Author: StarLight Massacre

Title: Servus ad Harenas

Rating: M

Warning: Slash, threesomes, orgies, minors, non-con, slave rape, explicit language, graphic injuries, explicit descriptions of gladiatorial sport including blood, torture, violence, mutilation and death/execution.

Pairing: Barca/Harry Potter/Pietros

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter; all rights go to J. K. Rowling. I do not own anything from Spartacus; all rights go to Starz entertainment. I make no money for this piece of fictional writing and never will.

Summary: Harry is thrown into the Roman Republic, 74 BC, after an accident with a time turner. Caught by slavers and sold to a ludus in Capua, it takes every shred of iron will power, and every drop of magic, to see himself safe in the gladiatorial arena. Can he survive the third servile war? Will he ever get back to his own time? When it comes down to it, does he even want to?

Servus ad Harenas

Chapter One – Tempus Harena

Harry James Potter huddled against a wall with his best friend, Hermione, the both of them trying not to be seen as they snuck back into the castle after seeing Sirius safely away on Buckbeak.

"This is insane." Harry muttered as he moved from the wall quickly and silently to slip behind a statue with Hermione hot on his heels.

"It's dangerous." Hermione stressed, her voice a little more shrill than usual from the illegality of what they were doing.

Harry nodded his understanding though, Hermione had been saying the same thing since they'd started this mind fucking trip back through time. Seeing himself as an outsider had been rather difficult to accept…there was a good reason why just anyone and everyone wasn't given a time turner and why the abuse of one, such as now, was penalised heavily by the Ministry of Magic. They couldn't be caught.

"After this is over, you'll have to tell me more about Alexander the Great." He said, trying to distract himself from thinking that there were two 'hims' running around at the moment, the very thought of it made him feel odd.

"I can't believe that I found something that you actually want to read." Hermione laughed quietly. "Who knew that you'd be so interested in ancient world history? Especially after how you behave in history of magic."

"Binns is the worst teacher ever, Hermione, he doesn't make anything sound half as interesting as it actually is. He does us all, and the history of our world, a huge disservice. I just…it's so fascinating to know that these people existed, that there were people who lived here, perhaps at this very spot, thousands of years ago. I like seeing how they lived, how they did things without even half the tools and equipment that we have today. It's amazing."

"Have you finished that book on the ancient tribes of Britain?"

"Yeah. I found out where my parents were born from Remus and where I was born and what tribe it would have been back then." Harry grinned. "Do you know that we'd have all been in different tribes? Yet a month or more of walking back then is just a simple floo away, or a split second Apparation. It's so easy to get around these days as compared to back then. We can get from Scotland to London in a day, for them it must have been an impossible trip taking months and months."

"I'm just so glad that I've finally found something that interests you enough to get you to read about it."

"It only took two years." Harry grinned.

"I'll be spending twenty trying to find Ron's interest, but at least I know now what to get you for your birthday."

Harry laughed. "It's going to be great, locked away in my room for three weeks with those books."

"Have you learnt any more conversational Latin?"

"A bit, it's actually helping my spell work too, which is an added bonus." Harry shot her a lopsided grin. "My casting is much cleaner and I swear I done that one spell wandlessly."

"I've told you, you probably imagined it, wandless and wordless spells are NEWT level skills." Hermione insisted with a returning smile.

They slipped up another staircase quickly, praying that no one came out the door at the top as Harry peeked around it and then slipped behind another statue.

"I can cast a Patronus and most adults don't know how to do that either." Harry defended.

"How are you with ancient Egypt?" Hermione changed the subject. Harry let it lie. He knew she didn't particularly like that he could cast a corporeal patronus and she couldn't, but she understood that he'd needed to learn to cast it after his reaction to the Dementors. She just didn't particularly like being reminded of it.

"Ancient Egypt, ancient Rome, ancient Greece, ancient Britain. It doesn't matter." He said easily. "I love them all. Thanks again for lending me Homer's Iliad."

"You don't know how happy it makes me to know that you are reading and enjoying it." Hermione smiled.

"I am enjoying it. Are there any modern books about this stuff?" He asked. "Like, stories set back in those times, but written recently?"

Hermione nodded happily. "It's called historical fiction. I'll get you some of those for your birthday too!" She said, almost beaming from ear to ear.

"No, you're already getting me those factual, non-fiction books, it's too much." Harry insisted.

"Harry, you've found a passion for reading something more than Quidditch trivia!" Hermione said. "I need to feed this passion, I don't want it to die out!"

Harry smiled. "It won't, Hermione. It's always been an interest, but I haven't been able to express it, or even known how to express it before. Now I know that there are books out there about all of this stuff that I've wanted to learn about, I know how to get what I need to feed my passion. It's been a year now and my interest hasn't waned yet. Oh, remind me when we go shopping for our Hogwarts things to get some new books to take with me for the new term again."

"Of course I will!"

Harry pulled Hermione into the corridor that held the hospital wing and they saw Dumbledore coming out and they both sighed with relief.

"Sir, we did it!" Harry said happily, breathlessly. "Sirius has gone on Buckbeak."

The Headmaster gave them a huge, twinkling smile.

"Well done. I believe that you've gone now." He said, listening at the door. "Get inside, I'll lock you in."

Harry slipped back into the hospital wing with Hermione and they were locked back in. Ron was still unconscious in the end bed. They snuck back to their own beds, but as Hermione was trying to loop the time turner back around her neck, so that she could tuck it into her robes, Madam Pomfrey bustled into the room from her office. Harry snatched the time turner and hid it down the front of his trousers quickly, using a convenient hole in the pocket of his robes.

"Did I hear the Headmaster leave? Am I allowed to look after my own patients now?"

He and Hermione shared secret smiles as Madam Pomfrey fed them chocolate, she was in a very bad mood, so neither of them argued. Harry had taken one of his books on ancient Rome from his book bag as he ate his chocolate, opening it in his lap and he started reading quietly as he nibbled, barely able to swallow he was that tense. Hermione saw him and she did the same with a Charms book. Madam Pomfrey watched them approvingly as she looked them over and pressed even more chocolate to them, happy to leave them be as they were being very quiet.

The sudden roar of fury from the floor above made Madam Pomfrey jump. "What in the world?" She said in alarm.

The loud, furious voices got closer and they could make out Professor Snape's voice clearly as he came striding towards the hospital wing.

He burst through the doors, standing still a moment as he looked around at all the beds, at all the occupants, until his black eyes rested on him, and Harry smiled at the man sweetly, in faux innocence.

"What did you do, Potter?! Out with it!"

"Professor Snape! Control yourself!" Madam Pomfrey said in shock.

