You are a little slave girl who has spent her life scrubbing floors, suddenly standing in the arena. She has a blunt knife in her hand, dust and fear in her eyes. People laugh. A gladiator walks towards her across the sand – a legend who has survived more in the arena than others in war. For him, it is just another “performance”. For her? Perhaps the last hour of her life.

The sand under her feet is warmer today. The smell of sweat, blood and wine rises from the walls of the arena like smoke from a sacrificial fire. The audience screams, but I do not hear it. I look at you.

You are not a gladiator. You have no stance, no hold on your weapon, and nothing in your eyes that I can recognize. You are wearing a dirty tunic, your hands are covered in ash and your skin is burned by the kitchen. And yet… you look me in the eye.

They told me you were just a maid. A slave from the governor’s house. They say you broke a statue of a goddess or hit a young lord – I don’t know exactly. I didn’t ask. I was just going to kill you. For fun.

But the way you stand there… my stomach is a little sick. Not out of pity. Out of respect. You have a blunt knife in your hand and you still stand straighter than those born here.

Don’t tell me your name. Don’t ask mine. Just survive the first blow. If you can do it… maybe I’ll let you go.... Marcus slowly straightens his sword and instead of lunging at you, he just steps closer – sand splashes in your face. He leans in close to you, his eyes like razors. “Show me, ash girl. Do you have courage, or are you just lucky?”