"Remember that you are an actor in a drama, of such a kind as the author chooses. If short, then it is a short one; if long, then it is a long one. If it is his pleasure that you should act the part of a poor man, a cripple, a governor, or a private person, see that you act it well. For your business is to act the character assigned you; to choose it is another's."
— Epictetus, Enchiridion, Chapter 17
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The Ludus yard stands silent, the sand sizzling under the scorching sun, the shimmering heat haze shifting like silken veils. My nose wrinkles as I catch the sharp scent of the stale sweat and blood baked into the earth. Bruised and battered from yesterday's drills, I can't tell if I've grown accustomed to the punishment or if my body's truly grown strong. Every day feels a little easier. We've been put through the Agōn for weeks now—a brutal gauntlet that hammers and grinds us down. The strong come out stronger and the weak come out broken or not at all. I've already heard whispered stories from the other Novicii—tales of those who didn't make the cut, cast out and sent to some unknown hell. No one wants to find out if the tales are true.
Spartacus strides into the yard. He's not especially tall, but every inch of him is lean, well-built muscle, as if sculpted from marble. His dark eyes sweep over us, sharp and assessing, like a hawk sizing up its prey. With his black hair and beard cropped close, he looks both fierce and composed, the kind of man who commands his surroundings with ease. He's the Primus Palus of the Ludus, the top gladiator here, and rumors say he's bound to claim the title of Champion at the Corrida Coliseum games. But as I watch him, I don't see pride in his eyes, or even ambition. Just a steady, unreadable intensity, one that flickers toward the nobles in the shaded terrace nearby before turning back to us.
Doctore steps forward, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as steel. "Today, you will each find the weapon that suits you best," he says, his solemn, sweeping gaze slicing across the yard. "To survive in the arena, it must become as much a part of you as your own arm." His eyes linger on a few of the more uncertain Novicii before he adds, "Those who can't adapt… have no place here." Casting one last glance, he nods to Spartacus and strides out of the yard, leaving the weapon training in his hands.
A flicker of unease stirs within me. I'm strong enough to endure the Agōn, sure, and I've even had the good fortune of consistently receiving Eugene's careful coaching during the gauntlet. 'He really did find a bigger hammer, too!' Oddly, most Novicii try to avoid catching Eugene's eye, but I figure Epictetus is right, the fiercer these trials, the stronger I'll grow. Still, I've only ever handled a net and spear for fishing; real weapon training is something else entirely.
Spartacus steps toward a rack of weapons and picks up a gladius. Holding it high, he brings it down in a series of swift, controlled strikes, each strike falls with the grace and precision of a falcon's dive. Every movement is practiced, exact—power bound tightly within restraint. Watching him, it's impossible not to feel the power he possesses, though there's a grim tension beneath it all, a shadow lurking in his eyes.
"The weapon chooses the fighter as much as the fighter chooses the weapon," he says, his voice flat. "Feel its weight, its reach, how it desires to move. When it feels like an extension of you, you'll know."
He gestures toward the line of weapons, and my eyes land on a massive, spiked club—a kanabo. I let out a low gasp, my jaw dropping as I stare at it, feeling an electric thrill run through me.
"That's… so coooool!" I (definitely don't) squeal, barely able to contain my excitement, as I step forward and snatch up the club. It's ridiculously heavy, but I lift it with a huge grin, stars in my eyes, and take a few practice swings, imagining the damage it could do. I'm so caught up in how amazing it feels that I almost don't notice the massive hand crash onto my shoulder with a powerful WOOOMPH, rattling the weapons racks, planting me ankle deep into the ground, and blowing a ring of dust away from me. Confused, I look up curiously to see Eugene towering over me with a grin covering the full width of his face.
"Nice choice, kid," he rumbles, chuckling. He quickly glances over at Spartacus, who's busy helping another trainee get into stance with a shield, then leans down with shifty eyes. "That's practically my specialty! Let ol' Eugene coach ya!" His eye gleams mischievously as he instructs, "First, we gotta' envision! Go ahead and close your eyes."
