Original subtitles

Doctore!

Korris yet lives, though grievously fucking injured.

Proculus moves against us?

The villain Fides is known to be his man upon occasion.

What of your task?

I broke words and wine with Opiter

and gained his confidence.

I would see my men in deserved position in the impending games.

Elevating the Syrian at my own expense?

What of dispatches from Rome? Any been received?

No, Dominus.

Viridia.

It swells heart to see you stir from chambers.

The Syrian.

Should the gods favor you towards the arena,

you shall face three-

the Brothers Ferox,

vicious half-men.

Dominus has tainted it by positioning woman

towards the arena.

Seize fate as champion of this fucking house.

Brothers Ferox may be twisted in form,

yet stand fierce opponent

capable of sending any man...

or woman

into the afterlife.

Send the cunt to grass and be done with it.

Note distraction.

Pulling attention and blessing Satyrus with open attack.

Good. Good.

Now press advantage.

You assume proper place

for weakened animal.

Ah.

Is it intent to lay in repose all morning

or prove worthy of the mark of Brotherhood you now bear

and rise to fucking occasion?

Dominus, a message arrives.

From Crassus.

Aha.

'Prepare for honored arrival.'

That is the sum of it?

It stands all received.

When?

When will Crassus bless us with fucking presence?

We do not know.

Question was not posed expecting fucking reply.

See floor polished to reflection.

Fill pool with water, fresh and clear.

Messia will attend to menial duties.

Go.

We must present finest wines and exotic meats.

Have meal prepared to move the gods themselves to salivation.

- For this day? - Every fucking day

until Crassus materializes or coffer runs fucking dry.

We cannot bear such expense beyond week's end.

You break words towards any beyond fucking calamity?

Apologies.

Sentiment deserved to be broken from my tongue alone.

Fuck Jupiter's face!

We stand ill-timed for Crassus,

absent position in approaching games.

How do labors progress in such regard?

Vexing at fucking best.

Gabinius stands maker of decision,

yet his bitch Cossutia growls and froths

like Cerberus at the gate, denying entry.

What of Opiter?

Korris lays infirm,

unable to ply the man with honey word towards cause.

Even if so swayed,

I fear Cossutia will hold fast in hateful resolution.

A concern well shared.

Yet something fucking must move the woman.

Your man possesses admirable talent

beyond sands of the arena.

His enthusiasm but rises to the occasion of your beauty.

More wine?

I would...

pause...

a moment.

Ah!

Gratitude!

Leave us.

How I wish aged husband possessed such artful tongue.

Beyond oration in the Senate.

- How fares good Gabinius? - Oh, I would hardly know.

His gaze is forever towards Rome

and growing tensions between Pompey and Crassus.

A grievous concern, that of civil war.

Yet Cilician threat

to ports and goods more pressing.

We stand well removed from waters of the Tyrrhenian

and fucking plunderers upon its waves.

And yet bodies have been found in our very streets,

perhaps fallen to Cilician blades.

Bodies?

Six, discovered in wake of storm.

Among them

the brute Fides,

an unpleasant specimen favored by Proculus.

Throat slit as gutted fish.

I did not know the man.

Perhaps he fell to misadventure of his own construction.

It stands deepest mystery

why I yet wear this,

yesterday's fashion extended beyond use or consideration.

Sackcloth is elevated to silk upon frames such as yours.

Sackcloth shall be a blessing before long.

It stands impossible challenge to obtain new fabric

with those Cilician shits preying upon our merchant ships.

Word upon breeze has caressed ear

of the finest Egyptian linens

arriving tomorrow at gates' close,

to be received by the trader, Spurius.

Egyptian?

- Are you certain? - As sun breaking dawn each day.

Gratitude for timely consideration.

Are we not friends?

One I would see mountains reformed

towards shared interests.

I would not ask such Herculean effort.

Mmm.

Yet... there is one favor I would humbly entreat.

Oh, give it voice and see it well received.

Thoughts turn towards games of Ludi Apollinares

noble husband presents.

Place mind at ease.

Your men shall hold position in them.

Honored, as always.

Yet I broach subject not for myself but...

for the House of Ashur.

You petition for the fucking Syrian?

By tenuous association only.

