Spartacus: House of Ashur

- Wake. -

You stand but first crude brick, laying foundation

to the rise of the house of Ashur.

All those before me shall fall.

Enter the brothers Ferox!

-Aargh! -

That toad is pet to Marcus fucking Crassus.

Apologies, Gabinius. We did not think.

I shall redouble the effort to secure undiscovered spectacle

and see rematch upon a day.

Let us gaze upon glorious future.

Aargh! Pledge oath, call me Dominus and fight in the arena.

Earn your freedom upon the sands.

- Achillia. -Dominus.

[rapid percussive music, singing echoes]

Ay!

Tarchon! You lower shield before you strike.

See it raised- your brains upon the sands.

Yes, Doctore.

You fight with vigor.

Well, this house now stands absent champion-

a position I would claim my own.

Well, to become champion,

you must first defeat vaunted father.

A venture yet beyond grasp.

-For now, you withered corpse. -

You mad fuck!

-You lower your guard. -Towards good fucking reason.

We have felt the sting

of loss.

Witnessed honored champion

fall upon the sands of the arena

to the ill-thriven jackals of Proculus.

Yet, as rising sun breaks dawn,

so too shall the House of Ashur

dispel darkest night of indignity.

We shall no longer be bound by the shackles of history

or fucking tradition!

We set foot upon uncharted course

to satisfy the crowd's desire

with more exotic...

offerings.

But how shall rising thirst be quenched?

There stands but one capable of satiating

such ravenous mob!

Behold,

Achillia.

The Goddess of Death.

Silence fucking tongue, and attend your Dominus!

Return to training, you simple fucks.

Doctore,

see Achillia to instruction.

Dacus, sword and shield, towards style of murmillo!

Yes, Doctore!

The woman bears resemblance to my mother-

a spiteful fucking whore.

That explains much, you witless shit.

-A fucking woman, father. -Turn thoughts.

And raise guard!

Erato!

Pair with Achillia.

I would see cock tangle with more worthy adversary.

- -

Work the fucking log!

-Ay! -Tarchon!

Pair with Achillia.

Yes, Doctore.

Shall I treat her as opponent

or something of delicate persuasion?

A question I was of mind to pose towards you.

See idle words give way to clash of swords.

Begin!

She is of a form, is she not?

-Yes, Dominus. -Mm-hm.

- -Aargh!

You have fought before, yet not against such as I.

Fucking shield weights intent.

You will address me as Doctore.

Retrieve the shield.

It is not to my benefit, Doctore.

You will do as commanded!

Achillia,

stand ground.

And receive correction.

Dominus.

The moment has fucking passed.

Resume training.

Begin!

Aargh!

She does not grant respect title of Doctore demands.

Respect is not granted; it is taken.

Instruct Achillia in our ways

and see bared teeth give way to averted gaze.

A lesson not easily grasped by rabid dog.

Then respond with lash until tongue laps at heel.

And what if beast cannot be tamed?

Spartacus once stood as wild.

Yet by will and teachings of Oenomaus,

he was domesticated

and became champion of fucking Capua-

a result I would see mirrored.

She reflects but promise of disappointment.

-Do you stand fucking Dominus? -I do not.

Yet you bleat as if exalted title cloaks you in such regard.

I account what eyes behold through lens of experience.

She is but fucking clay for your hands to mold.

Forge her in the fires of this ludus,

hardening her to swift purpose.

Swift? Achillia has but only commenced training.

A thing of minor consequence.

I would see her ready for the games of the Ludi Apollinares.

-You have secured position? -I maneuver towards such.

So we but clutch at fanciful dream.

As certain as waking upon each fucking day,

I shall see it done and claim desired contest against

the Brothers Ferox once more.

You wager all that crowd will not turn upon us.

-For presenting novelty? -For breaking tradition,

when fucking woman takes to the sands.

Tradition is but a word revered by those

who pursue mediocrity.

The House of Ashur will carve its own path

and fuck into oblivion all who stands in its way.

Dominus, message has arrived from Rome.

Ah! At last.

Mighty Crassus deigns to respond.

Apologies. It is not from Crassus.

Who, then?

Julius fucking Caesar.

A man of no worth beyond name granted by slipping

from mother's cunt.

He stands a quaestor, does he not? A position of some note.

Fuck position.

Caesar flings his own shit and declares it manna from heaven.

He breaks words of some distress?

Some.

He sends us and our men upon Appian Way,

towards unsavory task.

Do you not stand a free man, as Caesar?

And as such, not bound by request?

I stand free in the eye of the republic, yet not in coin.

Crassus is honored patron and Caesar his fucking will.

We must part lips and swallow anointed cock.

Move cart further from fucking nose.

It is a heavy sight...

to witness so many hearts no longer beating beneath chest.

The rebel army that shook the mighty republic

reduced to rotten flesh beneath vengeful sun.

Shit cock!

We stand gladiators, not common fucking slaves.

You stand as I fucking command!

- -

Creticus has mind equal to dazed child, yet breaks truth.

A gladiator's place is upon the sands of the arena-

it is the duty of a quaestor to tend to the Appian Way.

Caesar's tongue yet find purchase in Crassus' ass.

We must endure one to gain benefit of more-

Stop!

That mark-

this man stood Champion of the House of Batiatus.

Gannicus.

Gannicus! Gannicus! Gannicus!

I had occasion to cross paths with him once,

after he claimed freedom in the arena,

before he fell among Spartacus and his rebels.

A drunken, disagreeable fellow,

much to my liking.

He embraced his fate, as all men must.

His death a kindness

to one forever haunted by past transgressions.

-See him to fucking wagon. -Dominus.

This man stood a god of the arena,

his skill rivalled only by the Bringer of Rain himself.

Two legends, birthed from our ludus.

Yet we now stand absent even lowly position in the games.