Chapter 3 – Legends
The training yard hummed with tension. Spartacus fought with raw rage, Crixus with polished pride, and the others with the weary rhythm of men who knew they were little more than coin in Batiatus' purse.
But Ivar? He fought with silence.
Doctore had paired him against an Egyptian today, a man thick with scars, broad shoulders like carved stone. The crowd of gladiators chuckled at the match. A boy against a veteran — surely meant as punishment.
The Egyptian lunged, sword heavy, strike descending like a cleaver to split bone. Ivar twisted, light on his feet, the blow cutting air where his skull had been. Dust rose. The Egyptian pressed, each strike a hammer, each breath a growl.
Ivar gave ground, dodging, sliding back, never blocking directly. He studied the rhythm. Every man had one. This one's foot dragged when he pivoted, weight slow on the left leg.
The next blow came high. Ivar ducked, slammed the wooden blade against the man's knee, and slipped inside his guard. A feint with the short sword he'd smuggled again into training — the man raised his arm to block — but the feint became real, the short blade jabbing into his side while the long followed into his ribs.
The Egyptian stumbled, disarmed, body shuddering as he hit the dirt.
Doctore's jaw tightened. The gladiators roared with laughter, but this time not at Ivar. They roared at the sight of a boy dropping a killer with two blades flashing.
"Enough!" Doctore barked, striding forward. He yanked the short sword from Ivar's hand, threw it aside. "I warned you. Discipline, not tricks!"
But the men muttered differently. "Did you see him? Fast as shadow." "Two swords, like a fury." "The gods favor the boy."
The whispers spread.
Later, when the day's sweat and blood had dried, the Romans arrived. Patrons, fat and jeweled, drawn to see Batiatus' stock. They lounged beneath awnings, sipping wine, watching the gladiators spar for their entertainment.
Ivar was called forth. Alone.
His opponent: a Gaul with a chest like an ox and arms like tree trunks. The crowd laughed, wagering how quickly the child would fall.
The Gaul swung hard. Ivar dodged, as always, eyes calm, steps measured. He let the man think he was driving him back, let him believe victory was near. Then — a stumble, feigned, baiting the Gaul's rush.
Ivar's short sword flashed from nowhere, a strike across the tendon of the leg. The Gaul screamed, collapsing. Before he could rise, the long sword's point pressed to his throat.
Gasps. Then silence. Then a murmur rippling outward like a wave.
"Twin Steel," one Roman whispered.
"Gemina Ferrum," another echoed, in Latin.
The name took root.
Batiatus smiled thinly, eyes narrowing on the boy. A spectacle. A coin maker. Perhaps even more.
From the shadows, Spartacus watched. He still burned with grief and rage, but when his eyes met Ivar's, he nodded once. Respect. Recognition.
Crixus, however, spat on the dirt. "Legends are forged in the arena, not the yard. Let the boy prove himself before Romans with real steel, and we will see how long his tricks save him."
Ivar said nothing. His sea-green eyes gleamed in the fading light. He had survived the streets of Rome, the pits of Capua, and the lash of masters. The arena would be no different.
For now, the whispers were enough.
A boy had become a rumor. A rumor was becoming a legend.
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Do you want me to expand Chapter 4 (Episode 4 – The Thing in the Pit) next — where Ivar's survival skills and growing bond with Spartacus are tested in the pits — or pause here and deepen his tension with Crixus and the others in the ludus first?