Chapter 9 (Expanded) – Whore
The yard had long since quieted, but the torches still burned in the villa above. Ivar had just returned from washing blood from his arms when a guard seized him by the shoulder.
"Batiatus summons you."
He was led into the villa, where silk curtains swayed in the torchlight and the air smelled of wine and jasmine. Lucretia reclined on a couch, eyes sharp and hungry, while Batiatus paced like a wolf in a cage.
"Well, well," Batiatus said, spreading his hands. "The boy who bleeds like a man. Gemina Ferrum. Do you know what they chanted today? Your name, child. Your name. That is worth more than coin."
Ivar stood silent, meeting his gaze without flinching.
Lucretia's lips curved into a sly smile. "He has presence. It's the eyes. That color…" She leaned forward, voice velvet. "The Romans will pay dearly to see them glow beneath torchlight, to see what tricks you conjure with those pretty blades."
Ivar's voice was quiet, steady. "The gods alone conjure. I only fight."
Batiatus chuckled. "Pious, too! How refreshing. The Romans will eat it alive. A boy gladiator who thanks the gods for every scar? By Jupiter, they will throw fortunes at my feet."
He stepped close, placing a hand on Ivar's shoulder. "Fight, survive, and make me rich. Do this, and you will rise higher than chains."
Ivar did not bow, did not smile, only said: "I will fight. I will survive. The rest belongs to the gods."
Lucretia's eyes narrowed in intrigue. There was something dangerous in this boy, something she couldn't yet name.
As Ivar left, the two exchanged whispers.
"A storm, my love," Lucretia murmured.
Batiatus' smile was sharp. "A storm I mean to own."
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Chapter 10 – Party Favors
The yard was alive with celebration. Patrons had filled Batiatus' villa for a feast, wine flowing as freely as the gossip. Gladiators were paraded like ornaments, bodies gleaming with oil and sweat.
Varro sat at the edge of the festivities, a hollow look in his eyes. His debts pressed heavy, his wife distant, his spirit cracking.
Ivar sat beside him, sipping watered wine, watching Romans laugh as if the world belonged to them.
"You should smile," Ivar said quietly. "They believe our sorrow is weakness."
Varro gave a humorless laugh. "Easy for you to say, boy. You have no wife, no debts. You carry no chains but the brand."
Ivar's gaze flicked toward the sky, stars hidden by smoke. "I carry every chain. I simply choose not to rattle them."
Varro frowned, turning to study him. The boy's face was calm, eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight. "Do you ever complain? About anything?"
"No," Ivar said simply. "Every wound teaches. Every lash hardens. Every victory belongs to the gods. Complaints are wasted breath."
Varro shook his head. "Gods… If they care, why do they make us suffer?"
Ivar turned to him, voice low but steady. "Because suffering is the forge. You are not broken yet, Varro. That means you are still being tempered."
The words struck harder than any blade. For the first time in weeks, Varro's shoulders eased, if only slightly.
---
Later, the night turned darker. Batiatus whispered poison into Varro's ear, promises of release from debt, manipulations that drew him deeper into Rome's cruelty. Ivar watched from the shadows, green eyes cold. He knew the shape of tragedy when he saw it forming.
That night, when they returned to the barracks, Ivar caught Spartacus' eye.
"Your friend is cracking," he said softly. "If you would keep him alive, you must hold him together."
Spartacus frowned, unsettled by the boy's certainty. But deep down, he knew Ivar was right.
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⚔️ Do you want me to push directly into Chapter 11 – Old Wounds (Varro's death and Ivar's hardened response), or pause to add a smaller aftermath scene first — showing how Ivar's calm faith and growing insight begin to make the others whisper of him not just as a fighter, but as something unnatural?