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Chapter Text

Rome, the Eternal City, pulsed with the energy of celebration. The streets were filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the roar of the crowds as they gathered to honor a recent victory. The city’s ancient stones seemed to vibrate with pride as the news of Rome’s triumph over the Numidians spread like wildfire through the population. It was a rare moment of unity and joy, a bright beacon amidst the shadows of Rome’s darker days. But even amidst the jubilation, a quieter, more sinister current flowed beneath the surface.

The imperial family stood at the center of the festivities. Emperor Commodus, though physically present among his people, seemed a distant figure. His cold eyes, dark with private thoughts, stared out over the cheering masses, yet his mind was far from the celebrations. Commodus, who had clawed his way to power in a violent and chaotic rise, still carried the scars of that struggle within him. They were etched deep into his soul, hidden from the world but never fully healed. 

His sister, Lucilla, stood by his side, regal and composed but equally burdened. A woman of remarkable intelligence and grace, Lucilla knew the weight of the empire rested on her shoulders. As the sister of the Emperor, and the widow of a slain general, she had always walked a tightrope between duty and her own private grief. Today, however, her heart was heavy with worry. Her eyes, although veiled with practiced composure, spoke of a mother’s anguish, a mother who had lost her son to the cruel tides of fate. 

And standing beside her, his strong frame still imposing despite the years that had passed, was Maximus. The legendary gladiator who had once been a general and now, miraculously, an emperor in his own right. His muscular physique, worn from years of battle, was still capable of striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. But those who looked into his eyes would see a sadness that no victory or accolade could erase. The memory of his lost family—wife and son—lingered in his heart, a shadow that cast a pall over every triumph, every decision. His pain was as much a part of him as his strength.

A new figure had emerged, however, to capture the public's imagination. General Marcus Acacius, a seasoned warrior and close confidant of Maximus, had recently gained fame for his victories. His name was now known across the empire, whispered in awe by the common people, and carefully scrutinized by those in power. Though Acacius was loyal to Maximus, the Emperor's eyes never fully trusted him. In his eyes, every victory could be a potential threat, and every rising star a future rival.

"Marcus," Maximus greeted the general with a warm smile, his voice betraying a genuine affection. "Your success has done Rome proud. You are a symbol of our strength, of our resilience."

Acacius bowed his head, hiding the ambition that simmered beneath his disciplined exterior. He was aware, as anyone with a sharp mind would be, that Commodus had noticed his rise—and Commodus, ever the cautious ruler, regarded him with a mix of admiration and wariness.

As the day unfolded, the undercurrent of politics simmered just beneath the surface of the celebrations. The empire, once a symbol of unshakable power, now teetered on the edge of uncertainty. Commodus, in his unyielding desire for absolute control, sought to solidify his rule in every way possible. Maximus, by contrast, had a different goal—to ensure that Rome would continue to flourish long after his reign had ended. The future of the empire, its stability, and its very soul depended on the choices made by these powerful figures.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the city, a darker reality loomed in the shadows. The fate of Rome was uncertain, and the decisions made by those at the heart of power would determine whether the empire would rise to greater glory or fall into ruin.

In the quiet, candle-lit halls of the imperial palace, Acacius stood in silent vigil, watching as servants scurried past, unaware of the weight of the moment. His mind raced, consumed by the task at hand. Maximus had asked him to stay behind after the evening's celebrations, and the gravity of his assignment was not lost on him. The Empress, Lucilla, had asked for news of her missing son. Acacius had searched tirelessly, but there was no good news to share.

"Have you found him?" Lucilla's voice echoed in his mind, a quiet plea that would never fade. 

Sadly, the answer remained the same. The boy, Lucius Verus Aurelius, was lost to them. A mere child when he had been sent away to safety, his whereabouts remained a mystery. The only clue they had was a grisly tale of a lady-in-waiting who had perished at the hands of deserting soldiers, and with her, the secret of the prince’s hiding place.

Maximus’ study was quiet when Acacius entered, and Lucilla, sitting near the window with a glass of wine in her hand, barely acknowledged his presence. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights spent searching for her son, hoping against hope that he might return.

"Marcus," Maximus greeted him, his voice soft yet commanding. "We have yet to hear anything."

Acacius bowed his head, the weight of the news settling heavily on his shoulders. "There is no word, my Emperor," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "We have found nothing. We have brought back the leader of a city, along with his general. There’s a chance they may know something, but—" he paused, unsure how to proceed.

Maximus, sensing the hesitation, leaned forward. "But?"

"The leader was killed in Marcinus’ area," Acacius continued, his voice quiet but firm. "We’ve brought him here, but he was already dead before we arrived. There’s nothing more to go on."

Lucilla’s face fell, her heart visibly breaking as her hope, once again, was dashed. Maximus let out a bitter laugh, devoid of humor. "We arranged a talk with him after the first match," he murmured, the words heavy with irony. "If he survives that long."

The tension in the room was palpable. Maximus, always the warrior, understood that the future of Rome depended not only on physical strength but on the subtler machinations of politics. And here, in this moment, he was faced with a mother’s desperate plea and a father’s broken heart.