I speak toward worthy figure of his Doctore, Korris,

deserving of the presentation of his labors.

What stand you to gain from...

unsavory request?

A man indebted by gracious act

pays future dividends when called upon.

You have always possessed

delicate sensibilities of foresight.

Yet I fear

this may have been...

rare miscalculation.

In what regard?

Rumor vibrates that the Syrian's man

has suffered grievous injury.

- Injury? - Mm.

Does he yet live?

Fuck the gods!

Ah.

We at last come to common ground upon subject.

How does he fare?

Do you not see me fucking rise before you?

With spirits inflamed, although weak of flesh.

I yet draw breath.

And the rest shall follow shortly.

News to harden cock.

As what I break shall in return.

Crassus sends word of impending arrival.

Crassus?

- Upon what hour? - Enigma yet to be revealed.

It weighs thought,

where he will stand towards house conspiring

to present a woman in the arena.

As long as it heralds adulation from the crowd

and coin in fucking palm, Crassus shall stand delighted.

We will then turn favorable humor towards advantage

and press the man to commit effort into rebuilding the arena

destroyed by Spartacus and his mongrels.

Assuming we gain position in the arena.

When we gain position.

You fucking goat.

Come. You stand in need of food and wine...

and cleansing waters

to remove stench of narrowly averted death.

I have stationed men upon ridge to give signal

when procession comes to view.

When sounded, I would have you fall to my side-

Dominus.

We have received unannounced guest.

Good Opiter!

You grace us with unexpected presence.

Gratitude stands in order for your generous gift of grain.

Oh, give it no thought.

Apologies for appearing in advance of proper... warning.

News only just reached ear of your man's injuries.

I had feared him no longer among us.

I yet cling to fucking life and stand absent need for concern.

Oh, he exaggerates recovery as a matter of pride.

Apologies. I would offer wine and midday repast,

yet pressing concerns pulls me to market.

- I shall take my leave, then. - Oh, no. Remain.

Korris is to the baths to soak troubled wounds.

Concern will be put from thought

knowing the weight of his suffering is lifted

by caring hands.

Your presence would lend comfort.

Are you often invited into the Syrian's bath?

It has been known to happen, upon occasion.

Hmm.

I was unaware he possessed such...

appetites.

His desires do not extend towards his fucking Doctore,

nor mine towards his.

You do not favor one of such rich complexion?

The tone of a man's skin stands meaningless.

When cut,

the color holds equal for all.

Ow!

Fall from presence.

A woman's hands offer rough comfort.

A man's, more...

familiar with rugged terrain...

traverses with practiced ease.

You need not burden yourself with such a chore.

Hm. It's a rare privilege

for a mere mortal to touch the heavens.

Who handled you so roughly?

An old acquaintance

who took issue with recent conversation.

Does the villain carry a name?

Fides.

He fell upon me with a clutch of men.

Their lives claimed for the offense,

yet the man himself fluttered to the winds.

And swiftly plummeted,

never to spread wings again.

Fides no longer draws breath?

Difficulty with throat slit.

Wounds not inflicted by my hands.

Then whose?

He was known to have dealings with Proculus,

a thing I'm certain you're well aware of.

I have witnessed such

and mentioned to Cossutia this very day.

Troubles me to see flesh so marred by base maneuverings.

I would see wounds visited tenfold

upon Proculus' men

in the arena.

Twice in as many visits you have mentioned desire

to see yourself in the games.

Is such your own desire in holding my company?

I am Doctore of this house.

Glory in the arena consumes fucking mind.

As well as that of the Syrian,

one would assume.

It's a thing of no matter.

We must all play our part

in this game of men and their ambitions.

Words to be agreed upon.

Place worried thought aside.

I have broached subject with Cossutia

and will revisit upon soonest opportunity.

Gratitude towards effort...

wherever such may lead.

Next time you find yourself in need...

part lips...

and I shall storm Olympus

to see you satisfied.

A bold claim...

for one so slight.

Valiant purpose soars in your presence.

Is gesture yet in service of the Syrian?

He stands far from fucking thought.

Beef and fowl unmatched by any offering in Capua!

Oysters stand fresh?

Neptune himself blesses each fucking one of them.

They smell of his ass.

What make you of the moray and sar? Huh?

