Lucius returned to his chambers just before midnight, discreetly guided by a silent servant through the darkened palace corridors. Livia had finally fallen asleep after hours of passion, and he knew he needed some rest before his first day at the ludus.
The suite assigned to him was surprisingly luxurious for someone of his formal status. A main room with a comfortable bed, an antechamber with a couch and low table, and even a small private balcony overlooking one of the inner gardens. It was a space normally reserved for a guest of considerable status, not a gladiator — more an indication of Livia's influence.
After a brief bath to remove the physical traces of his encounter with Livia, Lucius sat on the balcony, observing the night sky over Rome. The moon illuminated the city's contours beyond the palace walls — an impressive sight even for someone with memories of skyscrapers and neon lights.
While the city slept, his mind worked methodically, organizing priorities and planning his next moves. The Cassius ludus would present significant challenges tomorrow — a new environment, new rivals, a potentially hostile lanista. He would need to show enough skill to impress but not so much as to arouse further suspicion.
His thoughts turned to physical training. Roman methods, while effective for their purposes, were primitive by 21st-century standards. They focused excessively on raw endurance and combat-specific strength, neglecting balanced muscle development, proper recovery, and systematic progression.
From the small chest containing his belongings, Lucius took out the bottle Servius had given him before departure, examining the amber liquid by the moonlight. A supplement to speed recovery and increase muscle density — a valuable tool to implement modern training methods in this limited environment.
Grabbing a piece of parchment and charcoal from the nearby table, he began sketching a training program adapted to the era's limitations. Without modern equipment, he would need to be creative — sandbags for variable resistance, improvised bars for pull-ups, isometric contraction techniques to activate specific muscle groups.
The program he developed divided training into three-day cycles:
Day one: upper body strength and core
Day two: lower body strength and explosiveness
Day three: endurance and active recovery
This cycle, alternated with conventional ludus training, would provide significantly superior physical development than any contemporary gladiator could achieve. The advantage would be subtle at first but cumulative over time — especially with the aid of Servius's supplement.
More important than the physical program, however, was the broader strategic plan. Rome required careful navigation of multiple spheres of influence: the Senator with his formal authority; Livia with her personal favor; the lanista Tacitus and the ludus hierarchy; and eventually, the clandestine contacts the Tribune had promised to establish.
Each sphere offered both opportunities and potential traps. The challenge would be to balance them properly, extracting advantages from each without compromising position in the others.
The Senator's comment about non-Roman combat techniques remained on his mind — a reminder that he would need to be more cautious with public displays of skill. Marcus Cassius was clearly more observant and analytical than most, potentially dangerous if he started to probe too deeply into Lucius's origins.
As he arranged these considerations mentally, his eyes caught movement in the garden below — a male figure moving silently among the shadows. From the disciplined movements and vigilant posture, he appeared to be a guard or security agent, but not wearing the standard uniform of the household guards.
Extra security? Or perhaps specific surveillance? Interesting that he was positioned with a clear view of his chambers.
Another variable to consider, he reflected, filing the observation for later analysis.
The first light of dawn was already beginning to appear on the horizon — the day would come soon, bringing with it the first real test in his new environment. The Cassius ludus, from what he had gathered in conversations, would be significantly more challenging than the provincial establishment he had left behind.
Lucius gathered his training notes, carefully stowing them among his belongings. He lay down finally, allowing himself a few hours of rest before the challenges of the next day.
As sleep approached, he mentally reviewed the multiple layers of his developing plan. Every interaction, every relationship was a piece in a complex game that was only just beginning.
Livia desired him as a lover and symbol of rebellious status. The Senator saw him as an investment and object of intriguing curiosity. The ludus would receive him as a privileged intruder to be tested and possibly broken.
Each perspective offered different levers of manipulation, different paths to growing influence. The real challenge would be to orchestrate these divergent dynamics toward a unified goal: genuine power and, eventually, true freedom.
With that thought, he finally allowed himself to sleep, body relaxing as his mind continued processing possibilities even in dreams.
Sleep came quickly to Lucius's exhausted body but did not bring the rest he expected. Instead of the peaceful darkness of dreamless sleep, his mind plunged into vivid, fragmented images — memories that seemed to belong simultaneously to him and another person.
At first, he was in a frozen forest. The air was so cold that every breath burned his lungs. Snow fell heavily, reducing visibility to a few meters. He ran, carrying a wounded man on his shoulders while shadowy figures pursued them. The weight was crushing, his muscles screamed in protest, but something inside him knew that stopping would mean death for both.
