Chapter 5 – Shadow Games
The ludus bustled with tense preparation. Whispers rippled through the brotherhood: a private exhibition had been arranged for the magistrates and wealthy patrons of Capua. A chance for Batiatus to parade his stock like prized animals.
Doctore barked orders, shoving men into pairings for practice bouts. Steel clanged against steel, sweat splashed into dust, curses and grunts filled the yard.
Ivar stood apart, whetting the edge of a practice blade. His sea-green eyes flicked over the others — Crixus, basking in his title as Champion; Spartacus, still restless, fury always near the surface; Varro, desperate for coin, his heart not in the fight.
"You'll be called," Varro said, wiping his brow. "You're young. Patrons like novelty."
"I am not novelty," Ivar answered quietly, strapping leather across his forearm. "I am survival."
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The guests arrived near sundown, laughter spilling across marble and silk. Lucretia greeted them with her trained smile, while Batiatus rubbed shoulders, whispering promises of spectacle and fortune. Wine flowed like blood.
One patron sneered when his eyes fell on Ivar. "A boy? Have you scraped the gutters, Batiatus? Will you sell children to the sand now?"
Batiatus' jaw tightened, but his merchant's smile never faltered. "Do not mistake the boy for weakness. He has survived more pits than most men survive battles. Watch, and be surprised."
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The bout was called. Ivar stepped into the small arena at the center of the courtyard, torchlight painting the dust red and gold. His opponent was a Thracian brute, thick-necked and scarred, armed with a spatha nearly as long as Ivar was tall.
The Romans laughed at the sight — a boy against a monster.
The fight began.
The Thracian charged, blade whistling down. Ivar sidestepped, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and let the blade sink into the dirt. A quick strike to the back of the knee brought the man down roaring. The Romans gasped, laughter turning to surprise.
The Thracian swung again wildly, rage clouding his strikes. Ivar danced around him, precise, every movement measured. A slash to the arm, another to the thigh. Each cut deliberate, not killing — wounding, breaking the man piece by piece.
The crowd began to murmur. This wasn't the flailing of a child. This was dismantling.
Finally, Ivar pressed the wooden blade to the man's throat, his sea-green eyes cold in the torchlight. The Thracian dropped his sword.
The patrons rose to their feet, applause hesitant at first, then thunderous.
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Later, when the Romans were gone and the ludus quieted, Spartacus found Ivar alone by the trough, cleaning blood from his arm.
"You had him dead three times," Spartacus said. "Why not finish it?"
Ivar dipped the cloth into water, watching the red swirl. "The gods know when he dies. My task was only to show he could."
Spartacus frowned, unsettled by the boy's calm. He fought for vengeance. This boy fought for something else entirely.
From the balcony, Batiatus and Lucretia whispered to one another.
"Coin in his veins," Lucretia said.
"Not coin," Batiatus corrected, eyes narrowed. "A storm."
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Would you like me to roll right into Chapter 6 – Delicate Things (where Spartacus' love for Sura takes center stage, and Ivar shows his empathy) — or pause here and deepen Ivar's growing reputation inside the ludus first (how the other gladiators are starting to react to "the boy" becoming a crowd favorite)?