I fear they threaten to exceed weight of purse,

added to what stands already purchased.

You would see Crassus presented with thin fucking offering?

I would see him well attended,

short of coffers emptied in attempt.

- You fret beyond reason. - Yet not beyond purpose.

As vilica, am I not charged with the accounts of your house?

You stand so.

And I benefactor of such attentive counsel.

Ammonius, victor once again.

I almost fucking had him.

You almost had his cock in fucking arse.

Good citizens of Capua,

in honor of the approaching games of the Ludi Apollinares,

I again invite any Roman to step forth

and test worth against the House of Proculus!

Yeah!

The House of Ashur would see challenge accepted.

Upon the sands of the arena.

You stand absent giant shadow.

Where lurks your mighty Doctore?

Trainer of those who fall against better fucking men.

I thought it courtesy he not eclipse your children

spilled from aberrant womb.

We spill but wine

and the blood of shit and piss you deem fucking champion.

Victory well earned,

even for half-men.

Ooh!

Yet, let us see contest revisited

against the newest offering from the House of Ashur.

A sight of wonder and awe,

never before witnessed upon the sands of the arena.

Let the Syrian move good Gabinius

to secure position in the games,

and then behold the Brothers Ferox,

as again they send his champion to deserved end.

We stand ready to fuck

all who dare stand before us.

Colossal words from such little fucking man.

Perhaps...

Brother Balbus shows us the way!

Let us honor the Syrian with gifts of food

to feed malnourished men beneath his fucking roof!

Fuck the Syrian!

Go to fucking hell! Fucking cunt!

Words fall as shit from mouth.

It stands fucking so.

I witnessed a woman graced with cunt and cock, one atop another.

So did you fuck her, or she you?

My own shit would offer more flavored taste.

Does cook offer anything beyond fucking porridge?

Hm. Houses of higher esteem have been known to present meat.

The gods fuck us, then.

A thing of deep familiarity beneath this roof.

- You stand not afraid? - Towards?

Breaking meal with someone so hated.

They but fall to distemper

in response to your promised station as champion.

Absent time and effort has claimed their own.

I bear the mark of the fucking Brotherhood, as they do.

Yet not as they earned it.

A thing not of my choosing.

We all set upon rightful path,

footfall placed upon succession, one following another.

You fall to seat only to break words absent meaning?

Bold proclamation from one who spent the morning upon ground,

mouth filled with fucking dirt.

Give name to one among us who could best three opponents.

If Dominus maneuvers entry to games next presented,

you shall face equal number in the arena.

The Brothers Ferox?

Half-men barely formed beyond that of a child.

Bend your fucking ear and you clutch my words to heart.

The Brothers fight as one, with singular mind.

The men that you face here stand absent such purpose.

They appear of singular mind to fucking eyes.

Yet one presses attack

absent thought of those who would aid him in such regard.

You fight but single opponent.

You best him, and the others will quickly fall.

You speak of your son.

- Tarchon? - No, I speak of a gladiator...

consumed by hubris, with a thirst for glory.

A thing to be tempered if he is to survive in the arena.

Take stock of what you see before you.

This is what Capua thinks of our house,

because none of you shits demonstrate fucking worth!

You gorge yourself upon my generosity,

and in return...

produce nothing but bleating excuses and disappointment!

And know this.

Toil and task pulled from effort of your Dominus

shall see this house to deserved position

in the fucking games.

And upon such day,

you shall claim victory against the House of Proculus,

or I will see you all to the fucking mines!

Doctore.

The marketplace appears to disagree with you.

Break good words towards mind of Opiter

so I may ram them up Proculus' ass.

The man seems moved to aid us.

And how gauge you imagined success upon venture?

Opiter has proved unexpectedly persuasive.

After all these years of blood and sacrifice...

clawing to precipice of honored position...

only to stake future upon man so slight of fucking note!

Such specters often move where men of more solid form cannot.

What do eyes behold?

A chamber, embracing void.

Was not always so.

Here once stood the champions of the House of Batiatus.

Visage and cock captured in stone.

Gannicus, Crixus, the mad Thracian Spartacus,

gods of the arena.

Gods of the arena.

My former Dominus schemed his way

from beneath mountains of shit

to seize victory upon their backs.

