Blood on the Sandals

The heat of the day lingered in the stone, a thin ribbon of amber that clung to the western wall of the Colosseum. Shadows stretched like long, tired fingers across the sand‑strewn arena, and the distant murmur of crowds—vendors hawking figs, the low clink of coins— drifted up from the streets below. A faint breeze carried the smell of baked bread and the sharp sting of sweat from men who had spent the afternoon training in the sun.

Quintus Aurelius stood at the edge of the sand, his broad shoulders hunched over the wooden training sword that rested against his thigh. The blade was blunt, its edges dulled by years of practice, but the scarred wood of his grip still bore the memory of countless blows. He watched the glow of the setting sun turn the marble of the arena into a bruise of deep orange, and his throat tightened as the last light fell across his son’s face.

Marcellus Aurelius, nineteen and still in the bronze cuirass of a junior centurion, paced a few steps away. His eyes, hard and bright, flicked over the shadows as if looking for something that might not be there. He lifted his chin, the metal of his helmet catching the waning sun, and spoke with a tone that cut sharper than any sword.

“Father,” he began, his voice low but edged with disdain, “you think a wooden stick can wash away the blood you spilled in the arena. You think the crowds will forget the faces you broke, the men you sent screaming into the sand.”

Quintus’s eyes narrowed. He felt the weight of the past settle on his shoulders like a cloak of ash. The wind shifted, stirring a few loose grains of sand that tickled his skin.

“I am not the man you think I was,” Quintus said, voice rough as the stone underfoot. “I have spent years teaching new soldiers, building a school for freedwomen, trying—”

“You try,” Marcellus snapped, stepping closer, his boots thudding against the hard ground. “You try to buy forgiveness with coin and charity. But coin does not bring back what you killed, and charity does not silence the screams that echo in my mind when I hear the crowd cheering for you.”

A pause fell between them, thick as the dust that rose when the wind whispered through the arches. Quintus lowered his hand to the wooden sword, feeling the familiar grain beneath his fingers. He thought of the blood he had shed, of the faces of the slaves he had forced into the arena, of the night he had struck a child’s cheek to keep him from fleeing. A bitter taste rose in his throat.

“Do you remember the night I saved your mother?” Quintus asked, the question a flicker of desperation hidden in the bark of his voice. “She was about to be taken as a captive after the battle at Danube. I… I begged the commander to spare her. He gave her a seat among the dead… and I carried her out of the camp. I thought I was doing something good.”

Marcellus’s eyes flickered, a flash of something softer before the bitterness settled back like a stone. “You think that makes up for the lives you took? You think a single act of mercy can balance a career of murder?”

Quintus swallowed, his throat dry. “I am not asking for forgiveness, son. I am asking you to see that I am… trying to change. That I can be more than the man who swung a gladius.”

A low, guttural chuckle escaped Marcellus. “Change? You think you can change a stone that has been carved by blood? I am not a child to be swayed by your stories, father. I want a payment—a promise of land, of status. I want to be recognized as more than the son of a butcher.”

The words struck Quintus like a sudden strike of a short sword. He felt a cold surge of fear and shame rise in his chest. He had hoped his son would see him as a man who could be redeemed, not as a pawn in a game of power.

“You demand a bribe for my redemption?” Quintus asked, his voice trembling just enough to betray his calm exterior. “You think I will hand you the fields of the Subura, the vineyards…?”

Marcellus lifted his visor, the glare of the dying sun catching on his bronze cheek guards. “If you cannot give me what I ask, then I will cut you down myself. I will take what is mine—my name, my honor. And you will watch as the man you tried to become crumbles beneath my boot.”

A tense silence settled, the kind that seemed to press the stones of the arena into a tighter embrace. Both men stared at each other, each seeing the other's scars, each feeling the sting of betrayal.

Then, without warning, a sharp clatter echoed from the far side of the arena. A rustle of fabric, a low hiss, and a flash of movement darkened the dusky horizon. A figure darted from behind a column, followed by three more—sleek, hooded, their faces hidden beneath the iron masks of the Sica, the city’s most feared assassins. Their boots struck the sand with a soft thud, but the sound rang like a warning bell.

Marcellus’s eyes widened, the anger draining from his face, replaced by a sudden, raw terror. He glanced at his father, then at the moving shadows.

“Assassins,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Quintus’s muscles coiled. The wooden sword at his side seemed suddenly inadequate, yet his hand tightened around its grip, feeling the worn wood as if it might still protect him.

The bitter taste of their argument lingered in the air, heavy as the ash that would later choke the city, but now it gave way to a sharper, colder edge—survival. The shadows closed in, and the two Aurelii were forced, for a heartbeat, to set aside their rancor and face a threat that recognized no family ties.

The night was about to turn chaotic, but for now, beneath the looming arches of the Colosseum, father and son stood side by side, the bitterness between them still raw, the future of their relationship hanging on a knife‑edge waiting for the next clash.

