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They had been little more than children when they had been taken from their home. Duro had clung to him during the terrifying trip, little more than a babe even by the reckoning of his own people. Still, 12 was terribly young to ask a child to become a man. But then again, it had not been asked, it had been necessary.
But a man was what Agron became none the less. He fought, he trained, he grow strong, all for the promise of freedom. They were big even as children, and as they came into their teens, the dominus began to take notice of such large, strong boys, quick to anger and quicker to fight.
The transition from ludus slave to gladiator was not as simple as either had hoped. They knew the weapons but not how to wield them, and youthful hearts were harder to set to purpose than their purposeful minds.
Duro’s pursuit of the Greek seemed little better than folly to his brother, but Agron had not much place to speak. His own eyes were far from idle these days.
Their first true meeting had been bare months after the boy had arrived. Duro and Agron had belonged to the ludus for some years then. Agron had been carrying weapons when the sounds of pottery breaking had caused him to jump. He turned, snarling, at the culprit. Just beyond the bars had been a tiny, dark haired boy, watching Agron with impossibly large, dark eyes. The German boy had softened. It seemed wrong to further frighten the already spooked little rabbit. So had had given the boy a careful nod and a quiet smile and left.
Since then, he’d seen the boy a thousand times, a tiny Syrian runt a handful of years younger than himself. As a child, the dark boy was skittish and soft, seemingly afraid to linger to long at the gates that separated the ludus form the house.
But as of late, he’d come into his own. Though still small of stature, he was of a form now, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist with smooth dark skin. His hair was thick and black, always pulled artfully back form his face, as was befitting of the dominus body slave. But his large, dark eyes had not changed in the slightest and they called to Agron like a moth to the flame.
Aching in body and soul he trudged back to the cells after training, ready to scrape away the dust and sweat of the day. At barely 19, he fought as well as any man, but it brought Doctore’s wrath on him all the harder. The sharp crack of pottery took him aback and he spun snarling towards the source of the sound. His breath caught and he froze as he saw the source.
The Syrian boy swore, kneeling to pick up the shattered amphora. Argon could see he was favoring his left hand.
Cautiously, Argon glanced around. No guards to be seen. He approached the bars.
“Are you alright boy,” he called.
The Syrian turned on his heel, glancing up at Agron’s voice in surprise.
“Agron,” he said softly.
The German’s brows knit.
“You know my name.”
“We all do,” the Syrian sighed, reaching to gather the remaining shards, “Dominus sees great promise in you and your brother.”
Agron felt a swell of pride, but the Syrian stood, calling his attention back to the matter.
“You know my name,” he asked as the boy turned his back, “My I be graced with the same knowledge?”
The Syrian scowled.
“Why does a gladiator have need for such knowledge?”
Agron was taken back by the venom in the younger man’s voice.
“Call it a trade,” he offered, nodding towards the broken amphora, “I will see the evidence over the cliff. In return for a name.”
The Syrian sighed, glancing back towards the stairs. He shook his head, taking a few steps forward. Argon stuck his hand through the bars, taking the shards from the smaller hands. Their fingers brushed and he felt a shiver race across his spine.
The boy turned to go and Agron starred in shock.
“You promised me a name,” he hissed, pressing against the bars. The boy was heading up the stairs, fresh amphora in hand.
“Tiberius,” he called over his shoulder, “The dominus calls me Tiberius.”
And the he was gone.
Agron sighed, unable to help his giddy smile. Tiberius. A fair name for one so dark of skin but it was a name. It rested sweet on the tip of his tongue for the remainder of the night.