Chapter 2 – Sacramentum Gladiatorum
The morning sun turned the training yard into a furnace. Dust rose with every stomp, every clash of wood against wood, until the air itself seemed to choke the lungs. Doctore's voice carried above it all, sharp as a whip:
"Stand! Again!"
Ivar staggered back, wooden sword clutched tight, sweat pouring from his brow. Across from him loomed a Gaul twice his size, grin wide with cruel amusement. The man swung heavy, a hammering strike meant to break bone, not wood. Ivar ducked, rolling beneath the arc, the point of his practice blade snapping up into the Gaul's stomach.
The strike was light, controlled. A killing blow in truth, but here only a lesson.
The Gaul snarled, swinging again. Ivar caught the haft with his left hand, drove his shoulder forward, and spun away, slipping under the man's guard. A flash of movement — his free hand gripped a second wooden sword he'd stolen from the rack earlier, short and worn. With two blades in hand, his strikes came faster, sharper, overwhelming the bigger man until Doctore's bark stopped them both.
Silence fell for a heartbeat. Doctore's glare fixed on the boy.
"Who told you to take two blades, whelp?"
Ivar straightened, sea-green eyes meeting the trainer's. "No one. But a man with two arms should not waste one."
Laughter rippled through the yard, cut short by Doctore's roar. He stepped close, towering over Ivar, chest gleaming with sweat.
"Discipline, not tricks, makes a gladiator. You will train with one sword, or you will train with none."
The short blade was struck from Ivar's hand, skidding across the dirt. He stooped to pick it up, slow, deliberate. His eyes burned, but he held his tongue. Survival was knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.
From the sidelines, Spartacus watched. The Thracian, new to the brotherhood, bruised from lash and punishment, saw something familiar in the boy. Defiance, yes, but chained in iron.
Later, as the sun dipped and training ended, Spartacus approached him near the water trough.
"You fight like a man thrice your years," Spartacus said, voice low. "And yet Doctore beats you for it."
Ivar dunked his head into the trough, water spilling over his shoulders, then looked up. "Doctore wants soldiers, not thinkers. He does not see what Rome fears most."
"And what is that?" Spartacus asked.
Ivar's lips curled, not a smile but something colder. "A slave who learns. A slave who survives. A slave who remembers."
Spartacus studied him for a long moment, then nodded. The first spark of respect passed between them.
In the shadows of the ludus, Crixus sneered at the exchange. "The boy thinks himself philosopher as well as warrior. Let us see if his tongue holds true when he bleeds in the arena."
Ivar ignored him, gripping the short blade he had retrieved in secret. He wasn't ready to reveal his style — not yet. But the day would come when he would stand before the crowd, two swords flashing, and the jeers of boy would be drowned in chants of his name.
For now, he would wait. Learn. Endure.
The gods had given him the patience of the tide, and like the tide, he would rise.
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Do you want me to roll straight into Chapter 3 (Episode 3 – Legends) where Ivar begins showing more of his cunning in the yard and starts catching the attention of Romans — or do you want me to slow down here and expand more training-yard rivalries (like with Crixus or the other recruits) first?