Scott to be an honourable man, but this is his true face? An abuser whose lover is so accustomed to being hurt he would reminisce fondly on the abuse? "I could make him stop," Derek offers, "a lover should be gentle and caring, should hold you, not harm you, no matter his profession whether it be senator, soldier, or gladiator."
"Lover..." Stiles parrots dumbly.
"I would have persuasive words with Scott, if you so wish it."
"Lover..."
"Simply say the words and I will stop him." Derek nods, leaving his offer in the open for Stiles to take.
Stiles' mouth gapes, but before Derek can ask him what is wrong, he speaks, "you are grievously mistaken, for Scott is my brother."
Derek's eyes narrow in fury, "And yet he still takes you to bed? Forget words, there will be blood."
Stiles laughs abruptly, bending over slightly as hands clench his sides in mirth. Stiles has never laughed in front of him before, and Derek can do nothing but stare in abject wonder. He laughs, and it is as if Apollo casts a bright light down upon him. When melodic music pours from his lips like the sweetest honey, Stiles is more beautiful than dawn herself. That is, until the next words pass from his lips, "You can be obtuse for one so educated."
Derek frowns, but Stiles continues regardless, "Scott calls me to his room because it is the only way he can protect me. We talk, not fuck, the guard following me around when I am in his presence makes sure of it. Besides, he has others for that. I am vestal, as my Dominus commands of me." Stiles purses his lips, looking remarkably put out. "I am not even allowed to take myself in hand, he likes the look of my cock and wouldn't have my 'filthy' hands soil it."
Derek blinks. "How do you piss without taking hold of it?"
Stiles laughs. "Very difficultly."
Derek snorts. "What? Do you hold yourself through your clothes?"
Stiles smirks mischievously, "What do you think?"
Derek chuckles. "That you aren't as vestal as your Dominus would believe."
"What can I say?" Stiles looks up at Derek through his lashes, "I am extremely resourceful."
Derek smiles fondly, feeling his face flood with blood under Stiles' intense gaze, but his eye is once again drawn to the bruise.
Lifting his hand, Derek lightly ghosts his fingers just under the purple bloom, quickly withdrawing when Stiles hisses. "Is this why you need Scott to protect you?" He asks, afraid of the answer.
Stiles looks away, chuckling humourlessly. "Evidently you have yet to meet the Dominus of the house."
"I've met the man before..." Derek trails off but Stiles nods like he knows what Derek is saying. He met Gerard when he was still a citizen, but Gerard always ignored him, except once, when Derek caught the man smirking at him, like he knew only a few minutes before his daughter had been pawing at Derek's unwilling body.
"You've never met him as a slave." Stiles shudders, "He will remind you exactly what it is to be called property."
***
It is as if Stiles' words are prophetic, Derek is summoned to the Argent villa the next day.
He's in the midst of a training session, practicing gladius techniques with a rapidly improving Boyd, when Gerard's right hand man and former gladiator, Jackson, saunters into the courtyard.
A veteran named Ennis laughs when he sees Jackson, nudging at one of his companions and making a rude gesture. Jackson sneers at the display before looking away and catching Derek's eye, inclining his head slightly. Derek tosses his sword to another recruit who slides up to practice with Boyd in his place.
"What do you want?" Derek draws near, wiping the sweat from his brow, feeling it run down his skin, into the curls of hair now sprouting freely from his chest. He cannot help but feel some modicum of aversion for it, but since the others all sport similarly hairy bodies he does not let his deeply ingrained Roman obsession with vanity get to him.
Jackson looks him over distastefully. From what Derek heard of the man he used to be a gladiator before Gerard snatched him up to run errands. Now, he is nothing but a glorified messenger with an inflated sense of his own importance.
"You're wanted in the villa," Jackson wrinkles his nose, "but take a bath first." As Derek moves to pass him, Jackson grabs his arm, pulling him closer. Derek is tempted to yank the offending appendage out of its socket. "You are treated well because the men respect you."
Derek quirks his brow. "Your point?"
"You have yet to receive the mark of the brotherhood." Jackson's fingers trail down Derek's forearm. tapping lightly where the brand should lie, Derek pulls away. "The longer you go without it, the greater the chance of the men losing that respect. If you had someone close to Gerard, someone who has sway over various decisions, someone who could perhaps urge him to give you the brand, well... That could only benefit you."
