Chapter 8 – Mark of Brotherhood
The cheers of the arena still rang in Ivar's ears long after the dust had settled. Gemina Ferrum. Twin Steel. A boy no longer mocked, but whispered of with awe.
In the ludus, reactions were divided. Some clapped his shoulder with newfound respect. Others, like Crixus, looked at him with sharpened hatred. To be cheered in Capua was to steal light from the Champion's flame.
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Doctore's voice thundered across the yard: "Spartacus. Crixus. Together."
The two men stiffened. Rivals forced into kinship.
They stepped into the sand, weapons ready. One was the Champion of Capua, the other a Thracian rebel. Neither had any taste for partnership.
Doctore's eyes swept the rest. "Observe. This is how brotherhood is forged — or broken."
The bout began, and it was chaos. Crixus refused to follow Spartacus' lead, Spartacus refused to yield ground. Their strikes nearly cut each other as often as their opponent. The crowd of gladiators jeered, laughed, mocked.
From the sideline, Ivar watched, arms crossed. His sea-green eyes narrowed, reading every movement, every misstep. He leaned toward Varro, murmuring low enough that only a few nearby could hear.
"They bleed their pride more than their enemies. If either would bend, both would win."
Varro chuckled bitterly. "Tell them that."
But Ivar didn't need to. His words spread, whispered from ear to ear. Soon half the yard was muttering the same judgment: the Champion and the Thracian were too proud to survive.
Doctore barked at them to focus. Their opponent — a hulking veteran armed with trident and net — pressed hard, driving both men back. For a heartbeat it seemed he might topple them both.
Then Spartacus' eyes flicked to the sideline. He caught Ivar's calm stare, the faint tilt of the boy's head. A suggestion. Not a command.
Spartacus shifted, adjusting his stance. Crixus snarled, furious at being forced to follow, but instinct made him fall in line. Together, they struck — one high, one low. The trident fell, the net torn, the veteran collapsing in the dust.
The yard went quiet.
Doctore nodded once. "Brotherhood. Remember it, or you will die."
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That night, tension simmered in the barracks. Crixus seethed, his pride wounded by whispers of weakness. Spartacus sat in silence, jaw tight, replaying the fight in his head.
And Ivar? He sat with his back against the wall, polishing his short sword, speaking just loud enough for all to hear:
"A man alone may win glory. Brothers together win wars."
The words settled over the room like ash. No one challenged them. Not even Crixus.
The boy was becoming something more than a novelty. He was becoming a voice. A quiet weight.
And in the house of Batiatus, whispers carried further than blades.
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⚔️ Do you want me to move straight into Chapter 9 – Whore (where politics tighten and Ivar nearly slips in using his powers during a desperate fight), or would you prefer a short interlude chapter showing how Romans and gladiators are now reacting differently to him after his arena victory and his growing influence in the yard?