Whilst the women of the city of Athenia sew in honour of the Goddess Athena, the men of the capitol offer testament to Ares. The Senate have arranged, in the hopes of keeping the more blood thirsty of the Athenians in check through their favourite sport (rather than inciting another riot), a gladiator games as a means of distraction while the nobility flounder on how to handle the attack on the palace and the disappearance of their Queen.
It wasn’t quite early in the month, nor was it late. The sun rose high and shone strongly, waving the last of its summer rays through the air like no tomorrow. Sweat streaked down foreheads and athletic bodies, glistening like diamonds. The crowds were beginning to gather at the arcus while some of the gladiators prepared for their fights. Others were resting up to not waste any pivotal energy they would need. Nikasios was in between; he wanted to ensure his readiness, but he still did whatever he could to conserve his stamina. He was determined to fight to the end, winning as many fights as they would throw at him. He had trained with some of the finer gladiators the arcus had to offer, and he intended to use that experience and practice to his expertise. He had grown from a scrawny pirate of the seas to a lean and mean machine, though he still had room for improvement with his daggers. He had yet to yield a bow in the arena, though such a weapon would be understandably difficult to use.
Not only would it limit one’s movement and restrict their timing, unless they were expertly adept at archery, but there was the risk of running out of arrows and the even riskier danger that a stray arrow would hit a spectator or two. Nikasios had put quite some time into theorizing whether his skill as an archer would help. It had only been a few years since he practiced the sport so vigorously. He wasn’t sure how the sudden interest in some games came about, though there had been quite a number of hushed conversations with everyone speculating different reasons. Nikasios didn’t worry too much about it though. Distractions were never safe in the arena. It was bittersweet for the young man to not worry about his mother being in the crowds cheering him on, though he wondered at times if she would recognize him as the man he was now. As for the boy who once lived with him on the Cruel Guardian, last he had heard, Tobias was locked away in jail.
Being a retiarius was new to the boy, who had started practicing with nets only a handful of days before, but he was a quick learner in and out of the arena. He had learned to have a better grip on his daggers, to maintain a steady balance through the fight, and continued to use his keen eyesight to watch for his opponent’s weakness. There was a chance he wouldn’t need the net at all. They thought it would work for him because of his size and speed. Whether it was a smart decision or not, they would have to find out today. Nikasios already had an advantage in that he didn’t need a helmet, so his eyes wouldn’t be limited. However, he was also at an disadvantage, since he couldn’t wear much armor. He wore on his arms leather guards that covered wrist to elbow, leather shin guards that concealed his knees, protective clothing around his waistline, and the newly donned galerus that covered his right shoulder, smart because he was right-handed, despite being able to wield the daggers in both hands. With the net in his left, he held a dagger in his right. He had one more strapped to his waistline, just in case he would need it.
“Ares,” he lowered his head and mumbled softly so the others wouldn’t hear him if they walked by, “Grant me the strength to get through the games and allow me to emerge victorious from most if not all. . I’m at your service should you ever hail my name, Nikasios of Chaossis.” Whether the god of war heard him and decided to beseech his request was a question that would be answered at the end of the day, when the games would be over. Nikasios didn’t expect to die, he would make sure of it. He had learned to endure some pain, but he was liable to get a few scars. Some blood would be lost. That was inevitable. Some water would calm his nerves and cool him down too. He headed to the basin and cupped his hands together, and gulped a few scoops until the last, where he splashed just a little of water onto his face. Was he ready for battle? Yes. Was he nervous? Yes. Was he determined to win? Yes.
The sun beat down hard, sweat rolled off the bodies of gladiators and civilians the same. It was weather like this that was perfect for the hunt, one where rain did not muffle the sounds of prey or where tracks sunk into the mud. No in this weather the sounds of animals were crystal clear, and even the shadows gave clues on where to fire. However, the arena was no place for a man like Belen. He was no worshipper of Ares, and for that he felt a great deal of tension walking into his domain. However with past events throwing Athenia into chaos, where the trust between men had became strained, Belen needed a way to escape from all the tension and horrors that filled the minds of nobles and commoners alike. In truth Belen held no love nor hate for the nobility of Athenia, but he could not help but feel sympathy towards them in this instance. Someone was trying to poison the head of the kingdom and for that they have sent the entire population into a fearful array.