Feeling fortunate that Eugene knows how to use this thing, I eagerly nod and close my eyes. Still holding the heavy kanabo, wondering what sort of technique he's going to teach me.
"Good," Eugene says. "Now, hold out your hands like you're windin' up to take a real big swing." I follow his instructions, feeling him swap out the club for something else—heavy, but easier to manage somehow, with just the right heft and an amazing balance.
"Alright, kid, now choke up on the bat," Eugene says, dead serious. Enthralled by the club, I adjust my grip, doing exactly as he says, vibrating in excitement.
"Perfect." Eugene sounds almost proud. "Now… feel the weight of it. Don't grip too tight—let it follow your swing, nice and easy." I start to take a few practice swings, feeling the weight in each arc, and for some reason, it feels incredible. My muscles stretch, power flowing into every movement, and I can't remember anything feeling this good.
Eugene's voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur. "Alright, kid, now picture it. Imagine an opponent right there in front of you. You wind up, ready to hit 'em so hard, they go flying! Can you see it? They're blasting off... there they go—high up in the air!"
"Yeah, I see it!" I nod, gripping the bat tighter, my excitement building. "I knocked 'em right out of the yard!"
"Alright, let 'er rip!" Eugene whispers, but his voice is starting to rise, excitement overtaking him. I take a massive swing, and the force of it blasts a gust of wind that kicks up a small sandstorm, sending several Novicii stumbling back and drawing startled looks from those around us. They're watching now, getting pulled into our pace.
Eugene suddenly bellows, throwing all caution to the wind. "Wow, what a scorcher! This one could go all the way! It's high up, going… going… GONE!" His voice reaches a booming crescendo. "He's done it! Knocked it right outta the park! It's a HOME RUN!"
The other Novicii are practically cheering along, swept up in the moment. Everyone is cheering, clapping, and whooping, all caught up celebrating the home run right along with us.
And then—a sharp intake of breath. I turn to see Spartacus, his face frozen in utter disbelief. His eye twitches, his mouth drops open, and for a moment, he just stares, a muscle in his jaw pulsing.
Then, in an instant, his expression twists into a fierce shark-toothed scowl, a huge tick covers half his brow. He storms over, bellowing. "EUGENE! WHAT do you think you're doing?" He glares down at the bat, his dark eyes blazing. "This isn't spring training! I'm trying to train gladiators here, not have you goof around with that bat again!"
I scramble to hide the bat behind my back, though it's comically oversized and juts out on either side, impossible to miss. "Um… uh… what bat?"
Spartacus's eyes narrow, his hand extending toward me, palm up. "Hand it over."
I clutch the bat tighter, a pang of reluctance hitting me. "But… it's awesome!" I mutter, half to myself. I try to take a step back, but he advances, his dark eyes locked onto mine, and I reluctantly let him pry the bat from my hands.
As he turns away with it, I can't help but grumble, "The bat chose me… you're coming between a weapon and his warrior, you meanie!"
Spartacus stops mid-step, turning back sharply. "Excuse me? What was that?"
I blink innocently, glancing around as though looking for an escape, then give a shifty smile and whistle out the side of my mouth. "Nothing! Who, me? Nothing! Just… hanging around."
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Spartacus strides over, reestablishing order, and Eugene slowly backs away, his face arranged in a look so innocent it's as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. His one eye glints with mischief, though, belying his expression. He's definitely not fooling anyone, but he pretends otherwise as he gives a casual thumbs-up in my direction before disappearing into the background.
With an assessing look, Spartacus turns to me. "We're going to find the right weapon for you. You've got potential, but you'll need more than power and enthusiasm." He gestures toward the weapon rack. "Each weapon suits a fighter differently. The weapon isn't just a tool; it's an extension of yourself."
I run my hand along a gladius, then lift it. The balance is perfect; it moves with my grip, light and responsive. I give it a few practice swings, finding myself surprisingly comfortable with the blade. Still, I glance at the confiscated bat with a pang of longing, feeling the gladius just doesn't have that same thrill as the Eugene's slugger. Spartacus raises an eyebrow, clearly taking note of my comfort with the blade and ignoring my heartbroken gaze.
