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—Pidos, Ljosalfr territory, Alfheim.
Those of us who grew up in the ancient city-state of Pidos have heard many grand and spectacular tales growing up. These time honored stories served as excellent bedtime stories which both satisfied us and sowed the seeds for many good dreams over the years.
These tales being of legends that existed long before our time and were so tall that it could only be myths. Take for instance, one who hurled lightning bolts. Take for instance, one who made the sky fall. Take for instance, one who wrestled mountains and wrangled rivers. Yet as grand and entertaining as these stories were, they were only just that. Listening to one of them would not be enough to change a person’s life. But…
“You look like a mess!”
A man, who was naked from the waist up, slapped the scrawny Marcus in the back as a gesture of friendship. This was Sergius, a butcher by common trade, a veteren soldier at heart. Marcus knew him since he was a child as the butcher across the street, but he had never really gotten to know the man.
“Right…” Marcus felt his arms tremble and his chest pound loudly in anxiety. Even the spear gripped in his hand and the shield strapped to his arm felt so unnatural and fake to him.
“Sergius, I’ll have to thank you again for getting me in here.”
“Nonsense, if a man has a dream, then who am I to stop that? Those idiots back there don’t know a damn thing about a dream. That’s why they’re stuck doing guard duty on an occasion like this. Well, sorry to rush you at your big moment, but the show’s gotta move on and it looks like you’re going to be up next. You know what you need to do?” Sergius asked, picking up the spear by his side, however, the young man was a little too occupied by his own thoughts.
“Right…”
“Hey, you listening?” Sergius shouted.
“—Point it forward and run!” Marcus snapped his back straight and shouted, equally loud.
“There we go!” Sergius laughed before lifting up his own spear and shield as though facing off an imaginary fighter.
“Stand with your shield in front of your heart and neck! Position your spear wide so you can strike around your shield at any time! When you charge, don’t slow down! If you intimidate your enemy, then victory is as good as yours! That is what they taught me.”
“Did it help?” Marcus could not help but ask.
“Not a single fucking bit! Who’s going to be intimidated by a recruit? Good luck. Now go out there and break a leg!” Sergius roared in laughter.
“Thanks,” Marcus chuckled back before leaving to brave through that dark corridor to the portcullis on the other side. And despite those words not being reassuring in of itself, Marcus still felt reassured by the tone of Sergius’ words. It was as though he was again patting him on the back and telling him not to worry.
To an extent, Sergius was correct, as the two of them had not come here to die today. The same could be said about the rest of the thousands gathered here. But accidents could happen; accidents always happened. It was live combat after all. A budgeon to the head was still a budgeon to the head. A slip up here, a little too much force there, or somebody could let the heat of the moment get to them— and then there would be a body added to the count.
However, even that was merely a small price to pay for the sake of tradition and to celebrate a five millennium old dream— the idea that even a single person, the emperor withholding, could change a country. But ρόπαλο σιδήρου, The Iron Cudgel, was a gladiator who did just that, in a tale that was no short of tall, yet remained rooted squarely in history. It was as real as the spear in his hand, as real as the cold air in the tunnel surrounding him, and it was as real as real was ever going to get.
Of course, there were many different types of people, and they all looked up to different aspects of that story. Marcus was here for fame, and for wealth, a typical poor child’s story looking to break free from his social caste, but his drive was no less than those who came here for the sake of heroics and a chance to be embossed as a legend. That was why he was here, to experience the sensation of being inside the arena no matter what, even as just a cannon fodder—
“Oof! And the boy is down after one hit! Medics, quickly carry the body to safety! We only have a hot minute before the next challenger comes out!”
That dream was still a little faraway for him at the moment. Marcus was wise enough to acknowledge that, which was why… one day, for sure, he would achieve his goal, Marcus promised to himself— right as he took a heavy club directly to the side of his noggin.
The last thing he saw that day was the towering figure of the man wearing the red mane of a lion’s before he blacked out after half a splitting moment of pain.
…
…
Marcus grew up with a dream. A dream to be surrounded by fame and wealth. It was a dream that any kid who grew up around his part of the neighborhood had, being that they lived in a district just shy of being called a slum. Any amount of money was hard to come by, and any money that they did come by would be either thrown in a pot and buried for safekeeping, or quickly spent on things which any normal person would consider a necessity but they would view as a rare treat.
However, being someone who grew up dead last in society, in poorer living conditions than even slaves, there was not so much he could do to climb out of that cesspool. Though the only saving grace perhaps, was that he was a free man, at least. And being a free man, there was one thing he could do which no slave could, and that was to become a soldier.
A soldier of Pidos had many benefits. In addition to being paid guaranteed salary, a soldier also was given enough food to never go hungry, received multiple bonuses in the form of donatives from the emperor during special occasions, and given a retirement bonus equal to the last fifteen years of wages. All in all, being a soldier was actually a very lucrative thing to do, but that was not the life Marcus was looking for.
He had his eyes on something much bigger than that.
He wanted to make it big as a gladiator.
As a free man and a gladiator, he would only have to fight when he wanted to, and could easily obtain his yearly wage as a soldier just by winning a single battle, with said amount increasing exponentially the more famous he became. And in terms of fame, which gladiator was more prestigious than ρόπαλο σιδήρου, The Iron Cudgel, who was the very embodiment of the concept of the gladiator here in Pidos?
Luckily for him, there was a way for a person to become just that famous.
Once every decade, there was a festival where the people of Pidos would gather to recreate the legend of The Iron Cudgel. It was equal parts a celebration as it was a challenge— a gladiatorial challenge where the very limits of one’s own mortality would be tried and tested, as it required for a single man to fight for nine days and nine nights against an unending line of challengers seeking to take him down.
And if the gladiator were to remain standing victorious at the end of those grueling nine days and nine nights, then he shall be proclaimed the highest honor any one man could receive in Pidos: To be commemorated a statue in the west wing of champions and be given enough earnings to live a lifetime of decadence.
Wealth, fame, and power in one package. What more could Marcus possibly want? That was a man’s romance, regardless of their birthright or status.
…Though that being said, there was still so much he had yet to learn, and a lot more standing in the way of this dream of his.
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Fairy Song 