A few nights after his victory in the arena, Ashur found him. The Syrian emerged from the shadows near the barracks, his smile gleaming in the torchlight.
"Ulysses," he hissed, using the new name with an overly familiar tone. "Champion of The Pit. I have something worthy of your new status."
Ulysses stopped, looking at him without emotion. "I don't have many coins right now, Ashur."
"Who's talking about coins?" Ashur laughed. "Consider this... a gift. A token of good will. I have access to something extremely rare. A Thracian woman, just off the ship. Wild. Untouched by Capua's filth. You could be the first. I only ask for a small compensation for the arrangement, very small."
The offer was too good. Ulysses, with his Basic Psychology, could sense the hidden greed behind Ashur's words, but he also sensed a truth. Ashur did indeed have something special. Something Category 2 or more.
"Where?" Ulysses asked.
The location was a dilapidated inn room in the city's poorest quarter, smelling of cheap wine and despair. Ashur opened the door, pushed Ulysses inside, then closed it from the outside, leaving Ulysses in the dimly lit room.
The smell of dust and sour wine filled the air. On the edge of a straw bed, a woman sat. Her back was straight, her hands clenched in her lap. As she raised her head, their eyes met. A fire of defiance burned in her fear-filled eyes. Ulysses did not approach. He walked to the table, pouring water into a clay cup. He placed it on the dirty floor, between them, then stepped back and sat leaning against the wall. Giving her a choice.
A heavy silence filled the room. Only the sound of their breathing. The woman looked at the cup, then at Ulysses. Her watchful eyes implied confusion. After what felt like a long time, her slightly trembling hand reached out. She took the cup and drank the water quickly. She placed the empty cup back. She looked at Ulysses. A small, barely perceptible nod.
Ulysses rose, approached slowly, and knelt before her. His hand reached out, not to grasp, but to touch her cheek. Her skin felt cold. Wet. His lips met hers. Slow. Salty with the taste of tears. A kiss of seeking, not conquest.
The woman's hands, which had been clenched, slowly opened, then rose and gripped Ulysses's shoulders. She pulled Ulysses closer. Their clothes came off one by one, rough fabrics falling to the floor. Ulysses traced the woman's body with his mouth, descending from her neck, to her firm breasts. He sucked at her hardening nipples, hearing a suppressed moan escape the woman's lips. He continued down, past her taut abdomen, until he arrived between her trembling thighs.
His hot tongue licked her already wet vagina. The woman gasped, her body arching, her hands clutching the straw beneath her. The sound of greedy wet slurping filled the silence. Her suppressed moans now grew louder, a melody of despair and pleasure. Ulysses rose, positioning himself above her. Their eyes locked. He saw a storm of emotions in the woman's eyes. He entered her slowly. Her narrow, wet vagina welcomed him warmly. His thrusts were deep and rhythmic, their gaze never breaking.
The woman suddenly moved, flipping their positions. She was now on top, controlling the tempo. Her eyes were closed, her head lolled back, an expression of pure pleasure painted on her face. Ulysses watched her breasts sway with every movement, her stomach clenching. Their passion intensified, becoming more primal.
Ulysses flipped her again, placing her in a doggy style position. His thrusts were now harder, faster. The sound of sweat-slicked skin slapping together violently. PLAP. THUD. PLAP. The woman's shrieks were no longer suppressed, loose and wild. She collapsed onto the straw, gasping for breath. Ulysses pulled her into his embrace. Their sweaty bodies clung together.
Silence returned, heavier than before. There was only the sound of two fast-beating hearts and heavy breaths. Ulysses felt a small tremor from the woman's body. He saw tears silently flowing from her closed eyes. He wiped them away with his thumb.
A harsh knock on the door broke everything. "Time's up!" The woman jolted. She immediately rose, dressing herself with panicked, swift movements. She looked at Ulysses once more, a gaze full of unspoken words, then the door opened and she was led away. Ulysses was left alone on the disheveled straw, the scent of sex and sorrow still lingering in the air. The blue panel glowed.
{Intimate relations complete. Target: Slave (Category 2).}
{Life Essence obtained: +10}
He got his reward. But a cold, hollow feeling gripped his stomach. The memory of the woman's eyes haunted him.
The next morning, there was a strange energy in the ludus air. Not the usual tension, but a kind of crackling hope. Ulysses saw its source as he crossed the yard.
Spartacus was talking to Varro near the training post. For the first time, the Thracian's face did not wear a mask of cold rage or stoicism. His face was alive, his eyes sparkling with raw, pure excitement. He laughed, a voice that sounded alien and powerful.
As Ulysses passed, he caught fragments of their conversation, Spartacus's enthusiastic voice. "...Batiatus kept his word, Varro! She's here! My Sura is in Capua! They're bringing her here..."
Ulysses's world seemed to stop spinning. Sura. Thracian woman. Newly arrived.
The pieces of information hit him like a hammer. The woman from the inn. Her defiant eyes. Her silent tears. A horrifying coldness crept up from his stomach.
He turned, his eyes wildly searching for one person. Ashur.
He found the Syrian counting coins near the armory. Ulysses didn't walk, he lunged. He grabbed Ashur's tunic, slamming him against the rough wooden wall, sending coins scattering to the ground.
"The Thracian woman from last night," Ulysses snarled, his voice low and threatening. "Her name."
Ashur seemed surprised for a moment, then his familiar cunning smile returned. "Easy, Champion. You'll scare away customers." He pretended to think. "Ah, that woman. Very beautiful. Sura, if I'm not mistaken."
Ulysses's stomach twisted. "Where is she now?"
Ashur's expression shifted to a mask of false sorrow. Basic Psychology allowed Ulysses to see the lie in every twitch of his facial muscles.
"Very sad news," Ashur said, his voice feigned trembling. "I just heard. The convoy that was supposed to bring her from the port here... was attacked by bandits this morning. Truly tragic. No one survived."
Ashur looked at him, his eyes showing false sympathy, but Ulysses saw a hidden glint of satisfaction deep within. Not bandits. An execution.
Ulysses released his grip, stepping back, his breath heavy. He looked at his own hands. The same hands that touched the woman, giving her a glimmer of warmth before sending her to slaughter.
He turned, his gaze sweeping the yard. And he saw it. Batiatus, with the face of a grieving father, was embracing Spartacus's shoulders. Varro stood beside him, his face pale. Ulysses couldn't hear the words, but he saw the moment with perfect clarity. He saw the hope on Spartacus's face slowly fade, replaced by confusion, then utter horror as the engineered truth sank in.
And then, the sound came.
Not a shout. Not a scream. It was a roar. An inhuman sound, filled with pain and loss so deep it seemed to tear the very air. The sound of a soul shattering into a million pieces.
Ulysses leaned against the wall, a fierce nausea rising in his throat. He looked across the yard, at the man who had just lost everything.
The +10 Essence he gained that night now felt like a burning ember from within. It wasn't a gift. It was blood money. The price of a name he hadn't known until it was too late.
------------------------------
{Name: Ulysses (Thomas Vance)}
{Title: Champion of The Pit}
{Stored Essence: 13}
{Active Legacies: [Talent] Rapid Adaptation, [Knowledge] Basic Psychology (Tier 1)}