Somewhere in the over crowded holding area, Hassan is slumped against the wall, long legs splayed out and arms folded. This has been a fucker of a week. He didn't know if someone had remembered his face from his arrival, or if it was just his usual ability to attract trouble, or if it was simply because he was new and would go unnoticed. But there he was, sporting a black eye that he was hoping wouldn't swell up and affect his sight when things kicked off.
And they would. He didn't know much about the Gods other than what the pamphlet had mentioned, or what personal shrines he'd seen in stalls and the less polished shops around the city, and he knew less about the arena. But he knew what happened in arenas, thanks to vague memories of history lessons and action films.
The gladiators remind him of fighting dogs. And the non-fighters --of which there were many-- made him think of the small dogs used for the fighters to chew on. One of them is doing so right now, looming by the gate and telling a thin, crouching, man how giving his life to Gediron will be the most worthwhile thing he can ever do, because he is a worthless, Spatter dwelling, stranger--
Hassan laughs. Because the man is ridiculous, because this is ridiculous, because everything in his life is fucking ridiculous. Everything -- everything -- is so absurd. A couple of people nearby whisper that he's cracked and maybe it's true. The gladiator takes it as insolence and gestures for him to come over, while Hassan straightens, hands behind his back. Who do you think you are-- and on it goes, in a tirade of legacy and the dihonour he will visit upon him.
Hassan rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the wall, before grandly announcing to the room at large, "I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of Rome. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."
And then --quick as a dart-- spits at the gladiator behind the gate. The Militia are already dragging him to the other side of the room and slamming him down while he yells ruuh fi sittiin alf dahya. Everything is more tense afterwards, but he doesn't care. He has nothing left to live for and he'll take down as many of you fuckers as he can.
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And they would. He didn't know much about the Gods other than what the pamphlet had mentioned, or what personal shrines he'd seen in stalls and the less polished shops around the city, and he knew less about the arena. But he knew what happened in arenas, thanks to vague memories of history lessons and action films.
The gladiators remind him of fighting dogs. And the non-fighters --of which there were many-- made him think of the small dogs used for the fighters to chew on. One of them is doing so right now, looming by the gate and telling a thin, crouching, man how giving his life to Gediron will be the most worthwhile thing he can ever do, because he is a worthless, Spatter dwelling, stranger--
Hassan laughs. Because the man is ridiculous, because this is ridiculous, because everything in his life is fucking ridiculous. Everything -- everything -- is so absurd. A couple of people nearby whisper that he's cracked and maybe it's true. The gladiator takes it as insolence and gestures for him to come over, while Hassan straightens, hands behind his back. Who do you think you are-- and on it goes, in a tirade of legacy and the dihonour he will visit upon him.
Hassan rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the wall, before grandly announcing to the room at large, "I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of Rome. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next."
And then --quick as a dart-- spits at the gladiator behind the gate. The Militia are already dragging him to the other side of the room and slamming him down while he yells ruuh fi sittiin alf dahya. Everything is more tense afterwards, but he doesn't care. He has nothing left to live for and he'll take down as many of you fuckers as he can.