"We will speak to him, no matter the cost," Maximus declared, his voice hardening with resolve. "An imperial order trumps all else. Even the Gladiators' handlers cannot stand in our way."

Acacius hesitated, his brow furrowed in thought. "You wish me to order the handler to comply?" he asked, voice laden with concern. "It could draw unwanted attention to our actions. Commodus will notice."

Lucilla, unable to hide the agony in her eyes, spoke softly but firmly. "General, I have lost my son. If there is a single thread of hope, no matter how faint, I will not let it slip away." She turned toward her brother, her gaze filled with an almost palpable desperation. "If there is even a flicker of hope that Lucius is alive, I cannot—will not—let that hope die."

Maximus, his voice low but filled with sympathy, handed Acacius a sealed scroll. "Take this," he said, his words barely audible. "This will give you the leverage you need to speak with the gladiator. Macrinus can deal with any resistance."

With a heavy heart, Acacius accepted the scroll and left the study. His mind was consumed with the task ahead, but a faint glimmer of hope ignited in his chest. Perhaps there was still a chance to find the lost prince.

The Colosseum stood as a brutal reminder of Rome’s power, its cold stone walls echoing with the cries of the dying and the cheering of the crowds. Acacius moved through the corridors with practiced ease, presenting the Emperor's scroll to the handler, a bald, sour-faced man who seemed less than pleased to be dealing with imperial matters.

After a brief exchange, the handler led him through the winding passages to the gladiator’s quarters. Acacius steeled himself for the confrontation ahead. The gladiator, a massive man with eyes filled with distrust and hatred, met him with a glare.

"You," the gladiator snarled, his voice thick with disdain. "What do you want?"

"I need information about Lucius Verus Aurelius," Acacius said, his voice low but firm.

The gladiator’s face softened for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his features. "You’re asking about the prince?" he asked in a hushed voice. "I know something. But it’s not a simple story."

Acacius leaned in, his heart quickening. "Tell me everything you know."

The gladiator recounted a tale of a young boy, hidden away in a remote village, kind and gentle. The village had been attacked, and the boy had disappeared, vanishing without a trace. Acacius listened intently, his mind racing. Could this be the lost prince?

As the gladiator finished his tale, Acacius felt a surge of hope. Could it be? Could Lucius Verus Aurelius still be alive?

He left the Colosseum, the weight of the information pressing heavily on his shoulders. The search for the lost prince was far from over, but for the first time in years, there was a glimmer of hope. However, lurking in the shadows, a figure watched with dark intentions.

The gladiator, Hanno, had led Acacius to believe he held the key to the prince’s fate. But in reality, the very boy who had been sent away for his safety, abandoned by his own mother and father to live in secrecy, the boy who had once been the heir to the empire was no longer a boy at all, but a man consumed by rage and betrayal. 

Hanno's transformation had been slow, but it had been complete. Years of suffering, living in the shadows, and the harsh life of a gladiator had hardened him. The boy who had once been sheltered by love had grown into a man fueled by bitterness and fury. He had seen the world for what it truly was—cruel, unforgiving, and full of those who cast him aside. His parents, his flesh and blood, had chosen to abandon him, and he would never forget it.

The smirk on Hanno’s scarred face twisted into a grimace of hatred. The information he had fed to Acacius wasn’t a mere tale—it was a carefully constructed lie. He wanted to lead the general down the path of false hope, to use him as a pawn in his own twisted game. The vengeance he now sought would not be for the empire, but for himself. 

As Acacius walked away, unaware of the betrayal he had just witnessed, Hanno stepped deeper into the shadows. His heart burned with the memories of his abandonment, the cruel fate of being cast aside by those who should have cared for him most. The plan was set into motion now, and Hanno would see it through, no matter the cost.

The game had only just begun, and the fate of the empire—of Lucius himself—now rested in the hands of the son who had been forgotten. The vengeance of a prince abandoned was a dangerous thing indeed. Lucius lived years in hiding, not daring to walk during the day due to people looking for him.

He had once made a mistake of thinking his mother finally sent for him and trusting the soldiers. That was the night when he had lost his first friend - Roman arrows pierced Octavius' torso as he tried to ran from the soldiers. Lucius watched from the shadows, afraid for his own life back then. The mother he loved and knew had abandoned him, the figure he looked up to had abandoned him as well. His uncle, the person who tried to fill the empty space left by his father, had sent soldiers after him to murder him. 

Rome was a disease and he would help the world get rid of it. No matter his legacy, no matter his family and their dreams. The city would fall and turn into dust.

Chapter Text

Hanno’s grip tightened on the sword as he entered the training grounds, his heart beating with cold determination. The air was thick with sweat and the sharp tang of iron. Around him, gladiators of all shapes and sizes sparred, their grunts and the clash of weapons echoing in the open space. Hanno, however, was not here to train for sport. He was here to kill.

His thoughts briefly wandered to Arishat—the woman he had loved, the warrior who had fallen beside him in Numidia. Her death had torn something deep within him, and it was that same fury that kept him alive now. In the chaos of battle, he often thought he might join her in the afterlife, but not yet. He still had unfinished business.