Derek narrows his eyes.
"For a small price of course."
Derek sneers. "Of course."
"You hold the men's respect, if you could put in a few good words about me? The thing is... I run a very profitable side business. I acquire things for the men, things they are unable to purchase from within the ludus. But without customers, my business is nothing." Jackson pats Derek on his sweaty chest, only to grimace and wipe his hand on his tunic. "You could tell the men about my business, encourage them to put their faith in me-" Derek snorts, interrupting Jackson's tirade.
"Your entire argument relies on one point, far from the truth. I don't want to be a gladiator. I did not choose this, I was ripped from my family and thrust in this hell hole, I couldn't care less about how long it takes me to get to the arena, so long as I get there." Derek shoves Jackson to the side, striding into the shade of the ludus, down to the baths.
"You'll regret this!" Jackson shouts after him.
"I regret a lot of things," Derek murmurs when he is out of earshot, "this will not be one of them."
Free of all dirt and grime and dressed in a loin cloth that barely covers anything, Derek stands beside a decadent fountain with frolicking cherubs shooting water out of their mouths. He shuffles uncomfortably, but at least the mosaic beneath his feet is cool enough to feel through his sandals, offering some bit of relief from the heat. It hasn't rained since the night his family was slaughtered, and Derek cannot help but take it as a sign of displeasure from the gods.
Derek tugs on the restraints around his wrists, shifting so the chains keeping his feet no more than shoulder's width apart clink against the tile. The Argents are being careful. He is not longer separated from them by gate and grill, he is in their midst, aching for revenge.
"You appear shorter than I remember." Gerard says, striding into view. Stiles walks at his back, a tunic hanging off his shoulders and barely covering the tops of his thighs. He holds jug of wine in hand, grape leaves woven into his hair like he is the personification of Bacchus himself.
He meets Derek's gaze for one long second before tearing it away to stare somewhere off Derek's shoulder.
"Speak, slave." Gerard says, standing a sizable distance away.
Derek huffs. "It must be the gruel."
Gerard tilts his head towards Stiles and the man hurriedly fills a goblet with watered wine. "A different diet than what you're used to. I clearly remember you favouring pork?"
Derek shakes his head, "I much prefer figs to anything else."
"How common," Gerard drones, taking a deep gulp of wine, finishing the cup. Stiles moves to pour more. "I have my whores eat figs, you know? It's an aphrodisiac, makes them perform better." Gerard licks his lips, smiling like he's recalling an encounter. Derek shudders, pitying the poor woman or man paid to lie with such a creature. "Do you miss them?"
Derek's eyes narrow at Gerard's words, "Miss what?" He asks carefully, knowing if the man says Derek's family he's going to launch at him.
"Figs."
Derek lets out a heavy sigh. "I suppose."
Gerard snaps his fingers, "Stiles." He drawls and Stiles snaps to attention, gripping the jug of wine even tighter.
"Yes, Dominus?" Derek detects a hint of anxiety in his voice, like he knows Gerard might command anything of him, no matter how farfetched and he will have to obey it.
"Bring some figs." He orders and Stiles lets out an audible breath of relief.
"Yes, Dominus." Stiles walks to a table bearing platters of fruits. He picks up a bowl of figs and returns to Gerard's side. Derek watches at Stiles carefully chooses and lifts a fig to Gerard's mouth but the man shakes his head, pointing to Derek.
"Feed him."
Stiles' eyes shift to meet his, throat bobbing as he steps closer to Derek, the fig bowl cradled in his elbow. Stiles stops an arm's length away, holding the fig out in offering but doesn't come any closer, just waits for Derek to take it from his fingers.
Derek does, biting the whole fruit, lips careful to not to even graze the tips of Stiles' digits. He is not like Gerard, Derek won't touch Stiles without his express permission.
"No," Gerard says and Stiles visibly stiffens, "Feed him like you feed me. He was once a noble son, didn't you know?" Gerard mocks.
"Yes, Dominus." Stiles takes a step in, until he is only a fingerbreadth away. Derek feels the ghost of Stiles' breath ruffle the beard overgrown on his face, can clearly see his honey eyes swim with firmly fixed apathy. His mask is bound on tight but if this how he feeds Gerard, it only makes sense that he hides his emotions.
