All language subtitles for spartacus.house.of.ashur.s01e04.720p.web.h264-sylix_track3_[eng]

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.