“Numidian!” A voice rang out, cutting through his thoughts. Marcinus, draped in his gleaming red and gold robes, approached with his arms spread wide, his grin as false as his cheer. “I hear you’ve been putting on quite the show in training. Three gladiators down in a single session? Now that’s something impressive!”

Hanno ignored him, his eyes fixed on the other gladiators as they sparred. He didn’t need to answer Marcinus’s taunts. The man’s words were empty, designed only to provoke or flatter depending on his whims. Hanno had learned long ago not to trust anyone—especially men like Marcinus, who thrived on the suffering of others.

“You told me to train. I did,” Hanno said flatly, his voice low but resolute. “The rules are simple: kill or be killed.”

Marcinus laughed, clapping Hanno on the back in a mocking gesture. “Yes, yes. Here, we fight to survive, or we die so others can live. That’s the only rule. You’re getting it, I see.”

Without waiting for a response, Marcinus turned and walked away, his laughter still echoing in the yard. Hanno’s attention shifted back to two gladiators in the corner—a pair of tall, muscular men sparring with swords. He watched closely, waiting for the right moment.

The taller gladiator swung his sword in a wide, wild arc, missing his opponent by inches. The smaller fighter, faster on his feet, ducked low and brought his blade up, landing a punch to the first gladiator’s chest.

It was then that Hanno moved, swift as a shadow. The tall gladiator, still recovering from his missed swing, left himself open. Hanno closed the distance and brought the sword down hard across the man’s neck. The gladiator crumpled to the ground with a grunt, his body going limp.

The second gladiator, startled by the sudden attack, turned with his sword raised, but Hanno was already on him. With a brutal twist, he disarmed the man, sending the sword flying. The gladiator staggered back, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Please,” the man gasped, his hands raised in a silent plea for mercy.

Before he could finish his sentence, Hanno struck, flipping him onto his back with a well-executed maneuver. The gladiator’s breath caught, and he collapsed in the dirt, defeated.

For a moment, Hanno stood over him, watching as the fight drained from the gladiator’s eyes. He had done what needed to be done, but there was no satisfaction in the victory.

The yard fell silent. Hanno wiped the blood from his face and turned away without a word. Marcinus’s eyes followed him, but Hanno didn’t look back.

“Impressive,” Marcinus finally called out, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and amusement. “You’re as ruthless as they say. A true champion.”

Hanno didn’t reply. The champions he respected were those who had fallen in battle, like Arishat—not men like Marcinus, who profited from the bloodshed of others.

With one last glance at the fallen gladiators, Hanno left the field, his mind already focused on the next fight. The arena would come soon enough, and when it did, he would be ready.

Later that evening, after the sun dipped below the horizon, the gladiators were locked in their cells. Hanno sat on his bed, his eyes closed and breathing steady. To the casual observer, he seemed asleep, but he was waiting. Florian, a fisherman from his childhood, had taught him patience. The Informa he had sent to the general would soon return to him, and then he could proceed with his plan. His mother, meanwhile, thrived in Rome, enjoying her life as the wife of the Emperor and sister to the other Emperor, while Hanno fought for survival.

As the night deepened, footsteps echoed down the corridor. They were soft, deliberate, careful not to draw attention. Hanno opened his eyes just enough to see a figure standing outside his cell, a hooded cloak obscuring much of their features. Instantly, his senses sharpened.

The figure stepped forward, and Hanno’s gaze fixed on him. It was Acacius, the ever-watchful former general who had become a shadow in this brutal world.

"I trust you’re ready for what’s next?" Acacius asked, his voice low, laced with subtle menace. He leaned against the bars of the cell, glancing at Hanno with an unsettling calm.

Hanno said nothing at first. He studied Acacius with narrowed eyes. The man wasn’t here for small talk. He had a purpose, and Hanno suspected it had something to do with his next move.

"Is it Prince Lucius you’re after?" Hanno growled. "Or redemption for Rome?"

Acacius raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Lucius. So you know more than you let on.”

Hanno hesitated. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said slowly. “That he might be hiding near the southern border. I don’t know more than that. But you’re not here for rumors, are you?”

Acacius chuckled softly. “No. I’m here to get the truth.” He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “Lucius is a threat to Emperor Commodus. But I believe you know where he is.”

Hanno straightened, his voice colder now. “I’ve been looking for him for my own reasons. I don’t know where he is. But if you’re asking for help, you should know one thing.” His lips curled into a predatory smile. “If the boy’s still alive, he’s probably become a possession of some rich man.”

Acacius paused, his eyes narrowing. He was used to men who thought they knew everything, especially someone like Hanno—a gladiator, a pawn in the deadly game of power. But there was something about this man that intrigued him. Hanno had fire that couldn’t be easily extinguished.

“I see,” Acacius replied, his voice calm again. “You want revenge. Fair enough. But you’re in no position to negotiate. You’re a gladiator. Your options are limited.”

Hanno’s eyes narrowed. “And yet, you’re still here, talking to me. So, it seems I do have something you want. You can’t just kill me or throw me in a pit. Not yet.”

Acacius straightened, his smile faltering into a cold stare. “True. You are useful—for now. If you help me find Lucius, we may find a way to get you out of this place. Maybe even give you the means to exact your revenge.”

