Sextus was the brother of seven others. He grew in poverty and was well acquainted with the slums and gutters, a stench he never managed to abolish from the new scent of wealth he tried to acquire and emanate, succeeding in the first but failing at the second.
His father was a handyman who fixed anything for any charge, no matter how meager it was. He placed survival above everything else and as long as he could put scraps of food on the dinner table, he was content.
Some says contentment is a virtue, desired mostly in those who are not lucky or ambitious, lacking in talent or competitive nature but not many of his children held the same view.
Of Sextus's seven siblings, two disappeared and never returned. Sextus believed they were driven by ambition and waited for their return that never came. Were they leading a better life somewhere else and denied their low – bred origin? Or have they failed, turning out to be no different from their father? The third died young, falling to illness, a house – shaking event that did prompt his father to work harder though receiving the same results. Witnessing his mother never ending tears and deteriorated sanity, Sextus realized the importance of luck, and believed talent is not something acquired but rather innate. The other four brothers followed in his father's footsteps, yielding to their circumstances and establishing a humble struggling life in different cities, a vain trial to change the luck of their family, but it did not prove fruitful as the family's bad luck sucked on their chances and thus, they learned to be content with what life had to offer to them.
Sextus was not that much different from his siblings, and the family's curse was not easily escaped or altered and when he managed to turn the table, not in the most dignified trade, it was too late for his parents to spend the rest of their lives in some sort of comfort.
As for love, he witnessed that so called virtue falls apart between his mother and father, but he knew it never even existed in the first place, contributing to the family's misfortunes and agitated days, though it was such a meek agitation that resolved no problem or encouraged no further actions or change, and so Sextus did not believe in love or he tried to convince himself of this but his passion for reading love poetry and tales proved the contrary. At least he knew it existed as a source for such literary works but not in real life.
However, contrary to his siblings, he discovered he did possess a semblance of a talent when he went in his father's stead to work when the latter was very tired. The talent for negotiation and smooth speech. It was not a talent appreciated by the families who hired him, expecting the same mild manners and contentment his father accepted everything with. So he was quickly fired or asked to be replaced by another of his remaining siblings when his father was ill or injured due to the hard work he performed, as those were always glad and thankful to the few denarii or bronze pennies tossed into their hands.
It was not his pursuit that changed his fate, rather a lucky coincidence when he met a slave merchant who needed help as his assistant fell ill all of a sudden and could not stand on the purchasing stage and describe the goods. That incident further affirmed the boy of ten, back then, the importance of luck. He seized this chance and released his fluent tongue with a tone that drew costumers and emptied the stage in less than two hours, attributing with animate gestures and words what the slave did possess and promising what they could learn and what they would be suitable for if trained correctly with a sole glance to every soul put on display. After this, the merchant did not let go of the gold mine he had stumbled upon and took the boy under his wings. Sextus did not tell his family of the new trade he found himself webbed into. He was not a heartless man in nature despite his persistence in that trade, and his success did not flatter his soul. He provided them with money never telling of his new found job, his father assuming his child had finally mastered controlling his needy loud tongue.
The uncle of the merchant who adopted Sextus turned out to be the city's arena owner and the young boy was fascinated by the gladiators; their strength and resilience, their talent and warrior – souls, their brutality and fight for survival, although they did so in a very different method to the one his family was content with.
He learnt the trade so fast, and soon became the favorite man in the arena's owner service. He knew when to punish and when to praise without giving false hopes or making overestimation that empowered a certain gladiator or slave. When the man passed out, he insisted on passing down the arena to the only sensible man who exalted the others in the art of management and who brought the arena into a flourishing period.
That, nevertheless, did not mean Sextus did not sympathize with these trapped souls but he knew order and discipline were necessary. He never enjoyed a gladiator's death or a slave whipping. He looked mournfully at the downfall and wasted potential of capable men who tried to escape or riot yet still carried the orders of punishments nonetheless or allowed the soldiers to seize them and make an example of them in a manner suitable to each crime . It was necessary, and in the end, he held a trade he needed to keep flourishing and prospering.
While under the merchant's uncle training and service, the latter told him of many stories relating to the humans turned into beasts in this merciless place. Tales of valor, conquest, and bravery all shaped into beastly brutality in this place. Tales of love and betrayal, of romance and unbroken vows, and what was long abandoned in the boy's heart reemerged again, thirsty for more, hopeful for a real reincarnation of these tales without being stripped of their dignity or previous light.
He once again delved into the books telling legends and myths of gods and warriors. He leant his full attention to the stories of knights and kings; their principles, their nobility, their amorous adventures, the spirit of chivalry they displayed, their wins and losses that did not dim their bright or warrior's souls. He yearned to be like them; honorable and brave but the gods had not gifted him with these attributes, nor looked favorably on his physicals abilities so, he surrendered himself to feasts and drinks, to organizing events that poorly imitated the battles of brave knights and soldiers as they were stripped of their true purpose and allure, a mere reenactment devoid of firmly held beliefs or noble goals, put solely for the entertainment of governors and crowds.
