Sands of Fate: The Wrong Side of History

Chapter 6: Footsteps

Chapter 6: Footsteps

"Fight!"

The word hung in the air like a blade.

Alex didn’t move. Neither did the huge man across from him. The circle of gladiators watched in silence. Akosa’s whip hand twitched.

’He’s going to kill me,’ Alex thought. ’Or break my arm like Spartacus.’

The huge man lunged.

No feint, or flashy footworks. Just a massive wooden sword swinging for Alex’s skull.

Alex threw himself sideways, the sword whistling past his ear – whoosh – and slammed into the sand. A cloud of dust puffed up.

’Jesus Christ! That was close.’

He scrambled backward, gripping his own wooden sword. His palms were still raw from training. The hilt felt slippery with his blood from the blisters.

The huge man grunted, yanking his sword from the sand. He was fast for his size, stupidly so. He came again – a horizontal slash aimed at Alex’s ribs.

Alex tried to parry. Thwack. The impact jarred up his arm, nearly knocking the sword from his hand. He stumbled back, arms shaking, shoulders screaming.

’Fuck, he’s strong. Okay, don’t block, or you lose your arms.’ Alex thought.

The huge man pressed forward, swinging overhead. Alex dove to the side, rolled in the sand, came up coughing. The sword smashed into the ground where he’d been standing.

"Stand still, albino," the huge man rumbled.

’Not a chance.’ Alex replied internally.

Alex circled, staying just out of range. His breath came in ragged gasps. The huge man wasn’t even winded.

’I can’t beat him. Not like this.’

He glanced at the system UI in the corner of his vision.

Temporal Dilatation (Lv 1) – 3 charges remaining.

’If I use it now, I might dodge one swing. Then what? He’ll still be standing.’

The huge man charged again. Alex backpedaled, but his heel caught on something – a wooden sword someone had dropped. He tripped, off balance. ’Fuck! Who put that there!?’

The huge man’s sword came down.

Time seemed to slow – not the system, just fear at the back of Alex’s mind. He saw the blade arcing toward his collarbone, but he couldn’t dodge, he couldn’t parry.

’Fuck it. Now!’ He yelled internally at the system.

Ping.

5...

The world turned grey. Dust motes froze in the air. The huge man’s sword hung motionless, inches from Alex’s shoulder. The crowd of gladiators were statues, their faces masks of anticipation.

4...

Alex moved. He stepped to the side, ducking under the frozen blade. His muscles screamed – moving in slowed time was like wading through mud. He circled behind the huge man, raised his own wooden sword, and brought it down on the back of the man’s knee.

3, 2...

Thwack.

1...

Time snapped back.

The huge man’s swing cut through empty air. He stumbled, off balance, and his knee buckled. He crashed down on one knee, grunting in surprise.

The circle of gladiators gasped.

Alex stumbled back, gasping for air. His vision blurry. That one charge had drained him more than he expected.

’Two left. I can’t use another yet.’ He thought.

The huge man glared up at him, then slowly pushed himself back to his feet. He flexed his knee, testing it. It held.

"Lucky shot," he growled.

Alex didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His lungs were on fire.

The huge man came again, slower now, favoring his knee. Alex dodged, parried, dodged again – barely. Each exchange shaved off a piece of his stamina. His arms felt like dumbbells, and his head pounding.

’Just stay alive. Don’t let him land a clean hit.’ He kept telling himself.

But the huge man was adapting. He stopped swinging wildly. He started herding Alex toward the edge of the circle, where the other gladiators stood.

Alex’s back foot hit someone’s shin. He glanced back – a wall of bodies. Nowhere to run.

The huge man grinned. "Nowhere to go, albino."

He raised his sword for a final swing.

Alex’s hand tightened on his own sword. His heart hammered. He could feel Ignatius’s gaze from the balcony, heavy as a stone.

’One more charge. Just to survive.’

Ping.

5...

The world greyed again. The huge man’s sword began its descent – slow, so slow. Alex stepped into it. He raised his own sword, positioned it to catch the blow at an angle, then ducked his head.

2, 1...

Time resumed.

Crack.

The huge man’s sword slammed into Alex’s – but instead of breaking through, it skidded off the angled blade and smashed into the sand beside him. Alex was already moving, driving his shoulder into the huge man’s chest.

The man staggered back, off balance, his sword trapped in the sand for a heartbeat.