Hanno’s heart quickened at the mention of revenge—of Arishat. He had nothing left to lose.

“Fine,” Hanno murmured. “But if you lie to me, Acacius, I will make you regret it.”

Acacius inclined his head slightly. “I never lie, Hanno. I only bend the truth when it suits me.”

Before Hanno could respond, the guards’ footsteps echoed down the hall. Acacius gave a final glance at Hanno. “Remember, time is not on our side. We’ll speak again soon.”

With that, Acacius disappeared into the shadows, leaving Hanno to wrestle with the decision he had just made. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind, but it was quickly overshadowed by the burning need for revenge. Lucius would pay for Arishat’s death and whatever role he had played in Hanno’s fall from grace.

The game was about to change.

As the sun rose over Rome, its golden rays bathed the city, casting a gentle glow on the ancient stones and guiding Acacius through the lively streets. The sounds of merchants peddling their goods mingled with the laughter of children, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in his chest. With each step, the weight of his mission grew heavier, the stakes clearer: the hope of a mother, the legacy of an empire, and the ambition-laden shadows that hung over Rome.

The Senate loomed ahead, its grandeur commanding Acacius’ attention. It symbolized power, authority—but also danger. He was well aware that the political landscape was shifting under Commodus’ reign. His motives remained shrouded in mystery, and whispers of paranoia and secrecy tainted the air. Acacius needed to tread carefully; in such an environment, an ally could quickly become an enemy.

Inside the Senate hall, murmurs echoed against the marble columns, creating an undercurrent of unease. Senators huddled in small groups, their expressions betraying their concern. The recent victory over the Numidians had done little to unite the factions; instead, it had reignited old rivalries and ambitions. Acacius's eyes fell on Senator Gaius, a man renowned for his wisdom and tactical insight.

"Marcus," Gaius greeted him in a low voice, guiding him to a secluded corner. "I heard you visited the Colosseum. What did you uncover?"

Acacius paused before replying, careful with his words. "A gladiator mentioned Lucius. It seems there’s a chance he survived the attack on his village and went into hiding. But we must act quickly—before Commodus catches wind of our inquiry."

Gaius’ brow furrowed. "You know as well as I that Commodus will not tolerate anyone probing into the truth of his rival, especially one who might be a potential heir. He sees enemies where there are none."

"Then perhaps we should create our own light," Acacius replied, his resolve firming. "If we confirm Lucius's survival, we could use that knowledge to challenge Commodus. Rome needs a symbol of hope to rally behind."

Later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a warm glow, Acacius found himself in a darker part of Rome—its air thick with smoke and the stench of the streets. He approached a tavern known for being a hub of information and a gathering place for mercenaries.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense, filled with rough laughter and the clink of mugs. Acacius spotted a familiar face—a former soldier turned mercenary, Lucan. This was a man who had seen the darkest sides of war and lived to tell the tale.

"Excuse me, is this the way to Lucan’s room?" Acacius asked, his voice steady as he made his way through the room.

Lucan looked up, surprise flashing in his eyes before recognition set in. "General Acacius," he said, leaning back in his chair, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I didn’t expect a visit from you. A man of your stature doesn’t frequent places like this without a purpose."

"Information," Acacius replied, his tone serious. "I need to know about the clan that attacked the village where Lucius Verus Aurelius was hidden. I need to find him."

Lucan raised an eyebrow. "Ah, the lost prince. That’s a dangerous pursuit. The clan you're after is not to be taken lightly. They've made enemies of many—including some of my old comrades. But for the right price, I might be able to help."

Acacius nodded. The mercenary’s smile was enough of an answer.

Later, Acacius met with Senator Faunus. As soon as Acacius entered, the senator dismissed his staff and locked the door behind them, checking twice for any sign of eavesdropping. They both knew the stakes were high.

Faunus gave a brief, affirmative nod. "I can try to rally support among the Senate. With the right backing, we might challenge Commodus. But we’ll need to be discreet."

Acacius' thoughts briefly wandered to Senator Gaius, who was conspicuously absent. He suspected that Gaius would be informed of their plan soon enough. His own absence, however, was concerning—Commodus often sought private meetings to test the loyalty of his senators.

As Acacius prepared to leave, his thoughts turned to the gladiator’s words. The mention of soldiers searching for the prince was too important to ignore. Lucius’s survival seemed increasingly likely, but he would have to dig deeper—into the more shadowed corners of Rome—to find those who could help him locate the lost prince.

Just as Acacius was about to turn into the street leading to the barracks to check on his legion, he froze. Standing near the medicus' house were Marcinus and Hanno. The gladiator had his right hand bandaged, his face contorted in pain. Acacius narrowed his eyes at the sight of Hanno—no other injuries, but his pride seemed wounded. Marcinus was scowling, though his expression softened as he spotted Acacius.

"General Acacius, the hero of Rome," Marcinus greeted with a poisonous smile. "Not our first meeting, I believe."

"I’m here to discuss the chief of the Numidians," Acacius said evenly, his gaze fixed on the gladiator. "We talked with his men about the future of their city after Rome takes charge."