"Interesting," he murmurs. "You've got the stance and strength for it." He gestures for me to try another weapon, and I reach for a long, sleek spear—and beside it, a bundled net. My hand closes around the net unconsciously, as if by habit.
Spartacus's brow lifts slightly. "The net," he says, a hint of curiosity breaking through his usual stoic tone. "Not many can handle it properly. Show me."
I hesitate, then nod and uncoil the net, giving it a quick test toss in my hands. My dad's voice comes back to me, his instructions echoing in my mind, and I can almost feel him guiding me as I hold the rough cords. Taking a steadying breath, I glance across the yard at the target wall, then angle the net, positioning myself naturally.
I step forward, swinging the net in a wide arc, and release. It sails smoothly through the air, and just as it reaches the target on the other side of the yard, it parachutes opens perfectly, spreading wide to wrap around one of the targets by the wall. The cords snap into place around the post, entangling it.
There's a beat of stunned silence. Spartacus blinks, his expression registering faint surprise. "Was the net always that easy to use?" he asks, though it doesn't sound like he's questioning my skill.
"My dad taught me to use the net and fishing spear," I say, a small smile forming as I tug on the cord connected to the net in my hand. "It's always felt as easy to use as grasping with my own hand."
Spartacus steps forward, looking from the net to me with a mix of approval and calculation. "A spear and net make a strong combination, but they demand control and patience. You'd make a natural retiarius. But Eugene tells me you stand like an immovable wall with a shield in hand." He pauses, appraising. "If you can handle both, you could take on the role of an irregular—a mix of retiarius and hoplomachus, switching between weapons to adapt to any opponent. Versatility like that will serve you well."
A thrill sparks through me, filling my chest with a sense of purpose and direction. If I can't have the slugger, I'm happy to settle for these—the spear and net feel like a piece of my dad is right here beside me, guiding me through each movement. I tighten my grip, letting the net's weight settle in my hand. And the shield—solid, unyielding—I can't help but like how steady it feels braced against my arm, like it's rooting me to the ground. Switching between them, ready for whatever the arena throws my way... the thought fills me with a determination I didn't know I had.
Spartacus watches me, noting the ease with which I handle the net and spear. His eyes shift to the row of pilum nearby, a faint spark of interest crossing his face. "If you've trained with a fishing spear, let's see if that skill carries over."
He gestures toward the pilum and points to a target set at the far end of the yard. "Every gladiator should master a ranged weapon. One good throw can shift the course of a fight, or finish it before it starts."
I pick one up, feeling its familiar weight as I grip it, my stance instinctive from years of spear fishing. Steadying myself, I let the weight roll through my arm, drawing back and releasing in a single, fluid motion. The javelin shrieks through the air, striking the center of the target with a solid, satisfying thud.
From behind me, I hear Eugene's excited muttering, loud enough for everyone to catch: "He's got the stuff... this kid can throw some real heat! I'll add it to the scouting report." A few of the other Novicii snicker quietly, looking forward to more of Eugene's coaching.
Spartacus raises an eyebrow, a faint but unmistakable look of approval flickering in his gaze. He steps forward, plucks up a pilum, and turns to the group. "Power and skill are a good start, but total focus and control can turn a throw into something unstoppable."
He lifts the spear, positioning his body with practiced ease, every muscle aligned. "This is the Ankule," he says, his voice low and steady. "An ancient technique that channels force from every part of the body, building power and momentum like a chain reaction."
With a small hop, he shifts his weight forward, stamping his foot down as his body coils tightly. In a single motion, his entire body coils and uncoils in sequence, from his feet up through his body to his wrist. The power can clearly be seen accelerating and growing as it channels through his body, resulting in ear-splitting sound when he releases the javelin. The pilum surges from his hand, splitting the air—a bolt of lightning. It strikes dead center, punching straight through the target, shattering the backing, and piercing clean through the thick stone wall of the Ludus behind, leaving a perfect hole blasted through the stone.
