The Price of Freedom
The wooden bridge creaked under Amara’s feet as she walked towards the slave auction block in the shadow of the Palatine Hill. She had been just a girl then—barely fifteen—with sun-darkened skin, calloused hands, and an iron collar around her neck. Her tunic was tattered linen, dyed a faded cobalt, and her mother’s gold bracelet hung too loose on her wrist. She had stolen it the night the slavers came, a fragment of a happier life in a small coastal village now reduced to ash.
“Straighten your back,” her mother had hissed. “If they see strength, they might keep you alive.” Yet it was not strength that saved her but fire—the fire in her eyes when General Cassius, a decorated war hero turned wealthy sponsor, noticed her glaring up at him.
“This one has fight,” he had said, smiling as though he’d found gold in the mud. “Sell her to me. She’ll make an excellent gladiatrix.” Amara remembered her hatred then, deep as the ocean her village had once kissed. But it was that hatred—or perhaps, the strange favor of the gods—that turned her from a slave into a legend.
The Lost Laurel
The memory dissolved, and Amara was back in the arena. Domitius lunged, his trident a flash of steel. She sidestepped smoothly, sliding on the loose sand, and slashed at his exposed flank with her gladius. It was a shallow cut, but it bled, and Domitius howled like a wounded bear. The crowd roared in delight, their thirst for violence momentarily sated.
Somewhere high above, the Emperor leaned forward, intrigued. Amara had heard whispers that today’s victor would earn more than gold—a chance at freedom, perhaps even a place in the Emperor’s inner circle. But what use was freedom in a city built on the bones of the lost? What use was fame when ghosts were her only companions?
“You fight well, little bird,” Domitius growled, his voice low and guttural. He rolled his shoulders, grip tightening on his trident. “But it won’t save you.”
“Perhaps not,” Amara replied, her voice steady. “But neither will your pride.” She darted forward, feinting left before slicing upward with calculated precision. Her blade glanced off his helmet, and he staggered, disoriented just long enough for her to kick the back of his knee. He fell heavily, sand flying like storm clouds around him.
The Emperor’s Verdict
Beneath the blinding sunlight, Amara held her blade to Domitius’ throat. The arena fell silent, thousands of eyes fixed on her, breathless with anticipation. Yet she did not look at the crowd nor the defeated giant trembling beneath her. She looked only at the man on the marble dais—the Emperor, clad in imperial purple, gold wreaths circling his head like a halo.
The Emperor raised his hand—thumb hovering horizontally. Life or death. The decision that would ripple through history on the whim of a single gesture. Amara steeled herself, the handle of her gladius slick with sweat, waiting for fate’s decree.
And then, with a flick of his wrist, the Emperor turned his thumb downward.
The Last High Five
The crowd erupted, a chorus of savage glee. Yet Amara did not falter. She tightened her grip on the hilt, her movements mechanical, her soul detached. She raised the sword, but as her eyes met Domitius’, she remembered her mother’s last words before the slavers dragged her away into darkness. “Never let them break you, my love. Never let them make you one of them.”
The sword fell not on Domitius but on the ground beside him. The crowd gasped as the deafening cheers turned into astonished murmurs. The Emperor leaned back in his throne, a crooked smile gracing his lips. He raised his hand once more, this time clenched in a fist, before spreading his fingers wide—a gesture of recognition, a quiet reversal of judgment. A high five to the unseen forces that governed destiny.
Amara turned to face the crowd, bloodied and unbowed. The laurel on her shoulder glistened in the sun, brighter than ever. She had beaten Domitius, not with her blade but with her defiance. And though she would never escape the shadow of the Colosseum, she had claimed a small, fleeting freedom—a high five to the spirit that refused to kneel.
A Gladiator’s Echo
That night, as the city of Rome celebrated her victory with wine and song, Amara stood beneath the stars, her reflection shimmering in the golden goblet she had been given. She saw her mother’s bracelet on her wrist, still loose, still heavy with memory.
“You didn’t save me,” the voice whispered again, and this time, Amara let it stay. She lifted the goblet in a silent toast—a high five to ghosts and gods alike. For sometimes, in a world drenched in blood and betrayal, the smallest gesture could light the spark of revolution in the darkest of hearts.
Genre: Historical Fiction
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: How The High 5 Habit Was Created | Chapter 2 from The High 5 Habit (Part 1)
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