Snape was howling about Harry being involved with Sirius' escape, while the Minister, Fudge, insisted that the door had been locked, Madam Pomfrey backing him up by telling the three men that she had been with Harry and Hermione since the door had been locked and that they had not left the room.

"I know he did it!" Snape bellowed.

Harry made himself look small and meek, clutching his book in his lap.

"I haven't left this room." He insisted. "Honestly, Professor."

Snape stepped forward and gripped his robe collar tightly and Harry felt a jolt, like a surge of magic, come from within him to burn Snape's hand. Snape let go very quickly, but Harry's own magic reacted with the time turner he'd hidden down the front of his own robes and it exploded with a soft tinkling sound. He felt a cold, tickly sensation and he realised that the sand in the time turner was touching his skin…it found a cut that he'd gotten earlier and the moment the sand got inside his body, his eyes rolled up into his head and he hit the floor.

Harry slitted his eyes open and he frowned as he could immediately see without his glasses. He touched his face to see if they were on the end of his nose, but they weren't. He frowned harder as he tried to figure out what had happened, as he tried to recall his last memory. Something about a time turner niggled in his brain. He seemed to be lying in a green field. The thought did actually pass through his head that perhaps he was dead, and then the memory of what had happened in the hospital wing, with Snape and the time tuner breaking, rushed over him like an icy wave of realisation, settling like a pit of dread in his stomach.

He sat up and looked around. He had no idea where he was or what was happening. He looked to his naked body and cupped himself with his hands in embarrassment. He had nothing else to cover himself with, there was no sign of his robe or anything else that he'd had on him, the only thing near him was a single silver coin that was near his foot. He picked it up and frowned again. He recognised it from the books he'd been reading lately…it was a Denarius, an ancient Roman coin.

He looked at the cut on his side and it was already mostly healed. It was scabbed over, very shallow, but it had caused so much trouble. He had no doubts that right now, the time sand that had gotten into his wound was still in his cut, which his body was healing over. It was going to be inside his body forever and he had no implication as to what that meant.

He stood up and he went wandering. He didn't know how long he'd been here, or even where here was. He didn't want to think on what the Denarius meant…he remembered that he'd been holding one of his books when he'd felt the time turner break. It was nowhere in sight, lost along with his robe and wand and the broken time turner.

He was naked and afraid, lost somewhere that he didn't recognise, with no clue how he'd gotten here or even how long he'd been here. He was terrified and the only thing he wanted was something familiar that he recognised. To his horror he felt tears welling up in his gritty eyes, but it was a knee jerk reaction to the situation he was in…he wanted to be a little child, crying under a blanket, but he knew that that wouldn't help him. He had long since learnt that crying wouldn't help him, in fact it usually made things worse, so he stubbornly blinked those tears back and set his jaw.

He found a small stream and gratefully fell to his knees to drink. It was here that things went wrong when a man with a horse and cart trundled past. He stared at Harry as if he were the strangest thing he'd ever seen.

"Where is your master?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

The man's eyes lit up and too late Harry realised that they had both spoken in different languages. Harry tried to run, he pushed past the ache in his body, the tiredness and the sheer sense of desolation he felt and he ran, but the man had bodyguards with him, big burly men who ran him down easily.

"Get him in the back of the cart with the others." The man ordered, Harry only barely understanding the gist of what was being said as he squirmed and kicked out. "Don't mark him either, a beauty that rare can command a fortune in Rome."

That one word, Rome, and Harry felt his stomach sink. The thought passed through his mind once again that he'd been holding that book in his hand when the time turner had broken. Had that had an effect on the time sand? Had that book influenced where and how far back he'd gone in time, absent the wearer turning the hourglass manually?

He was bundled into the back of a cart, which was already over full with miserable, sobbing, naked people and Harry could have vomited as he realised that he must have been caught by a slaver. Of all the luck.

He squashed himself in a tiny gap between two women, one who was holding a terrified girl of about three. He made himself as small as he could and tucked his legs up to his chest…the one single coin was still clutched tight in his left hand like a comforter.

He was soon tied up, after his second attempt to make a run for it after the back of the wagon was opened. He still didn't give up and after the eighth escape, where he'd injured a few of the guards by kicking them and elbowing them in the face…one had gone down screaming and spluttering, almost suffocating, when Harry's magic had burst from him like invisible tendrils to choke him like Devil's Snare, he had been chained to the actual wagon so that he couldn't get out of the back. He spent the rest of his time willing the chains to open with wandless magic, exhausting himself and straining his mind, muscles and magic to try and open the shackles around his wrists.

"He's too much trouble!" One of the guards insisted. "Drop him off in Capua."

"He'll be worth ten times as much in Rome!" The slaver denied.

"He won't be worth anything if he gets away!" The guard said angrily. "He's been trouble from the start, drop him off in Capua because if this carries on he will never reach Rome!"

That was how Harry ended up here, in this little town, shackled like a common criminal in a line of defeated, miserable women over two months after being picked up and thrown in the back of a wagon. He had no idea how long he'd been lying in that field before he'd woken up, but his small scratches and wounds had already been healed, most of them already gone from his body, others just healing scabs that had soon vanished. He'd found out along the way that it was the kalendae of Sextilis, which Harry knew from reading his books was the first of August. He was now fourteen.

One of the women shackled in the line with him was sobbing her heart out as they were chained to a wall in what seemed to be a market square. A line of boisterous men were chained heavily, adjacent to where Harry was stood. They were fettered at wrists and ankles, chained to one another and to the wall behind them.

"This boy here, he is to be sold as a whore?"

Harry turned and glared at the man who approached him, his grey hair curled perfectly, eyeliner under his eyes.

"Look at that smooth, flawless skin! He is young and vibrant, he'll be very pliable. His eyes are what set him apart, have you ever seen such eyes before?" The slaver replied. "He was set to be sold in Rome, but we head too far east on our next drop to make the trip to Rome for one boy, it would put us out of pocket. Capua is the next biggest city after Rome, so it was decided to sell him on here."

"If I were to give you twenty denarii now, could you move him to that line?" The man asked, flashing a heavy purse of silver.

"For what purpose?" The slaver asked. "That line is for warriors, to be sold as bodyguards and gladiators, he does not fit in with them." The man complained. "Such a boy would be utterly wasted, he is to be a whore, or even a personal slave. Do you know how much he could have fetched in Rome with such a look about him?"

"Thirty denarii." The man smiled, holding out another purse of silver.

The slaver licked his lips. "Just to move him to the warrior line?"

The man nodded with a smile. "And to spin a tale about how viciously he fought upon his capture, including the death of several men, to make sense of his inclusion in the warrior line."

"If he does not sell…" The man fretted.

"You will have those who want him as a whore bidding too." The man insisted.

"Men usually do not go for those who are not docile. A whore in the warrior line could lose interest."

