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Avē Imperātor

Summary:

A renowned gladiator known as the Serpent, Crowley finds himself in the service of Aziraphale, emperor of all Rome. Having been ripped from the ludus where he served as doctore, he is not pleased at this turn of events. But the emperor is not what Crowley expected, and in turn, Crowley is not what he seems. How will this oddly matched pair navigate the strange waters of their newfound life together?

Notes:

Welcome, welcome! to another Ineffable Human AU! This one was inspired by Hellilou (@AngellilouArt on X) tweeting about a new AU idea: Gladiator Crowley and Emperor Aziraphale, aka Ineffable Romans. My brain started spinning, she started drawing, and the rest is history. Her art has inspired such an incredible surge of ideas related to this AU, and this fic is my contribution. I hope you enjoy.

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FAQ:

How long will it be?
That's an excellent question! Long.

What's the update schedule?
I make absolutely no promises other than that I'll do my best not to leave you waiting too long! This will not be updated daily like the fever dream that was Among the Stacks. I post as I write.

Will there be smut?
There's a 98% chance of smut and an associated rating bump in our future.

The tags say Ambiguous/Open Ending, what does that mean?!
What it says on the tin. There will be romance, fluff, angst, probable smut, and love between our Roman Ineffables; what there won't be is a traditionally happy ending. But if you stick with me, I hope you'll find the ending we're heading towards as satisfying as I do.

What general Content Warnings should I be aware of?
Violence, graphic descriptions of violence/injury/death, enslavement, slavery-associated power dynamics

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CONTEXTUAL INFO

Historical Accuracy:
I'm a historian by training, so I can't help myself when it comes to research for a historical AU. That said, this is fiction, and an alternate version of Ancient Rome, so you can throw any expectations of accuracy right out the window. I'm going to take whatever bits I want from whatever era of Ancient Rome I want and smash them together to create my own version— so while there will be many things based in historical reality, I'm making absolutely no effort towards continuity with any real historical timeline. This fic takes place in *mumblemumble* BCE.

Languages:
Unless otherwise stated, you can assume everyone is speaking Latin. That said, I'm not going to Latin-ify any canon characters' names, and might still drop some phrases in in Latin now and then; just go with it!

Crowley's native language is Brittonikā, which is the linguistically reconstructed name of what we call Common Brythonic/Brittonic, which was an ancestor of Welsh, Cornish, Breton, and Cumbric. It was also closely related to Gaulish. Crowley is a Celtic Briton, and originally comes from the geographic area we know today as Wales. "Celt/Celtic" is not and was never a term used to describe a specific ethnic group as far as current evidence shows, but these terms may be used in this fic to refer to Crowley and the people he comes from for the sake of simplicity.

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Vocabulary related to this chapter:

Lanista - owner of a gladiator school/manager of gladiators

Ludus - a gladiator school

Doctore - a senior, generally retired, gladiator at a ludus whose main responsibility is training other gladiators

Thraex - a type of gladiator armed with a Thracian sword called a sica or falx, curved at the end. Their armor was a rimmed helmet usually with a griffin on the crown, tall greaves on both legs, and a shield called a parmula that was fairly medium sized and could be round or square

Provocator - a type of gladiator showing elements of legionary arms and armor. Could be armed with a gladius (short straight sword) or spatha (identical to the gladius but longer). Protected one greave on the left leg, a visored helmet, a manica (plated arm guard) on the right arm, a breastplate, and a tall rectangular shield

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Victory of the Fallen by Angellilou

(Victory of the Fallen by Angellilou)

 

Roars swept the arena, circling the Colosseum in an undulating wave of bloodthirsty joy. The sun beat down upon sands and spectators alike as the light of high noon punished both those who could not afford to sit beneath the arena’s massive shades, and the gladiators who fought for their pleasure. The sands were churned in an echo of the battles that had already been fought that day, painted black and brown with the blood of their victors and victims. Each time it seemed the crowds had screamed themselves hoarse, they found new reserves of vocal stamina, screaming at the combatants sweating below, bleeding in celebration of the emperor’s birthday. It had been a week of games, and now the final, climactic action was being fought upon the sands: two champion gladiators, doing battle in this arena of ultimate glory. Each had defeated every other man set before him throughout the games, and only one remained to stand between he and immortality.