Yet here stands Ashur...

ever his better, clutching air for thread...

of fucking possibility.

Then let us weave it into tapestry of victory

and show this fucking city that we tower above all others.

Dominus.

Apologies. Another message has been dispatched from Crassus.

Ah. Does it clarify hour of day of arrival?

Not of person, but of baggage.

Ha!

He sends possessions in advance

and commands me as beast of fucking burden

upon setting of morrow's sun!

Labors more befitting a slave.

As I yet stand in his fucking eyes.

A notion to be stricken if we defy odds

and see Achillia to victory.

I shall reclaim mantle borrowed by...

No.

Your absence was gravely noted in the Albana

by that shit Proculus.

I would have you fall to my side

and remain so attached in event of future provocation.

Your will,

my fucking hands.

Eyes fall upon you with thoughts of fucking.

Well, she will find bitter embrace within my arms.

Tarchon,

Ephesius, Erato, take position.

Achillia.

Begin.

I will mourn your death

at the little hands of Satyrus and his brothers.

And see title of champion fall to more deserving name.

Focus effort.

And you recall words broken between us.

Proper place

for weakened animal.

Good.

Instruction towards victory at last finds purchase.

That fucking woman mocks this house.

With her prowess?

By elevation of position not yet earned,

by Dominus rewarding her with the mark of the Brotherhood,

absent proper fucking test.

And...

by shifting a father's allegiance

from its rightful place.

All could hold truth,

yet none negate poor showing against Achillia.

Erato and Ephesius should have bested her.

Yes. Perhaps they would have

had you not foolishly pressed your own advantage,

a fault oft repeated.

Are those the fucking words you broke with her

over yesterday's meal- how to defeat your fucking son?

In Korris' absence, I stand Doctore.

And words shared reflected such.

You place her victory above mine.

I place the victory of this fucking house...

over all concerns.

And even those of blood.

Well, does it stand so tenuous a bond?

You are my son.

I would see you

rise above all others.

And I will honor you...

when my time comes in the arena.

First,

you honor self...

with thoughtful strategy.

I fight as I was taught-

by my father.

Then the failure is mine.

May you find a more willing student in the fucking Nubian.

Look, son...

Again, you lash out, absent thought of consequence.

And yet you froth

over how a woman bested you.

Place game aside and gather yourself.

I would have you accompany me.

Where?

Where honored mother commands.

If passions lie beyond these walls,

I fear I stand not your reflection.

Are we so opposed, you and I?

When you were yet a child, we were of one heart and mind.

I'm far removed from the youth I was.

Yet here I stand, willing to embrace you as such.

Apologies.

I am not myself.

And have not been so for too long a time.

Life has been unkind in its offering.

It is but oscillation

between joy and despair.

Each new day presents fresh choice between them.

What is choice

when fate has final say,

often leaving but fractured remnants in its wake?

You yet breathe.

And I thank the gods it is so.

I would have you return to the happy child

that so brightened this house...

and world beyond.

And if it holds nothing but shadow?

We cannot halt setting of the sun,

yet perhaps together, we may ignite torch

to guide our way

from darkness.

I promised Father a game of Latrunculi.

Game shall greet you upon return.

Opiter whispers that Spurius the trader receives...

Egyptian linen.

How I would see us draped in fineries

befitting mother

and radiant daughter.

Then let us to market.

Together.

Oh!

The sun threatens to bake senses to oblivion.

Should we pause and fall to shade?

I find it comforting upon skin.

It lifts heart to see you resurrected

among the living, Viridia.

Look.

Tertius graces presence.

Where stands his wife? The name escapes me.

A woman of tenuous impression,

recently called to the shores of the afterlife.

Poor man. A loss most keenly felt.

There stood no love between them.

Only advantage of marriage,

strengthening respective families.

He does cut a form, does he not?

Any woman would be blessed to call him husband.

Perhaps we should pay respect

and offer what comfort may be afforded.

The heat is a living thing, is it not?

I would lay eyes upon Egyptian linen so breathlessly promised,

lest it evaporate in advance of purchase.

Let us fall to purpose, then,

and consider words with Tertius at later convenience.

Discharged upon whim,

absent concern towards obligation claimed my own.

