The roar of the Colosseum thundered like a storm confined to the earth, its echo so mighty it seemed to shake the ground beneath Quintus Aurelius Valens' sandaled feet. The chants of the throng merged into one relentless tide of sound: “Valens! Valens! Valens!” Yet all Quintus could feel was an itch—a maddening, unscratchable itch just beneath the leather straps of his lorica segmentata. The heat of the Roman sun beat upon the polished armor covering his broad chest and shoulders, but it was not sweat that plagued him. It was the itch, and it had been with him for as long as he could remember.
Quintus was not a man to let trivial distractions overcome him. Standing tall at six feet with a physique sculpted by decades of gladiatorial combat, he was the picture of the perfect Roman warrior: taut muscles, a sharp jawline shaded with the stubble of neglect, and piercing brown eyes that seemed to devour everything before them. He wore his dark, coiled hair short, exposing an old scar curling just above his right ear—evidence of a clash in the days of his youth. His armor glinted in the sunlight, and beneath it, his crimson tunic caught the breeze, the color of the Republic’s pride and its thirst for blood.
The itch, however, cared nothing for spectacle or stoicism. It was small at first, a whisper of irritation that had started behind his shoulder blade years ago. But it spread, unrelentingly, like the vines of an invading forest choking a once-proud villa. No salves, no augur’s incense, not even Minerva’s blessing had seemed to calm it. What started as a minor inconvenience had grown into an obsession, a silent torment hiding beneath his valor and victories.
The Duel with Destiny
“Gladiators! Into the arena!” The herald's voice boomed, and the heavy iron gates groaned as they swung open. Quintus strode into the sandy expanse deliberately, his movements calculated. Across the arena, his opponent emerged, shrouded in the shadow of the towering archways. It was no ordinary fight today—this was a bout for freedom. Should he triumph, he would stand before the Emperor himself and claim his exit from this life of slavery and bloodshed.
The crowd quieted as the other man came into full view. His rival was a towering Thracian warrior with skin like burnished bronze, the sinew of an ox, and piercing green eyes. He held a long trident and net, symbols of the retiarius. His cloak was dyed in hues of cerulean blue, the color bright against the otherwise stark and dusty battleground. His look was calm yet predatory, like a lion watching a lone hunter slowly step into its den.
As Quintus tightened his fingers around the hilt of his gladius, the itch erupted anew, blindingly insistent. His free hand twitched toward the armor, but he held himself steady. Not here. Not now. Focus, he thought. A gladiator could afford no distractions, not when the deciding blow could come like lightning from a clear sky. But as the duel began, the itch crawled up his spine, spreading its invisible fire. Quintus gritted his teeth.
The Dance of Pain and Power
Steel clashed against iron as the two men met in a flurry of motion. Quintus dodged the trident’s stabbing thrusts, feeling the kiss of its prongs cut through the air near his ribs. The Thracian was quick, his movements fluid, his strategy clear: evade, entangle, and strike. But Quintus was pure strength—a battering ram of ferocity. The two men circled each other, neither yielding, their weapons speaking the unspoken truths of their hearts.
The itch surged again during a crucial instant, and his momentary lapse cost him. The Thracian threw his net, ensnaring Quintus’ sword arm. The crowd gasped. Tightening his muscles, Quintus flexed with a roar, shattering the web of ropes just as the man lunged. Their bodies collided with bone-jarring force, and the gladiator's gladius found its home. The Thracian staggered back, his trident slipping from his grasp. Sand met blood as he hit the ground.
The crowd’s cheers were deafening, but Quintus heard nothing. He stood over his fallen rival, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. Victory, yes—but the itch remained, burning brighter than ever. He gave a small nod to the defeated warrior, a gesture of honor, and turned to the imperial dais.
A Revelation Unearthed
That night, as Quintus rested in his dim cell under the looming glow of a single oil lamp, the itch became intolerable. He ripped off his cuirass, tearing the tunic from his back, and scratched until his skin bled. His breath came in ragged bursts. It was impossible to ignore the sense that this torment was no ordinary malady. It was alive, a hidden truth urging him toward something beyond.
Drifting into uneasy sleep, he dreamed of an oracle veiled in firelight. Her voice whispered, “Thy itch is no curse, Quintus. It is the mark of a tethered soul.” In this vision, she unraveled his torment with a chilling truth: his spirit was trapped, eternally bound to battle. Only by journeying to the temple of Janus, keeper of passageways, could he shed his life of endless war.
The Road to Redemption
At dawn, Quintus departed the ludus for the first time in years, clad in a dark cloak over simple traveling garments. His winnings had secured his freedom, and he was no longer Quintus the gladiator—he was Quintus the seeker. Every step on the Via Appia felt like liberation, the itch now a strange guide leading him toward the unknown.
The cobblestone road shimmered in the rising sun, and in quiet moments, Quintus reached beneath his cloak, letting his fingernails graze the itch. For the first time, scratching no longer felt like battle; it felt like release.
And so his journey began, bringing him to lands far beyond Rome, to whispered temples and forgotten paths. The itch persisted, but now it was accompanied by something new: a flicker of hope.
Freedom, Quintus knew, was not won in a single match—it was a road, winding, uncertain, and infinite in its mysteries.
Genre: Historical Fiction (Ancient Rome)
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Why Do Persistent Itches Make You Chase Them?
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