The sky of Capua didn't redden at dawn—it blackened.
Like an unhealed wound, the morning light only illuminated the blood-thirsty sand. There was no birdsong. No gentle breeze. Only dust, sweat, and the screams of those forced to live when they should have died.
Amidst the ranks of new slaves, their bodies weary and knees trembling, Marcus Pollo stood tall. His frame was imposing, 190 centimeters, with broad shoulders and a back as straight as a Roman legionary's standard. His eyes—deep, sharp sea-blue—showed no fear.
The others shivered in the morning chill. He merely offered a faint smile.
He didn't come from an unknown village, nor was he a prisoner of war or a defeated bandit. He came from another world.
A world of glass screens and beautiful bodies paid to feign moans. A world where he was a legend behind silk sheets and camera spotlights.
Before it all ended beneath the wheels of a truck that struck his body in the middle of the night.
And now, in this foul and brutal world, he felt no strangeness.
He felt... at home.
"Stand!"
A heavy voice barked from the side of the field.
A dark-skinned man, with a whip hanging at his hip and scars like war decorations, stepped into the center of the line. All the slaves bowed their heads. All, except one.
Marcus looked directly at him—a sharp gaze devoid of anger, only... assessment.
Doctore stopped in front of Marcus. His eyes narrowed, displeased. But also... intrigued.
"Your name?" Doctore asked curtly, his voice like stone grinding against metal.
"Marcus," he replied calmly. "But if you need something rougher to shout, I can provide a nickname."
A few slaves turned their heads. One chuckled softly. A mistake.
Doctore's whip lashed the man before he could even regret it. Blood spurted.
Marcus didn't blink.
Doctore simply stared at him for a long moment, then walked away.
Without a smile. Without anger. But with a mental note:
This one... is different.
Training began as the sun started to climb the sky.
There were no introductions. No warnings. Only instructions.
Run. Lift. Strike. Fall. Rise. Repeat. Until the body could no longer differentiate between pain and being alive.
Marcus followed. But unlike the others, he didn't resist. He danced.
His movements were lithe. His steps regular. His body wasn't empty muscle. This was the body of a man who had spent hours bearing weight... not for victory, but for the perfect scene.
And now, every drop of his sweat was not acting. But the beginning of real dominance.
When sword training began, the slaves were given rough, splintered wooden weapons. Marcus received his as if greeting an old lover.
He tested it in the air, checking the balance, then stood facing a training post.
While the others swung their weapons frantically and with raw power, Marcus began to swing slowly—steadily—controlled. Each movement was like part of a choreography already ingrained in his body. Each strike was not a random hit, but a statement.
"I am here."
"I am different."
"I will not be defeated by sand and whip."
As the sun began to descend, the bodies of the other slaves started to collapse one by one. Many fell prone, some vomited, one even had a seizure.
Marcus remained standing.
His breathing was heavy, yes. But his eyes remained focused. And when his gaze caught a large man staring at him with hatred amidst the training, he returned it with a small smile.
A smile that infuriated. A smile that condescended. The smile of a man who knew he would win, and would enjoy every second of it.
Night fell.
The slaves were thrown into narrow cells. The smell of urine, blood, and sweat choked the air. The groans of wounds and weary sighs competed with snores and silent sobs.
Marcus sat alone. His back against the stone, his eyes fixed on a hole in the wall that let in a sliver of light from outside.
He didn't sleep. He wasn't hungry.
He was just waiting.
And as the shadow of a female slave passed outside the cell, carrying water, his eyes narrowed.
Not the woman he was looking for. Not his target.
"You can lick my dick tonight, but it won't make you more than a name I'll forget tomorrow," he thought coldly. "I don't waste energy on bodies without influence."
He didn't move his body as the woman passed. He just watched.
And when the woman felt his gaze, she lowered her head and quickened her pace.
That was the initial power.
Not from touch. But from the absence of touch.
From the gaze that chose. From the dominance not yet spoken but already feared.
