Horses were galloping in the distance, as Baersun ran through the forest, hunted by shadows. The bloody Romans had outflanked them and taken their warriors by surprise. Only he and a handful of his tribe had survived the battle that had followed. Too late had they realized that it was a trap. His side ached and his lungs burned from the running he did, as tried to reach the village as fast as possible. He could only pray that he was back in time, but at the same time he feared the worst. Black smoke rose up in the distance, even the birds in the forest had fallen silent.<br/><br/>“By Woadan, not again...” he cursed, as he twisted and turned his way through the foliage.<br/><br/>The forest seemed to stretch forever. Being one of the fastest runners of the tribe, his friends couldn't keep up and soon he ran alone.<br/><br/>A deep growl escaped from his throat, as he slowly winded down to a halt. He had finally reached the edge of the forest, but there was no joy at this accomplishment. Before his eyes his village burned, surrounded by the very legion they had beaten into submission a mere year ago. If only they hadn't fallen for their diversion, which had lured them away from the village and trapped them in the valley.<br/><br/>Baersun unsheathed his sword, ready to cleave the first Roman he saw in half.<br/><br/>Several birds scattered away, as his friends finally caught up to him. Unfortunately, the sudden flight of the birds also alerted a watchful Roman, who yelled to his comrades and pointed in their direction.<br/><br/>“Cursed be those inbred dogs,” Baersun spat vehemently, his fellow tribesmen agreeing with muttered curses of their own.<br/><br/>His vision blurred.<br/><br/>They were now standing in the village, women and children screaming, crying, even begging for mercy. Baersun was restrained, forced to watch how the Roman dogs raped one woman after another. He struggled to break free, but the ropes were too strong. He had slain three Romans before they managed to overpower him. He could still taste their blood in his mouth, and feel it drip down his hands, but it hadn't been enough by far. There was only so much he could do as they were outnumbered eight to one.<br/><br/>His wife looked at him, as a Roman ripped her clothes off and threw on the ground. Baersun couldn't stand the sight and turned his head away, but the blasted Roman who stood next to him forced his head in her direction. The bastard gave him a small stab with his knife, enough to force Baersun to open his eyes; forcing him to witness how his wife was brutally raped in front of him and his two sons.<br/><br/>“No, no,” Bearsun gasped, as he shook his head wildly from side to side, “No, noo,<strong>NOOOO!</strong>”<br/><br/>Bearsun sat upright in bed, bathing in sweat. His head throbbed in pain from the hangover of all the wine he had consumed the night before. The morning heat did little to relieve him of his discomfort. The big man slowly breathed in and out. Despite the events that had happened two years ago, his nightmares still haunted him.<br/><br/>Two days earlier the House of Magnus had acquired him as a gladiator on the slave market, and the day before he had received their brand mark on his right thigh. The skin was still tender. Dominus Augustus Magnus had made him swear to serve him and uphold the honor of his House. Baersun had done so, but swore by the name of Woadan and added in his own language that he would kill every Roman he could before his eventual demise.<br/><br/>His former life was over, and he knew it. Word had reached him a long time ago that his wife and two children were slaughtered on their way to Rome. They were in a better place now, Woadan watched over them in Valhalla. Baersun longed for death, but only a meaningful one would suffice. Only true warriors who died in combat, or fought to protect their honor and belongings would enter Valhalla. He was one of the last of his tribe, and the day before he had sworn a blood oath to Woadan that he would serve his God until the day Woadan claimed his life as his.<br/><br/>The Dominus must have been impressed with the seriousness he had taken his oath. If he only knew that the oath wasn't to him. He had spoken the words of the Roman, but in his mind he had spoken the words of his tribe. Afterwards he had cut himself, drank his own blood and spit a few drops on the ground. He wiped them out in the sand with his bare foot, completing the ritual of warriors who swore to protect the tribe.<br/><br/>Magnus had given him a flask of cheap wine after the branding against the pain. The flask was quickly drowned and the pleasurable buzz that followed allowed Baersun to forget about his troubles for a few hours. The cell they kept him in was small, but sufficient. It had a bed and some soft cloth for his head. He might be able to get some furs for the colder nights as he earned a few coins by fighting in the arena, but as long as he didn't have to sleep on the floor he was satisfied. After all, sleeping on the floor was something dogs did. He had no desire to sleep where the crawling vermin could bite him and possibly infect with one disease or another.