"And is he nice and docile?" The man asked silkily. "That look upon his face says otherwise."

The slaver remembered the true reason that he was selling at Capua and not in Rome and he sighed.

"No, not particularly."

"Then there is no problem. Thirty denarii to move him to the warrior's line, quickly."

Harry was unchained as quickly as the guards were able, he had sand and dirt rubbed onto him at the direction of the man who'd paid to have him moved and he was stuck right at the front of the line of big, burly men who glared at him as if resenting even being seen with him. He barely reached their chests.

"What is your name?" The slaver demanded.

"Harry…ah, ngh." Harry broke off into harsh coughs as he inhaled some of the dusty sand that had just been thrown in his face by the guard, trying to breathe and clear his lungs.

"Harian? Good."

Harry blinked and stared after the slaver. Couldn't he tell a cough from actual letters? He sighed, probably not, it didn't help that his Latin wasn't that good either. How did he even manage to get himself into these messes? He hoped that someone found a way to get him back to where he was supposed to be, as much as the ancient world fascinated him, he'd never wanted to actually live here.

Quintus Lentulus Batiatus surveyed the warrior stock with a critical eye, noting with some surprise the small boy on the end as he and his Doctore scrutinised the line of slaves for potential recruits.

"Why is he there?" He asked aloud.

His Doctore, Oenomaus, looked to the boy too and shook his head. "It is obviously a mistake that the slaver is too embarrassed to rectify in public, Dominus."

"Ah, Batiatus, nice to see that you could make it."

"Solonius." Quintus greeted coolly as he moved back to let others inspect the slaves.

"See anything that you like? I have my eye on the boy, as do many others."

"For what purpose?" Quintus asked. "You've never been a lover of boys."

Solonius laughed and it made Quintus grind his teeth.

"As a gladiator, of course, Batiatus, what other purpose? You should have seen him earlier. Luck would have it that I had errands to run early this morning, I passed here right when they were chaining him up. That poor guard will never walk again. It took four of them just to get the fetters on him. Such a wild boy would make a nice addition to my ludus."

"He's feisty! He's feisty, that's all!" The slaver called out nervously as a man stepped away from the boy, blood running down from his broken nose where the boy, absent his hands and feet, had head butted him instead.

Solonius chuckled. "You see? The boy is a pure barbarian. You know they fight their boys as infants? I had heard talk that they fight the girls too, but what can you expect of such animals?"

"Shall we start the bidding with young Harian?" The slaver called out worriedly as the boy bared his teeth and snarled like a feral dog.

"Why is he even with the warrior stock?" One man called out immediately.

"He fought viciously upon his capture, killing several men before he was overwhelmed by numbers." The slaver insisted. "He is a warrior at heart and given some time, he will make a fine gladiator. Perhaps not a bodyguard, he is too short as yet to protect most decent men, but he is young, he will grow. You have seen how feisty he can be here this very morning."

"Five denarii." A man called out immediately.

"Seven." Another topped almost before the first had finished speaking.

"Ten denarii." Solonius offered.

"Twelve."

Quintus looked in surprise to Vibius, another lanista, who had just bid on the boy and again, was not known to be a lover of them. Perhaps there was something that he was missing?

"Fifteen denarii." Someone else called out.

"Eighteen." A voice cried.

"Twenty." Vibius insisted, clenching his jaw.

"Twenty-five." Solonius added smoothly and Vibius cursed and dropped back, having reached his personal limit.

"Do I hear any other bids?" The slaver asked.

Quintus, seized by madness of a possible missed opportunity, stepped forward. "Thirty denarii!"

"Dominus, such an amount of coin on this boy, he isn't worth it." Oenomaus said quickly, quietly. "He is not a gladiator. That coin could buy three good men, not a small, weak boy. His price is so high because he should be with the line of whores and most men here have interests in him for those purposes. The slaver has mistaken the best use of the boy, no matter how defiant or how boisterous he is."

"Harian to Batiatus for thirty denarii!" The slaver called out and Quintus felt his stomach sink.

"Well, it seems you'll be adding such a vicious boy to your ranks, Batiatus." Solonius smirked and Quintus felt then that he'd been played.

To save face he confidently walked up to the slaver, handed over thirty denarii he couldn't have afforded to lose and he tugged on the chain of the boy that he'd just bought. What madness had seized him to buy this boy? The rest of the stock was poor, one man was half dead already, another didn't have any teeth, he should have walked away, but instead he had allowed Solonius to get under his skin and he had bought this useless fucking boy.

He handed the chain to Oenomaus and furiously strode back to his villa. He was lost in his thoughts, cursing himself for a fool. Lucretia was going to have several choice words to say now.

"Wash him off here." He snapped as they reached a public fountain that was nearly deserted. "Like preparations for the pits, he's been dirtied to hide his undamaged skin."

Oenomaus easily lifted the boy, who allowed himself to be moved as docile as a tamed puppy, and sat him on the edge of the fountain. He used his hands to cup water and throw it on the boy. His dusty, seemingly grey hair came out pitch black and glossy, his dirty skin came out pink and cream, a delicate flush of colour under the clear, translucent skin. There wasn't a single mark on him. No bruises, no cuts, no scars, no blemishes. He was a perfectly healthy young boy and a well-made and well-maintained one at that. Whoever he had been in a past life, he had been very well looked after, perhaps from a wealthy family. None of his ribs could be seen, he had a flat, but not concave belly, he was nicely toned. He'd been well fed and well exercised. He'd been the son of some merchant or other wealthy family before he'd ended up in slaver hands.

Those large, dark green eyes were shiny and bright as they watched every move that he made silently, an inspection of his teeth showed them perfect and bright white with none missing and no sign of rot, his gums were pink and healthy, as was the small pink tongue and there was no sign of infection or inflammation. His fingernails were whole and smooth, his hands soft and unblistered. Oenomaus was actually considering that the boy was the son of royalty or perhaps a tribal chieftain. This boy was so well cared for there could be no other explanation. He'd never had to work a day in his life before if the softness of his skin was an indication, he'd never had to eat bad food that could have worn down his teeth or rotted them out, and he was well groomed, despite the slight unkemptness of being in the slaver's hands for some time.

Oenomaus shook his head. "He's in perfect health, Dominus."

"But?" The man snapped.

"He is soft and supple, smooth and unmarred. He is no warrior. He is no gladiator. The men would rip him to pieces."

"That fucking Solonius!" Quintus cursed. "Thirty denarii on a fucking whore!"

"He would easily fetch twice that if sold on, Dominus. Even Arminius would see his worth when he is clean."

Quintus scowled at the young boy, but he recognised that it wasn't his fault he'd been played around with. "No, we keep him for now. I would lose face to pass him on so quickly."

"Dominus, surely it's better to pass him on now, before the men have a chance to spoil him. While he is so unmarred he can fetch a very high price."

