Chapter 1 – The Red Serpent
The sun was merciless in Capua, a burning hammer that beat down upon the ludus of Batiatus. The courtyard smelled of sweat, iron, and old blood — the perfume of slaves. The air rang with the rhythm of wooden swords striking shields, curses in a dozen tongues, and the bark of Doctore's commands.
Ivar stood among them, stripped to the waist, branded flesh still healing on his forearm. The mark of the brotherhood was raw and angry, the scar tissue thick and ridged like the teeth of some beast. He flexed it often, reminding himself that pain meant he was still alive.
Fourteen years old. A boy among men. But the men around him had learned not to laugh too loudly.
Ivar's body was wiry, green eyes sharp beneath the curtain of black hair damp with sweat. In one hand he carried the practice longsword, the other a short blade. Few others bothered with dual weapons — too difficult, too demanding. Yet he had made it his own. On the streets of Rome, fighting for scraps, you learned quickly that one weapon was never enough.
He ducked a blow from a larger Thracian, sidestepped, and slashed the man's leg with the short sword before jabbing the longsword into his ribs. The bigger man grunted, dropped to a knee. Doctore barked for the fight to continue, but the outcome was already plain. Ivar disengaged, blades dripping with sweat, and gave a curt bow.
"Clever little bastard," the Thracian spat, limping away.
Crixus, the Champion of Capua, leaned on the railing and sneered. "A child among lions. When the arena calls, boy, it will not forgive your tricks."
Ivar's gaze met his. Cold. Calculated. "Tricks win wars, Champion. Brute strength dies fast."
That earned laughter from the onlookers, but not from Crixus.
Batiatus watched from the balcony, Lucretia at his side, both curious about this youth. A slave branded barely a month ago, yet already drawing attention. The lanista's lips curled. A boy who fought like a veteran? There was coin to be made in such novelty.
But Ivar ignored their stares. He had survived too long to seek applause. His heart was steel, his blood divine, and though he could feel the lightning under his skin, the water in his veins, the storm in his bones, he refused them. To lean on such gifts would be weakness.
The gods had taken his mother in battle. They had given him powers, yes, but also a lesson: rely on them too much, and they will leave you naked when it matters most.
So he chose discipline. Flesh. Steel. Blood.
The courtyard training ended as the gates of the ludus swung wide. A new slave was dragged in, chained, battered — a Thracian with fire in his eyes.
Spartacus.
The men jeered, some curious, some hostile. Doctore's voice thundered: "Another brother joins the House of Batiatus. May he prove less worthless than those before!"
Ivar said nothing. But his eyes lingered on the newcomer. He saw rage in him, saw defiance, saw a man who would break before bending. Dangerous. Perhaps useful.
The sun dipped lower, painting the training yard in blood-red light. Ivar gripped his dual swords, a boy's frame carrying a warrior's resolve, and thought to himself:
The gods may play their games, but I will play mine. And when the sand drinks Roman blood, I will still be standing.
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Do you want me to continue straight into Chapter 2 (Episode 2 – Sacramentum Gladiatorum) next, or should we expand this chapter further with more dialogue between Ivar, Doctore, and the other gladiators to show his early standing in the ludus?