(TW: contains some sexual / rape description)
A lonely beam of light sneaked shyly through a small window in the corner of the ceiling. The small ray was too weak to illuminate the whole darkness of the room, reflecting merely three flagstones that floored the ground and walls of the cell where a bent down figure sat silently and motionlessly like the wall he leaned on. Checking every day, the warden got used to the unchanging sight of his prisoner piled on himself and drowned in thoughts. Any new warden still not accustomed to the darkness lurking in the cell, would think that protruding heap was a poorly carved part of the wall.
The small ray of sunlight turning into moonlight consecutively failed to dominate the eye-shot of the bronze eyes. The man to whom this distinct pair belonged did not even bother to move closely and bathe his doomed body by what can become the last beam ever to bless him at any given instant.
These eyes could see no light, nor shine with any.
And once more, he found himself a slave to the chains he hated, they followed him everywhere. Laughing at his ill luck, the prisoner thought he should perhaps admit their power over him, then perhaps these chains would not be that cruel to him.
He was accused of murder, and murder he had indeed committed. That action wasn't regrettable though, nor the obvious outcome of it was feared, it was rather the method that outcome would be executed through what was regrettable, but once again not feared.
Having killed his owner, the prominent highly regarded slave trader Lord Claudius, only one punishment could be wreaked upon the wretched slave; death by the cruelest means that would satisfy the betrayed soul and please the indignant ones of the livings.
"Yield your so called honor for me!"
The words echoed in the Celtic's head endless times, the weight of the corpulent merchant's crushing him down the sheets as his gaze could focus on nothing. His fists now rendered paralyzed could inflict no damage or even the sensation of pain on the lusty merchant whose dull pupils widened like a stray dog enjoying a long sought meal; whooping and dribbling, licking and biting like the wild beast he was.
Diarmuid was no ignorant or idiot. He could clearly conclude what was about to happen but could never allow it to. He refused to accept that what was going on was real.
Denial was his only option and weapon.
That turn of events was so sudden, and so unexpected. Like a dying man cured at the last moment, like a healthy man stroke with deadly illness through his fortitude for no reason, Diarmuid could not open his eyes and accept this fate.
Denial. His knightly honor could not be defiled more than what it had already been.
Then, a silver bright caught the fluttering eyes.
There was a weapon other than denial, one that took physical shape and truly existed, therefore truly inflicted consequences. This was no time for weakening, his muscles have to move, his mind must obey. He could not be defeated that simply.
The merchant whooped for the last time. Contrary to his lavish lecherous life, his last bray was that of pure agony not excitement.
Both the killed and the killer were drowned in redness.
Trying to escape was futile, the Celtic did not even have the time to think about it, his body using the last ounce of strength it possessed. Claudius's last scream alerted the guard who barged into the room, shocked by the scene; his naked lord drowning and chocking on his own blood that was drowning the sheets, a knife lodged in his neck's artery, as the new handsome slave, half naked and disheveled as well, was drifting in and out of his awareness and as the furious Celtic could not command any muscle in his body, he was easily seized.
It turned out that the merchant had no family or close siblings, so his murder's verdict was consigned to the local judge. Curious people who attended the trial already knew the outcome of it. Nevertheless, they hoped to enjoy seeing the defiant slave defend himself and enjoy a new story of Claudius' famous debauchery but the latter disappointed them. Knowing nothing can save him, the Celtic chose to remain silent and refused to explain the reason for his crime, it was useless and honestly, unnecessary. Besides, he did not acknowledge these Romans' authority over him in the first place.
The final verdict excited though it was not surprising to the audiences attending the trial. The treacherous slave was to die at the arena by the hands of wild animals and the no less wild gladiators. Executing the order, Diarmuid was locked in a cell within the amphitheater where criminals and war prisoners spent their last days before facing the same judgment he received. Throughout the morning till sunset, the prisoner kept hearing the roaring of tigers and lions, the howling of wrestlers, the hopeless begging of the defeated victims as the grind of smashed limbs was lost to the cheers of the joyous audience.