Some time later, as the moonlight touched the villa wall above the ludus, his eyes caught another figure. A young woman, slender, carrying clean linens towards a private hallway.
Naevia.
He didn't call out. Didn't tempt. Didn't show himself.
But he absorbed the details.
The way her steps were slow. The way she stared at the floor even though no one was watching her. The way her fingers occasionally touched her hip as if remembering an old wound.
Marcus memorized it all.
"You are the shadow of the woman I will conquer. But perhaps... you could be a key."
That night, Marcus slept dreamlessly.
He didn't need dreams when reality was beautiful enough:
He had arrived in hell.
And devils always prosper in places like this.
The morning light in Capua did not arrive with gentleness. It came like a whip sweeping away dust and reopening old wounds.
The sound of metal dragging. Cell doors opened with a harsh clang, and dry air rushed in as quickly as the screams echoing from the main corridor.
"Stand, nameless dogs! Today, you are chosen—or forgotten!"
Marcus opened his eyes before the guard could touch him. He was already sitting upright in the corner, back against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest. Though his sleep was thin and the floor hard, there was not a trace of weakness in his gaze.
The others were still rubbing their eyes, hastily getting up. Some fell, their knees not yet recovered from yesterday's training. But Marcus stood slowly, like a man waking from the soft bed of a senator's wife.
He walked out of the cell—without haste, without agitation. And when he arrived at the training yard, eyes began to turn towards him.
The first day was never easy.
The second day was where many men died.
The overseers distributed training weapons much heavier than the day before: wooden swords full of cracks and small metal weights at the hilt. The slaves held them like children holding a craftsman's tools.
Marcus received his and immediately felt the unbalanced weight distribution. But he didn't complain. He just made a note.
"With this weight, vertical attacks will be harder. But body rotation can be used to generate power..."
He spun, swung, and began to familiarize himself.
Across the field, a man stood tall—almost Marcus's height, his body covered in scars, his chest like a wall.
Crixus.
The champion of the ludus. A symbol of strength. An untamed animal.
Doctore approached.
"Today," he said loudly, "you will learn to fight not with a sword—but with fear."
He pointed to two random slaves. Then two more. Each pair was pushed into the center of the arena, ordered to fight under direct supervision.
Blood began to drip.
Marcus did not move. He simply observed.
Near the wooden fence of the arena, a woman stood calmly. Red hair caught in the wind. Her white gown hung low, as if unwilling to touch the dust.
Lucretia.
Wife of Quintus Batiatus. Mistress of the house. The unnamed queen who held the threads of many lives in her grasp.
She did not speak. She only watched—especially the men who didn't die too quickly. Men who had the potential to be entertainment... or toys.
Marcus's eyes caught her gaze for a moment.
And in that split second, he decided: "She is the gate. She is the beginning. But to touch that gate, I must become a legend before night falls."
When his name was called, Marcus stepped into the center of the sandy arena without a sound. His opponent was a new slave from Numidia—muscular, wild-eyed, and a fresh cut on his lower lip.
The sword in Marcus's hand spun quickly. He did not attack.
He waited.
Doctore nodded. "Begin."
The Numidian charged—hard, fast, like a newly released bull.
Marcus took one step back. Then two.
Dodging.
Not retaliating.
The spectators began to shout.
"Go on, coward!"
"Fight him! Swing your weapon!"
Marcus continued to dodge, remaining calm.
Then, as his opponent swung a heavy blow to the left, Marcus rotated his body, letting the opponent's momentum go to waste, and...
"THWACK!"
The tip of his sword struck precisely beneath the armpit—one of the weakest nerve points.
The Numidian fell like a sack of wheat. Unconscious.
Silence.
Lucretia smiled faintly. Doctore raised an eyebrow. The slaves looked at each other—they knew, something had changed.
Training finished earlier that day.
Marcus returned to his cell unharmed. But his mind was full of calculations.
He observed the social structure of the ludus:
* Crixus sat at the peak of the power pyramid.
* Varro—the only slave who still thought, not just survived.
