Eighty two days into the celebrations and Marcus Gaius had mostly lost his fear of a bloody death.

To die in battle was a noble death, but Marcus was a simple farmer, and to die in the games felt more akin to an ox being sent for slaughter.

They may feed the people, but little honour is given to their blood upon the ground.

Though if one is to die in mock battle, heralding in the wonder of the Emperors’ Colosseum was perhaps the best of a bad situation.

And he had made it Eighty two days so far.

There was that.

He’d made it so far on luck, safe only because he is no one.

He is an appetiser.

The crowd does not want his death, because they do not even recognise his life.

That does bring some safety.

Not much though, and the general situation is still pretty grim.

The sun was hot on his back, Sol Invictus either disliked Marcus specifically or was simply as invested in the spectacle as the Roman people in the stand.

Either way it slowly beat down on him, exhaustion building and limbs weak under the gods unwavering gaze.

The sweat mixed with blood and dirt and sand and was altogether quite unpleasant.

There was an itching sensation throughout his body, like the dirt was trying to burrow under his skin.

Or perhaps it was the guilt trying to claw its way out of his body from the inside.

Here he was, fighting by for his life, damning his wife and daughter to a life of shame and hardship.

The women would wilt without him, and yet what did they gain with him?

He had only needed a little money, to help his family, to bring them respect, to give his daughter a chance at a life of comfort.

To give himself a life of comfort.

And luxury.

And wealth and richness and- maybe he asked his patron a bit too much in hindsight.

Maybe he kept asking a few too many times.

That’s what he thinks when the gates open up and three slaves, clearly terrified and draped in tattered rags, are shoved out. Chains rubbing their dark skin raw, lips cracked, eyes blood shot and scared.

Looking at them, he could see they didn’t even know lingua Latina.

But what did that matter, the cry for death was universal.

They can only look around at the chanting crowd, calling for their death, and the leather clad daemon who will bring it.

Marcus is not heavily armoured, in fact his leather, his Galea, offered far less safety than he was entirely comfortable with.

But looking at these unfortunate souls before him, he feels a little more grateful.

Maybe a little sympathy too, but it’s him or them.

They are slaves, but not him.

It has been eighty two days, and he will make it to eighty three.

He will make it to ninety, to a hundred. Until Emperor Vespasian calls it all off, until his debts are paid.

And he will not think of the wide eyed strangers before him. Those who do not understand a word of his tongue but are fluent in the cry of steel and blood.