"Solonius will be watching." Quintus shook his head. "This is his fucking fault! Selling me a docile puppy in place of wild wolf!"

"Is the boy to stay in the villa?" Oenomaus tried.

"No. He was sold to me as a gladiator, he will train as one."

"Dominus…"

"I will hear no more on it. Get the boy up."

Oenomaus took care with lifting the boy, who automatically brushed off his own backside before cupping himself. He had very little hair and it worried him. There was nothing on his chest or back, very little at his groin and armpits and not even the hint of a shadow at his jaw.

"Dominus, perhaps the boy is too young?" He tried.

Quintus looked at the boy and shook his head. "There is nothing to be done about it."

They walked out of the town and to the mountainside, where the ludus and villa were located. It was a long walk and Oenomaus watched the boy wince every now and then as his bare feet caught a small stone. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. A small boy whose delicate feet couldn't handle stepping on stones had no business being in a ludus, but he noticed that the boy didn't once cry out or complain, instead he grit his teeth and winced, but he carried on walking.

Oenomaus could see what was going to happen immediately as the gates were opened and he brought the boy out onto the training sands. The men had stopped to look curiously, as they always did, and he watched as eyes widened, jaws dropped and they started acting like dogs on heat, panting after a fertile bitch. Then the catcalling started and that was when the young boy took a small step closer to him. Physical pain didn't bother him, but heckling did, it seemed.

"Get back to training!" He roared, taking the coiled whip from his belt and flicking it with a snap in their direction, not aiming at any of them, but giving them a warning.

"Doctore, see him with sandals and a subligaria and put him with the new recruits." Quintus sighed. "I'm going to be a fucking laughing stock."

Oenomaus said nothing, thought nothing, as he ushered the boy into the ludus and saw him fitted with the smallest sandals he could find and the smallest subligaria…both were still too big for him, but the boy made do by lacing the sandals as tightly as he could and cinching the subligaria in very tight and then tightening the belt he'd been given. It went around his slim waist twice.

"Don't make trouble, Harian." Oenomaus told the boy. "You refer to me as your Doctore, to the man you just met as Dominus. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." The boy said quietly, his soft, sweet voice showing his youth. At least he understood and spoke Latin. He must have been highly educated too, he truly was the son of some rich, wealthy man who had seen to his education and his maintenance almost fervently.

"Yes what?" Oenomaus demanded, unwilling to put up with any insolence.

Those wide, green eyes caught his, a look of almost panic in them. He hadn't been being insolent, he was just unfamiliar with what he needed to do. The boy was much, much too young for this.

"Yes, Doctore." He said in such a way that was almost pleading that he had done the right thing to please him. He didn't belong here and it wasn't even the boy's fault, he had been played around with, like all slaves, at the whim of the men around him.

"Good." Oenomaus praised. "This is going to be a painful time for you, try to deal with it as best you can."

Harry didn't like that and he couldn't help the frown that took over his mouth as he was steered back out onto the sands with the other men, with one large hand on his shoulder to direct him. The men were all big, burly and very well-muscled. They were trained fighters, trained killers, Harry could see that plainly enough. He would have to be wary of all of them.

"Doctore, what is this?" One man asked the man who kept a hand on Harry's shoulder, but he was staring at him.

"This is a boy, Rhaskos."

Harry hid his smile at the sarcastic remark.

"Why is he here, Doctore?" Easily the tallest man there asked.

The man sighed. "He has been bought as a gladiator."

There was a moment's pause and then the burst of loud, boisterous laughter could have deafened those still in the town, a mile back down the mountain.

"Surely you jest?" Another man asked when he realised that his Doctore wasn't laughing with them.

"Unfortunately not."

"He…he is but a boy! He's not even full grown, he stands as tall as my belly!"

"Be that as it may, he has been bought as a gladiator and until further notice, he will train as a gladiator."

"Boy, have you ever held a sword before?" One man asked with a cruel grin.

Harry blinked at being confronted directly, and wondered if it would be worse if he answered yes, or no. He'd held Gryffindor's sword, he'd killed the basilisk with it in the Chamber of Secrets even, but he'd certainly had no skill with it, and he didn't have any training in swordsmanship at all.

If he said yes, then they'd expect him to know things that he didn't, yet if he said no, he'd be targeted, and ridiculed at best, abused at worst.

"No." He finally said. He didn't think his desperate and unskilled killing of the basilisk, a year ago now, would count here. Not to these men whose swords were just extensions of their natural limbs. If he'd said yes, and claimed any sort of skill, then he might be pitted against these men right from the off, and he had little doubt that he'd survive such an encounter. In this case, it seemed better to lie, just slightly, and claim that he'd never held a sword before, and take the ridicule for it.

There was another burst of laughter and Harry was forced to watch as they all joked and pointed at him.

"How about a shield?" The tallest one asked with a smirk.

Harry just shook his head and let them laugh at him. The man next to him sighed.

"To basics with you then. Pietros, sword and shield."

Pietros turned out to be a boy only a few years older than himself, slim and slender, he didn't look like the men around them either. He was carrying a wooden sword and shield. He held them out and Harry just looked at him.

"Take them then!" Someone called out laughing.

With a long suffering sigh, Harry took them. They were both very heavy, much heavier than he'd been expecting, and he dropped the shield right away, curling his arm to his chest protectively as it felt like the weight had wrenched his elbow out of joint. The other men laughed so hard that Harry was sure that they were going to wet themselves, or perhaps even tear their vocal cords. It came across to him as rather forced, and fake, as if they were trying to laugh their loudest just to ridicule him, but still his face burned with embarrassment.

"Fine. Just sword for now." His Doctore said.

Harry was hustled over to a wooden post and he stood, looking at the tall man waiting for instruction.

"Do you understand how a sword works?" His Doctore demanded impatiently.

"Stab people with the pointy end, Doctore?" Harry answered.

The raucous roar of hysterical laughter from the watching, listening men made him blush hard enough that he went lightheaded and he ducked his head shyly.

"Well, you're not entirely wrong." Doctore sighed. "Have you never touched a sword before, seen one used? Did your father not have a sword, or perhaps an older brother?"

"My parents were killed when I was a year old. I was an only child." Harry said stiffly.

"Were you taken in by other family?"

Harry nodded.

"Did they not have swords or show you how to use one?"

Harry shook his head. He tried to imagine uncle Vernon using the amount of effort it would take to swing a sword and he giggled softly to himself at the ridiculous image.

"See how softly he giggles! Like little girl!"

Harry looked up and glared at the man who'd spoken. He got an affronted look back.

"I don't think he likes you, Rabanus." Someone said, the other men all laughed.

"Look at me again in such a way, little girl and I will rip you in two!" The man, Rabanus, spat.

