Chapter Text
His saviour is a cripple.
And he didn't even let the slightest cry for mercy. Begging would mean selling his honour at the lowest price. What else is there left for a man with no family, no tribe, no possessions and no freedom? The last thing to clung onto is honour and some memories.
But no reminiscence, not even the brightest one can light the way among the Romans. They spread like parasites, with their foreign tongue, culture and gods, claiming what never belonged to them.
The very ground under his feet was walked by free and proud men of the North. Oh, they're still here. In chains, slaughtered like animals for the joy of the crowd.
Some men played along, fighting with gladiators, hoping for a luck. Esca would not have that. He did not owe them anything, he needn't obey the rules. He made his own by tossing the weapon away and he would hold on to it even a the cost of his own life.
The son of the Brigantes spits on the other's mercy.
Yet the crippled Roman decided to give it to him anyway.
Was it pity? Some kind of sentiment? Maybe just a twisted lust? Esca's seen those wealthy Roman cockroaches picking the most delicate, prettiest boys and girls at the slave market.
But this one just looks at him for a while and when everything is over, slowly gets up, assisted by two man, and leaves with the others. Weak and pitiful – that's what his saviour is like.
Arena gradually becomes empty. Esca just stands in the middle, feeling the growing hatred and a burning need to pay his debt.