"Давай! Быстрее!" shouted a rough voice in Russian. Come on! Faster!
The scene abruptly changed. Now he was submerged in icy water, feet and hands tied. The instinct to panic fought against his training as his lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen. A strong hand held him under the surface, while a clinical voice timed:
"Две минуты... две с половиной... три..." Two minutes... two and a half... three...
This was not a swimming exercise. It was a mental endurance test, designed to break normal men. Spetsnaz didn't accept normal men.
The cold water turned into stifling heat. A dark room, lit only by the red glow of cigarettes. Partially visible faces stared at him as questions were fired in quick succession:
"Name?"
"Unit?"
"Mission?"
"Contacts?"
His answers were always the same: "Nyet." With every refusal came excruciating pain. Electricity. Burns. Sensory deprivation followed by extreme stimuli. Interrogation resistance training was merciless because real enemies would be.
"Learn to love pain," instructed the instructor with a marked face. "She will be your only constant companion."
The scene changed again. A sterile room. Men in white coats. A syringe filled with amber liquid, similar to what Servius had given him, but different. More potent. More dangerous.
"This is the Zvezdá Program," explained a cold-eyed man. "You were selected because your body showed exceptional tolerance to the initial compounds. This phase will determine if you qualify to continue."
The needle plunged into his arm. Liquid fire ran through his veins. His vision darkened, then sharpened until every detail of the room became painfully clear. His heart beat so hard it seemed it would explode. And then came the pain — not localized, but total. Every cell in his body screamed in agony as the compound reshaped him from the inside out.
"Only three out of ten survive this phase," said the man in the white coat, watching him clinically. "Congratulations, you are one of the lucky ones. Or maybe not."
The images dissipated like smoke, giving way to an older memory — not of the special forces soldier, but of the original body he now inhabited. A modest but well-kept Roman villa. An elderly man in an elaborate chair, watching him with evident contempt.
"You may have my blood, but you will never have my name," said the old man, his voice laden with bitterness. "A slave's son is no true son. When I die, expect no inheritance. Not a copper coin, nor a piece of land."
The young Lucius — thinner, less marked by life — kept his eyes down, face carefully neutral as humiliation burned inside.
"You should thank my generosity for allowing you to be educated as a free man," the old man continued. "Many in your place would have been sold at birth."
"Yes, dominus," replied young Lucius, outward submission masking the controlled fury within. "I am grateful for your… mercy."
The old man smiled, satisfied with the apparent resignation. He did not see the calculating gleam in the youth's eyes, the first glimpse of the cold determination that would one day define the man he would become.
"Always remember your place," said the old man, turning his attention to a scroll. "Some are born to command, others to serve. The gods determined your role the moment they planted you in that Thracian slave's womb."
The words echoed, warping and amplifying. The dream began to fragment, distinct realities colliding — the brutal Spetsnaz training, the humiliation of the young Roman bastard, the uncertain present of the rising gladiator — all identities vying for dominance within a single mind.
Lucius awoke with a violent start, his body soaked in cold sweat. His breath came in rapid shallow gasps, heart pounding against his ribs. For a disorienting moment, he did not know where he was or even who he was.
Gradually, present reality reasserted itself. The luxurious chambers of the Cassius palace. Rome. His new position as a gladiator favored by Livia.
He sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands over his face as the last fragments of the dream dissipated. It was not the first time he had experienced these intertwined memories, but they had never been so vivid, so coherent. The memories of the original body were becoming clearer, blending with those of the elite soldier transplanted through time.
Through the balcony windows, the first rays of morning sunlight tinged Rome's sky with orange and gold. The day had come.
Rising, Lucius walked to the balcony and watched the city waking. Wagons began moving through the streets below, servants and slaves began their daily duties, merchants prepared for another day of business. Life went on, indifferent to the mysteries and inner conflicts of a single man.
The dream memories, though disturbing, brought renewed clarity. Both the special forces soldier and the young Roman bastard shared a fundamental truth: in an unjust world, power was the only true protection. And in both worlds, separated by millennia, those born without power needed to create it by any means necessary.
As he prepared for his first day at the Cassius ludus, Lucius felt a renewed resolve. The brutal Spetsnaz training had forged a warrior able to endure any physical challenge. Life as a despised bastard son had taught patience and social manipulation. Both experiences now converged, providing unique tools to navigate the dangerous labyrinth of power that was Rome.
A servant appeared at the door, respectfully indicating it was time to depart for the ludus. Lucius nodded, ready to face whatever this new day might bring.