"The chief didn’t do well in the arena, did he?" Acacius continued, his voice pleasant but cutting. "First to die, I believe."

Hanno’s eyes narrowed, the anger bubbling just below the surface. Acacius could see the tension in his clenched, bandaged hand.

Marcinus’s smile faltered before returning, though it lacked its former confidence. "Not everyone is suited for the games, General. Some are better suited for strategy."

"Perhaps," Acacius replied sharply, "but those who send others to fight their battles rarely have the same appetite for combat themselves."

Acacius's gaze flicked to Hanno's bandaged hand. His voice grew colder. "Funny. The chief, also injured, didn’t survive. I can’t help but wonder if the same fate is intended for Hanno."

Marcinus's face reddened, but he quickly masked it with a tight smirk. "I trust my medicus knows what he’s doing."

"I hope so," Acacius said icily, then turned on his heel. "After all, they’re part of Rome now. It is also surprising he was not seen by Ravi, he usually can handle such injuries in no time - even far better than any medicus I had unfortunate pleasure of seeing."

Hanno did not say a word out loud but his quiet chuckle and smirk on his face told Acacius enough - Marcinus did not take him to Ravi because Ravi by law needed to report the injury.

That night, as the city slept, Acacius slipped through the quiet corridors of the gladiators’ quarters. His steps were deliberate, his mind focused on the path ahead. He reached Hanno's cell and knocked softly. The door creaked open, and Hanno appeared, his expression a mixture of surprise and unease.

"General," Hanno said cautiously. "This is unexpected."

"I need to speak with you," Acacius replied quietly, his tone firm yet low. "Away from prying eyes."

Hanno crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "Is this about Marcinius? Or your endless search for Prince Lucius?"

Acacius's face hardened. "Both. Marcinius is reckless. He puts lives at risk, and I won’t stand by while he undermines Rome’s strength."

Hanno raised an eyebrow. "And the prince?"

The General's voice dropped slightly. "The prince remains my mission. But sometimes I wonder if I’m chasing shadows. You know more about him than you’re letting on."

Hanno’s expression remained guarded, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I’m just a gladiator trying to survive."

"Surviving doesn’t mean staying silent," Acacius pressed, stepping closer. "If you know something, anything about Lucius, you owe it to Rome to speak."

"To Rome?" Hanno’s voice was sharp. "Or to you?"

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Finally, Hanno spoke again, his tone softer but still guarded. "What if the prince doesn’t want to be found? What if he’s seen enough of Rome’s ‘glory’ to know he’s better off lost?"

Acacius’s jaw tightened. "Then he’s denying his duty. His family needs him. Rome needs him."

Hanno looked away, his hand flexing involuntarily. "Duty isn’t always enough to heal old wounds," he murmured. "Sometimes it’s the reason they’re still bleeding."

Acacius watched him closely, his resolve wavering for a moment. "If you were the prince," he asked slowly, "what would you do?"

Hanno’s gaze met his, unreadable. "I’d make sure Rome understood what it truly needed. And I’d make damn sure I was the one to decide when and how I’d return."

Acacius nodded, respect growing for the gladiator, though his suspicions deepened. "Fair enough," he said quietly. "But know this—if you ever need someone to trust, someone to stand by you… I’m here."

Hanno’s lips twitched into a faint, rueful smile. "I’ll keep that in mind, General."

As Acacius turned to leave, the dim light from the oil lamp cast long shadows on the stone walls. Hanno watched him go, lost in thought.

The general the entire Rome loves. He heard about someone like that once. His father whom he knew for only seven weeks before he was sent away. His mother told him tales about his father’s bravery and goodness of heart. He believed that man to be Lucius Verus, his mother’s husband. After his eleventh birthday, he started to pay attention to the rumours that surrounded his mother’s marriage. Apparently Lucius Verus was never seen in female company - therefore he couldn’t father a child, even by Emperor’s order.

“You speak fluently in our language, know the history, and have astonishingly anti-critical views of life in an Empire,” a deep voice from the shadows made Hanno turn around quickly, his guard up.

An older man stepped closer to the cell bars and watched Hanno with interest in his dark eyes.

“You’re the warrior Acacius spoke about,” the man continued. “But you do not come from Numidia. The accent, the knowledge—not even a Roman captain could know the things you know or have thought the way you speak of. Where is your home, and what is your name?”

Hanno blinked and watched the man as he spoke. He held himself in high regard; that much was evident by the way he stood—his shoulders straight, his eyes focused. He had slightly longer hair, dark eyes, and a stoic face that revealed little of his thoughts.

“As the general once summarized—I am a part of Rome now.”

The guard standing behind the man suddenly took a step forward from the line.

“My Emperor, we should go back.”

Hanno froze, his gaze snapping back to the man. His eyes narrowed as he studied the face before him.

“Well then,” the Emperor said, his tone quiet but cutting, his gaze lingering on Hanno. “We shall see you fight, Numidian. I have learned that the thirst for revenge often makes the best gladiators in the area.”