The night smelled of damp stone, the faint scent of spilled wine and the sour bite of ash that had already begun to settle on the lower streets of Subura. Lanterns sputtered in the narrow alleys, casting wavering orange circles that danced across the uneven cobbles. The clang of a distant cart wheel was swallowed by the hiss of a sudden, cold wind that slipped through the broken arches, turning the lantern light into trembling shadows.

Quintus moved first. He slipped the wooden training sword—its grain darkened by years of sweat and blood—into his hand, the leather strap creaking as it settled against his forearm. The blade was blunt, but the weight of it sang a familiar note in his muscles. He had once taught new recruits to strike with it, now he would use it to kill.

Marcellus crouched behind a low, crumbling wall of stacked pottery shards, his bronze cuirass clinking softly as he shifted his weight. His eyes flicked behind him, catching the glint of the first Sica’s iron mask as the assassin slipped from a dark doorway, a blade sheathed at his side. The assassin’s boots whispered against the sand‑strewn path, each step an echo of death.

“Father,” Marcellus hissed, voice trembling, “they’re three.”

Quintus’s jaw tightened. He could feel the old rage stir—a blood‑hot memory of the arena, of crowds cheering as he sent men spiraling into dust. He swallowed it down, letting the wooden sword become an extension of his will.

The first Sica lunged, her masked face a blank slab of steel. She aimed a swift, precise strike for Quintus’s throat. The wooden sword rose, not in a practiced drill but in a brutal arc, the blunt edge cracking against the assassin’s steel blade. The impact sent a reverberating thud through Quintus’s forearm, and the Sica staggered, her mask tilted, the surprise in her eyes evident for a heartbeat.

Quintus did not pause. He drove the wooden blade forward, the rough grain biting into the assassin’s shoulder. The blow broke through leather, sending a spray of blood and flesh onto the stone. The assassin howled—a sound that was more a guttural bark than a human scream—and fell, the wooden sword slipping from his grip as his own steel clattered to the ground.

Marcellus, eyes wide, watched his father's strength surge. The iron mask fell away, revealing a gaunt, scarred face. “Father,” he whispered, “you’re—”

A second Sica sprang from the shadows, twin daggers flashing. She moved with the silence of a cat, aiming a slash at Quintus’s side. The wooden sword rose again, but this time Quintus turned, using the butt of the weapon like a club. He smashed it into the assassin’s ribcage, the wood splintering against bone. The impact drove her back, a spray of blood painting the alley wall a dark crimson.

The third assassin approached, slower, more deliberate—perhaps the leader. He raised a short steel blade, eyes flicking between Quintus and the trembling boy. He spoke, voice muffled by his mask: “Aurelius. The price of betrayal is death.”

Quintus’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. He could feel the heat of his own blood pulsing in his ears, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue. He lifted the wooden sword, not to strike but to block. The assassin’s blade clanged against the dull wood, sending a sharp shock up Quintus’s arm. The force was enough to make him stagger, but he steadied himself, gritting his teeth.

Marcellus, driven by a sudden surge of adrenaline, lunged forward. He thrust his bronze sword—still sheathed—into the assassin’s chest with a swift motion he had rehearsed countless times in drills. The steel sang, the blade biting deep, and the assassin crumpled, his mask slipping off to reveal a hollow-eyed man whose breath sputtered in the night air.

The alley fell silent but for the ragged panting of the three survivors. Quintus stared at the wooden sword, its once smooth surface now marred with splinters and dark stains. He wiped the blood from his palm on the stone, the grit of ash flaking off his skin.

Marcellus stood, his armor clanking, eyes darting between his father’s scarred hand and the fallen bodies. A thin sheen of sweat traced down his temple, mixing with the ash that coated his cheek. He swallowed, voice barely audible.

“Father… you… you killed them. All of them… with that… that wooden stick.”

Quintus lowered the sword, the weight seeming suddenly heavier. He looked at the trembling boy, at the terror that still clung to his face like a shroud. In that moment, the bitter feud that had simmered between them for months dissolved into something raw and new—a respect forged in the heat of violence.

“The world is cruel,” Quintus said, his voice low, “and I am a man who knows how to use any weapon, be it steel or wood, to protect those I love.”

Marcellus took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching for the wooden grip. He placed his palm on the weapon, feeling the rough grain, the vibrations of each strike still humming through the wood. A flicker of fear turned to something like awe.

“Father,” he whispered, “you—”

A distant shout rose from the main street—vendors haggling, a child’s cry—reminding them that the city was still alive, still breathing, despite the darkness that had briefly descended.

Quintus pulled the wooden sword back, the tip pointing toward the narrow exit of the alley. “We move,” he commanded, the cadence of a trainer now tempered by the urgency of survival. “The shadows will bring more, but they will not find us here.”

Marcellus nodded, eyes still wide, yet now glinting with a newfound, fearful respect. Together they slipped into the deeper darkness of Subura, the wooden sword held aloft like a torch against the night, the echo of their footsteps merging with the distant hum of the city—an uneasy rhythm that promised both danger and, perhaps, a sliver of redemption.