For a moment, there's silence as everyone stares, eyes wide, following the line of the pilum's path through the wall. Spartacus turns back to us, his gaze sharp. "Strength alone is not enough. To survive, you must master both yourself and your weapon. Only then does it become an extension of your will."
The weight of his words sinks in, and for the first time, I understand the depth of this training. This isn't about brute force or instinct. It's about discipline… something deeper. And for the first time, I begin to wonder what kind of warrior I could truly become.
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The yard cools now that the sun's finally sunk low behind the Ludus' walls, shadows stretching long and dark as the last slivers of sunlight slip away. The heat, so fierce all day, faded to a gentle warmth lingering in the stone. The evening air is soft and still, smelling faintly of the desert earth. All around, the other Novicii wander off, their voices trailing away, leaving the yard to shadows and silence.
I take a seat under the fig tree in the garden, savouring the quiet, when I catch a soft chuckle from nearby. Epictetus is perched on his usual stone bench, his hands folded over one knee, watching me with a mischievous glint.
"Ah, if it isn't Eugene's new hot prospect!" He sounded sincere but I hear the smile in his voice. "What a masterfully malleted missile, my boy! Imagine my surprise when I was nearly beamed by a baseball blisteringly batted beyond the wall this afternoon." He throws his hands up dramatically. "What a swing! As fearsome in the arena as the baseball diamond, I'd wager. For your opponents' sake, that bat best be banned!"
I can't help but laugh, ducking my head and hiding my blush. "It wasn't… exactly what Spartacus wanted."
"No, not quite," Epictetus concedes, but his smile lingers, clearly enjoying himself. "But what's life without the odd curveball, hmm?" He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze turning thoughtful. "I doubt this life is exactly what you intended for yourself, either. Nonetheless, I see you've taken your stance at the plate, and by the looks of it, you truly are the new 'hot prospect' here."
I nod slowly, my gaze drifting to the garden just beyond the yard—a tangled patch of green vines and flowers caught in the last glow of dusk. "Yeah, I'd never have imagined this life, but I'm not sure what I would've wanted. I am glad I can feel I'm growing stronger, but it's just… I keep thinking about the way things are here. The way they throw people out. Like they're… rubbish. Tossing them away the moment the break."
He tilts his head, looking at me with interest. "So you think they're broken?"
I hesitate, surprised by his question. "I mean, they… the training is tough, so many of them can't cope. If you can't handle it, this place can cripple you or leave you hopeless. Doesn't that mean they're broken?"
"Ah," he leans forward, curiosity in his eyes. "Are we merely meatbags, just flesh and bone?"
I scrunch my face in thought, "Well, no, but—"
"Can hope not be rekindled? Once snuffed out, can it not burn back, a bright bonfire, lighting our way?" The garden falls silent, Epictetus leans forward, a strange pressure comes over me… No, not pushing down on me, it feels as those it is lifting me up, lightening my burden.
"Well, sure. I felt like all hope was lost, like the world was a dark place. After I was captured and my father and brother were slaughtered…" I feel a tightness in my chest, hear a hitch in my voice. They are gone. Taken from me. "But I know my pops, I know my baby brother; they would want me to live, to grow strong—to be free. That's why I am working so hard, so I can be free one day." I feel my determination, firm and immovable.
"Just so, you've learned to endure. You've let life's tribulations refine your will." As he acknowledges me, something stirs in me I haven't felt since the last time I was out on the boat with my dad… Pride.
"Indeed, you felt your hope was lost. The torch put out. Was it truly? You now bear the fire and hope of not just yourself, but that which your loved ones passed on to you. I can see it, burning so brightly and beautifully." A ancient smile, warm like the hearth in the cold of winter. "And what's this about becoming free? What are you waiting for, why not be free right now?" He asks, cocking his head.