The sight of Commodus—a face etched from his childhood and the darker tales whispered in exile—sent a cascade of emotions crashing through Hanno's mind. Bitterness, long dormant but never extinguished, flared as he saw the man who now sat atop the empire that had razed his city and stolen his future. Commodus’ features were older now, heavier with the weight of years and decadence, yet still carried that self-assured cruelty. But beneath the seething hatred, a strange unease slithered in. This was his uncle, the brother of the mother he had barely known, and whatever bond of blood they shared felt both a mockery and a shadow of something he could never claim. Was this reunion a mere spectacle or fate’s twisted humour? Could it be that Commodus, in his own self-serving way, cared to seek him out? The nephew he had lost due to his own nature? The thought disgusted Hanno more than it consoled him. He clung to his hatred like a shield, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

And then there was Acacius. 

The General’s piercing eyes had lingered in Hanno's thoughts far longer than he cared to admit. How could he feel this stirring of... something for the man who had wielded the sword of Rome against his people, who had followed orders to destroy what he once called home? Who gave the order that killed his beloved wife, the only family he had? And yet, Acacius' strength, his resolute demeanour, held a gravity that Hanno could not deny.

It was maddening. Was it simply curiosity, some twisted fascination with the man who sought to unravel his identity, or something more dangerous—a yearning for connection in a life bereft of it? The contradiction was unbearable: a smouldering ember of interest for Acacius clashing against the consuming inferno of vengeance that drove him. But in moments of silence, when the roar of the arena faded and the weight of his secrets pressed down, Hanno found himself wondering if the General’s pursuit was more than duty—if, like Hanno, Acacius too grappled with a shadow he couldn’t name.

Chapter Text

People cheered, screamed, and some even whistled once the gladiators stepped into the arena. Some threw food or flowers down onto the sand. Hanno glared at the spectators, his eyes scanning the tiers. The seats with the best view were reserved for the Emperors and the Empress. He knew the General would be there—Accacius, his past etched into Hanno’s skin like old scars. He gripped the handle of his sword tightly as he noticed the Empress entering. His eyes narrowed, and he turned away. Seven gladiators surrounded him—only two had shields. He made a mental note in case he needed one during the fight.

The trumpets rang as Emperor Commodus took his seat. Emperor Maximus was already standing, waving to the crowd, his other arm wrapped around General Accacius, who stared down at Hanno with a mix of dread and disbelief. Hanno smirked and took his stance.

"Citizens of Rome," the announcer’s voice rang through the arena. "We're gathered here to celebrate another great victory of Roma!"

Applause thundered. Cries of Gloria Roma echoed around the stone walls. Others hailed the Emperors and their victorious General.

"For that," the announcer continued, vine cup in hand, "Emperor Commodus and Emperor Maximus have granted us a true event! Newly made Romans, the terrifying wildlings of Numidia will fight today!"

Hanno watched the General shrink into his chair, as if the stone could swallow him. Maximus nudged him to his feet and raised a hand to quiet the crowd. Then he shoved the General forward.

“I am not great with speeches,” Accacius began, triggering applause, cheers, and shouts of his name. “I am a General. A soldier. I live to serve my country and its people.” His gaze wandered toward the arena. Brown eyes locked on Hanno.

Maximus followed the line of sight and narrowed his eyes. The crowd still roared around them, but he felt none of it. The longer he stared, the more he saw it—something in the way Hanno moved, the posture, the poise. Like a memory carved in motion.

Maximus thought of Marcus Aurelius. The way the philosopher-emperor used to watch the world like it was a game of chess, every player doomed or destined. Hanno had that same focus. That same burn beneath his surface. But it’s more than that, Maximus realised. It’s familiar. Deeply familiar. Like watching a reflection of a younger self forged in a different fire.

Lucilla blinked, surprised at Accacius’ trembling words. He was usually so polished, so deliberate. Not like this. She slipped her hand into her husband’s and smiled faintly as he raised it to his lips. But her eyes were studying Accacius, and then drifted toward the arena.

“He’s watching that Numidian,” she murmured. “The one in leather.”

A familiar chill curled up her spine. Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, had long been trained to see patterns—weaknesses, alliances, dangers. Politics was her second language. And Accacius’s gaze was a declaration. Not of admiration—but memory. Recognition.

Who are you, Hanno? She wondered. Why does he look at you like a ghost?

A few seats away, a group of Senators took note. Senator Aelius leaned toward his neighbour and whispered, “Why does the General look like he’s seen a god climb from the dirt?”

His companion, Senator Lepidus, sipped wine and chuckled. “Or a ghost that has come for vengeance. Either way, it makes for excellent theatre.”

Aelius’s eyes narrowed. “Or dangerous politics. If the General is compromised, we may find ourselves aligned with the wrong Emperor.”

Lepidus raised an eyebrow. “You think this gladiator matters?”

“He might.”

In the arena, the rhino charged. Hanno flung sand into the air, distracting it. He narrowly dodged the horn, but not the edge—it grazed his side. He grunted, twisting, blade slashing across the beast’s thick hide. A gladiator screamed, tossed like a rag doll into the air.

The crowd gasped. Then roared.

Accacius flinched. Lucilla watched him. The way his grip tightened. The way his throat bobbed like he was swallowing down dread.

He knows him. Or he fears him. Either truth was perilous.

