Chapter 9 – Whore
Capua was never quiet. Even at night, the streets echoed with drunken laughter, the clatter of sandals, the moans and cries spilling from taverns and brothels. The Romans reveled while slaves sharpened steel for tomorrow's blood.
In the ludus, Batiatus walked the balcony with Lucretia, their whispers sharp. New debts, new patrons, new schemes. The name Gemina Ferrum had begun to circulate in the villas of Capua, and Batiatus meant to turn whispers into gold.
Below, the gladiators sweated through drills under Doctore's eye. But the mood was sour. The women of the villa had been brought into the yard, Lucretia's guests — noble ladies, painted and perfumed, eyes glittering as they watched the men clash. To the Romans, the ludus was not only an armory but a brothel.
The women's laughter echoed as one of them pointed at Ivar. "The boy with green eyes. He is pretty. Will he be sent to us?"
Doctore stiffened. The men laughed, some cruelly, others bitterly. Crixus spat in the dust. "Pretty. That is all you are to them, boy. A toy."
Ivar said nothing. His sea-green eyes stayed calm, blade spinning once in his hand before stilling. He had heard worse in Rome's alleys.
But inside, a heat stirred. Not shame. Not rage. Something older. The gods had given him storms, and storms did not bow to laughter.
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Later that night, Batiatus staged a private match for his patrons. Ivar was called, paired against a veteran Gaul with shoulders like an ox. The crowd was drunk, loud, eager for blood.
The fight began harsh and fast. The Gaul slammed into him, sword heavy as a hammer. Ivar dodged, but the blows drove him back. Steel scraped his arm, opened flesh. Blood sprayed.
The Romans roared approval.
Ivar staggered, gripping his longsword tighter, short sword darting desperately. The Gaul pressed harder, blows raining down like thunder. Sand stuck to Ivar's sweat, his blood dripping into the dirt.
His vision blurred. His body screamed.
And then — something stirred beneath his skin. His blood, hot and alive, listened. He felt the wound closing faster than it should, veins knitting, pain dulling. His opponent blinked, confused at the boy's sudden steadiness.
The temptation came. With one thought, Ivar knew, he could seize the blood inside the man, still his heart, choke him in silence.
The crowd would never see. The gods would never tell.
But Ivar clenched his jaw, forced it down. No. Not here. Not now.
Instead, he let the Gaul overextend. Sand shifted underfoot, and Ivar struck — short sword across the thigh, longsword crashing into the side of the helmet. The man collapsed, stunned, weapon falling from limp fingers.
The crowd roared, drunk with approval.
Ivar stood over the fallen man, chest heaving, blades dripping with sweat and blood. He raised his swords once, not in triumph, but in acknowledgment. The gods had tested him, and he had chosen steel over storm.
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Later, in the shadows of the barracks, Spartacus approached.
"You hesitated," Spartacus said. His eyes narrowed, voice low. "For a moment, you looked ready to… do something else."
Ivar met his gaze, calm as ever. "Every man has choices. I chose the blade."
Spartacus studied him for a long time, then nodded slowly. But unease lingered in his eyes.
Crixus scoffed from the corner. "The crowd loves him now. A boy with tricks and luck. Let us see if luck lasts when Rome throws lions at his throat."
The laughter that followed was hollow. More and more, the men looked to Ivar not as a child, but as something else entirely.
And in the house of Batiatus, whispers carried like fire.
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🔥 Do you want me to move directly into Chapter 10 – Party Favors (where Varro's tragedy begins and Ivar shows his growing empathy for him), or should I expand this chapter with a private scene between Ivar and Batiatus/Lucretia, showing how the lanista and his wife begin to see him as more than just a fighter — a potential tool?