The sun beat down on the men in the arena, sweat glistened, profanity laced the air as loudly as the clash of sword on shield. No audience for these rough men, paired off as they might be in more serious fights but for now without the extra tension that came with wondering how closely Thanatos was watching you for any mistake. Some of the men were stripped nearly naked, a loincloth tied more for comfort than modesty, some wore a minimum of light padding, while others laboured under more heavy armour than they would be given in a real fight, getting used to the weight.
“Keep your shield up Constans,” their trainer bellowed, as he prowled around the pairs, watching for any mistakes. The staff he carried swung out and smacked a fighter in the shin as he walked past. “Sloppy footwork there Patos.” Distracted, the man missed his next block entirely and yelped in pain. “You were supposed to block that,” his training partner informed him helpfully while he profaned several deities.
Another yelp of pain from another direction, this one accompanied by good natured laughter as well as a few choice words. These men might end up killing one another, but they also trained together, ate together, bathed together. Some stayed wary of each other; others, like Lesley himself had, made friends and absolved each other in advance for anything that might happen when they entered the arena to spill blood before their masters and their gods.
“Good job, you two. Have a drink, then you can run two laps, and then take your armour off.” So it went, correction, orders, occasional encouragement. “Emilios. I think he’s done learning you can beat him. Put a breastplate on, you’re pairing with me next. Grab some water, boy, then practice against the pole for a while.” They were all ‘boy’ to Lesley until they won a fight, regardless of age.
Emilios gave the Retarius an oh shit look, and the newer gladiator one of relief, before both scurried to do as they were told. Something caught his attention, one of the pairs taking a pause longer than usual, and he went to chivvy them into continuing or see what the problem was.
“Well hello, I didn’t know we’d earned a reward,” one of the gladiators leered, just as his trainer came up behind him, and Lesley’s staff smacked him solidly in the ribs. The punishment was for leaving off the exercise he’d been set, not for his manners, and his sparing partner growled at him to get back to work, as if he hadn’t been the one to notice the woman at the arena entrance first. It wasn’t terribly hard to set someone else up to take the fall for something in such a hypermasculine environment, not least because their supervisors rarely cared. If you were the one who got caught, your lack of situational awareness was worthy of punishment alone.
Lesley gave the woman a somewhat confused look, and took a few steps closer. The wrinkle between his brows as he evaluated someone and the quiet patience with himself as he sorted out how to deal with something social had fooled more than one young man into thinking he was either a softie or that he’d been hit in the head enough during his active career to be a bit slow, but Les didn’t mind being underestimated.
He was uncomfortably aware that he was in a sleeveless tunic today, and that his tattoos and deliberate scars could seem anywhere from simply barbaric to downright blasphemous to native born greeks, with their worship of the human body as reflection of divine perfection, but he refused to be at all ashamed - even if he did cover up most of the time and rarely bathed except alone or with other gladiators. That was just not wanting to deal with people’s... well, with people.
“Keep your shield up Constans,” their trainer bellowed, as he prowled around the pairs, watching for any mistakes. The staff he carried swung out and smacked a fighter in the shin as he walked past. “Sloppy footwork there Patos.” Distracted, the man missed his next block entirely and yelped in pain. “You were supposed to block that,” his training partner informed him helpfully while he profaned several deities.
Another yelp of pain from another direction, this one accompanied by good natured laughter as well as a few choice words. These men might end up killing one another, but they also trained together, ate together, bathed together. Some stayed wary of each other; others, like Lesley himself had, made friends and absolved each other in advance for anything that might happen when they entered the arena to spill blood before their masters and their gods.
“Good job, you two. Have a drink, then you can run two laps, and then take your armour off.” So it went, correction, orders, occasional encouragement. “Emilios. I think he’s done learning you can beat him. Put a breastplate on, you’re pairing with me next. Grab some water, boy, then practice against the pole for a while.” They were all ‘boy’ to Lesley until they won a fight, regardless of age.
Emilios gave the Retarius an oh shit look, and the newer gladiator one of relief, before both scurried to do as they were told. Something caught his attention, one of the pairs taking a pause longer than usual, and he went to chivvy them into continuing or see what the problem was.
“Well hello, I didn’t know we’d earned a reward,” one of the gladiators leered, just as his trainer came up behind him, and Lesley’s staff smacked him solidly in the ribs. The punishment was for leaving off the exercise he’d been set, not for his manners, and his sparing partner growled at him to get back to work, as if he hadn’t been the one to notice the woman at the arena entrance first. It wasn’t terribly hard to set someone else up to take the fall for something in such a hypermasculine environment, not least because their supervisors rarely cared. If you were the one who got caught, your lack of situational awareness was worthy of punishment alone.
Lesley gave the woman a somewhat confused look, and took a few steps closer. The wrinkle between his brows as he evaluated someone and the quiet patience with himself as he sorted out how to deal with something social had fooled more than one young man into thinking he was either a softie or that he’d been hit in the head enough during his active career to be a bit slow, but Les didn’t mind being underestimated.
He was uncomfortably aware that he was in a sleeveless tunic today, and that his tattoos and deliberate scars could seem anywhere from simply barbaric to downright blasphemous to native born greeks, with their worship of the human body as reflection of divine perfection, but he refused to be at all ashamed - even if he did cover up most of the time and rarely bathed except alone or with other gladiators. That was just not wanting to deal with people’s... well, with people.