Above, Commodus swirled his goblet lazily. “Does the General fancy himself a saviour now?” he sneered. “Or perhaps he simply admires strength when he sees it.”

Maximus didn’t answer. His thoughts were elsewhere.

It’s like looking into the past, he thought. Back when I was a slave, earning back pieces of myself one fight at a time. This one—this Hanno—he isn’t just fighting beasts. He’s climbing.

“He recognises a fellow soldier,” Maximus finally said. “Even when he wears chains.”

Down below, Hanno barked an order. The shield-bearers obeyed. They flanked the rhino, herding it toward the trap gate. Blood sprayed. Dust plumed. Chaos surged. But Hanno didn’t falter. He danced through danger with chilling precision.

Then the final blow. The blade was buried in the beast’s skull.

Silence.

Then the arena exploded in applause. Flowers. Coins. Cries of triumph.

But Hanno didn’t bask in it. His eyes found Lucilla.

She had stood.

And was watching him.

Lucilla’s breath caught. There was something in that gaze—not just defiance. Not just strength. Purpose. Recognition. And… accusation. Her grip tightened on the balcony rail.

Then a roar snapped their attention downward.

Cicero.

The Beast-Rider of Thrace emerged from behind the rhino’s corpse. Red curls matted to his brow, whip in one hand, short sword in the other. He grinned like a wolf denied his feast.

“That was my beast,” he spat. “Now I’ll take your blood in return.”

The duel began—whip, steel, sand, blood. A symphony of violence. Hanno moved like fury incarnate, Cicero like chaos. The crowd screamed. Maximus leaned forward.

Lucilla murmured, “He fights like you did.”

Maximus’s jaw clenched. “No. He fights like Marcus did.”

She looked at him sharply.

“That discipline. That fire. Not just survival—strategy.” He glanced toward Accacius. “The General wasn’t just staring at a gladiator. He was staring at a memory.”

“You think he knows something?” Lucilla asked.

“I think he knows more than he shares.”

The crowd began chanting his name as he raised both arms to the sky, basking in the adoration. The Beast-Rider of Thrace . He had made his entrance astride the rhino, guiding it with brutal lashes and iron spurs hammered into its flesh. Hanno hadn’t forgotten that.

Cicero dropped to a low stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “That was my beast,” he snarled in accented Latin. “Now I’ll take your blood in return.”

Hanno didn’t answer. He simply raised his sword and advanced.

The clash was sudden and violent. Cicero struck first, lashing his whip in a wide arc. Hanno ducked, narrowly avoiding the tip, but the leather sliced across his back. He hissed and rolled forward, driving his shoulder into Cicero’s gut.

The Thracian grunted but held his ground, swinging his short sword in a tight arc that Hanno barely deflected with the flat of his blade. Sand kicked up around them as they circled, steel ringing, blood dripping.

From above, Accacius gripped the railing again. Lucilla leaned closer, whispering, “That man... Hanno. Do you know him well?”

Accacius said nothing. His jaw was clenched tight.

Below, Cicero caught Hanno’s wrist with the whip, jerking him off balance. He lunged with his sword—but Hanno twisted, slammed his elbow into Cicero’s throat, and yanked the whip free. The Thracian stumbled back, coughing.

One of the shield-bearing gladiators rushed to assist Hanno, but Cicero spun and drove his sword clean into the man’s gut. The crowd screamed for blood. Hanno caught the shield as the man fell, raising it just in time to block another whip-strike.

It was down to two now.

“You should’ve stayed in chains,” Cicero spat, circling. “You’re no warrior. Just a dog.”

Hanno's lip curled. “A dog learns. A lion remembers.”

With a roar, he charged. Cicero raised his blade, but Hanno used the shield like a battering ram, smashing it into Cicero’s face. Bone crunched. The Thracian staggered, dazed. Hanno dropped the shield and spun, driving his sword into Cicero’s thigh. The man screamed and fell to one knee.

“No mercy!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Kill him!”

Emperor Commodus stood, raising his goblet. “Let Rome decide!”

The crowd began the chant again—some calling for death, while others called for mercy.

Maximus turned to Accacius. “He knows who you are, doesn’t he?” Accacius didn’t answer.

In the pit, Hanno raised his sword.

Cicero spat blood. “You think killing me makes you free?”

Hanno stared at him—this killer, this animal dressed as a man. Then he raised Cicero's fallen blade and turned both in his hands before he thrust them from left to right and from right to left cleanly through Cicero’s neck.

It was done.

The crowd howled. But Hanno turned away from the praise, his eyes locking onto the imperial box.

Lucilla’s heart pounded. He sees us. All of us. Like he’s choosing who to remember—and who to destroy, and then, without a word, Hanno turned his back on them all.

The sand beneath his feet was red.

The games had begun.

The Senators stood again.

“This gladiator,” Aelius said. “He’s no common man.”

“He might be useful,” Lepidus added.

“Or fatal.”

Maximus whispered to himself, so low even Lucilla missed it:

Marcus… what have you left behind?

"You have to understand that this is the only way to get out," Ravi, the doctor, said to Hanno as he was stitching his side. "You win your freedom and become a citizen, or you die and become free."