"Umm, in case you didn't notice, we're in here," I gesture to the walls of the Ludus, "We're in chains," I gesture to the manacles around his ankles. "We're enslaved, "I gesture to a slave crest marking my bicep. "So, I need to grow strong, to earn or seize me freedom; to get out of this prison and these chains." I look up at the stars, unable to be constrained or controlled, and muse aloud "Maybe one day I can be as free as those stars or as free as Joy Boy on the seas.
"Ah, Joy Boy! Yes, a freer man has never lived, what a truly ambitious goal, young Hector!" Epictetus smiles and says in grandiose fashion. "But I am still confused, did you not just determine that we are not our bodies? This frail old body of mine is indeed imprisoned, chained, and branded. However, is my spirit in chains? Has it somehow been branded?"
I lower my gaze and look at Epictetus, ready to argue that he is being pedantic. Then I stop and think. 'Is he just playing word games or is he serious?' Looking over, my face settles into a grown of concentration, "Are you saying you can be free… while having no control over your life? They call all the shots, how could I be free if I can't make any choices!?"
He gives me a grandfatherly smile, somehow giving a feeling of empathy and understanding without being patronizing. "Ah, to be free you must have choices and control over your life you say—if that is so, Then no man has ever been free. Are we not all the playthings of fate? Does a farmer choose for the rains to come? Does a mother have control over a dying child's health?"
My jaw falls open. Stunned. 'That's… not wrong? Can anyone ever be free? Will I still be bound by fate's chains even if I escape?'
"On the other hand…" He begins. I look up, with faint hope. Epictetus continues, "Though you face daily beatings and abuse, do you not choose to use that to harden your will? Though I am in chains do I not control my own mind? Are these chains really so different? Why should I not exert the choices and control within, the that no one can take from me? Is that not freedom?"
I nod, feeling a quiet calm settle over me, turning over the ideas in my head, my perspective shifting to make sense of what it all means. "So… freedom isn't just about a lack of control. No one can have control over their life. It's about… taking control over yourself, of not allowing your will to be controlled by the outside?"
"Exactly." Epictetus smiles and leans in, pointing at the Ludus' walls, "True freedom is not the absence of walls, Hector, it is found within. Someone like Joy Boy would be as free in a prison as sailing the seas. Someone like that could walk bound in chains to their execution, the freest man alive. Freedom comes from within. True freedom like Joy Boy's comes from a will so deep and boundless that it cannot be contained. From a purpose so powerful it changes the world to bend to it."
"So we still need strength to be free, but it is in here," I touch my heart. "The strength of will you told me about, this is what lets us be free? A strong will and finding a purpose?"
I consider, feeling a quiet calm settle over me, even as the ideas turn, like stones falling into place. "So strength isn't just… strength. It's having control over who you are. It's… knowing why you fight."
Epictetus nods, his voice dropping to a whisper, the words carried softly on the cool breeze. "Exactly, Hector. And those who know themselves can harness that strength to shape their destiny, their freedom. They can find their purpose, they're Telos. This is not just 'a' purpose, it is your reason for being. Those few who find their Telos have a will so strong they could conquer a kingdom by presence alone."
After a beat, I glance back at Epictetus, something stirring within me, a question I can't quite put to words. "And if… if I ever gain that kind of power, that freedom, what should I do with it?"
He chuckles, eyes gleaming in the twilight. "Ah, the age-old question, my dear boy," he says, lifting a finger theatrically. "What will you do with strength, with freedom, with purpose? That is your story to tell, Hector, and no one else's. Though, I daresay Eugene would very much prefer if you started a professional baseball league."
He stands with an exaggerated flourish, waving a finger as if I'm his audience, his voice booming like some mad prophet. "Just remember—power without purpose is like a ship with no sail! All weight, no wind!"
And with that, he throws me a wry grin and shuffles off into the deepening night, humming to himself, his words lingering in the cool, quiet air. As I watch him go, his words settle like seeds in my mind, and for the first time, I feel a path opening before me—a path not just to strength, but to something deeper. For the first time, I wonder not just what kind of fighter I could become, but what kind of man I truly want to be.