The next fig Stiles selects, he presses right to Derek's lips, staring at him like he doesn't even see him. Derek bites into the fig, intending to take it right from Stiles' fingers without unnecessary touching, but Gerard makes a scornful noise.
"Bite it in half, don't take it from his fingers like a trained dog. Act like the beast you are."
Derek meets Stiles' eyes and tries to convey how sorry he is, before biting into the juicy fig. It is overly ripe so the juice runs down Stiles palm, collecting at his wrist before trickling down his forearm.
"Lick him clean, dog."
Derek's eyes narrow in anger, there's only so many insults he can take before he snaps, but he cannot help remember the laws concerning slaves. If one slave kills his Dominus, the whole household is put to death. Does Derek have it in him to sentence Stiles, Scott, the Doctore, Boyd, all the innocent men and women in this cesspit for petty revenge? Derek watches Stiles blink big honey eyes, lashes fluttering, and Derek's heart catches in his chest. No, he can do no such thing.
Mechanically, Stiles offers his arm for Derek, and resigned, Derek laps quickly at the juice, eyes closed so he doesn't have to look at whatever expression clouds Stiles' face.
When it is done, Derek glances over at Gerard, wondering just what this is all supposed to mean. Is this his way of asserting dominance over his slaves, reminding them, as Stiles once said, 'what it is to be called property?'
Derek's eyes widen when he finds Gerard watching them with a hand slipped beneath his toga, hand moving, visibly touching himself. Derek makes a face of disgust, tearing his eyes away, feeling violated.
Stiles tsks, "Don't be bothered by it." He whispers in Derek's ear so Gerard cannot hear, "He does this often, be thankful you don't have to feed him whilst he pleasures himself."
"I'm sorry," Derek whispers, sorry that Stiles has to put up with Gerard's voyeurism, sorry that he is treated worse than a whore, sorry that Romans are such a repugnant people, sorry that he is a slave. Derek is sorry for many, many things.
Stiles lips twist in a strained smile, "Don't be, it's not your fault."
"Stiles, wine." Stiles sends Derek one last look before he picks up the jug of wine, pouring the watered-down liquid into Gerard's cup. The older man eyes him with a curl to his lip, but Derek meets his gaze calmly.
"You are to be initiated tonight and if you live, given my mark. In a fortnight, you will fight in the arena."
Derek bows his head, "Dominus," He says mockingly, but Gerard doesn't appear to catch the hint of disdain.
"If you live, slave." Gerard twirls on his heel, Stiles following a step after but not before sending Derek an encouraging smile.
***
"You're to be facing me tonight." Scott grins, squatting down at his and Boyd's table during the midday meal.
Derek smiles, "I look forward to it, so long as you don't kill me."
Scott laughs, his shoulders shaking in mirth. "I'll try not to, Stiles seems fond of you."
"Is he?" Derek smiles warmly, he thought Stiles hated him. Boyd roll his eyes and Derek kicks him in the shin, but the man just smirks, chewing his bread.
"Gods know why, you are like sour wine." Derek frowns, "see, that is exactly what I mean, always frowning with your colossal brows." Scott traces a finger over his own eyebrows. "You are like Hercules, a man of little words, but much expression."
Derek chuckles, "Are you calling me a god?"
Scott huffs, "Hercules was not born a god, he was born a man, and men make mistakes." Scott says, his voice developing an edge. "Men lust after that which they cannot have, and when they have obtained heart's desire, it is often forgotten for cravings even more unattainable."
Derek narrows his eyes, stiffening in his seat. He feels Boyd do the same beside him, preparing for anything to happen. "What are you saying?" Derek asks carefully.
Scott traces a knot on the surface of the table with his thumb, staring deeply into Derek's eyes, "I'm saying don't cast him as your Iolaus if you view him as yet another hole to fuck." Derek recoils at the venom in Scott's tone.
Leaning back in, Derek whispers harshly, "You know nothing of me."
Scott snorts, rising from the table, "I know nothing of you, but I know something of Romans," he politely sweeps the crumbs from the table onto the floor. "I'll see you tonight in the courtyard," he says, walking away.
Derek slumps in his seat as Boyd pats him on the shoulder, offering a small amount of comfort.
***
The torches blaze in their sconces, lighting the dark courtyard with a warm glow. The sky is a dark indigo like ripened olives and the stars burn brighter than normal.
