Kim Possible Porn Story: Ronicus In The Night Chapter 1

A bunch of years ago, I started a Kim Possible fan story about Ronicus the gladiator over here at Fanfiction-dot-net . He was mentioned in the episode Rewriting History. The story kind of ran out of gas. But the idea didnt.

This is kind of a scrap–a single chpt out of the entire sage. Kind of a spoiler, if you were into the story. It was inspired by a Kim Possible timeline I put up a few days ago at DeviantArt. I was trying to speculate on the probable date of Ronicuss life. I had read that the gladiator schools got a fresh batch of draftees after the destruction of Jerusalem by the armies of Rome in 70 AD.

Some of my fellow fan-writers have played the story of Ronicus for laughs. I went for serious. There is that terrible issue of killing for the bloodlust of the crowd.

I tried to keep to the customs of ancient Rome and the gladiator tradition. Let me know if I didnt. Also with the Greek anc Celtic names of the characters. and the Latin phrases.

This is probably a one-shot. If anything, I want to jump-start my other story.

Based on characters from Kim Possible, created by Mark McCortle and Bob Schooley. And inspired in part by the movie Spartacus.

My friends–keep your diet of bread and circuses in moderation. Vaya con Dios.

RONICUS IN THE NIGHT.

In the arena of Rome, the sun was hot on the sands.

The mad crowd shouted. JUGULA! JUGULA! it was the blood cry.

Ronicus stood above Franois the Gaul.

My friend. We fought well. Now strike straight and true.

No! whispered Ronicus fiercely. May my God kill me if I kill you!

You have no choice! whispered Francois just as fiercely. So saying he grabbed the hilt of Ronicuss sword and by his own hand ran the blade through his throat.

And Francois of Gaul–true friend of Ronicus the Jew–died.

They would bear his body away on a litter of shield and spears–at least that much, Ronicus hoped. The Gaul had fought honorably. The bodies of the cowardly would be dragged away with hooks. And the sand raked over to hide the blood. And that would be all that was left of a mans life.

Ronicus stood erect amid the tumultuous shouts of victory. He wanted to fling his sword at the Master of the Games–the Master of the Gladiatorial School–Drakkus Maximus, who was seated with his consort, the lovely but lewd whore Shegorrah.

They were seated with Caesar himself–surrounded by the Praetorian Guards

But it would mean instant death. Both for himself and the last person in his life who truly mattered.

Ronicus turned. In the doorway he saw her. Kynemina. His strong little one. He could see the shimmering red hair from that far out in the arena. She waited in the doorway to the gladiators holding area.

The awful sense of loss and guilt at the death of his friend was matched by the hunger to take her in his arms–and by the iron determination to see her and her family free. To redeem his vow. To restore honor to his fathers name.

He let the sword slip from his fingers. He walked numbly toward her, oblivious to the garlands that the crowd flung down upon him

The shouts were deafening.

RONICUS ISRAHELITAE! RONICUS THE ISRAELITE! RONICUS IUDAEUS! RONICUS THE JEW!

Hypocrites! If they saw him in the street, they would spit on him Jewish swine! And then laugh at the cruel mockery of insulting him with the comparison to a non-kosher animal.

But because he was Romes most successful gladiator–they screamed his name like lovers at an orgy.

He stumbled the last few steps out of the arena. She gathered him into her arms.

Come away, dear friend, she said softly.

He wept. Heaving sobs. His body shook with them.

The other two gladiators laughed cruelly. Killigan the Scot. And Fiskus–who was a Celt–like Kynemina. But the mans hands and feet–like monkey paws. So they called him Pugno Simius–Fist of the Monkey.

Ronicus could only wonder how in the name of sanity such a thing could happen. An accident of birth? Injury? Some manner of foul unclean magic–as rumor had it–Shegorrah did in secret.

They mocked him. Weakling! Buffoon! A girls sidekick!

It did not matter. He had fought his engagement. It would be a while before he would fight again. If God allowed, he would fight one of them–and he would have no qualms about the killing stroke.

As a victorious gladiator, he would have his choice of woman. And he would choose Kynemina.

And so they would lay together–the last place in the world outside of the sleep of death where he could find peace.

But, as he would tell her with some sadness, they could not consummate their love. Not without marriage.

And she understood.

He had lost everything. His honor. His fathers esteem. The family wealth. The last thing left was to enroll in gladiatorial school.

And there he had found her–again. They had been childhood friends.

She was a hostage of Drakkus. It was a common practice in Roman. A man would denounce someone to the authorities–usually for treason. The man would receive all the wealth of the accused.

And to insure the compliance of all the kinsmen of the accused, someone of the household would be forcibly taken into custody–made a ward of Rome.

