Chapter 17: The Trial Against the Champion

Anger had its own sound in the training yard. That morning, its sound was Spartacus's roar.

Ulysses observed from the sidelines. The champion of Thrace moved like a storm trapped in a bottle. He crushed his training opponent, a poor Iberian slave, with a series of brutal slashes that lacked technique or discipline. There was only force and pain. Every blow was a scream.

Doctore stood watching, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He saw the same thing Ulysses did. This wasn't training. This was futile catharsis.

With a final growl, Spartacus slammed his opponent to the ground. He stood over him, panting, his eyes wild and unfocused.

Doctore's voice broke the silence. "That's enough, Spartacus." He walked closer. "You fight like a mad dog. Your rage is a chain, not a sword."

Spartacus merely stared at him blankly.

Doctore's eyes then swept across the yard, past the tense gladiators, and stopped. Directly on Ulysses.

"Ulysses!" he called.

A different kind of silence now fell over the yard. The gladiators stopped, their chatter dying. They all turned.

"Spartacus!" Doctore called again. "To the center. Take a fresh sword. Now."

Ulysses felt hundreds of eyes on him as he stepped forward. He could hear excited whispers. He saw Varro staring at him. From the villa balcony, he caught a glimpse of Batiatus grinning widely, leaning forward in anticipation.

He arrived in the center of the sand circle, facing Spartacus. He could see clearly now. The champion's eyes were filled with an uncontrollable storm of grief. Basic Psychology told Ulysses that the man before him didn't see him; he saw a ghost.

Ulysses felt no pity. He felt an opportunity. An opportunity to measure himself against the best.

Doctore gave no signal.

Spartacus roared and exploded forward.

His speed was incredible. Ulysses barely had time to raise his shield.

CLANG!

The first impact felt like hitting a stone wall. His arm vibrated to the bone. The next attacks came like torrential rain. Left, right, up, down. Spartacus was a blur of rage and wooden steel, every move a deadly blow.

Ulysses could only defend, his feet constantly retreating on the sand. He could hear the cheers of the other gladiators who now completely surrounded them, forming a roaring human wall.

"Break him, Spartacus!"

A fierce kick slammed into the side of his shield, throwing him off balance. The tip of Spartacus's wooden sword grazed his ribs, sending a sharp sting of pain. Ulysses growled, enduring the pain.

He continued to retreat, letting the storm rage. But he wasn't just defending. His brain worked at lightning speed. Rapid Adaptation absorbed every movement, every swing, every roar. He began to see it. A pattern amidst the chaos. A shift of weight before an overhead slash. A momentary gasp of breath before a thrust.

After enduring what felt like an eternity of onslaught, there was a pause. A fraction of a second as Spartacus took a breath for his next attack.

Ulysses didn't waste it. He lunged forward, not to attack, but to change his position, stepping out of the direct line of attack.

Spartacus, expecting his opponent to remain defensive, was slightly caught off guard. He turned to pursue, but his rhythm was broken.

They now faced each other in the silent arena. Their breaths were heavy. Sweat slicked their bodies. Ulysses had weathered the initial storm. He felt the ache in his ribs, but his eyes were cold and focused. He looked into Spartacus's eyes and no longer saw a champion. He saw an opponent with an opening.

That momentary silence broke. Spartacus charged again, his roar deeper, angrier. But this time, Ulysses did not retreat.

He stepped forward to meet the attack.

Their wooden swords met in the air. Not with a heavy clang like before, but with a series of quick, sharp clinks. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. Ulysses was no longer just parrying. He was deflecting, redirecting, using his hand speed to dance around Spartacus's power.

The watching gladiators fell silent. Their cheers for Spartacus died in their throats. They witnessed something they didn't understand. Ulysses, who should have been shattered, was now matching the champion in a rapid exchange of blows.

Ulysses saw it clearly. Spartacus's rage was a fire burning without direction. Every attack was powerful, but there was always a fraction of a second pause afterwards, as frustration took over. That was the opening.

Spartacus swung his sword with a powerful horizontal slash. Ulysses ducked beneath it. As the sword passed over his head, he rose and slammed his shoulder into Spartacus's ribs.

THUMP!