* Doctore—an executioner who believed in the system.
* The guards—corrupt, but purchasable.
* And above all: Lucretia.
That night, Marcus found Varro sitting alone near the cell corner, bandaging a wound on his hand.
"I can help," Marcus said.
Varro turned suspiciously. "You know how to bandage wounds?"
Marcus knelt, untied the cloth, and replaced it with a tighter wrap.
"I know how to conserve energy. And now is not the time to die from a small wound."
Varro nodded slowly. "You're not like the others."
"I have no intention of being like them," Marcus replied, his eyes fixed on the torch fire. "I am not a chain waiting to break free. I... am the hand that holds the chain."
A short while later, a guard passed by. Marcus called out to him.
"Tell your master," he said softly, "that Marcus Pollo wishes to entertain the female guests, if needed."
The guard laughed. "Who do you think you are?"
Marcus moved closer. His eyes gleamed—as if there was something deeper than mere courage.
"I am nobody," he whispered. "But if he sees me just once... he will know that I was made to be seen."
The night in Capua brought a silence that was not peace—but rather anticipation. Like a lion sitting still in the darkness, waiting for blood to drip so it could pounce.
Marcus Pollo sat in his cell, eyes closed. But his mind was not asleep. Never.
Every guard's step. Every slave's whisper. Even the crackle of the torch in the hallway, he listened. He counted time. Measured gaps. Read the atmosphere.
And tonight... the atmosphere was different.
Footsteps approached. Lighter. Not belonging to a large guard.
A soft voice echoed in the hallway, unlike whips or shouts. But like an unspoken command.
Someone unlatched the cell door.
Marcus opened his eyes.
Two robed, armed men stood at the door.
"Master Batiatus wishes one of his new gladiators to attend the villa," one of the guards said. "And mistress Lucretia chose you."
Batiatus's villa was unlike the ludus. Its walls were clean. Its floors gleamed. The air was filled with the scent of wine and incense. In its corridors, female servants bowed low as guests passed them, eyes not daring to meet.
Marcus was led in through a back door. Told to wash his body, given a thin robe of white linen.
"I look like a sacrificial offering," he thought with a faint smile.
However, he knew... this was not an offering. This was a test.
In the central hall, a fire burned in a golden brazier, and wine flowed from pitchers like a small river. Several Capuan nobles sat in chairs, laughing, enjoying musical performances and dances by female slaves.
Among them sat a woman who seemed to not belong to the same world—dark red hair, fresh red lips, and eyes that observed like a snake resting on a tapestry.
Lucretia.
The master's wife. Lover of luxury. Holder of the keys to life and death in this house.
She spoke softly to a servant, then her eyes looked directly at Marcus, who had just entered the room.
That gaze was sharp. As if stripping not the body, but the mind.
"Marcus Pollo," she said softly yet with full authority. "Your name is beginning to reach our dining table."
Marcus bowed slowly, but did not prostrate himself. He stood with a straight back, his eyes still meeting hers.
"I did not expect a gladiator to become a topic of conversation amidst wine and music," he replied calmly.
Lucretia smiled. Not a friendly smile. But an interested one.
"You are different. Doctore does not like to speak. But he says you don't just survive. You... wait."
"Those who know when to strike," Marcus said softly, "are those who are already ready to win."
Some nobles in the room chuckled. One of them—an old senator—looked at Marcus haughtily.
"You have a slick tongue. But a tongue doesn't win you the arena."
"No, Senator," Marcus replied. "But a tongue can sway women to your side. And that is sometimes more deadly than a sword."
Silence. Then laughter erupted. Even Lucretia chuckled softly.
"Give him wine," she commanded. "And let him speak. I want to know... who truly is Marcus Pollo."
A few hours later, Marcus sat on the side balcony of the villa. Wine in his hand, the moon in the sky, and the sounds of the party behind him began to fade.
He was not drunk. He was assessing.
Drunken men. Women presented. Whispers flowing about who slept with whom. About influence. About debts. About games.
And he was in the midst of it.