Diarmuid only wondered if he will be given the chance to defend himself instead of dying like a crippled easy prey. He gritted his teeth disgruntled; the reason he chose to become a knight was to die honorably, and now once again fate had twisted his wishes condemning him to die for the amusement of the blood thirsty audiences meaninglessly.
He was not afraid of death, no matter what shape it disguised itself in, but he had to live. Somewhere in this same city, perhaps closer than he imagines a friend needed his help, and faraway, beyond the mountains and seas, a woman prayed, either grieving his presumed death or looking forward his hoped return.
If only he had not eloped with her that fateful night and broke her heart by the facts of their impossible relationship and his undying loyalty to his leader, it was certainly better than breaking her heart this way, leaving it to hang between hope and despair, leaving it to feed on illusions and wishes while waiting for his unguaranteed, now, impossible return.
"Grainne…"
But in front of her resolutely deploring eyes, he could be neither wise nor loyal.
Her vision visited him like a refreshing breeze escaping just as they did from beyond the seas and lands, gently whiffing life into his heart, and he would smile at her vision welcoming the few happy memories it brought along with the hope it tried to birth. How much he desired to grasp that thread the frail shadow wished to gown him.
Sadly, that vision only appeared woven by the moonlight, never by the sun's.
***
"Hey you... today is your day!"
The prison guard exclaimed with a voice hoarser than the rattle of his old keys rolling inside the rusty lock. He peered in first making sure his prisoner was still alive just to be greeted by a sharp stare. Confirming the wretched man was still breathing, and also willing to fight, he sneered at the prisoner as he unshackled him from the wall, probably with the same words he used with every man thrown in this cell of definite doom:
"I am glad to see you are still beating around and have not died out of fear. The audience outside are eager and athirst to witness the impudent Celtic who killed old dear Claudius."
Finishing his speech with a ringing laugh, he motioned at the prisoner to get up and follow him, and the latter did not hesitate. Impressed, the repugnant man nodded satisfied.
"Good boy!"
Were it not for the prisoner's furious aura, the warden would have probably reached his hand to pat on the "good boy's" head the way he petted his dog. Being the keeper of the animals and of the convicted who were sent here, the man dealt with both species the same, finding no difference between the two. They both were chained and kept in cages where they crawled and grinned, they ate the same rubbish and became content with it, they came first grim and wild then gradually became tamed and obedient. And in the end they both snarled and growled, returning to their savage common origin whenever their lives swung on the edge. He viewed them with the same regard, and sometimes they really turned out to be more similar than he had thought.
The warden grasped the a long chain attached around the neck of his prisoner whose body was sinking under chains. They marched slowly and with every step the roaring of avid throats and the clattering of blades grew closer and louder.
"That gladiator is something, he had just slaughtered a tiger after a dozen of other fighters. Maybe you would have been better left to the animals' jaws alone!"
The warden who almost dressed in nothing but a large rag wrapped around his waist exaggerated, as if trying to stir the fear inside his prisoner who kept a nonchalant and silent attitude. The guard added at the suddenly increased cheers.
"He probably killed the last one of those poor souls."
The poor souls were the criminals and revolting slaves who were condemned to die this day, just like the lancer. The warden glanced briefly at the prisoner, knowing the latter understood his metonymy, but opted to maintain the same attitude not affected by how menacing the enemy sounded. He was doomed to perish by today's end, what was the meaning of developing emotions such as fear or excitement at this dead point?
A third man joined the party, walking down from the end of the dark low ceiled corridor that led to the arena. Not matching this dirty gloomy place with his fine but not costly clothes, seemingly out of place by his proper haircut and neatly grown bread. He eyed the condemned man from head to toe not missing the smallest details of his muscular structure. The smile of satisfaction he had when he came in because of the tremendous success of today's show, grew larger.
"He is a strong man, this should make a good show!"