The Thracian stumbled, surprised by the unexpected physical blow.

"He's fighting back!" a gladiator exclaimed in disbelief.

Spartacus snarled and retaliated with a lightning-fast thrust. Ulysses, anticipating it, twisted his body. Spartacus's sword merely grazed the air beside him. With his opponent's position open, Ulysses slashed his sword across the back of Spartacus's thigh.

A thin red line immediately appeared on the champion's skin, followed by a drop of blood.

A collective held breath echoed throughout the yard. First blood had been drawn. And it wasn't Ulysses's.

Seeing his own blood seemed to snap Spartacus out of his rage. The haze in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly focus. He was no longer fighting with the memory of Sura. He was now fighting the man before him.

He stopped roaring. His movements became more efficient, more measured. He was now the Angel of Death who had defeated Theokoles.

The pressure on Ulysses increased tenfold. Every attack now had a purpose. Every movement was a trap. This was no longer a fight against rage; this was a fight against legendary pure skill.

Ulysses returned to a defensive stance, but this time it felt different. He could feel a real murderous intent in every one of Spartacus's attacks. Cold sweat began to slick his temples. He was at his peak, fighting the best of the best.

On the balcony, Lucretia leaned forward, her hand unconsciously gripping the railing. Batiatus was no longer smiling. His eyes were fixed on his two most valuable fighters, who were now engaged in a true dance of death.

Spartacus lunged forward, faster than before. He didn't swing his sword. He used his shield, slamming it towards Ulysses's face.

Ulysses raised his shield to block.

CRACKKK!

Ulysses's small wooden shield cracked, splinters flying. His arm went numb from the impact.

His defense was open. Spartacus's eyes flashed. His sword was already raised, ready to end the fight.

Spartacus's sword descended like lightning.

Time seemed to freeze. With his shield shattered, there was no way to parry. Dodging backward was too slow.

Ulysses didn't think. He acted.

He dropped, rolling forward, passing beneath the deadly swing. The air from the rushing sword felt cold on his nape. He could hear gasps of surprise from the watching gladiators.

He rose quickly, now without a shield. Only the wooden sword in his hand. He was now completely exposed.

Spartacus turned, his eyes ablaze. He gave no pause. He attacked again, now with a rapid and precise barrage of thrusts, designed to pierce non-existent defenses.

Ulysses danced on the sword's edge. His feet moved faster than ever, his body twisting and dodging. This was a pure gamble on speed and Rapid Adaptation. He could feel every muscle screaming, his lungs burning.

One thrust managed to graze his arm, leaving a deep, stinging scratch. Ulysses counter-attacked, the tip of his sword hitting Spartacus's shoulder. Both were now wounded. Both were now fighting with deadly seriousness.

This training had turned into something else.

Ulysses could see it in Spartacus's eyes. The champion was no longer holding back. Neither was Ulysses. He saw an opening as Spartacus overextended slightly. He stepped in, not to attack the body, but to kick Spartacus's supporting leg.

Spartacus stumbled, nearly falling. He retaliated with his remaining shield, slamming it hard into Ulysses's side.

THUD!

Ulysses was thrown sideways, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Pain exploded in his ribs.

He rolled and rose, ignoring the pain. He and Spartacus now faced each other, panting, their bodies covered in scratches and bruises. Both were preparing for a final attack, an attack that would truly injure one of them.

"ENOUGH!"

Doctore's voice boomed like thunder, breaking the tension.

He stepped quickly between them, his large body a separating wall. He glared at Spartacus, then at Ulysses. His eyes burned with the rage of a trainer seeing his most valuable assets nearly destroyed.

"Save your blood for the arena sand!" he barked. "Not for entertaining the worms here! Disperse!"

Spartacus was the first to lower his sword. The haze of rage in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by immense exhaustion. He looked at Ulysses. Not with anger, but with something else. An acknowledgment. A respect born of an equal fight.

Ulysses looked back at him, nodding his head slightly. He felt the same. He had just stood against the storm itself, and he had not broken.

He limped out of the sand circle, every breath painful in his ribs. He might not have won, but he had proven something to himself and to everyone in that ludus. He was no longer just "Ulysses the tactician." He was a force to be reckoned with.