The moon hangs full and heavy, Diana herself casting a blessing upon the initiates.
Derek stands at attention beside Boyd, set to face the gladiator, Ennis. Derek's been watching Ennis spar, finding him slow and lumbering. With the new foot techniques Derek taught Boyd, he is sure to claim an easy victory over the man.
Initiation is not meant to be a fight to the death, but it can be. Derek eyes the wooden platform erected high off the ground. Defeat comes if a recruit is knocked off the platform, if he gives up, or he dies. Those that fail or surrender are sent to the mines, a fate worse than death.
Victory can come to the initiate who knocks his opponent gladiator off the platform, kills him and takes his title, or forces submission. Success can also be achieved if the opponents are evenly matched.
The whole Argent family stands on the balcony above the courtyard, making a spectacle of the night, with house slaves serving food and drink to those in attendance. Derek spots Stiles among those gathered, wearing an even smaller tunic than before, he catches Derek's eye once before disappearing into the crowd.
Thankfully, Kate is as elusive as ever, Derek doesn't see her gathered among the crowd.
Scott stands directly under the balcony talking to the son of a prominent senator, Isaac Lahey, while a woman recognizable as Allison Argent holds onto Isaac's arm.
Derek remembers their wedding, it was an extravagant affair, funded by Isaac's reluctant father. It is well known that Senator Lahey did not condone the marriage of his son to the daughter of a mere Lanista, but since his eldest had already produced a healthy male heir, Isaac and Allison's love match did not matter enough for the Senator to care.
Scott smiles at Isaac like they share a secret, soft and private, with his head ducked and ears a warm red. Derek wonders if this is what Stiles meant when he said Scott had others for him to fuck. Suddenly, Allison's face blushes a bright pink, and Derek thinks yes, this is exactly what Stiles meant.
A gladiator as a willing lover to a married Roman couple... How scandalous. Derek shakes his head, chuckling. The three of them are so obvious, Laura would have seen them and laughed aloud, for they hide nothing yet no one seems aware of the affair. Derek turns away, it is none of his business. Besides, memories of Laura's love of gossip turn his mood sour. He turns to focus on the task at hand.
He is not to be given amour for the initiation only a simple sword and shield. It doesn't matter to him, the platform is narrow and unsturdy, armour would slow his movements, make him clumsy.
Derek stretches out his limbs. He is to go last, after all the other initiates have performed. Gerard's way of extending the entertainment as long as he can. The man wants to watch Derek die, whether it be against Scott or others in the arena, but when it happens, he wants it to be the highlight of his evening.
Derek strives to give him a show he won't soon forget.
The night passes quickly, the first three initiates are slain within a minute, the next three surrender and will be sent to the mines. Boyd is the only one who remains on the platform, matching Ennis blow for blow until Gerard calls a draw to their battle, welcoming Boyd into the brotherhood.
When the moon is high in the sky and the crowd yearns for sleep, it is Derek's turn to face Scott.
Handed a sharpened gladius and shield by the Doctore, he heaves himself onto the platform where Scott stands, blade and shield in hand. He nods his head to Derek as a sign of respect and Derek makes the same gesture back.
His eyes move over Scott's shoulder, locking eyes with Stiles as he stands by Gerard's side, a expression of fear and worry creasing his brow.
Worry that Derek might kill his friend and brother, but Derek has not intentions on Scott's life, simply Scott's misplaced footing.
"Begin!" Gerard officiates and Derek slides into position, shield held tight to his forearm, sword gripped firm but relaxed. Footwork is valued over technique on a platform of this size, and no matter how skilled he is with the blade, a misplaced step might lead to his death.
Scott slides into a similar position, eyeing Derek, waiting to see who will make the first move. From what Derek has studied of Scott's technique, he knows it will be him. The man has just as much patience as Stiles, which is to say, none at all.
Scott steps forward, and the platform groans in protest, "Are you ready?" Scott asks, eyes lingering on Derek's shoulder, waiting for his muscles to give away his movements.
Derek smirks, but instead of swinging his blade, he stomps on a board, shaking the platform roughly so that Scott stumbles a step, Derek takes that as a welcome opening. Sprinting forward, he rams into Scott, shield first with the full weight of his body, sending the man's sword flinging out of hand, burying into the sands below. Scott laughs in delight, raising his shield, just as Derek swings his gladius, metal meeting word with a sharp crack.