Now during such escapes the arena was the last place Belen thought he would go to honour Artemis, however he was not a delicate artisan who could sew cloth along with the women of nobility, and he sure wasn't going to be handing out refreshments to them. No Belen would walk straight into the domain of Ares to honour Artemis, much like a madman. After all there was no greater hunt than the hunt of man.
Although, admittedly Belen did not feel comfortable within the crowds. He did not look like a gladiator, and whilst signing up for the event he could hear chuckles and see the odd looks fellow fighters would give him. After all his eye-patch did stick out like a sore thumb, and with the bow on his back it was easy for people to think he was joking. Yet he was determined to showcase his skill, even if that meant placing himself at a clear disadvantage when entering the arena. He wore minimal armour, and was truly effective at long range, if his opponent got to close before he could end the fight with one swift shot, he would surely be in for a struggle, yet this is why he had equipped himself with a short sword, strapped to his belt in replacement for his usual hatchet. After all he was going up against seasoned fighters, he could not risk the short range of the hatchet compared to the length of a sword.
Yet Belen would be lying if he said he was only here to honour Artemis and take his mind off all the chaos. No he still had one every clear motivation on his mind. Revenge. Ever since the loss of his eye he had been training, relearning the bow and becoming comfortable with his disability. Yet he began to learn how to fight with swords. After being so easily disarmed by the pirate due to his swiftness with a blade, he felt as if he needed to even the ground between them in close range combat. In reality this day was to truly test his new skills, if he could make it through all of his fights he would feel comfortable in his ability to start searching for that damned pirate.
Marching through the crowds, his leather armour rattling against his chest as his bow hung off his back. He was truly unarmoured compared to the rest of the combatants, with nothing more than a chest piece, wrist and shin guards made out of leather, one swift hit to the head or one good body shot to leave him out cold. Yet he was confident in his own ability not to be hit. His eyes searched around the area, many combatants gave their prayers to Ares, whilst others stuck to the shade, Belen was along with the latter of these people. Simply awaiting for the call of battle.
When it came to combat and sports, Leonidas was as athletic and competitive as the average Athenian man in his prime. He practiced riding, swordsmanship, and spear-fighting just as rigorously as any Athenian soldier, in the event that his King ever called upon the Guards as Hoplites.
Or he should say his Queen. Since King Minas amended the laws to allow for his eldest daughter to inherit the crown, opinions had been mixed among guards from the city’s Outer Circle. Most of the men in Leonidas’ neighborhood revered Princess Persephone’s intellect, grace and beauty, even above the other potential male heirs. However, some wondered if she wasn’t an exception to her sex and worried what shall become of the next generation or future where the female heir would not happen to be extraordinary to match grace and prowess with her male relatives.
With the most recent coup, more unrest and chatters bubbled in the lower quarters of the Athenian capital. “A King would’ve been able to defend himself against the enemies.” Ialmenes grunted, passionately gesticulating as they pushed through the crowds surrounding the arena. His hearty voice reverberated over the noises, turning heads and earning him a few extra glances. Those who might’ve taken issue with his comment, however, chose to remain silence after taking in his towering stature, and the longsword he carried on his waist.
“Be at peace, Ialmenes. We are here to show support to the throne. These people do not know your love for Queen Persephone. Your expressed desire to see her forever protected from the burden of the throne and its many risks comes off as disrespectful.” Numa sighed, calmly moved up to Ialmenes’ side a few steps behind Leonidas, just enough for Leonidas to toss him an appreciative look for defusing the situation before it even arose. Leonidas knew he made a mistake of dealing his silent approval too swiftly and liberally though, when the brunette’s eyes glinted, “—Of course I blame the guards more.”
“Numa…” Leonidas groaned tiredly, shooting the man a look of little amusement.
“I jest!” His friend and subordinate easily surrendered, chuckling and throwing up his hands. “Now if we aren’t going to give our opinions about sensitive states of affairs when Captain is around, could we at least look for where Deon is? I pray that he hasn’t already fought.”