Yet, he still found himself believing again in love and sacrifice, in nobility and honor though he possessed none of these qualities. He wanted to turn a gladiator into a true knight, like the ones he had read and heard about, to please his eyes with a true hero, to behold within them a soft – hearted lover yet a furious fighter. None of his gladiators lived up to his expectations and none could be reshaped as the arena had totally denuded them of these virtues, their will only bent on surviving another day regardless of the bloody cost or the shed blood of their comrades.
But his wish was not an impossible one. The reincarnation he sought but lost hope in finding came to him on his own feet, not literally, as that vision was dragged by soldiers and chained; a murderer, an ungrateful slave. One glance at those handsome non - regretful features brought his dreams back to life. The valor knight was no longer a myth, it manifested in flesh and bones in front of him. He speculated his dream would be short lived but that trial proved to defy everything; death, fate and logic. With a charm he had never seen before, with a mastery over dull overused weapons, with an artistically brutal talent and unbending will that allured and enchanted everyone, that foreign slave reflected to Sextus what a knight is and despite his status as a slave, it was Sextus who never tired of trying to please that man who was more suitable to belong to a myth than this to grim reality. Sextus granted the man's every wish as he saw his dreams being weaved by the flash of gold and red into a reality.
He endured the insults the slave gave him, and the mere idea that he deemed him worthy enough to insult was intoxicating to the arena's owner who looked for the verification of a true knight since he could never become one himself.
Deepening his affection toward the foreign knight whose eyes reflected a noble haughtiness that could not be questioned, and whose soul held as strongly as it could to its fragmented old image, was the fact that the Celtic knight was a lover and not the typical dull one. He was a knight who defied fate and his own kingdom to protect the woman he loved and adored.
He was the perfect image, the icon Sextus was yearning to be and he growled at the man's feet to the latter's disdain like a loyal dog instead of the opposite supposed logic.
A beauty found in no one else, with a tear – drop mole harboring all his sadness and sorrow along his longing and love, bearing a talent of rare kind, he was what Sextus had always wanted to be yet could never become. He revered the man, he tolerated, neigh, enjoyed his fits of anger whenever his pride was slighted. He could feel a ray of the chivalry he admired shine upon him although never bathing his existence.
He never wanted to let go of the man, guiding him with his beguiled words to reign the arena as a knight and not as a mere gladiator until the knight was finally convinced with the promise of freedom and the challenge of breaking his chains. What a noble aim and desire! The promised freedom to return to his home, to save his friend, and to reunite with his awaiting lamenting lover... It was a selfless mission obliging the proud man to bend his will so he could save his friend and lover, and at last his soul. But Sextus was aware that much of his own promises were lies, especially when he did not even hold the key to the man's freedom but he was not a man above deceit, though it pained his heart but he needed that radiance, he craved that light. He needed the image the dual wielder portrayed, bringing an imagined sought picture into real life.
The lancer became his icon, one he worshiped in his shrine of desperation and wished to obtain forever. He did not seek to take hold of it or control. In contrast, the more free spirit the lancer showed, the more Sextus was attracted to the latter as if he was falling under a spell. He did not wish for him to protect him or just to boost his fortune by his graceful demanded presence in the arena. He only wanted that man to exist and show him that dreams does not only belong to the pages of books or to passed tales, framed only in a child's imagination.
He was the perfect depiction of everything Sextus wished to have and so he clutched tightly to him, as if he was a sunflower that would not bloom without the sun rays the twin spears sparked.
At certain nights, Sextus did lament the lying and the deceit but he was not totally convinced that the lancer were not aware of them. The warrior's wit was sharp like his blades, and his observations were acute like the injuries he dealt his foes and enemies. Now this idea frightened the arena's owner. Gaining the governor's favor was something, a step toward his freedom or ultimate demise, it was a gamble and if the lancer was not a man of certain twisted smartness, he would not take this gamble with a moody governor like Germanous. That was what Sextus thought and believed. He feared that he might have spoiled the lancer's truthful soul in the promises of the greatness of the arena, making him take such a dangerous wager. Had he defiled that truthful soul, the only greatness that was within his reach? Did the lancer accept that deceit willingly, planning for a further aim, along with the governor's favorites toward him or was he truly allured by the man's visions and dreams that never manifested, thinking he could undo what he did back in his beyond of reach land, here in this city? Was not this thought in itself a testimony to the damage Sextus had dealt the knight's soul, foiling what he had admired with his own hands?
Will he lose the icon that shed a pure light on his humble destined to forgetfulness existence? Was that light pure from the beginning to start becoming defiled along the passage of days and cruel battles at the arena?
Did he mar his own icon or was the icon already marred yet perfect in the imagination of the aging man?
Despite what angle he looked at the lancer from, the light was always following him and weaving his shadow. The question was where did that light that created an ideal picture come from? Was it a natural part of the lancer, did it pertain to the favoritism of the sun's god or was it coming from Sextus's eyes alone?
Only the days could answer that question. For now, he was content with the little shade his idealistic image shadowed him under.
And days did not take long to answer that question.