Alex didn’t press the attack. He was too tired to. He just stood there, swaying, holding his sword in front of him like a lifeline.

The huge man yanked his sword free from the ground, and looked at Alex – like really looked. Then he spat on the sand and stepped back.

"Enough." Akosa’s voice rang out.

The circle went quiet.

The huge man raised an eyebrow. "Winner?" he asked, looking at Akosa.

Akosa shrugged. "He’s still standing. That’s more than most." He glanced at Alex. "You’re not a fluke, albino."

Alex didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded.

Akosa’s whip cracked. "Then it’s a draw. Both of you, stand over there." He said, pointing to the side.

He walked over to them, and whipped his lash at the two. Alex winced in pain, before walking back towards the circle.

"Now, that’s enough training for today." Akosa said, folding his whip. "You boys can enjoy the rest of your day." He glanced at Alex, before walking away.

The gladiators muttered among themselves as Alex limped to the edge of the circle. He caught Spartacus’s eye – the Thracian was sitting against a wall, his arm wrapped in bloody linen, but he was smirking.

"Not bad, Albius," Spartacus said quietly.

Alex collapsed beside him, his chest heaving. "I felt like I was going to die."

"Welcome to the ludus." Spartacus winced, shifting his broken arm. "That was just a spar."

"I thought you were taken to Gaius for treatment?" Alex asked.

"Told the old man to hurry. I couldn’t miss your fight." Spartacus chuckled.

---

Alex sat slumped against the wall, ignoring the pain on his back. His chest still heaving. The huge man had walked off, limping slightly but otherwise unbothered. The other gladiators dispersed, muttering among themselves. A few glanced at Alex. Not with respect, exactly. More like curiosity.

Spartacus winced, shifting his bandaged arm. "You look like shit."

Alex looked down at himself. His loincloth was crusted with dried mud – and worse. The pit, the sweat, the sand. He then looked at Spartacus, who didn’t look any better. "Says the pot to the kettle." A pause. Then they both laughed, and began walking toward one of the buildings.

Ignatius, still standing on the balcony in his green tunic, watched everything with an unreadable expression. He then turned and walked through the door just behind him, into the large room within.

---

The room smelled of expensive frankincense and wine.

Ignatius sat behind his parchment‑filled desk and rested his back on a high‑backed curule chair – the kind Roman magistrates used, its curved legs carved from dark wood, the seat padded with worn leather. A bronze oil lamp hung from the ceiling, casting warm light over the chaos of scrolls.

His eyes swept across the papers on the table until his gaze fell on one. It was a slightly folded parchment with a wax seal: two bull heads.

"House Porcius." Ignatius sighed. He knew House Porcius, one of the most powerful families in Rome. And they wanted – "Albius. Why does it have to be the albino?" He lamented. "Aurellia won’t like this." He stared out the balcony, beyond the ludus.

---

The Curia —Senate House— stood in the Roman Forum, a rectangular building of grey tufa stone with a bronze roof and high windows that let in slivers of light. Inside, the main hall had tiered wooden benches for senators, and at the far end a raised platform with high-back curule chairs for the consuls and the Princeps Senatus.

Deep within the basements of the Curia, was a dungeon.

Stairs led down from a forgotten narrow corridor. The stones of the stairs, worn by centuries of footsteps. The air grew colder, and damper. The smell of piss and rot was thick in the air.

The dungeon was a single long chamber carved directly into the bedrock beneath the Curia. Iron rings were bolted into the walls, some with rusted chains still attached. The only light came from torches in iron brackets, their flames sending jumping shadows across the walls. A drain ran down the center of the floor, clogged with filth.

In one corner, a wooden table with all sorts of torture tools imaginable laid, with traces of dried blood all over. In another, a brazier held cold ashes.

This was where enemies of the Senate disappeared. No screams reached the surface.

Inside one of the cells, a man sat on the cold damp floors, bound to chains by his wrists and ankles.

He looked battered and malnourished. His body riddled with bruises, and dried blood. His ragged loinclothe soaked with what smelt like faeces water, and piss. His hands utterly rough with cuts, and missing fingernails that looked forcefully removed.

A rat was crawling through the bars, and into the man’s cell, before being startled away by a series of footsteps, approaching from a distance.

The sounds of sandal soles slapping against cold damp stones, echoed through the hallway of the dungeon before coming to an abrupt stop.