Crassus yanks his leash and expect obedient cur

to fall to fucking heel.

Does voice offend,

or do thoughts wander astray from fucking consideration?

I care not for eyes upon us.

Let us attend demanded undertaking and return to villa.

Absent fucking incident.

Is this the sum of it,

or does the man seek to transport

all of fucking Rome as well?

What eyes lay upon is all I have been charged to deliver.

Then our business concludes. Fall from fucking sight.

I would see us removed from the street

in advance of encroaching night.

You yet have more words to break,

or do you stand dumbstruck by glorious form before you?

Apologies. I was instructed payment would be due upon...

receipt.

And, uh... what is the sum?

30 denarii.

30 denarii.

Purse stands shy of required sum.

Send notice for balance, and I shall see you satisfied.

Upon what day?

Of my fucking choosing.

Press matter and find yourself forever absent of need...

of coin.

At your leisure, then.

Crassus stands richest man in fucking Republic,

yet it falls upon this house to see debt paid.

How do you hold the man became so swollen with wealth?

By shrewdly using the coin of others in place of his own.

A thing to aspire to.

Pay mind towards footing!

Injury to valued burden will be visited tenfold

upon those accountable.

Retrieve more water.

I would see pool filled before our Dominus returns,

or brave ill humor so often unleashed.

His mood is but reflective of forces brought to bear.

You must not hold such against him.

I shall do as commanded.

You are not to speak to me in such manner.

Apologies...

for breaking unwanted words.

Messia, what would you have me do?

I cannot return feelings I do not hold.

I wish to the gods I could reverse sun

and see them unspoken.

I do not mean to be unkind.

Nor I.

Yet I do not know how to be

when presented each day with that which I desire

yet cannot have.

Your attention wanders, brother.

Towards vexing cause.

You take well to style of dimachaerus.

I never favored it.

You stand too vulnerable absent shield.

Yours offered little protection

when I sent you to fucking ground.

Do not ascribe to skill what lies in fault of another.

More careful thought will greet you next we meet.

Strategy counselled by one more experienced?

Yes, good.

It is a heavy thing,

living beneath shadow of noble father.

- I live in no man's shadow. - Only a woman's, then?

Upon a day,

Nubian.

Upon a fucking day.

Ephesius!

Let us fall to proper fucking contest!

Oh, no.

How favor you...

- Oh! - ...this one?

A gift from the gods.

I've never felt its equal.

I have yet more to offer one so luminous.

We are going to fashion the finest stola

this city has ever beheld...

in anticipation of your father's games.

The games?

Entering the pulvinus draped in such finery

shall precipitate absolute riot.

- I will not be in attendance. - Your father expects it so.

A desire I have not heard expressed from his lips.

You must come, Viridia.

You have been too long removed from eyes of adoring public-

Guards!

We must go!

This way, come.

Seize them!

Viridia!

Why do you fall upon us?

Pose question to noble husband.

Argh!

Mother!

We need but one. Part her from fucking life.

Fucking cunts!

Keep moving, you fucking bitch,

or I shall have your fucking blood!

Argh!

Argh!

Behind you!

You are safe now.

You're hurt.

I would welcome a thousand such wounds

if earning of them

yet saw you grace this world.

Nor would I have you fall from it, my life the cause.

Viridia!

Mother!

I thought you dead!

Such would have held true,

had Ashur and his man not chanced upon us.

Ashur.

Who are these men?

Cilicians.

We must return you to your villa, quickly.

Pirates? Here within city walls?

So far removed from fucking sea?

They grow bold, absent proper response from Rome.

Oh, thank the gods you did not fall to rancorous harm.

They held no divinity in it.

Ashur and his man delivered us from untimely fate.

Would that Horatia stood as fortunate.

The Aedile's wife?

Slain?

In the streets, whilst sun yet graced fucking sky?

Wife and daughter stood apparent bounty sought.

Towards ransom, one would suspect.

An outrage that shall be answered in blood.

I fear it has already been drawn.

He suffered injury in the exchange,

no thought given to safety beyond our own.

He shall be properly attended.

See yourselves to bath and wine, to calm inflamed nerves.

Once more,

tongue bends towards gratitude.

Unnecessary.