Derek jumps back just as Scott spins, kicking out his leg. "Seems I underestimated you." He calls out, "you are ready."
"You are without blade, do you surrender?" Derek offers with a grin, knowing full well Scott's answer.
"You jest. This is the most entertained I've been in months!"
"Remember my offer when I knock you on your arse." Derek laughs, twirling his blade.
"Not if I knock you over first!" Scott shouts playfully, launching his shield at Derek with a well aimed throw. It slams into his wrist, stunning his hand so he drops his blade off the platform. The next thing he knows, Scott has his arms wrapped around his waist, knocking the both of them off their feet.
Derek wraps his thighs around Scott's waist, flipping their positions, wrestling him until he lies beneath, forearm tight against Scott's throat, "Surrender?" Derek repeats. Scott spits in his face and Derek jerks back in surprise, forearm loosening enough for Scott to have words.
"Never," Scott smirks, bringing his head forward and slamming it against Derek's hard enough for him to see stars. Derek grunts in pain, scrambling for purchase against Scott's wriggling form. The frantic movements make the wood groans in protest, weak after previous fighting, and their only warning of incoming trouble is a sharp splintering sound before the platform gives out beneath them, sending them careening to the earth.
Derek tucks and rolls out of the way of the debris, and thankfully only ends up with a sharp pain along his bicep. A quick look around assures Scott is just as well off, the man lies on his back laughing up to the heavens. Derek cannot blame him, he would do the same if he wasn't tucked in a small ball.
That was entertaining.
"Draw!" The Doctore shouts with an accompanying snap of his whip, humour in his voice. He helps Scott up while Derek rolls to his feet. Checking his arm, he finds only a minor cut.
Scott walks over to him with a slight limp in his step and a bright smile on his mouth. Clasping hands with Derek, he pulls him close enough for their shoulders to touch. "I am glad to call you brother," he whispers in Derek's ear, letting go with a pat to his back.
After being passed around the group of gladiators, offered a combination of congratulations, shoulder punches, and deadly glares, Derek glances up at the balcony.
Gerard leans against the hand rail, a grimace twisting his mouth, but beside him Stiles stands with a radiant smile decorating his face. He nods his head discretely at Derek in congratulation, and Derek finds himself smiling back.
That night, Derek kneels in the dirt with his arm placed upon a stone table, the Doctore stands in front of him by a blazing fire, while Gerard stands to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, tapping his foot impatiently. Stiles waits at Gerard's back, a familiar jug of wine in hand.
The Doctore crouches so he is at eye level with Derek, "Just as the Romans salted the earth of Carthage, they will beat you down, stretch you thin, force you kill your brothers for sport. Even then, you cannot raise a hand against your Dominus. Such is the life of the gladiator. Do you swear your sword to the arena?"
Derek nods his head, "I swear."
"Do you swear to fight for your Dominus?"
Derek grits his teeth, eyes wandering until they meet Stiles, who smiles, offering encouragement, "I swear. I swear my sword to the Argent household." Derek says, choosing his words carefully. The gods are cruel to those who break oaths, but slaves are considered part of the household. Derek is glad to swear his blade to Stiles, should he so need it.
The Doctore laughs under his breath, catching exactly what Derek meant by his words, but he says nothing, instead he reaches into the fire with a leather gloved hand and pulls out a branding iron, a yellow A glowing at its tip. Two waiting guard step forward to hold down Derek, one at his shoulders, the other gripping his hand and elbow, pressing him into the stone.
The Doctore wedges a leather bit into his mouth. Just as Derek bites down, testing it, the Doctore places the burning brand against his skin. Derek screams in agony, muffled by the bit. He smells his flesh rend, smoke rising to the night sky, but as soon as it began the brand is removed, and cold well water is thrown over his forearm, soothing the burn.
Derek stares down at the red, irritated skin, the cursive A marking him as a gladiator. It's a blemish upon his skin, one he won't ever be able to remove. Derek closes his eyes, squeezing his fist shut, as Scott's mother, and the medicus of the ludus, spreads a cooling ointment over the burn, wrapping it with linen.
Derek has finally been marked as property of those who orchestrated his kin's downfall. He wants to grab hold of the blade of a nearby soldier and run it through his traitorous heart, but when a soft hand grips his shoulder, pulling him to his feet, Derek finds himself blinking his eyes open, only to stare into Stiles'.