"All of you, back to training! I don't recall ordering a break." Their Doctore roared, flashing the whip at them all again and Harry bit his lip to stop the automatic flinch the snap of it gave.

Harry had his wrist gripped and he huddled down.

"Stand straight!" He was ordered harshly. "Put your feet shoulder width apart, like so."

Harry did as he was instructed and he allowed his hands to be moved on the roughly roped hilt of the wooden sword. He relaxed his muscles and he felt the movement he was being forced through as his Doctore pulled his arms to the right and then swung them through to smash the wooden post. It jarred all through his hands, arms and up to his shoulders and he tried to drop the sword with a grunt of pain, but the other man held his hands tightly as he pulled out to the left this time before swinging in to hit the post. The man didn't stop, even as Harry tried to pull away.

"It's this, or it's going against one of them." The stern man told him firmly.

Harry swallowed and he took in a deep breath, clenching his jaw as he was forced to move his arms, swinging into the wooden post harder than he would ever have managed on his own. It almost felt like his bones would break as he was forced to hit and hit and hit the wooden post, his back protesting the movement, his shoulders screaming, but nothing compared to the pain in his elbows, forearms and wrists as he was forced to hit the thick block of wood over and over and over until he was shaking uncontrollably.

The man dropped his hands and watched as the sword dropped to the sand, Harry holding his arms down, trying not to take any weight onto his burning muscles.

"We will resume with the palus after the noon meal." He was told, a look of pitying disgust aimed at him.

Harry didn't want to eat. He curled up on a bench at a table in the far corner and he stared at the top of the table, not blinking, not moving, trying to breathe through the pain in his body. Someone sat at the end of his table and he looked over quickly, seeing two men. Both were big, but they seemed nonthreatening. They looked at him curiously, but ultimately they just sat at the end of the table, eating.

Harry couldn't even bring himself to move his arms to pick up his spoon. How had this even happened? Could it ever be reversed? He laid a hand over the place where the shallow cut had been…it was now completely healed with not even a scar to mark where it had been, but Harry could still see it clearly in his mind. He wondered if it was foreshadowing, the wound was gone permanently, so he was to be here permanently. He hoped not.

"You shouldn't waste good food."

Harry startled and looked to the man on the end of his table. The darker haired one had spoken…the one with curly blond hair looked faintly disapproving.

Harry looked at the bowl of porridge that was going cold and lumpy and he pushed it gingerly towards the other man.

"That isn't what I meant." He said sternly.

"It's not wasted if someone eats it." Harry replied.

"What is your name? I am known as Spartacus here. This is Varro."

Harry sighed and dropped his head to the table top. "Harian." He answered softly.

"Have you truly never held sword or shield before?" The blond one asked.

Harry shook his head. "I've never needed to." He said.

They all lapsed back into silence and Harry huddled down as one man unknowingly knocked into Pietros. The young man merely stumbled, catching himself easily on the table top, but the tallest man who Pietros had been about to sit next to leapt up and started attacking the man, screaming about unbranded shits hurting his lover and that he wasn't going to get away with it, interspaced with threats of death and rape. Harry could well see the threat of killing the man coming true, the taller man truly seemed like he was trying to beat the other to death.

"That's Barca. The Beast of Carthage."

Harry blinked. He knew about Carthage…he'd read several books about a Hamilcar Barca, and Hannibal Barca too, and the first and second Punic wars. Hannibal Barca had crossed the Alps into Italy with an army that had included elephants.

"The rumour is he killed his own father in the arena." Varro insisted, breaking Harry from his thoughts. "A group of his countrymen were captured, including him, and it was a fight to the last man…Barca was the last man. Don't cross him or go near Pietros, the Doctore's assistant, who is Barca's boy lover."

"Enough!" Doctore roared, cracking his whip. "Barca!"

The tallest gladiator stopped his assault and he stood, going back to his table and to his bowl of porridge as if nothing had ever happened. It was terrifying to Harry to witness as such.

It wasn't long after that that they were called back to the sand and Harry stood in front of the wooden post, waiting for the pain to start all over again.

His hands were once again held to the wooden sword and once again he was forced to smash the palus over and over until his eyes were watering with the pain.

"What are you doing?!"

For a moment Harry thought the roared words in his ear were for him, then he looked past the hated wooden post and saw two men fighting, rolling around the sand.

"Crixus! Spartacus!"

Harry's hands were dropped and the whip came out, cracking into the sand right next to the heads of the two fighting men. They were pulled apart and they got a tongue lashing, but nothing worse than that as Harry was told to hit the palus, but this time on his own.

Harry didn't even think he'd be able to pick the sword up, but he forced his body to bend, to clench the sword in his right hand. He tried his best, but he was still declared hopeless and Harry wondered if they'd expected fucking miracles. He'd already told them that he'd never held a fucking sword before.

"Kerza, practice with Harian."

Harry looked fearfully at the gladiators around him, but Kerza turned out to be the man that Barca had beaten almost to a pulp earlier. He had a tattoo right across his forehead, Harry knew from that that Kerza was a runaway slave who had been sold on as a gladiator as punishment for running from his former master.

Despite being beaten up, Kerza didn't even try to go easy on him, in fact he seemed to want to 'prove' himself by beating Harry to a pulp in return. Harry wondered how that would even prove a fucking thing as he was half the size of the other man, but Harry kept picking himself up quickly, rolling to his feet again and again and again.

"Doctore?" One gladiator called out. "Did you teach the boy the missio?"

Doctore turned around to see Harry picking himself up, only to find himself hit right back down again before he had his feet. The man sighed heavily and broke up their fight. He then spent several minutes teaching Harry how to forfeit, holding two fingers up in the air in a plea of supplication for mercy.

As the sun set, Harry's first day…or rather half day, of training in a ludus came to a halt and his body wasn't just aching, it was burning, screaming. He ate a few spoonfuls of the porridge, having avoided having his bowl knocked from his hands purely because he was half the size of everyone else, but he found he wasn't even that hungry. He once again pushed the bowl to Spartacus, who hadn't really done anything wrong to him…yet, but Harry had seen him fighting with the man, Crixus, he knew the potential of that body, the violence of the man sat at the end of the table, and it was sort of like a bribe to 'please don't hurt me.'

"You need to eat." The man said sternly. "Starving yourself won't help."

Harry just looked at him miserably before looking back down at the table top, waiting to be told what to do next.

Next seemed to be even more torture as they were herded into a bath house and given oil and a metal hook. Harry watched what everyone else was doing, the practiced hands of the older gladiators as they just stripped off their subligarias, rubbed the oil into their dirty skin and then used the hook to scrape it back off.

