The Death of Rome.
She was only seventeen had the ability to make an arena flooded with the entirety of her city roar at her arrival into death. Spaniard, female, barbarian, slave, filthy, dark-skinned. She was the audience favorite and the beautiful image of fear when all she ever did was look bored out of her wits.
She was most commonly known as Pluto. Ender of One Thousand Men. No one could bring the slave to her knees and execute her. She was the voice of the hopeless. She gave them something that the Emperor and Senate could not. Togetherness. Together they could bet on her. Together they could cheer for her. Together they would fear her.
Only seventeen, Bellona Amezquita De Santiago Brisco was the face of terror. She had been condemned to bondage for a decade now, but she was not ignorant enough to openly complain. She grew patience through watching her fourteen siblings die one-by-one at seven-- some by her hands and some at others,-- through whippings and torture from her masters, through sleepless nights tending to a lustful owner. Only seventeen, Bellona was diseased with bloodlust and hatred towards those who both wanted her to rise and watch her fall.
Enter the Colosseum. Each time her chains are unlocked from her ankles and wrists and she must step her bare feet onto the sandy earth, she can smell death. Death has a scent that smells like her mother’s tears as she prayed over her and her siblings when they were dragged into Italy from their village in cages. And then it has a very specific taste. It tastes like Alonso's blood when she, only seven, slit his throat in order to survive. Death looks like a false image of survival, too. A faulty one that lies with a smile. An albino woman that draws in deranged men, taking them away somewhere that wasn’t a Heaven or Hell.
But enough about death. And not even survival. What Bellona stared at was four men, all twice her size and weight, masked with bits and pieces of half-assed armor protecting what they believe to be vital organs. They were alive. Her objective wasn’t to survive. It was to provide Death a vacation day.
Bellona didn’t do masks. It made it seem like she has something to hide. She shamelessly stared down her next kills, taking in their choices of weaponry and defense. Two with broadswords. One, the farthest, armed with a bow and arrow. The biggest with a battle ax and a shield. All masked. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she unsheathed her sword, the old metal flashing with the intrusive sun. The crowd screamed for her just from that one action, all thirsty for blood. They wanted her blood most of all. Everyone wondered if she, this stupid barbarian, would shed some eventually. Inwardly, she scoffed. If someone were to take her blood one day, she’ll serve them for the rest of her life.
“One of you should take the first swing and make this really easy on yourselves,” she sighed, fighting away a yawn. She didn’t get much sleep the night before. A new slave was bought yesterday and they were forced to share her cot to make space. Unfortunately, they sobbed all night and it took Bellona beating them senseless to get them to shut up. She apologized so she didn’t really feel bad about it.
One of the men took a shaky step towards her, then another. The bowman in the back nocked his arrow and drew it back, ready to fire once the action started. The axman stood closer to the back to protect his long-range from any harm. From the looks of it, if she died, they would all be able to live. How annoying. “I guess it is my go then.”
The swordsman to her right was incredibly inexperienced from what she could tell. The poor bastard lead with his left leg and had the audacity to place all of his weight there for an extra boost when he would charge; it was obvious that wasn’t his dominant foot from how awkward he stood. She didn’t use her sword. She ducked down and swept his leg leg from under him, the gladiator falling forwards and dropping his sword to catch himself. Bellona snagged the collar of his vest and dragged him in front of her as she stood, using him as her shield when the archer shot at her chest. She had to admit, the archer had good aim-- he shot directly into his comrade's heart.
The other swordsman that was close to her cried out something in an African language Bellona didn’t understand, but charged. She shoved the dead body in her arms into him as hard as she could, knocking him down. Picking up her sword from the ground, she stayed low to avoid the bowman, tumble-rolling to her enemy and impaling him downwards through the corpse’s back. The African screamed and choked on the blood that erupted from the back of his throat, in the process of meeting that cruel Death.
The axman, now with no choice but to attack, sprinted at Bellona while she was down, hacking at her on the ground. She didn’t have time to yank her sword out of the kabob of bodies she created, so she hurried and rolled out of the way, narrowly dodging the arrow that went whizzing past her head. The man chased after her, swinging wildly at her, but Bellona continued lunging out of the way each time. The audience had a mixed reaction, some laughing and others booing at this redundant game of keep-away.
The thing that no one realized about Bellona was that she had been fighting for most of her life and knew how to play her cards in ways that wouldn’t get her killed. For instance, she knew that the strong, big, muscle-heavy gladiators most likely did not have the best endurance. It didn’t take long until her opponent began slowing down in both his running and his swings. Swiping up the sword of her first victim up from the ground, she lifted herself to her feet while the axman stood over her, stabbing the blade through his neck. The beast of a man wobbled then tumbled to his back when Bellona jerked the bloodsoaked weapon out from under his chin.
She nearly lost her life to the arrow that soared in front of her barely-dodging face, the head grazing the bridge of her nose, blood shooting from the cut in the process. Spectators intoxicated themselves on watching her blood fly from the gash in her face, most never seeing the foreign lifeforce in their lives. She was stunned momentarily, not used to another gladiator harming her, but the rage inside of her stomach boiled hot into her chest. While the archer attempted to nock his final arrow and end the Spaniard, she hurled her sword at his unsuspecting place kneeled on the ground.
She took his neck. He fell backward, arms outstretched, head somewhere she didn’t care about, blood everywhere. There was a long silence that Bellona loathed with everything in her.
“Are you not entertained, Romans?!” She boomed, face hot; voice carrying itself offensively across the inappropriately silent audience. “You come to this arena for blood, do you not? Regardless if that blood is mine, you want to taste death like I do. You love it! Be grateful that I, this humble slave-- this savage beast, has provided you with it! Look now! These filthy barbarians bleed!” She was not meant to use her voice. Glancing at the emperor out of corner of her eye, she saw him and the few Senators around him tense with emotions she couldn’t make out. Guards rallied at the gates, ready for her to continue speaking. If she did, they would have her blood. Finally. And that was her curse.
Rome grew into a frenzy of screams and moans of excitement at her victory. Bellona, stern-faced and absolutely disgusted, turned on her heel and abandoned the bodies of her fallen equals to the slaughter of starving lions stolen from their homes just like her. The gates opened for her and when she was cloaked back in the darkness, her fellow slaves broke into their own madness as she passed. She felt like she would throw up if she acknowledged any of them. She didn’t face her master as she went by. She knew that she would suffer the consequences of being his favorite toy later on.
(c) SelfTitled, 2017