Leonidas opened his mouth. A response half formulated when his eyes captured the figure of a child in the crowd—a child he recognized from his neighborhood. The boy’s parents worked day in and day out and hadn’t much time to look after him. The mother recently complained about missing their son at home when they returned from the market, yet unable to find out his whereabouts.
“You go on ahead, my friends. I will find you later. I think I see someone I recognize.” Trying to keep his eyes on the boy he believed to be his neighbor’s child, Leonidas patted Ialmenes on the shoulder and squeezed through the space between his two fellow guards.
He pushed past the crowd of gladiators, spectators and slaves tending to their masters’ armors, inciting grumbling complaints as he moved toward the opposite direction of the general traffic flow. Leonidas became increasingly concerned when he tracked the boy toward the vomitorium. Desperately keeping his eyes on the bobbing black crown nearly swallowed in the sea of heads, Leonidas walked face first into a bow sticking out of a young man’s back.
“Apologies— Have you seen a boy coming through? He wasn’t supposed to be here.”
Never more comfortable in his own skin than when on the grounds of the arcus, Lesley's scars and tattoos were on display as they never were elsewhere, his bare torso gleaming with the very light sheen of sweat that a non-mediterranian body no matter how acclimatized, tended to produce simply from the midday sun's heat rather than from any real exertion. There was no mistaking him for someone's body slave, or anything else other than the gladiator he was, despite not being dressed to fight. Or rather, despite not being armoured up, as most of the others were. Like most Retiarius, those who had earned their freedom, he had both the skill, and the fame, to be a crowd favourite, and usually fought nearer the end of the day, letting the less-experienced gladiators warm up the crowd for him.
Despite the olive-wood staff he carried proclaiming him Rudis at the moment, he was dressed such that he had only to strap on a couple pieces of bronze armour, and pick up sword and shield, to be ready to step out onto the sands as competitor rather than referee. The dark hair that had been nearly falling into his eyes a few days ago was cropped to only a couple fingers bredths, too short to grab, and his hands were wrapped in strips of linen, not as heavy as a cestus, simply the sort of thing a fist-fighter wore to prevent splitting his knuckles during training. The staff he carried, as well as being solid, well-chosen wood, was shod with iron, and at his waist hung both the symbolic wooden sword proclaiming him a Retiarius, and a very real kopis. Clearly, if anyone in the fights he was supervising decided to go after the wrong target, he was fully prepared to deal with it.
Lesley moved through the crowds with an ease that belied his bulk, half trained grace and half most people's tendency to get out of the way of a man who, at the moment, fairly radiated both ability and, more subtly, willingness to beat or kill any of them. Even among other trained fighters, the effect was noticable; they had the experience to recogize danger when they saw it, and most had no interest in adding an extra unscheduled fight to what would already be a dangerous day. He exchanged a word or two with the gladiators he knew, encouraging words as befitted their trainer or their friend, as appropriate for each.
"Nikasios. Feeling ready? You've got the speed, and you know how to control your range, you'll do well. Remember that you don't have a helmet to shade your eyes, don't let your opponent turn you to face the sun."
He moved on, brown eyes scanning the crowd, the little line of concentration between his brows that always appeared when he was trying to see farther than a few yards away, especially facing sun-glare. He was taking his job as an official seriously, helping to keep things running smoothly, and to make sure every fighter would be ready the moment it was their turn to step into the arena. Today a number of people he didn't recognize were here to fight, or to entertain - and you never knew how many of them might have the same tightly wired reflexes and easy tempers as Lesley himself. The senior Rudis narrowed his eyes, as a momentary eddy in the smooth flow and shift of the relative crowd caught his attention as being the start of a potential ruckus.
Work ethic required him to want everything to go smoothly, but a deeper instinct hoped for a fight to break out. For the moment, though, there was no real inner conflict, as both hopes prompted him to move closer to potential trouble.
"A boy?" he asked, concerned, overhearing the question as he drew close. "How old?" A curious child slipping in amongst antsy gladiators could be bad. A young teen looking to prove their daring could be worse. The possibility of the first was what had him genuinely concerned, though, and momentarily distracted from his own desire for trouble.