"The Dominus said I should help you to your room." Stiles pulls Derek's arm over his shoulder, a hand around his waist.
"Thank you," Derek sighs, all thoughts but a burning desire for rest leaving his mind.
***
The brand takes a fortnight to fully heal.
For the first week Derek cannot even hold a sword without wincing. The second week he practices. And practices. And practices some more. His first battle in the arena has already been decided. He is to execute a traitor of the Republic. Normally, a gladiator would find it an easy task. Traitors are snivelling Roman men who've abused the office they held, extorting from the Republic's coffers, or giving coin and support to enemies for personal advancement.
Derek is simply being cautious, he cannot imagine Gerard sending him forth into the arena to plunge his sword into a defenceless old man. The traitor he is most likely set to face is a soldier, a man of experience who is likely to present a challenge.
A man like Derek.
So he practices, swinging blade against post until it is hacked to bits and he is fast enough on his feet, even while wearing the traditional leg greaves. The Doctore spars with him often, correcting misplaced footing, and teaching him techniques so he won't lose his head without a fight.
Derek is to dress as a Murmillo, a gladiator representing the Roman legion, gladius in one hand, rectangular shield in the other. Gerard's way of mocking what Derek should have eventually become: a Roman commander.
One afternoon, after Derek subtly watched Stiles eat at Scott's table during breakfast, smiling down into his gruel whenever the man would throw his head back in full bodied laughter, Derek is called forth by the Doctore, to spar.
The stand opposite each other, circling like vultures. The Doctore makes the first move, but Derek parries his strike with a clang.
"You improve." The Doctore nods his head in approval.
"Because of your tuition." Derek says, sweeping his legs, but the Doctore steps over them easily.
"And your intentions towards my son?" the Doctore asks, abruptly swinging his sword. Derek raises his shield just in time.
"You son?" Derek pants in exertion. "I know not of your son."
"You seem to know him well enough, for your eyes follow him when he is in your presence."
Derek dives, avoiding the slashing blade. "Stiles. Stiles is you son."
"My one and only."
"Shit."
The Doctore chuckles, "Shit, indeed."
"Apologies."
"Why? Do you have less than honourable intentions?"
"No, never. I intend... I want..." Derek sighs. "I desire only his happiness, I want to see that blinding smile grace his face, to hear his laugh, so sweet like nectar from the gods."
John smirks. "Good answer. After all, a father only wants the best for his son. Prove yourself in the arena and I will grant my blessing onto your courtship."
"You misunderstand," Derek shakes his head, "he does not want me."
The Doctore laughs, "I know my son." He says, just before sweeping Derek's legs out from under him.
The day of his first battle dawns and he is sent to the ludus' baths where house slaves oil and scrape his skin free of dirt, strigils digging just on the side of painful. A pumice stone is rubbed along his chest and a knife drawn across his face in quick swipes, finally ridding him of the dark black hair coating his body after weeks of neglect.
Olive oil is massaged into his muscles after a long soak in the warm water, chasing away any remaining stiffness from practice. Thankfully, the brand on his arm no longer pains, but the puckered skin still tugs uncomfortably whenever the skin is stretched, the oil helps somewhat.
A slave with soft hands helps dress him in his armour: a leather belt with bronze decorations protects his belly from a disembowelling strike. A arm guard with metal hammered to look like feathers protects his right sword arm, while a massive shield protects his left. Finally, shin protectors are strapped to his legs, heavy, but Derek is used to them by now.
He leaves the baths, armour clinking as he walks, only to find the Doctore waiting for him by the gates, a simple bronze gladius in hand.
"This will be your blade in the arena." He says, handing the sword over. Derek takes it, holding it up to the light, the metal shining on a recently sharpened edge, "Use it well."
Moving closer, he leans in to whisper in Derek's ear, "Do not let what you find in the arena distract you from the task at hand, I'd hate for all the time I've invested in your training to go to waste."
Derek frowns. Is he to fight someone he knows?
The Doctore steps aside, letting Derek pass through the gate.
He ponders the Doctore's words as he is led to the waiting cart set to take him to the arena. Derek knows of none but his family accused of being traitors to the Republic, and Derek's whole family is dead.
Aren't they?