In his box, the emperor leaned forward in his throne, eyes fixed raptly on the combatants below. He’d never had the desire to fight himself, but had always been fascinated by the skill of the gladiators, somehow more brutal and unerring than that of soldiers. Every fight was a fight for their lives, every action a chance at life or death, and their precision was heightened accordingly. And never before had the emperor seen such precision as in the thraex fighting before him. His gaze tracked the gladiator’s movements, full of sinuous grace, but never absent the threat his moniker implied: the Serpent.

“I remember this one,” Emperor Aziraphale remarked as he watched the combat, “He ceased competing years ago, did he not?” The lanista who stood to the right of the throne stepped forward to the emperor’s elbow.

“Yes, my emperor,” they agreed, voice low, a hint of gravel, “the Serpent has served as doctore of my ludus since his retirement.”

“Hah!” the emperor exclaimed in surprise, tearing his eyes from the fight to regard the lanista, “and you risk his return to the sands for my games? A generous gift, Beelzebub.” The lanista bowed slightly, smiling.

“Only the best for you, my emperor.” The screams of the crowd caused them both to return their attention to the combat. The Serpent lay sprawled on his back, and his opponent’s shield-arm was extended, as if he had just punched the thraex’s chest with the blunt end of his legionnaire’s shield. This fighter was a provocator, armed and armoured in a caricature of an imperial soldier, gladius changed for spatha and its superior reach, defended by a dented breastplate.

Seizing his advantage, the provocator lunged, his sword slashing for his opponent’s throat. But the Serpent was too quick: like lightning he twisted as soon as his back hit the sand, coiling his body through a roll that removed him from the sword’s path and recovered him to one knee, now with the provocator’s flank open to him. The Serpent rebounded, thrusting both sword and body towards his enemy. Too late, the provocator realised his over-committed mistake, and attempted to reverse the direction of his sword. It clattered feebly off the tall greave protecting the Serpent’s leg, as the curved point of his sica crunched between the provocator’s ribs.

The emperor was on his feet now, screaming along with the crowd as the Serpent continued his lunge, driving his sword deeper and his opponent to the ground. Again the provocator attempted to retaliate, lifting his shield, but the Serpent knocked it away with a harsh swipe of his smaller parmula, and only the gladiators hear the crack of the provocator’s elbow as it snapped against the ground. He was writhing, resisting the primal urge to scream, as the Serpent pinned him to the sand like a fly, sword forgotten.

Aziraphale could see the Serpent’s chest heaving, dripping from cuts and pointed wounds, but unbowed, and he imagined he could see too the gleam of triumph in the gladiator’s eyes as he vanquished his opponent. The emperor’s hands tightened on the edge of his box as he waited. Slowly the Serpent straightened, and from beneath the golden snake-surmounted helm with its spray of viridian feathers, from behind the curtains of copper hair, his face turned up to seek the emperor’s. Sword still buried in the provocator’s side, he waited.

The emperor straightened as well, not realising he had been hunched over the edge of his box as he stared at the action below. Around him, the crowd’s cries had muted to an excited murmur, awaiting his decision. As his side, Beelzebub was looking more smug than he had ever seen them. Glancing to his left, Aziraphale met eyes with the other lanista accompanying him, to whom the provoactor belonged. This second lanista shrugged gloomily. Both had known that there was to be no mercy in this bout, and he resigned himself to the loss.

With a slight nod, Aziraphale returned his gaze to the arena, and to the Serpent. He thrust out his arm, and the noise of the crowd jumped. Slowly he extended his thumb from his balled fist, milking the people’s reaction as they screamed yet louder. The screams took on form, and the emperor heard the crowd crying ‘Serpent! Serpent! Serpent!’. Aziraphale was a kind emperor. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he gave the people what they wanted. Blood sprayed across the sand as the Serpent ripped his sword from the provocator’s chest and slashed it across his throat. He raised the dripping sica and his shield-arm, turning on the spot and surveying the crowd, seeming to bask in their cheers.

Above, the emperor seized Beelzebub’s hand and raised it above their heads, hailing the triumphant lanista. Beelzebub, who was a keen judge of character, and never not a strategist, grinned, and spoke into Aziraphale’s ear.

“I have another gift for you, my emperor.”

***

The ludus was in victorious riot. News of the Serpent’s victory had reached its grounds before Beelzebub’s return from the Colosseum, and roars of victory greeted them as soon as the gates opened. The champion’s purse and the notoriety that came with it meant fortune for the ludus and fame for all who inhabited it, and the gladiators feasted on double rations that evening. Their raucous laughter and songs poured out into the falling night. One of their number, however, was notably absent from the celebrations.