Listening. Remembering.
Then a light step came from behind.
Marcus turned. A female figure walked closer, a thin gray gown clinging to her body, her hair neatly tied. Her eyes were soft, but not foolish.
Naevia.
Not a noble. Not the mistress of the house. Just a servant.
Yet of all the women he had seen tonight, only she touched his deepest instincts.
"Mistress asked me to bring fruit," she said, placing a small tray on the table.
"And you came alone?" Marcus asked. "Isn't it dangerous to approach a gladiator unescorted?"
"I am not afraid of the silent ones," she said, looking down. "Those who talk a lot are usually not dangerous."
Marcus approached. Slowly. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Do not trust what is soft. I can kill you with a smile... and make you kneel without touching."
Naevia swallowed. Her hands trembled slightly. But she did not retreat.
"Master Pollo... everyone here can kill. But not everyone can survive with... silence. That is what I learned from my mistress."
Marcus looked at her for a long time. Then he smiled.
"And that is why I am watching you."
Naevia was silent. Her cheeks flushed. She bowed, then left quickly, leaving a faint fragrant scent in the air.
Marcus watched her back disappear behind the curtains.
"Not to be owned. But to be controlled... slowly. Patiently."
Before the night ended, Lucretia called him once more.
In a private room, just the two of them.
"Do you know why I chose you to come tonight?" she asked, pouring wine.
"Because I am not a slave. I am... an investment."
"You think highly of yourself."
"I think... precisely."
Lucretia moved closer. Her eyes scrutinized Marcus's face. Her lips were just an inch from his chin.
"I will observe further. If you are truly as you believe, Marcus... then your place is not on the ground. But in the bed of power."
Marcus bowed, kissing the back of her hand gently.
"I only need time, Mistress. And time is something I have... and will take from others."
Capua hissed in silence. Night had enveloped Batiatus's villa, yet it did not mean peace. In the house of the wealthy, silence was not tranquility—it was a thin cloak of intrigue and desire settling behind the curtains.
Marcus Pollo stood before an intricately carved wooden door. Behind him, two guards bowed, then retreated silently.
The door opened by itself.
From within, the aroma of cinnamon and dark wine tantalized his senses. Candles glowed around the spacious room, casting golden light on the white walls. In the center of the room, on a bed draped with red satin sheets, sat a woman with red hair flowing over her shoulders.
Lucretia.
She wore a thin, almost transparent nightgown. Only a single gold chain hung around her neck. Her nipples were faintly visible through the fabric, hard and firm. Her legs were crossed, slick thighs peeking from the high slit of her gown.
Her gaze was sharp—but not merely looking. She was assessing.
"Come in," she whispered. Her voice was soft but like a knife to the throat.
"Show me... why your tongue was so widely discussed that night."
Marcus stepped inside. He did not answer with words. He simply untied his white robe slowly, letting it fall to the floor.
His body was naked.
Lucretia held her breath for a moment.
Tall. Proportional. Muscles not overly prominent, but firm. His penis hung heavy, not yet erect, but clearly showing its potential for power.
Her eyes traced Marcus's body as if examining a living Greek statue.
But she was not the dominant one tonight. Not the queen tonight. She was testing... and she was being tested.
Marcus approached, then stopped just inches from the bed.
"Are you sure you want this, Mistress?" he asked, his voice low and resonating in Lucretia's chest.
"Because after this... you will never desire another man."
Lucretia smiled, her red lips lifting slightly.
"Prove it."
Marcus moved quickly. His hand gripped Lucretia's ankle and pulled her body to the edge of the bed. The woman was startled, but did not resist.
She moaned as Marcus kissed her calf... then her knee... then her warm, moist inner thigh.
Her gown was lifted.
Her vagina was clearly visible—wet, pink, subtly pulsating. The distinct scent of a mature, powerful woman assailed Marcus's nose. He did not speak. He licked a single line from the base of her vagina upwards, touching her clitoris gently with the tip of his tongue.
"Ahhh..." Lucretia moaned. Her fingers instantly clutched Marcus's hair.