***
The thundering roar of the crowd is clearly audible, even through walls of stone and dirt separating Derek from the light of day. He sits on a cold stone bench underground, a guard by his side while he waits for the signal summoning him to the surface.
Ever since the Doctore's parting words sent his mind spinning, Derek thinks of that night in his family's villa, going over all the details he remembers, no matter how miniscule. Every single man, woman, or child, possessing the name Hale was slaughtered that fateful night, everyone but him. At least that's what the guards told him.
In reality, he only saw five people he held close to his heart slaughtered: his mother, father, Cora, Laura, and Laura's son. Peter was missing from the bloodbath.
A bell clangs, signifying that he is meant to ascend and wait by the gates. On the way, Derek tries to remember if he even saw Peter at dinner that night, but his mind keeps drawing a blank.
As he waits by the massive gates, he squints out into the vast area immediately spotting the figure waiting in the center dressed in only a ragged tunic, sword and shield in hand. The figure is too far away for Derek to accurately identify him, but if the man is Peter, he is only a ghost of what his uncle was, starved and stooped over in resignation.
The gate creaks, rising, and the crowd roars as Derek strides into the arena, helmet still in hand, towards the figure with long, mangy hair hiding his face from view.
As if the man senses that the gladiator set to execute him draws near, he raises his head, hair parting like a curtain to reveal the face of his uncle.
"Derek," Peter greets, "what a lovely surprise."
"Peter." Derek breaths, gritting his teeth. His mind is already calculating their exit routes if he grabs his uncle and makes a run for it, but guards are stationed throughout the arena and the gate is already lowering.
Peter sighs with his whole body, his once strong shoulders, thin and desiccated from starvation and abuse, creak with him. "Don't bother, Derek." He says. "You don't even know what I have done."
"You did nothing." Derek whispers harshly, "It was the Argents, they conspired and brought our family to ruin."
Peter chuckles, only to break out into a rheumy cough.
The crowd's volume lowers, signifying that the games' officiant has raised his arms, commanding silence. Gerard's voice rings loud and clear through the arena as he stands in his box. Kate sits nearby wearing a delighted smirk, twirling an ironed curl of the blond wig she wears.
She speaks to the woman beside her, probably explaining what Derek's relationship is to the man he is set to execute, because Stiles wears a face of such blatant horror it's a wonder none have called him out on it.
"Citizens of Rome!" Gerard exclaims. "Today we gather today to witness the execution of a man who has done the Republic grievous injury: the former Praetor, Peter Hale!" The crowd heckles and jeers, throwing food down from the stands. "Plotting with devious kin, Peter Hale stole coin from the coffers of Rome herself, intent on organizing an expedition into Germania, sure to fail as all previous have done, simply so he might steal the position of Imperator using cunning and subterfuge."
"Lies." Derek hisses, but only Peter can hear, "all words spilling from that snake tongue are lies."
"He speaks the truth," Peter says, surprising Derek, "A truth where he omitted his own involvement, but truth nonetheless."
"What are you saying?" Derek gapes.
"I'm saying that four moons ago, Gerard Argent met with me in the streets of Rome and we plotted to rearrange the allocatement of funds from silly building projects in already conquered territories to more fruitful endeavours."
"The war in Germania."
Peter nods. "Exactly."
Derek narrows his eyes, "We are losing that war."
Peter growls. "Because Rome was withdrawing. In only a few more years we could have had access to prime wheat growing territory. Enough food to feed the Republic ten times over, but withdrawing would leave us with staggering causalities and nothing to show for it. What else could I do?"
"What happened?" Derek asks quietly.
Peter shows his teeth, "Gerard betrayed me, showing his true colours. He cares not for the war, nor for the good of the Republic, only for his own position. The only way he could ascend higher was if our family was cast into ruin."
"So he had us slaughtered, and kept me alive for the sole purpose of executing you." Derek closes his eyes, "I suppose he's telling all the patrician families I volunteered to become a gladiator to make up for what my kin has done. To them, I am here willingly to execute you, criminalizing me even further as a kin murderer."
"Isn't it funny?" Peter shoulders shake as he laughs, tears streaming down his face. "When they brought me in and told me our family was dead, I still thought Gerard had not betrayed me. It wasn't until he marched into my cell and told me what he had done that I knew the truth. I have ruined us, Derek. I have ruined us all."