Hanno groaned, feeling the needle pierce his skin and nodded, his mind clouded because of the drug the doctor had given him to ease the pain at least a little bit. He breathed deeply as his memory jumped to the moment he noticed the General looking at him in the area. He needed to get closer to him, as close as he could. Just then, he would be able to try to get to the Emperors and Empress and do something. But for the time coming, he might try to get as many allies as possible. His comrades had already started to spread tales about their life in Numidia and how especially cruel the General was. Hanno was still fighting with himself deep inside whether he should mention that the General was looking for the lost prince on the orders from Emperor Maximus and his wife. That would certainly make people doubt their right to rule. 

"You have a family here, don't you?" 

Hanno's eyes opened quickly.

"You speak the language too good to learn it somewhere else. That means that there is someone out there who could get you out of here. You hadn't asked to call for them or to write to them. They're dead or you're estranged. I believe the second option to be more possible based on your charming personality."

Hanno chuckled, "You're way too observant to be a doctor. Are you sure you're not here on the orders of the Emperor? To look for the lost prince like the General?"

Ravi stopped his movements and looked at the gladiator, who seemed surprised by what he said. 

"The prince? Prince Lucius?" Ravi asked; then he sighed. "Empress Lucilla was heartbroken every time Accacius returned without the boy. I believe him gone, some think he doesn't remember who he was and made himself a new life. If so, I wish him well," Ravi paused, wrapping the bandage around Hanno and looked him in the eyes. "But him being dead would be better for us all, especially for himself. Rome is dying from the inside, Emperors argue, and people conspire. Empress doesn't shine like she used to. This nation is doomed, and I doubt a prince could change that."

The stone chamber was quiet, dimly lit by the flicker of a dying torch wedged in the wall. Hanno sat on the edge of the cot, shirtless, the fresh bandages on his ribs still stained with blood. His sword lay across his lap—not for protection, just habit. His gaze was fixed on the wall, but his mind wasn’t there.

The door creaked open.

He didn’t turn.

“I should have known,” said a voice—quiet, tight with emotion.

Hanno didn’t move.

The door closed behind General Accacius, who stepped forward hesitantly, like he was approaching a shrine and a ghost all at once.

“I watched you fight today and I knew,” Accacius whispered. “The way you moved. The way you looked up at her—at all of us.” His breath hitched. “Lucius... gods, it's you.”

Hanno stood slowly, shoulders tense. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either.

“Don’t call me that.”

Accacius stepped closer, eyes flickering with pain. “You are him. There's no denying - you have your grandfather's face.”

“I’m not your prince.”

Accacius flinched like he’d been struck. “You disappeared. You were taken from us. I spent years— years —crossing deserts, bribing slavers, chasing whispers in the dark. And now you stand here like—like none of it mattered.”

“You want it to matter?” Hanno snapped. “Then you should’ve found me before I learned how to kill for my name. Before I forgot what safety felt like.”

Accacius was trembling. “You don’t understand what it did to us. To me . I—I saw your face every time I closed my eyes. Wondering if you were dead. Or worse—forgotten us.”

Hanno hesitated. The sword in his hand lowered a little.

“I forgot nothing,” he said, voice low. “Every night in the pits, on the streets and gutters, I remembered the sound of your voice. And hers. The promises to get me as fast as possible. I remembered the way you both left me .”

Accacius stepped closer again, reckless now. “I never left you. I looked for you—”

“ Don’t ,” Hanno said, a dangerous crack in his voice.

But Accacius wasn’t afraid. His voice softened, raw and exposed. “I did. Maybe not the way I should have. Maybe not when it mattered most. But Lucius… Hanno… whoever you are now—” He swallowed. “I never stopped looking for you. As I promised that day.”

Hanno turned his back to him, trying to bury the heat in his chest beneath layers of anger.

“You’re not here for me,” he muttered. “You’re here for the idea of me. The answer. The heir. The prince you all need to fix what you broke.”

“I’m here because I see you,” Accacius said, quietly but fiercely. “Because I’ve wanted to see you become who you were always destined to be. Even if all I get is your hatred.”

Hanno finally turned, his expression unreadable.

“I’m not your answer. Not Rome’s. Not hers. I’m not the son who’ll save this Empire with a name and a speech. That boy is dead.”

“Then who are you now?”

Hanno stepped close—close enough to feel Accacius’s breath.

“I’m the consequence.”

Accacius’s breath caught.

“I’m what happens when empires abandon their sons.”

The words hung heavy between them, unspoken things crackling in the silence. For a heartbeat, Accacius looked like he might reach out—but Hanno stepped back.

“Leave,” he said. Not cruel. Just tired.

Accacius didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he did—stopping at the door.

He turned one last time, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t care who you say you are. I still see the boy who used to chase me through the gardens, barefoot and laughing. The boy who would sit with his grandfather and swear he would be the greatest Emperor Rome has ever had. I see him behind your eyes. And I will keep seeing him… until you do too.”

He left.

And this time, Hanno did not stop him.

But he didn’t sit down, either.

He stood there for a long time—staring at the door long after it had closed—wishing, just for a moment, that he could be someone worth returning to.