Marcus kissed and sucked Lucretia's labia with full control. His tongue explored slowly, then angled every movement towards one point: maximum pleasure.
His lips gently kissed her clitoris with an unhurried rhythm.
His left hand slipped inside her gown's slit, clutching Lucretia's breast—soft but full. Her nipple was hard, firm, and warm.
"Oh God... Marcus... AHH yes—" she cried out, stifled.
His tongue twisted. Attacking. Sucking. Teasing. Overpowering.
Her legs trembled. Her hips writhed, greedily chasing Marcus's tongue. Vaginal fluid flowed more heavily, moistening his chin and lips.
"YES, yess, don't stop... LICK ME! More! More—aaahhh!"
Marcus suddenly stopped his tongue. Lucretia shrieked in disappointment.
"Not yet," Marcus said coldly. "You don't deserve to climax until I see your eyes when you are entered."
Marcus rose. His penis was now fully erect—large, long, and thick, veins bulging along the shaft.
Lucretia looked at him like a woman who had been thirsty for years. She touched herself, spreading the fluid of pleasure on her clitoris while staring at Marcus's hard shaft.
"Come in," she whispered. "I've been wet since you opened your robe."
Marcus climbed onto the bed. He flipped Lucretia over with a single pull, making her lie on her stomach. Her white buttocks perfectly protruded, full and tempting. He pinched them hard until Lucretia groaned.
His penis pressed slowly against her labia.
Hot. Wet. Tight.
Marcus pushed.
"SPLLLCKK...!"
"AHHHHHH!" Lucretia shrieked, biting the pillow.
Marcus began to thrust—slowly. Deep. Steady.
His hands gripped Lucretia's hips tightly, burying his penis deeper. Each thrust was accompanied by the sound of skin slapping skin.
"You are mine tonight," Marcus growled.
"YES, I am yours! Take me! Deep! FASTER, deep—AHHH yesaa—"
Marcus slapped Lucretia's buttocks. The sound of flesh being smacked echoed. Her buttocks quivered perfectly.
He pulled out, leaving only the head.
Then thrust back in.
Deep. Strong. Ruthless.
"You will remember this every time your husband touches you," he whispered in Lucretia's ear. "And you will compare it... and be disappointed."
"YAAAH—!" Lucretia shrieked again, her first orgasm exploding wildly. Her legs trembled, her body convulsed.
Marcus did not stop. He flipped Lucretia to the missionary position, then re-entered. Now he saw her face—her eyes wide open, tears of pleasure streaming.
He kissed her lips hard. Their tongues fought.
The penetration grew wilder.
"SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!" The sounds of their bodies uniting echoed in the room.
Lucretia lifted her legs, crossing them around Marcus's waist. Their bodies were fully pressed together. Her breasts bounced up and down beneath Marcus's chest.
"OH GOD MARCUS! I—AGAIN—I—AHHHH!"
A second orgasm. Stronger. Fluid soaked the bed.
Marcus held back his climax. He lifted Lucretia's body onto him, sat up, and let her ride him—cowgirl position.
Now Lucretia controlled the rhythm, and she did so ferociously. Her hips writhed. Her breasts bounced up and down in the air. Her voice changed into long, uncontrollable moans.
"YES YES YES YES! More! Faster!"
Marcus gripped her hips and reciprocated her movements.
And finally—with one powerful thrust, Marcus groaned softly, his teeth clenched tightly, and his warm semen sprayed deep into Lucretia's body.
"AHHHHHHhhhhhhh..." a long sound escaped his throat.
Lucretia collapsed on his chest, her breath hitched.
Their bodies were wet with sweat and fluids of love.
A few minutes later, they lay in silence.
Lucretia stared at the ceiling. Her lips were still slightly parted. Her legs trembled. Between her thighs, white fluid still slowly dripped from her vagina.
"You are not a gladiator," she said softly. "You are... a devil in a man's skin."
Marcus only smiled.
"And you have just sold your soul."