Below the hall where the gladiators gathered to dine, below the cells where they slept, lay the baths that soothed their aching muscles. Beelzebub was a hard but not a foolish lanista: they provided the gladiators with frigidarium, tepidarium, and caldarium all for the benefit of their physical conditioning, and it was in the last that the Serpent had retired. The heat had leeched the stiffness from his limbs before it could settle in deeply, and the water just this side of scalding flooded them with tingling relief. He occupied the far side of the pool, sunk in the water up to his chin as he sat on a stone ledge. A small towel rolled up on the edge of the pool provided a pillow for his head as he allowed it to tip back with a small sigh of pleasure, eyes falling closed.

“Hail the conquering Serpent,” a dry voice drifted through the steam.

“Nnnng,” came the reply, one golden eye cracking open to watch the approach of the small figure that came with the voice. Beelzebub emerged from the steam, leaning against the wall near enough to the gladiator for easy speech, but not so close that he would have to turn his head to see them.

“Well done, Crowley,” Beelzebub said genially, crossing their arms, “You put on quite a show.”

“I’m glad you thought so.”

“Oh, I had no doubt you would. Though you didn’t have to go to ground there at the end.” Crowley snorted.

“Did the job, didn’t I? Shit happens. You wouldn’t have put me up if you weren’t sure I’d win.”

“True, true.”

“Any rate, I’ll be glad to go back to my normal job now, thanks very much.” It’d been years since Crowley had competed in the arena, and he felt it. Fit and conditioned as he was from training Beelzebub’s gladiators as doctore of their ludus, there was another level to a real contest that taxed the body in ways his had forgotten. In the tournament, he had been on fire with the bloodlust of combat— but after, his limbs reported every moment of the week’s fighting to him in aches and pains that would not have plagued him in his competitive days. His victory was etched into him with fresh cuts and bruises to join his vast collection of scars.

“Ah, yes. About that.”

“About what?” Crowley’s eyes snapped fully open, head jerking up from its towel as he fixed his gaze on the lanista.

“It seems the emperor has taken a shine to you. He remembered you from your glory days, you know.”

“Wonderful. What does that have to do with anything?”

“You do remember why I had you fight in these games, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley growled, eyes narrowing, “It’s the emperor’s bloody birthday and you wanted to impress him.”

“No one could ever accuse you of lacking an ego.”

“Shut it, Beelzebub, I didn’t ask for this. Stop beating around the bush. What does our glorious emperor taking a liking to me have to do with my job.”

“As you so astutely pointed out,” Beelzebub said curtly, straightening against the wall, “it is the emperor’s bloody birthday, and I thought it prudent to give him an unsurpassable gift in order to secure his favour.” A long silence stretched out across the bath, in which Beelzebub stared pointedly at Crowley, and Crowley gaped. Finally, the gladiator broke the silence.

“No.”

“Yes.”

No!” Crowley shouted, water thrashing around him as he shot to his feet, settling around his waist as he gestured wildly as Beelzebub, “No! After all I’ve—” Rage boiled in Crowley hotter than the fires that heated the caldarium, and he smashed his fists into the water. “You can’t do this to me! Haven’t I fought for you, earned you renown, trained your gladiators? Who will teach them now? I won this tournament for you, and now you want me to go be some princeling’s pet? You can’t, Beelze—”

Dominus,” the lanista hissed, cutting Crowley off as effectively as a lash.

“Dominus,” Crowley ground out, clenching his fists, “You can’t.”

“You’ll find I can do whatever I want,” Beelzebub said coolly, “Don’t forget your place, Crowley. You’ve done well for me, but I’ll use you as I see fit. I made you the Serpent, and I could un-make you just as easily. Instead I’m giving you what I imagine will be a life of leisure. Be grateful.”

“Dominus,” Crowley begged— and there was no pretence to the plea in his eyes as he stared disbelievingly at the lanista he had thought of, foolishly, as his partner in the ludus. “Please.”

“Wash up, Crowley,” Beelzebub replied, pushing away from the wall, “Get nice and clean and pretty smelling, and rustle up a new uniform. I want you looking your best when I take you to your new home tomorrow.” They strode away, vanishing as quickly as they’d come.

Crowley stared helplessly into the steam, and it filled his mouth like a smothering shroud.

 

 

Notes:

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