Harry found a corner to hide in as he 'cleaned' himself in this crude manner of the ancient world, and followed the lead of the others as they all dipped into the pool of water to get off any residue oil that remained, washing their hair as they did so. What he wouldn't give for a two hour soak in a nice hot bath or a powerful shower to ease away the terrible ache in his screaming muscles.

The new recruits were called straight to their cells, which included him, and they were all pushed into the same cell and locked in. Harry was terrified, but Spartacus herded him up into the top corner, where he himself then laid in front of him. It seemed that he had found a willing protector of sorts in the other man, who ignored the disapproving look of his blond friend, Varro, and instead Spartacus just closed his eyes, trying to force sleep.

Harry, still damp from his bath, his hair still damp, tried to do the same, but the pain in his body was a hard thing to ignore, and he found it almost impossible to fall asleep.

When they were woken up not three hours later by their Doctore, Harry's body was one big ache and he'd barely slept at all in the three hours that they'd been left alone in the cell. His body was almost crippled by the pain and every movement tugged at a new sore muscle as he was forced to get himself back up.

His back ached, his shoulders and arms ached, his legs ached. Everything was pain and he could barely do the warm up stretches. He let out a soft sob before he controlled himself and swallowed the noise back down.

They were set to more rigorous training and Harry couldn't even hope to keep up, he didn't try, not even when Doctore's whip snapped at his feet in a clear warning. There was nothing he could do, he was in pain as it was and he had no energy left. He was doing his all just to keep his feet. When it came to lifting the block of wood, he did more harm to himself trying to lift it. It had to have been ten times heavier than he was himself and he didn't have the body of a man, nor the muscles to be able to lift it.

"Leave it, Harian." Doctore ordered him as he watched the boy try yet again to lift the block that was bigger and heavier than he was. "Run more laps instead."

Harry gratefully left the block of wood where it was, where he hadn't even be able to move it, and he ran laps around the training square, cutting a few inches off the course as he refused to go too near the sheer drop off the cliff, especially not in the dark that was lit only by a few burning torches on the walls. He'd been avoiding it since he'd first realised that the drop below was a hundred feet or more, straight down, onto jagged rock.

When the sun was rising and the actual gladiators were getting their breakfasts, watching the new recruits punish themselves, perhaps even remembering their own recruitment periods, Harry was struggling to keep to a straight line, already seeing double and weaving like he was drunk. The gladiators had seen immediately that he wasn't walking with the blocks of wood on his shoulders like the other recruits and as Harry had to pass them on his circuit, they took to throwing abuse at him as he stumbled past them, obviously thinking that he needed more abuse than the others because he'd been excluded from a ritual part of the recruitment training.

When Doctore finally called a halt to their training and told them to go get something to eat, Harry slowed to a walk, weaved for several steps, went to his knees and he vomited a white, frothy fluid onto the sand, right in front of the gladiators.

"He's diseased!" One cried out, leaping away from him.

Doctore had started making his way to him as soon as he saw that Harry was dazed and confused, a hand to his forehead told him nothing, but looking into the too wide, glassy eyes told him more.

"He's not diseased." He snapped impatiently. "This is what true exhaustion looks like. He's pushed himself over the level of his endurance and carried on regardless, pushing through the pain and tiredness and he still kept going. Many and more of you would have dropped to the sand before this point and never gotten back up again."

Harry was hefted up and easily carried over to be sat on a bench. Doctore himself got him a bowl of porridge and two cups of water. One cup was immediately forced on him, held to his mouth as he spluttered and choked on it, but soon he found his reflexes and he swallowed in large, hard gulps.

"Make sure he eats, I need to consult the medicus."

Harry was left, dazed and shaking, his body one huge, aching pain of convulsive muscles that made him shiver and jerk, unable to stay still. He swayed, his exhaustion too much, his muscles too weak and sore to keep him sat still.

"Eat!" Someone prodded him. He was prodded again, harder. He turned his head slowly, trying to get his eyes to focus, but just that small amount of effort threw him into spasms.

His head hit the table without him even knowing he'd fallen forward.

"Is he dead?" Someone asked.

"Don't be stupid, Rhaskos." Someone above him snapped.

That someone gripped his hair and pulled him upwards. Harry tried to glare, but it likely came out like a frown. It turned out to be Crixus who had a hold of him. "Eat." The man directed right to his face.

He was let go and Harry slumped back onto the table.

"He's hopeless." He heard Barca laugh. "Little boys have no hope, save food for others and let him die. He's not even a brother and he never will be."

Harry so badly wanted to make Barca eat his own words, but he was so tired, so exhausted, that such thoughts were on the same scale as climbing Mount Everest while being chained to a lorry going full speed in the opposite direction.

"Drink this." He was ordered. Doctore had come back.

Harry used the remnants of his energy and he looked in the cup to what looked like a bunch of leaves chewed up in an inch of water.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Never mind what it is, drink it."

"No."

"Drink it!" He was ordered more firmly.

"I don't want to."

He heard the sigh. "You seem to be under the impression that you have a choice in the matter. Now drink."

Harry sighed himself and he sniffed at the drink, trying to detect the healing herbs that Madam Pomfrey used. He did actually smell something familiar and that reassured him at least that he wasn't being poisoned outright.

He swallowed the bitter drink without fuss or ceremony. It was better than some of the potions he'd had to take over the years. Skele-gro came to mind and compared to that, this drink could have been pumpkin juice.

"Now eat and drink more water."

Harry actually turned and ate a bit of the porridge, ignoring everyone around him. He was right in the middle of the wolves den, at a table almost dead centre of the eating area with Crixus beside him and Barca opposite, surrounded at the other tables by more gladiators, most of which he didn't even know the name of.

"You swallowed that so easily. What else do you swallow easily?"

Harry looked up with a frown at a gladiator on the table beside him.

"What?" He asked.

Apparently that was hilarious to all of them as they started laughing like hyenas again. He sighed and went back to his breakfast. He'd eaten less than half and didn't want any more. He pushed it sideways, at Crixus, letting him choose if he wanted it or not. He took it without thanks or any gratitude. Harry didn't care as he sipped on the second cup of water.

All too soon they were called to the training sands and all Harry wanted to do was sleep for a week. He was the last to get his wooden sword for the day and it was handed to him carefully.

"Thank you, Pietros." He said softly, not expecting an answer.

"Keep going." The young man told him with a gentle smile.

Harry smiled back shyly and he turned to see what torture he was going to be put through today.

"Pair up. Crixus with Barca. Gnaeus with Rhaskos."

Harry was left wondering what he was to do when one of the gladiators approached him.

"Get here, pretty boy." He ordered. Harry didn't move. "I said get here, are you stupid?"

Harry again didn't move. He looked around and he swallowed as he realised that there was an odd number of recruits…one of them had to pair with an actual gladiator. Him apparently.

