[Insert Title Here]

((Here is about half of my third Speculative Fiction story. It's more of a fantasy historical fiction, so it's a little different, as it required knowing some detailed about Rome. So here you are, enjoy!

P.S. I also really need some help with the title. I wanted to do it in Latin, but nothing has really caught my eye yet.))

                It seemed like the roar of the crowd could be heard from even the distant corners of the capital city of the Roman Empire. Not that anyone would have been in those distant corners. Even the beggars had found their way to the coliseum, where a huge crowd had gathered around the massive structure. On the outside the common people and the poor listened to the lucky few that had gotten a seat inside the arena, cheering when they heard cheering, booing when they heard booing. Among them stalked pick pockets and beggars, though no one seemed to notice. All they cared for was being part of this new attraction.

                Lamia had been found lurking in the shadows, mainly in the poorer sections of the town, though a few had been discovered living among the upper class. They blended in just as well with the humans as the others did with the darkness. They were only found because of the small signs the hunters had come to notice: aversion to silver finery, and rarely leaving their house during the day. At night they would keep fires and candles to a minimum, and often kept dim-witted or unobservant friends, anyone who would not easily notice their odd mannerisms. But when it came to being hunted down, it was the ones that lived with the scum that proved the better fighters, and the noble Lamia were quickly killed off.

                Any Lamia caught was sent to the Coliseum, where they were starved for several days and kept in a cramped cell to wear them out before they were even allowed to start fighting. Many had only faced helpless women or men beaten down by life, and had never held a sword before. The Gladiators, on the other hand, were trained from a young age, and the Emperor had spent a good portion of the city’s funds to equip them with silver-edged swords. A cut from one of those swords would not let a Lamia heal in the same way they would with any other wound. It would fester and burn, and on most occasions the Lamia would not have time to let it heal before that same sword ended their life.

               

                The crowd booed as the Lamia was forced into the sandy arena from one of the secret lifts underground. He blinked rapidly from the harsh sun and quickly retreated into the shadows cast by cloth roof. The gladiator entered through a gate, followed by a roar of cheering. He raised his arms and laughed loudly as he faced the crowd, then turned to search for the Lamia. His gaze rested on the creature, and with an animalistic grin, he strode across the field toward it.

                “I hear they call you Blight. You’ve killed so many of my brothers.” the gladiator shouted above the drone of the crowd. “I’ve been practising on your kin, until I had my chance to face you.”

                Blight shifted his grip on his sword, but didn’t move out of the shadows. No Lamia would last long while being beaten by the sun and a gladiator. “They call me Blight for a reason.” he replied and stretched his dry lips into a smile. The teeth that showed were yellow and crooked, but each one was long and ended in a deadly point. “I think I will call you Balatro.”

                The gladiator scowled as he picked up his pace and began running toward Blight. He raised his sword, and when he was close enough he brought it around in a vicious arc. He showed none of the skill or prowess he would have needed against an opponent trained with a sword.

                Blight jumped back, the blade barely missing his stomach. Another couple steps brought his back against the wall. He feigned terror and crouched down low, his sword up to protect from any strikes from above. Upon seeing this, the gladiator casually raised his sword for a powerful uppercut, but as the weapon began to descend, Blight leaped forward, tackling the man around the waist and bringing them both to the ground, mere inches away from the edge of the shadows. Balatro cursed and flailed with his sword. The edge dug far into Blight’s arm. He echoed Balatro’s curses, then bit deep into the flesh of the gladiator’s neck. The warrior’s words turned into gurgles as he drowned in his own blood, and eventually fell still.

                Blight licked his lips and grinned down at the corpse. “You taste like a week-dead animal.” He spat out a gob of blood before turning to retreat further into the shadows, where he listened to the screaming of the crowd. A couple human slaves appeared to drag the body out of the arena, while several more gladiators arrived to herd him back underground to the cells. He went willingly enough; as long as he didn’t fight, they didn’t kill him. That would be left to the lucky man who bested him in the arena.

                He was locked back in his cell to wait until his next fight. The wooden door was laced with silver, making it impossible for any Lamia to break it down, and the four walls were so cramped that any sudden movements risked burning himself. Blight sat down in the corner to inspect the cut on his arm. It looked like he had been sliced with a hot knife, and although it was red, it didn’t bleed. Despite looking like it had been cauterized, he could already see it growing puffy with infection, and a gentle prodding brought the pain that proved it. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from the cut.

                The sound of the door being unlocked woke Blight up. Although he could not see the sky to judge how much time had passed since his last fight, he doubted it had been more than a few hours. His exhausted mind certainly seemed to think it had only been a few minutes since he had fallen asleep. He climbed to his feet, the muscles in his legs protesting; he had been sitting in the same position for too long.