Yet gratefully received.

I thank the gods you were present...

and had not succumbed to rumor of previous wounds.

I but stood as any man of means and skill would have-

to protect the Republic.

Fall to the baths.

I would break words with the Syrian in private.

I shall attend to Crassus' shipment.

Crassus?

We prepare for his imminent arrival.

He disengages from his army in Rome,

so entrenched outside its gates?

Such is message recently dispatched into my hands.

More than can be said of Pompey.

He remains unmoved by request to unset from opposing perch

and quell these Cilician cutthroats.

Perhaps loss of untold men in failed attempt

may give them pause.

Or they shall see efforts redoubled

at expense heart can ill afford.

We must remain vigilant against such possibility.

Beloved daughter broke words carrying truth.

Gratitude is owed.

As is reward rising to level of deed.

Your... noble daughter yet among the living

presents reward beyond measure.

A debt unpaid promises future expense.

Often many times original sum.

It is well known by all blessed with sense of fucking hearing

that you desire entry to approaching games

of the Ludi Apollinares.

Thoughts occasionally turn upon subject.

Then cease the churning of them. I shall see you well positioned.

I...

I do not possess words.

Do not misconceive intent.

I but erase debt,

one I would not see plied against me

upon inconvenient moment.

Ah.

Then we stand balanced, in all regards.

Come. I shall have my medicus attend your wounds.

Oh, a burden I will not impose.

My own shall see to unconcerning wounds.

I assure you mine stands of greater skill.

Of that I hold no question.

Yet I prefer not to stand in your debt.

You learn quickly, Syrian.

Very well.

Let us part ways equally...

untethered.

You left Dominus at Gabinius' villa, to return alone?

Ashur proves himself capable.

Those who underestimate him

do so at their own fucking peril.

I would still see guards dispatched.

Place concerns aside. The man himself appears.

Dominus.

- Fetch the medicus, quickly! - Oh, fuck medicus!

I will bathe hard-fought wound in a river of fucking wine.

Gabinius breaks words towards such elated mood?

He breaks words that shall elevate this house.

We stand blessed with position...

in his fucking games.

And you.

You fucking titan!

Your part in this shall not soon fall to discarded remembrance.

Wine! Where is the fucking wine?

How did you broach subject with Gabinius?

A thing not required.

He offered unprompted reward towards rescue

of beloved wife and daughter.

And you maneuvered such towards advantage in the arena?

I maneuvered nothing.

Tongue threatened to leap from mouth at the thought, but...

heart held it fast in place.

Viridia's life spared stood reward enough

to consume all desire.

The gods I hold no faith in favored humble Ashur.

And you as well, with unwanted task now removed.

Task?

Lowering yourself to imagined affection

to gain Opiter's aid towards the games.

That preening little shit no longer stands of use.

It is a relief not to be forced into his company.

See all within this ludus to formation.

And let us present glorious news

of fucking

ascension!

You expect burning gaze to set her aflame?

If I were so fortunate,

surely my father would rush to extinguish blaze.

This house has given rise

to storied champions of lore and legends.

Yet all who have come before shall pale

against what I have fought with blood and bone

to see opportunity presented.

And such have been secured.

We have gained position in the games of the Ludi Apollinares!

And who shall grace the sands, Dominus?

Tarchon, hold tongue.

The boy is overcome by visions of glory.

Positions and placements have yet to be broached.

Yet know this.

We shall see the Brothers Ferox to fucking grass

for offense presented by the shit Proculus,

by the hands

of the goddess of fucking death.

Fall to your beds and gather strength for coming days.

I will announce those among you who are for the arena-

Dominus.

Procession has been spotted upon road towards villa.

Our patron, Crassus, at last arrives.

Let him stand in awe

at the fearsome offering of the House of fucking Ashur!

Doctore, fall to my side

and let us greet destiny with worthy embrace.

Do robes fall in manner matter pleasing to eye?

You intend to welcome the man

or present your arse for his pleasure?

His wagon arrives.

Straighten backs.

Assume pleasant disposition,

yet cast gaze downwards to avoid catching eye.

Whoa!

Korris, three steps lingering a pace.

Mighty Crassus, you honor us with your noble presence.

You mistake me, Syrian.

Caesar.

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