"Don't make me come to you." The man threatened. "I will split your arse in two!"

Harry baulked at that and he frowned.

"Leave the poor boy alone, Litaviccus he doesn't know what you mean." Barca laughed as he took a breather while Crixus climbed back to his feet.

"As if you wouldn't have him in a heartbeat if you could, Beast of Carthage." Harry's opponent, apparently named Litaviccus, laughed.

"Anyone would with a boy so smooth and young." Barca laughed. "Doesn't mean that he's for the scum like you."

That wiped the smile from Litaviccus' face. "I will kill him and fuck him on these sands!"

Harry's eyes widened at that and he did his best to avoid the swings and blows being rained down on him, rolling to his feet as soon as he hit the sand, not allowing Litaviccus near him.

"Much better, Harian." Doctore said approvingly. "Now try and actually hit back instead of rolling over the sand."

Harry didn't think the man quite understood the danger that Harry was in, nor just how much energy it was taking him to just keep his opponent away from him after the threat given to him.

"Come on, Litaviccus!" Someone called out. "Don't say a mere pretty boy is besting you! He is not even a brother."

That made them all laugh and Harry could have killed the gladiator who'd spoken as he was once again hit with a barrage of attacks from the furious Litaviccus.

"Stop!" Doctore roared as Harry rolled sluggishly back to his feet. "Harian, do you remember me telling you to use the missio to give your opponent the win?"

Harry nodded tiredly. "Yes, Doctore."

"Show me." He was ordered and Harry made the sign of submission, holding two fingers into the air. "Why do you not use it?"

"I don't want to give him the win." Harry said simply. "If he wants my submission, Doctore, he can work for it."

Harry saw the approval and grudging respect from his Doctore and he heard the laugher around him, whether the other gladiators were laughing because he was being foolish or because of what he'd said, he didn't care. He wouldn't give in without a fucking fight. He had never been one to roll onto his belly and surrender, he'd never been one to show cowardice, not even against Voldemort, or the basilisk, not even Quirrell, the Dursleys, or the Dementors. He was not a coward and he was going to learn how to fight and he was going to prove it, no matter what it took for him to do so.

It had been just six days and every single part of him ached so fiercely that just walking caused him agony. He didn't bother washing himself today, he went straight to the cell that he shared with all the other new recruits and he crawled into his bed roll, right at the back, squashed into the one wall. He was running on fumes now and as soon as he settled his body, stopping all movement that caused more pain, he became drowsy. He was asleep before the others even arrived at the cell they shared and he didn't so much as stir as they all trundled in, settling themselves down ready to be locked in.

He had thought that he would be abused while he was here, some of the threats towards him seemed to indicate as such, but being locked in this cell was almost a safety blanket. The other gladiators weren't locked in their cells, only the new recruits were for safety purposes, considering it seemed to be a game to the branded gladiators to kill off as many of the new recruits as possible, so he was safe in here from the actual gladiators. He had worried about his recruitment class, but with Spartacus using himself as a human barrier, it was safe in the cell as well and he could sleep all he needed to, safely knowing that Spartacus, for whatever reason, was happy to protect him from the others.

He'd been told that one of their recruitment class had died on the very first day that the others had been in the ludus (Harry had come several days after them), and another had died while Harry had been there, that very day actually, right as he'd been watching. The wooden sword, that he'd thought was nice and safe and incapable of doing more than bruising or maybe breaking a bone in exceptional cases, had been thrust with so much force and power and it had hit at just the right angle to go right through the throat of the other recruit. Harry had been so close that his lower legs had gotten some blood splatters and he'd seen everything as the man fell down dead.

Harry had turned hysterical and it had taken his Doctore fifteen minutes of holding him, of coaxing and yelling to get Harry to stop screaming at the top of his lungs in high pitched, keening notes of terror. Once quiet, his Doctore had moved onto gentle touches and soothing noises while Harry had confirmed that it was the first person he'd ever seen being killed in such a violent, bloody manner. Surprisingly no one gave him much grief over it, probably remembering how they had reacted to seeing their first violent death. When one gladiator had tried to make him feel bad about it, Barca had intervened with a quick shut down about the first always being the most difficult to deal with and to leave him alone to process what he'd seen. He had given Harry a look, then a smirk, then he'd turned back to training and the moment was gone.

Harry was woken up by Spartacus, who told him that a new day had begun. It seemed to come far too soon. Harry considered going back to sleep and ignoring everyone, but he knew that he couldn't. He got up and shuffled to the eating area, getting his bowl of porridge and ducking away from Rhaskos, who tried to knock the bowl from his hands, he instead went to the other side of Crixus and sat down, opposite Pietros, who smiled kindly at him.

"Why don't you stink?"

Harry frowned at Gnaeus, who'd asked the question.

"What?"

"You didn't bathe yesterday, yet you don't reek, why?"

"He's obviously not working hard enough." Crixus smirked.

"Boys don't stink." Barca said easily. "They can sweat as much as they want, but they always smell fresh. It's with manhood that it changes."

"You would know, Barca. You've loved enough boys."

There was a round of snickering, but Barca didn't deny it. He didn't seem bothered by it at all, he just carried on eating.

Harry took a couple more mouthfuls himself. He was getting better at eating more of his meals. He was eating a little more than half a bowl now, but he still stopped before he finished and he pushed his bowl at Barca, who took Harry's remaining porridge happily, leaving Harry to drain the rest of his water. He'd found out that his presence was tolerated at this table as long as he had something to offer, even if it was just an inch or so of cold porridge to the two top gladiators of this ludus…Crixus was the champion of the entire city, he did not want to make an enemy of these men.

"Are you feeling better?"

Barca snapped his head to his boy lover, who had addressed Harry. Harry didn't know if he should answer or ignore Pietros, he didn't know which action would bring down Barca's disapproval or anger. He already seemed upset at Pietros for even speaking to him and he didn't want to make things worse, but Pietros was looking at him, smiling kindly, and Harry didn't want to ignore him either.

"It's getting easier." He said simply. "I'm less tired now that the pain is fading."

"I heard Doctore talking to the medicus, he said that all your muscles were tense and there was a possibility of them tearing?" Pietros asked worriedly.

Harry nodded, having been examined several times by the filthy medicus. He'd been horrified that he was even considered a health carer. Harry, with his limited knowledge of healing, could probably do a better job.

"I've never had to use my muscles in such a way, forcing movement repeatedly made them tight and sore and the pain of that stopped me from moving as well as I could. I've pulled several muscles and others are on the verge of being pulled. My back and shoulders are the worst, but I'm getting used to it and they're not so sore anymore."

"Were you someone's pampered, pet little boy?" Crixus asked him.

"No." Harry said simply. "I've just never been expected to do anything like this before."

