Armor was difficult to put on. Not just the ambidexterity that tying them together required or the fact that the female chest did not fit without wraps. Neither the absence of a chair to balance on, nor the additional absence of an extra pair of hands. It was the weight of their meaning, every piece, tie, and weapon added to some vulnerable part of the body, a steady man ready for battle would assume that someone will hit any or all of those spots. A gladiator, would deem it as less of an assumption and more of a promise. A promise of pain and determination and the will to live.

         When I slid on my armor with difficulty, I was making a promise.
         I positioned my helmet on last, a silvery full-masked piece of metal that becomes less and less of a protecting force. The inside of the helmet felt free and airy from the absence of my long, dark blue hair. Hours upon hours of training with long, wisps of hair falling into my vision and sticking to the beads of sweat running down the back of my neck.
         My sister-in-law always said that long hair was supposed to be a hassle when sword fighting, because women should either not fight at all or cut it off.
How unrestrained I felt afterward. 
         My sword and my brother and his wife were my family, the pieces to my promise, my ad vitam. The mother who birthed me along with the man who fathered me…lived. Just outside the city of Alexandria, close to the border, in a cluster of friendly huts.
A young, dewy morning of mine, with market men and freshly baked bread overwhelming the city streets and my brother walking along with me to help bring everything back, ended with a silent welcome home. A cluster of huts the center of battle ruins.
         But soon time was the past and I was suddenly a woman, tripping away from the horrors of finding a decent husband and into the dirt of the arena in Alexandria. Being next to the poorest of the poor, with only the bloody heads of my parents to keep me vicious, the enforcers barely let me fight. Though, I quickly proved to be a valuable asset after they saw what I could do with a sword. Fighting beast after beast, woman after woman, man after man; until my rank as a gladiator granted me the nicest house, the nicest armor, the nicest food and weapons. Thankfully, most nights were filled with the laughs of my nieces and nephews.
         Roma was quite a different story.
         The two-month trek to the city alone was enough hardship to almost let myself forget the heartbreak I saw in my family back in Alexandria. When the rumor of my transportation was confirmed, my brother exploded in outrage; he had come to accept the role I played and felt more assured as I rose in success, but to go to Roma meant I had to play from the bottom up. It would take me another three years to rise in the ranks, he said, by then I’d be too old and I’d be slain sooner than later.
         Oh, how my brother knew; partially, at least.
         I traveled to Roma, despite his opposition, despite the challenge of a rock-bottom status, and made myself a champion yet again. Not the lowest but certainly not the highest.
         Not yet.
         My rebirth was the storm before the real storm. Horace the Manslayer. A wretched, murderous beast the size of a bear. He was the bane of my existence, and he knew it. Every time he won a battle, his eyes would glance over at my general direction and the right side of his mouth would creep up until his scarred cheek squeezed his eye shut.
         My tough armor and simple helmet were adjusted by a slave standing beside the cage door that would soon open for slaughter. Today, there was a likely chance my helmet would clatter to the ground with my dismembered head still inside. But, there was an equal chance that I’d shove the end of my sharp sword through the gruesome mouth of Horace.
         Beast after beast, man after man, I fought for my life. For my revenge.
         Until it was just him and I, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen. I had managed to snatch a better sword from a man I had killed not but three minutes ago. The blade was double-edged and reminded me of my first sword, my father’s. But it still looked dull and small compared to Horace’s. I grimaced slightly as I felt the handle quake in my hand, the action driving my mind into a fury. The man was my enemy, but I could not deny the swiftness of his ability and believe that his position had been earned.
         I did not let this fact keep me from killing him.
         Paring right and left, using the acrobatics some of my foreign friends locked into my mind barreled through. I hurtled over his entire being, whilst slicing up a good chunk of meat in his shoulder. The roar that resonated from him was not unlike that of a tiger’s, and the chill that went down my back also tugged a holy grin onto my face.
         The beast was blinded by stupidity and rage.
         Thinking to treat Horace as an animal, my confidence granted me a quick jab to my calf, leaving me limping back to recover.
         More wounded dances between our two blades ensued for another set of moments, the audience steadily rising in voice and in height. Soon the Emperor himself was up off his seat in shock and awe.
         Though I couldn’t witness that particular moment until after I noticed Horace’s unguarded face and finally managed to introduce the end of my blade to the back of his skull, soon out the back of his skull. His arm went limp and the bang of his sword hitting the ground compelled me to retrieve my sword from his head, hoping not too much of his dirty blood resided on the blade.
         My eyes met the dark brown one’s of the Emperor as he yelled into the crowd, announcing my claim to join the front ranks and my victory.
         My promise was, indeed, kept.