Chapter 4 – The Thing in the Pit
The pit reeked of rot and sweat, the stench of old blood clinging to the stones like mold. The crowd above howled for slaughter, their coins heavy in their purses, their hearts eager for spectacle.
Ivar stood barefoot in the sand, chains rattling as the gate clanged shut behind him. His chest bore fresh cuts from training, his body lean, muscles wiry, but his green eyes were calm. To him, the pit was no different from the alleys of Rome where he had once fought dogs and men alike for scraps.
Across from him, two men emerged. Both older, scarred, veterans of this hell. One carried a short spear, the other a jagged blade hacked from some battlefield.
The crowd jeered, pointing. "A child!" "Throw him bones when it's over!"
Doctore's voice echoed in his memory: Discipline, not tricks.
Ivar breathed deep, tasting the dust, tasting the blood. Every breath was a prayer. The gods see me. If I live, it is their will. If I die, it is their gift.
The first man lunged with the spear. Ivar twisted, letting the shaft scrape his ribs, and slammed the wooden shield he carried into the man's chest. He felt the impact jar his arms, but he did not falter. He ducked under the second man's wild swing, rolling through sand, rising fluidly.
His opponents pressed him, cutting, circling. A nick opened on his forearm, blood running quick. The crowd roared for more.
Ivar exhaled slow, and the bleeding slowed with it. Not stopped by bandage or cloth — stopped by will. His blood obeyed him, clotting faster than it should. No one noticed, not yet.
The spear jabbed again. This time, he caught it, twisted, and drove his sword through the man's thigh. The scream filled the pit. The second charged in fury, blade high. Ivar let the fury come — then stepped aside, kicking sand into his eyes, striking his ribs with brutal precision.
The fight ended in a blur of pain and cries. One man crawled, leg ruined. The other lay choking, blade buried in his chest.
The crowd roared. Not in mockery now, but in shock.
Ivar stood alone, chest heaving, face a mask of calm. He raised his sword once, not in triumph, but in acknowledgment — to the crowd, to the gods, to the blood still dripping from his hand.
When he returned to the ludus, Spartacus was waiting.
"You prayed before you killed them," Spartacus said quietly, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
Ivar shrugged, rinsing the blood from his blade. "Every victory is the gods'. Every wound, their lesson. I do not curse what teaches me."
Spartacus studied him, silent for a long moment. He had cursed the gods for Sura, cursed Rome for its cruelty. Yet this boy — fourteen and scarred — carried faith without bitterness.
"You're not like the rest of us," Spartacus muttered.
Ivar met his eyes, sea-green burning. "No. I am still alive."
From the shadows, Crixus watched with a sneer. "Let the boy speak of gods. The arena will strip the faith from him soon enough."
But the whispers had already begun among the men. The boy did not complain. The boy bled, fought, and thanked the gods for it. In Capua, that was stranger than any miracle.
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Do you want Chapter 5 next — Shadow Games — where Ivar gets his first taste of attention from the Roman elite, or should I pause here and flesh out more rivalries and camaraderie inside the ludus first (Crixus, Varro, Barca, etc.)?