"Surely your father wanted you to be a warrior." Crixus continued. Harry noticed that Barca twitched and he wondered what was going on with that, but he didn't press.

"He died when I was a baby, my mother too. I'm very sure they would not have wanted me to be any sort of fighter or warrior. They died protecting me from such things, after all."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"No, I was an only child."

"Other family?"

"An aunt, uncle and cousin." Harry replied, keeping his voice mild.

"Where are they now?"

Harry shrugged. "I couldn't say."

"How did you get caught? Though I assume you didn't put up much of a fight." Crixus added, looking at his small, smooth body. Harry didn't let the barb bother him, he was very aware that he'd come to them without so much as a bruise, let alone any sort of cut or wound that might have indicated he'd put up a fight.

"To the sands!"

Pietros leapt up immediately and he went to the wooden chest that kept the training weapons safe. Their conversation interrupted, everyone else followed quickly, unwilling to test Doctore's patience so early in the day. Pietros had opened the chest and he'd started handing out weapons. He got a large spear on Doctore's orders and Harry saw him smile as he handed it to Barca, who kissed him happily for it.

Harry got his own wooden sword with a shy smile for Pietros. He received one in return. Harry really did like Pietros. He was the only one that he genuinely liked in this horrific place.

"Thank you, Pietros."

"Good luck."

Harry grimaced. "I'm going to need more than luck."

"Do you know why Barca has a spear?"

Harry startled and inhaled deeply, looking at his Doctore, who had approached him from behind without him even noticing. He needed to be better than that, it would have been much easier if he'd used his magic, but his reserves had been running low ever since he'd tried to escape from the back of the slaver wagon, and he was using what he did have to ease his pained body so that he could get through each day, and then sleep at night. He was wary of using too much at once, as he never wanted to feel that empty void inside himself where his magic should be ever again. It had been the worst feeling, to fear that his magic was gone forever.

"No, Doctore."

"There are different classes of gladiator. Murmillones, as Crixus is. Retiarii, who fight with a net and trident, as Gnaeus does. Barca is a hoplomachus, so he fights with a spear. There are also secutors, laquearii, samnites, thraeces and dimachaeri."

Harry nodded his understanding.

"Pair up! Barca with Gnaeus, Crixus with Rabanus."

Harry sighed and waited for someone to target him. It had been the same for the last three days, since he'd been training with the other gladiators and not just forced to hit at the palus on his own.

A gladiator approached him, his name was Hamilcar and Harry sighed, preparing his abused, battered body for some more serious pain.

Harry slipped into the pose that he'd been shown by Spartacus and he held the sword how Doctore had shown him. He was getting better, but he was still no match for these men. He still refused to use the missio as he was beaten down, again and again and again. He just kept rolling to his feet, even when he didn't want to. Sometimes he just wanted to stay down and lie there, panting, breathing heavily, but he never did. He forced himself up and he sent himself back for more pain, for more abuse.

He did try to protect himself, he'd learnt now how to use his wooden sword, that was too big to fit properly in his hand, as a sort of impromptu shield, seeing where his opponent was attacking from and moving himself out of the way or clattering his wooden sword to barge it out of the way, just enough for it to miss hitting him.

He was doing much better now that his magic had finally come back to him after he'd exhausted it trying to unlock his manacles in the back of the slaver wagon. That wonderful, full feeling it gave him, warm and comforting like he'd sunken into a hot bath, made him feel a million times better and he could draw on it for more energy, for healing and sorting out his sore muscles and bruises. He was just so relieved to have his magic back after so long with its absence. He had worried that such an integral part of himself was gone, lost forever, along with his robes, glasses and wand. To get it back, so suddenly, out of the blue one morning, it felt amazing. He was using it to his advantage too, drawing on it for comfort, energy, strength and healing. It was working too. He had worried that it would vanish again, but every morning he woke up and it was full to the brim again, almost vibrating under his skin, urging him to use it, but he was still wary of using too much at one time.

"Come on, Harian!" His Doctore snapped. "Do something!"

All the sparring pairs stopped to watch for a moment and Hamilcar smirked and came at him with renewed strength and vigour. Harry was laughed at as he found himself on the sand. He rolled up to his feet immediately, not allowing Hamilcar to claim a victory over him, thus allowing him to continue to not use the missio.

He tried to hold his own for a little while and managed it, Hamilcar was the one who got ribbed for it and it made him angry, it made him swing faster, hit harder.

Harry was disarmed with a particularly savage swipe that threw him to his knees, dazed, and, knowing that he'd truly lost this one, he went to raise his two fingers in surrender. Hamilcar didn't stop however, he pulled back, twisting his upper body and he swung with his full force at Harry's head. He had a single fraction of a second to realise what was happening and he rushed to put his magic to his head to cushion the blow as much as he could. He heard his Doctore roaring Hamilcar's name, saw the whip going back, but the wooden sword connected with his head with a sickening, echoing crack and there wasn't even any pain, everything immediately went black and he didn't feel his body hitting the ground. He was unconscious before he even touched the hot sand.

A/N: A new foray into a new crossover fandom for you, lovelies. I've had this one in reserve for a little while, it is 14 chapters long, and complete, but it has two planned sequels, neither of which are currently complete. I had hoped to get a little further into the first sequel, Servus ad Bellum, but given the unprecedented uncertainty we are living in the world over, I feel it's better if I keep updating anything I can as a distraction.

So, all of that aside, I hope that you've all enjoyed this first chapter, and rest assured that the second will be following in just a week. I know many might not like that Harry is only 14, and being put through all of this horror, but as a fan of history, and historical fiction, let me tell you Harry is not alone in his suffering, the Romans saw their slaves as furniture, objects without feelings or emotions, just things to be used to selfishly better their own lives, and even children were used as sex slaves, and put into brothels. The age of consent for freeborn citizens in Rome was actually 12, but this age did not count for slaves who could be used for sex at any age their master wished it, which is absolutely disgusting in our modern time, but just a part of life to them. Having Harry be 14 worked well with the story line, as he encountered the time-turner that Hermione was using for that year, and that was the perfect set-up to make this crossover, and that's the only reason I have made him 14.

Boys were usually 16 before they were sold to a ludus, though could have been much younger, as again, they're 'just' slaves, and were about 18 when they first started fighting in the arena, so Harry is a little young for it, but as we saw, it was Solonius' ploy that had Harry becoming a gladiator recruit in the first place, instead of being sold to a brothel, as originally planned for him, so I hope that excuses the little age discrepancy of Harry becoming a gladiator recruit.
This fic starts in 74 BC, and will encompass the third servile war, which lasted from 73 to 71 BC. It will focus mostly on the TV series, which wasn't very accurate, I admit, but that is the canon for this fandom, and for this fic.

StarLight Massacre. X