In these days, Rome was Caesar. The old virtuous Republic was dead. The Senate was a collect of old men, afraid to even use the latrine without Caesars permission. Rome was governed by bribes.

The first Caesar–Julius Caesar–had held lavish banquets for the citizens of Rome–and that took money. A man with a deep purse could be Caesars Friend.

Drakkus Maximus was one of Caesars innumerable Friends. He was ambitious. He followed Caesars formula. Give important men gifts. Give the public entertainment.

And so like Julius Caesar–like his nephew Octavian Augustus Caesar–like Octavians son-in-law Tiberius–and like the royal house of Judea, Herod and all his vicious family–Drakkus became Caesars Friend. He became Master of the Games–providing the public with nonstop entertainment. He established a school for the training of gladiators.

Bread and circuses. Free food and free shows. To keep the Roman mob content.

And for being Caesars Friend–for exposing the treason of his former friend and now rival, Iacomos Timotheos Possiblios–Drakkus was awarded with the custody of the lovely daughter, Kynemina.

What did it matter that Iacomos Timotheos Possiblios was only a teacher and philosopher who studied mathematics and acience, as Pythagorias and Euclid had done? The accusation was enough.

So the poor man–with his wife, Anna, a healer, and their two sons–were cast into prison. And Drakkus felt his injured pride assuaged.

Kynemina was a pawn. She could have escaped easily enough–at the cost of her familys lives. And so she remained–to be taunted and propositioned by the unholy courtesan, Shegorrah.

Ronicus was a foolish young man–no sense of seriousness–until he had squandered his entire living.

Suicide was common, and even honorable among the Greeks, Romans, and Carthaginians–but the Torah–the Law of God–had forbidden it to His Chosen people.

So Ronicus did the only thing left–rather than beg in the street. He became a student in the gladiatorial school–and there met his old friend.

She taught him all the arts of battle she knew–both Asiatic and European. And in spite of himself, he became the most celebrated gladiator in Rome.

But today, he would just as soon die as live another day.

Only she held kept him from letting himself die in the arena. And only he kept her from taking her own life.

In his cell, she gathered him into her arms as they lay together.

Francois was a good man. All he did was arrange the hairstyles of Gallic noblewomen before his city was conquered.

I know, she said quietly. I used to let him primp my hair.

Ronicus stroked a lock of Kyneminas hair. Red as a glorious sky at sunset. The goddess Aphrodite had red hair, according to the legends. So did Circe. So did Cleopatra.

And if there was any woman alive who could turn Ronicuss heart from the teachings of his fathers, it was her.

But he held to fast to them. He loved her. And meeting her was an answer to prayer. He would keep his purpose true–to win back her freedom and his honor.

But today he had shed blood again. I tried not to kill him. But he told me–he longed for death. His family was dead. He wanted only to see them again.

Kynemina tried to reason with him. Ronicus–surely the gods will forgive you–even your own God. Youve shared with me–He looks on the heart. He sees–it was not murder. You were forced to it. She took his face in her hands. We are both forced to live in this hell because of Drakkus and Shegorrah. If not for my family, I would long ago have killed her, and cut my own throat. Ive heard the gossip! Even here in Rome–surely the most decadent city in the world–they speak of her in whispers.

Ronicus stroked her hair. Kappi–I wont let you. You would lose your soul in the next life. His pet name for her was from the abbreviated Greek letters of her name.

Kynemina kissed him. And for that reason–I refuse to let you die of despair. I prayed for the gods to send me someone–and you appeared. Youve told me of your ancient heroes, Joseph, and Moses. Your God delivered them from slavery. And he will deliver us. We must not lose our faith. What is it that I teach you about battle? You must keep your head in the game!

Ronicus sighed–and nodded–and smiled. How ironic. A pagan girls belief in the Lord of his fathers was stronger than his.

Now, my love–let’s believe that Francois is reunited with his family in the Elysian Fields. Let’s believe that he has forgiven you–and wishes us well. Let’s believe that we will live to see better days. Take me in your arms. Let me find my rest with you as you find your rest with me. The morning will come all too soon. Let this night be ours.”

Ronicus wound his arms around her waist and cuddled her close. He smelled of the fragrance of her hair. And he imagined her enchanting green eyes which he could not see in the dark of the night.

Someday, he thought. Someday we will have a home–and children. She will share my name–and I will be done with the shedding of blood.

She sighed quietly in the shelter of his arms. Someday, she thought. Someday I will bare him children. Will they have my red hair and green eyes–his blond hair and brown eyes–my mothers blue eyes? Does it matter? They will be ours.

And the night of Ronicus was theirs–his and Kynemina’s