<br/><br/>The throbbing in his head slowly cleared. Although the morning heat had increased the intensity of his nightmare, he was also glad for the warmth, since he didn't feel his right leg as much then. The wound that the Romans had left behind when they captured him, never had the chance to heal properly, leaving an ugly scar behind. If he had one weakness, then it was his right leg.<br/><br/>Baersun stretched his muscles, remembering the doctrine of his tribe well. Proper warming up exercises came as a second nature to him. The past two years he had learned many new fighting skills at the various ludi that had owned him, but battle tactics of his tribe had been so ingrained in his life that he would upkeep his traditions and rituals until his last dying breath. He had no expectations to see more than one, maybe two winters, but that was okay with him.<br/><br/>Every day he could still lift a sword or ax would be another day he could slay more Romans. He couldn't care less in whose name it was, as long as the inbred bastards died in the most gruesome ways possible. It was bonus that the audience valued his flair of killing as prime entertainment. Baersun merely wanted to inflict the maximum pain possible and give his enemies a slow death, preferring to make their agony last as long as he could. The only times he showed mercy was when he was forced to slay a Gaul or fellow Germanic tribesman.<br/><br/>It didn't take long before he was summoned for the sparring. Baersun was as nude as the day he was born. He couldn't care less if he entered the training grounds like this, since he was far from ashamed of his body. It had been the way his tribe had fought, nude and proud, covered in mud and intoxicated by the blessed drugs of the druids. However, he was aware that the dress code at the ludus included loincloth, and as such he picked up the dirty white cloth and wrapped it around his nether region.<br/><br/>Below the South European sun, his pink Caucasian skin had turned into a magnificent bronze, contrasting sharply with his light blonde nearly white hair. The dull look in his green eyes spoke volumes of his life experience. Being twenty-six winters old, he was one of the oldest gladiators, and probably one of the most experienced warriors in the ludus.<br/><br/>When the whip of the Doctore cracked on the sand, he assumed the traditional opening position as he was taught in his previous ludus. Judging by the already rising heat, it promised to be a hot day.<br/><br/>His sparring partner this morning was a younger Gaul, who went by the name of Obix. Although he wasn't as quick as his sparring partner, Baersun relied on technique to carry him through the motions of the exercise. The Gaul was impulsive and lacked the patience of a veteran warrior, earning him a couple of taps from Baersun's wooden practice sword. The youngster regained his composure quickly enough, and recognized the message Baersun told him.<br/><br/>Generally the tall German wouldn't grunt more than a few words, letting his actions speak for him. He had met the Gaul only a day earlier, but the lad seemed eager enough to learn how to survive in the arena. When Obix made a particularly stupid move, Baersun gave him a kick to the leg, tackling the young gladiator and making him eat dust.<br/><br/>As the Gaul recovered, Baersun had a moment rest and glance at the balcony. Dominus Magnus watched them train, perhaps him in particular, and he gave the man a nod of respect. He witnessed how the girl behind him refilled his empty cup with wine. Baersun could almost taste the liquid on his tongue... He longed for the divine alcohol, feeling it burn down his throat, giving him the pleasurable buzz once more.<br/><br/>Unfortunately, his momentary lapse of attention caused him to get hit in the ribs by Obix, who had recovered and challenged him once more. Baersun winced in pain as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, but he recovered quickly enough and performed his own attack with a heavy grunt.<br/><br/>He hoped the morning training would be over soon enough, so he could rest in the shade and enjoy a meal. Perhaps he would even get to talk to Geila, the girl that he seemed to have so much in common with him. Her name sounded like those of the girls from the southern parts of Germania, and her hair color matched his own. It looked like she had been here for a while, and he wondered if she remembered any of the old tongue. It would be good to hear some familiar words.