"Peter..." Derek reaches a hand out for his uncle, but the man shakes his head.
Placing his sword and shield on the ground, Peter falls to his knees in the sand, submitting. "No, I deserve this, make it quick." Peter tilts his neck, offering his throat.
"No, stand up." Derek growls "I won't kill an unarmed man, fight me. Think of it as repentance for what you have done."
"Derek..."
"Fight me!" Derek shouts and the crowd howls, screaming and stomping and raising a din loud enough for Jupiter to hear it from the heavens. "Fight me, please." He whispers for Peter's ears only. "It is the only way I can bear to kill you."
Peter stares into Derek's eyes for a long moment before closing his eyes in acquiescence. He picks up his sword and shield and the crowd goes mad, before Gerard once again raises his arms for silence.
"Today, Peter Hale will be executed by repentant nephew, Derek, a man who knew of the plot but eventually turned from traitorous kin, exposing their deviations. He has since volunteered to take Peter's vile life." The crowd is a mix of jeers and applause, glad that Derek is loyal to the Republic, but hateful that he betrayed the sacred bond of kin.
"Today, Hale blood will be spilt in the arena, and the gods will rejoice! Begin!" Gerard shouts and Derek slides on his helmet. The horns sound, filling the arena with their heavy brass, proclaiming the start to the games.
Peter slides into position, his legs wavering weakly, and Derek cannot help but hate how easy this is will be. His uncle deserves an honourable death, as a soldier who has served the Republic his entire life, not an execution where he can barely defend himself. There is no honour in blood spilt easily.
Peter lunges, thrusting his sword, but Derek parries with a light swipe, side stepping calmly as he circles around his uncle's form. The man may be weak, but he is not without skill.
Peter feints to the right, but moves left, approaching Derek's unarmed back. Derek is too late to block, and Peter swings the blade, but it cuts shallow, not fatal as it should have.
"What are you doing?" Derek questions, furious. Peter had his chance but he wasted it.
"What do you think will happen when I kill you, nephew?" Peter mocks, "Will they let me go then? No, they'll just send another to finish the job. At least with my death you might live another day, but that does not mean I cannot give them a fucking show!" Peter shouts and Derek meets the swing of his sword, sparks spraying the sand as metal bites against metal until Peter swings his shield, bashing Derek's sword arm and their blades break deadly embrace.
Derek stumbles back, clutching his shoulder in pain. "Peter!" Derek roars, dropping his shield and freeing himself from its excess weight, just as he rolls out of the way of Peter's thrust.
Derek finds himself with an opportunity to end things and he takes it, slicing across the backs of Peter's knees, severing his tendons so his legs can no longer take the weight of his body. Derek rises and places the tip of his blade against the back of Peter's neck as he falls to his knees.
The crowd clamours, crying for Derek to pull his head back and run his blade across his uncle's neck. But Derek doesn't, he waits. Waits for Peter to get up again, while knowing full well he never will again. Waits for Peter to raises his two fingers, begging missio, even when prisoners sent to be executed in the arena are not permitted to ask to be spared.
"Peter..." Derek begs, for what? He does not know. "Please, Peter, please." Get up.
He feels a vibration, the trembling of his sword as Peter laughs humourlessly. "They took my family, they took my honour. They will not have your name stained with my blood. Kill them all for us, Derek. Avenge us." Peter urges just before he turns his own blade on himself, thrusting it into his throat and severing his spine.
In one extended moment, Derek watches as his uncle crumples to the dust, dead.
He drops his sword in shock, falling to his knees beside the body, hand shaking as he reaches for Peter's still shoulder, deaf to the roaring of the crowd, chanting his name over and over. Derek turns his uncle on his back finding eyes wide open in death.
A single tear trails down Derek's cheek and he closes his uncle's eyes for the final time, sending a quick prayer to the three Cretans Brother-Kings, begging them to judge Peter not by his faults but his strengths, asking that they grant him entrance into the Elysian Fields. A honourable afterlife for an honourable warrior.
Only when Derek finishes his prayer does he rise to his feet.
Rose petals descend from the crowd and Derek swipes them from his hair, striding from the arena and leaving them in his wake. They blemish the pure, creamy sand like the blood still weakly pumping from Peter's throat.
Derek longs for the day when the sands of the ludus are similarly dotted with Argent blood.