The man's remark implied he was the owner of this circus as the Celtic had named it. His words though concerning the prisoner were not directed at the said man who was clearly a mere object to add to the owner's fortune and to the audience's lust. Rubbing his hands together, the owner left them, probably to introduce the next battle as the warden told the convict to hurry his steps.
At the entrance to the arena through which animals and humans' growling was heard clearly shaking the walls and ceiling, the warden stopped unshackling the prisoner. He began talking:
"You better struggle a little to excite the audience. Do not act as some do giving up the moment they enter the ring! I have seen men looking more furious and braver than you, but as soon as they set their feet inside that theater of death, they wetted their pants with fear and their lips with prayers. At least, fighting back, you will die with the people's applaud."
The warden instructed, certain of the slave's defeat. True enough, it was. Diarmuid thought still wondering if he will be given a weapon. Finally stating his question out loud, he was answered by a surprised tone:
"You are actually worried about this?!"
Removing the final chain from the prisoner's legs, the man shook his head laughing, his cackling sounding to the countless wretched bodies who were waiting their turn across the numerous cells along the dark corridor like the croak of a crow.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but is not this better? It will not raise your hops for nothing in the end, you are destined to die by this day's end. You will be less miserable!"
His chuckle ended with a whimper of pain and tiredness as he found it difficult to stand up again as his backbones cracked subjugated every day to the same boring routine, this sort of job was really tiring, he thought. While standing he finally came eye to eye with his prisoner. Staring at the sharp beautiful features destined to be crushed and stampeded upon mercilessly, he announced:
"Here is a thing to cheer you up!"
Diarmuid widened his eyes expecting at least a knife, but the cheerful news was a piece of information that had no meaning to the doomed man.
"The governor himself is attending today, he rarely does! You are both lucky and honored!!"
Both adjectives were out of place and had no value to the Celtic; if being stripped from his freedom and the slightest shreds of knightly honor made him lucky, then he was ironically the luckiest man on this ugly earth, and being honored by the presence of a governor he did not acknowledge did not worth a penny or grant him one.
At the sound of the ring's owner introducing the next battle and crowd's eager applaud to see the merchant's murderous slave and object of lechery as they concluded from the servants details of that night, the warden declared:
"Slave, it is your turn!"
Giving him a strong push on the back, the warden retreated to his shadows uninterested in the upcoming fight, or slaughter more literally. Unlike the attendants who increased every day, he had gotten bored of witnessing the same play countless times through his stagnant career.
Unbothered by the warden's derisive encouragement, the Celtic stepped into the arena. Greeted by the golden rays devouring elegantly the entire place, he narrowed his bronze eyes blinded by the high noon sun which he had not witnessed for half a month. It took him few seconds until he could fully open his eyes. Just as the Celtic had heard about the Roman stadiums, this one was big, the seats where the spectators sat arranged like a giant ladder, competed with the sun rays to reach the sky. This place was probably the highest building the Celtic had ever seen. His eyes could not but wander to the top. There, a balcony decorated by red flags and ribbons, soared above the audience seats. The many guards that deployed the balcony revealed the importance of the guest watching from there. It was obviously from where the said governor was watching. His gaze was forcibly drawn to a certain spot dominated by a red and golden sash where the sun chose to ravel her golden rays more gently in contrast to the scorching beams she sent across the arena, blending them as if helping to weave a set of bright golden locks under which a slim figure stood. The Celtic guessed the blond man warped in that flashy attire to be the governor. He seemed rather very young and emaciated to hold such a title, or perhaps it was just the distance playing a trick and making the man seems as such. The hugeness of the place and the governor's attendance "who rarely did attend" only confirmed the importance of the murdered victim. Scorning, Diarmuid turned his eyes to the ground again, where his fate awaited. The large arena embraced tightly by the stadium, reeked with the scent of death. An agitated tiger and other smaller predatory animals were restrained by their trainers at the arena's corners and in the middle, standing like a sole survivor among the passengers of a wrecked ship, a gladiator that outstripped the Celtic in build and height, stood, all of his features painted with blood.