A.N./ So, here is a quick oneshot that came to mind after I watched the movie for the millionth time. I really love the arena scene and how unwilling to fight Esca was. Anyway, this is a fusion of book and movie-neither of which I own-and my own imagination. Which I do own.

The dark, damp earth clung to his feet.

He lay on the packed dirt floor of the arena, his breathing hitched and his face marked. The soil was wet and the cold was rising off of it.

Except on his feet. The thick layer of dust prevented any coolness from touching the calloused soles.

The gladiator loomed over him. "Get up! Come on, fight!"

Pain clenched in his gut. He pressed his palms to the ground and lifted himself lethargically. Shallow breaths. Curved red around an eye.

The round shield swung and again, the slave was on the ground. He lay on his back, prominent ribs rising and falling quickly.

The sword, bright and sharp, came down and hovered above his chest.

Mimicking the weapon, Roman and Briton thumbs hovered downwards over his prostrate form. His chest convulsed beneath the blade.

"Life!"

He turned his head to see the man. Black-haired, roughly lined face—Roman through and through. He stood, and leaned on a cane to support his raised hand and pale thumb. He was lame.

"Come on, you fools!" the Roman yelled. "Life!"

"Life!" Another voice joined in.

The slave watched as the vote was turned. The gladiator's mask smiled above a confused frown.

And despair flooded him as he realized what was happening. Panicked grey eyes turned to the clouds. He couldn't see them through the tears.

The sword point lifted away.

The slave sat, his back to the log wall.

The circus-master watched him through the bars, a sneer of disappointment on his ugly face. The slave was useless, he knew. No one would want to watch a defeated gladiator.

No one would want to buy a defeated gladiator.

The Briton slave was useless, and they was only one thing to do.

The slave canted his head against the logs. His grey eyes met the black ones of the master's in a long, long gaze. I know, the whispered desperately. I know. Do it. I want you to do it.

"Beppo."

The master turned. His foreman stood at the door, eyeing the slave nervously. "There's a man here to see you," the foreman said. He nodded at the Briton. "About him."

Briton and Roman eyes darkened in surprise. The Roman left the room and the Briton watched him leave.

The slave stood, his gaze fixed on the face of a lame Centurion.

"So it is you," he said, his voice quiet from disuse.

"Yes," the Roman said. "It is me."

The slave swallowed. A question burned between them, but the Centurion did not answer until the slave voiced it aloud. "Why did you did you turn the crowd?" Bile rose in his throat as he added softly, "I did not ask for mercy."

Hard Roman eyes studied him. "Perhaps that was why."

Briton ones hesitated. "I was afraid yesterday," he said, strange defiance coloring his tone. "I, who was a warrior."

"I know," the Roman said. "But still, you did not ask for mercy."

"What is your name?" the Centurion asked. He shifted, and winced as his leg pained him.

The slave watched him carefully. "Esca," he said quietly. "Son of Cunoval, slain chief of the Brigantes." A bit of pride crept into his voice as he added, "Lord of five hundred spears."

The Roman nodded. "And I," he said uncertainly, "am Marcus Flavius Aquila, Cen—former Centurion of the Auxiliaries with the Second Legion."

The words hung in the air between them. Roman names. Briton names.

The pride of two worlds.

The slave was led to his sleeping cell by another—a goaty old man who served the Centurion's uncle. The old man's sandals shuffled pleasantly as he left the young Briton to himself.

Honeyed light sifted through the hallway to his door, angling itself inside. He lowered himself onto the cot and looked around at the bare furnishings and empty walls. The typical living quarters of a slave in a middle-class home. He had never seen anything so lavish—or so destitute. It was sterile, it held no life at all. It was fully Roman.

He slowly, slowly rose and went to wash the arena dust from his feet.

The slave stood, one arm clenched in his other hand, in the shadow of an alcove.

"The wound will have to be re-searched," the physician said. "As soon as possible. The sooner this is over with, the sooner you can finally get some peace."

The Centurion paled and swallowed thickly. He nodded tightly. "Best get it done."

The Centurion nodded at him. "You can go."

The slave turned to leave, but the physician stopped him.

"No. Keep your slave here; I'll need him to hold you down."

Grey eyes flicked to the Centurion's face. It was uncomfortable. "Can't my uncle do it?"

The old uncle laughed. "Me? No, I've grown to hate the sight of blood." He clapped a fist on his nephew's chest. "Especially if it belongs to someone I'm fond of. Be strong." With that statement said, he left the room, leaving the slave and his master to look at one another.

"Take hold of him, slave," the doctor said.

The young Briton gripped the Roman's arms.

"Tighter!" the doctor said sharply.

He leaned down and shifted his grip to a better position.

"Put your weight on him, slave!" the doctor said in a tone bordering irritation.

The slave practically lay across his master's chest. He looked down into the Centurion's face and saw the carefully shielded fear in his Roman features.

And he saw them contort as the physician began his work.

When the Centurion woke, his slave was waiting for him.

He stood as the Roman opened his eyes. He went to the side of the bed and looked down at his maimed master.

"Did I shame myself?" the master asked hoarsely.

The slave looked down at him.

You were afraid.

You were afraid.

He shook his head.

Closing his eyes in relief, the Centurion released a tense breath. "Thank you."

"I don't think I ever told you, Esca," Marcus said one night, as he fondled a small child and a wolf sat at his feet. "That day when Rufrius searched my wound—I was so afraid." His Roman face cringed at the memory. "I—who had been a Centurion."

The sla—former slave stared into the fire as he knelt before it. His heart flared in his breast as that night came back to him. "I know," he whispered. He pulled his eyes from the fire and locked them with his master's. He grinned sadly. "I know. But still, you did not shame yourself."

Review, please.