Spartacus: The Gladiator Read online

  ‘At the top, it’s to protect against sword strokes, and at the bottom, it prevents wear from contact with the ground.’

  ‘Good. And this?’ Paccius pointed to the heavy central iron boss.

  ‘It’s decorative, but it’s also a weapon.’ Carbo threw his left fist forward. ‘If you punch it towards an enemy’s face, he’ll often lean backwards or to the side, exposing his throat.’ He followed through with a thrust of the gladius. ‘Another man down.’ He looked at Paccius proudly.

  ‘Nice to know that you sometimes pay attention to what I’m saying,’ was the Samnite’s only comment. ‘Let’s start with the basics: how to hold the shield correctly.’ He reversed the scutum and proffered its inner surface.

  Carbo sighed. His impatience would get him nowhere. If he was to benefit from Paccius’ experience, he had to do it his way. He took hold of the horizontal grip. ‘What next?’

  Finally, Paccius smiled. ‘Hold it up, so that I can barely see your eyes. Have your sword pointing forward from the right hip, ready to use.’

  Carbo obeyed. At once his pulse quickened and the sounds of domestic life dimmed. Despite the peacefulness of their surroundings, he could imagine standing on a battlefield, with comrades either side of him. Yet the picture dimmed within a couple of heartbeats. Carbo scowled. It was highly unlikely that that would ever happen. Since they’d moved to the city four years before, his father had maintained that the best career for him to follow was not working the land, which is what their ancestors had done for generations, or joining the army, Carbo’s dream, but politics. ‘The days of citizen farmers are gone. The cut-price grain from latifundia, and from Sicily and Egypt, has seen to that.’ Jovian regularly lamented the changes in agriculture that had seen family farms all but obliterated by vast estates owned by the nobility. ‘Your mother’s brother Alfenus Varus, on the other hand, is making a name for himself in Rome. He’s a new man, but look at him – one of the foremost lawyers in Rome. He is fond of you too. With the gods’ help, he might take you under his wing.’ A lawyer, thought Carbo bitterly. He couldn’t think of anything worse. Training with Paccius might be the only military training he ever received. Without further ado, he determined to absorb every word that fell from the Samnite’s lips.

  Before Paccius had made any serious attempt to teach the finer points of weapons training, he had Carbo run around the rectangular courtyard more than twenty times, carrying the gladius and scutum. When that was done, the Samnite began showing Carbo how to move in combat, both singly and when in formation. He repeatedly stressed the importance of holding the line and sticking with one’s comrades. ‘Contrary to what you might think, winning a battle is not about individual heroics. It’s about discipline, pure and simple,’ he growled. ‘That is what differentiates the Roman soldier from the vast majority of his opponents, and it is the main reason for the legions’ success over the last two hundred years.’ He pulled a face. ‘My people could have done with more discipline.’

  Carbo redoubled his efforts, proudly imagining himself in the midst of any one of the armies that had variously defeated the other ethnic groups in Italy: the mighty Carthaginians and the proud Greeks. Deep down, however, his pleasure was constantly dimmed by the knowledge that it was all an exercise in fantasy. His father’s debts were what mattered right now. Yet he couldn’t stop picturing himself as a soldier. Paccius’ martial tales had stirred his blood since early childhood.

  ‘We had best finish now,’ said Paccius, glancing at the sky.

  Carbo didn’t argue. His arms were burning and he was drenched in sweat. Although it was still bright, the sun had dropped below the level of the house’s red-tiled roof. It wouldn’t be long before his mother returned and his father would not be long after her. ‘Very well.’ He grinned his thanks. ‘You can teach me more tomorrow.’

  ‘Serious about this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I want to be a soldier, no matter what Father says.’

  Paccius sucked his lip, thinking.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Carbo eagerly.

  ‘The best way of building up your general fitness would be to use proper training equipment, not these.’ Paccius lifted up the gladius and scutum without effort. ‘New recruits to the legions use wooden swords and wicker shields that are twice as heavy as the real articles. Obviously, we couldn’t practise with those here. But outside Capua, it would be a different matter.’

  ‘You mean the plain to the north of the walls?’ It was used similarly to the Campus Martius at Rome. There, the young men of the city, noble and commoner alike, practised all kinds of athletic activities. ‘We can’t go there. Someone would see us. It’d only be a matter of time before Father heard.’

  ‘I was thinking of the waste ground to the south, where the city’s refuse is dumped. No one will trouble us in a place like that,’ said Paccius with a sly grin.

  ‘Good idea. And I can tell Father that you’re going to teach me how to throw the javelin and discus, on the training area to the north. He couldn’t complain about that.’

  ‘I know a trader who’ll sell me the gear.’ Paccius turned to go.

  ‘Wait.’ Carbo hesitated. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Wait until tomorrow,’ Paccius warned. ‘You might not feel the same way after an hour at the palus.’

  ‘I will,’ vowed Carbo. ‘This goes far beyond your duty as a slave.’

  ‘Aye, well …’ The Samnite coughed. ‘I’ve been looking after you all these years. It seems stupid to stop now.’

  Taken aback by the unexpected thickness in his throat, Carbo nodded. ‘Good. Tomorrow morning, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ agreed Paccius. He walked off without another word.

  A gust of wind carried down into the courtyard, and Carbo shivered, suddenly very aware of the sweat coating every part of his skin. It was time for a wash and a change of clothes. Thinking of his father’s task that day, he sighed. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, help us, please.

  Carbo tackled Jovian the moment he returned. His father was a short man with thinning black hair and a kind face, which of recent days had been lined with worry. Carbo forgot all about that as he launched into an explanation of his idea. To his initial relief, his father had made no objection to the idea of Paccius training him in use of the discus and javelin. Guilt soon replaced Carbo’s delight, however. It was unsurprising that he’d had no resistance. Jovian’s visage had been grey with exhaustion – or worry.

  Carbo was about to ask what was wrong when his mother had intervened. ‘It will get you out of the house. These past six months, you’ve hardly gone out,’ she’d said with an encouraging smile.

  Carbo had muttered his thanks, but his good mood had gone. He turned to catch Jovian mouthing the words ‘Three days’ and ‘Marcus Licinius Crassus’ to his mother. Was that the deadline for paying his debts? Was Crassus, the richest man in the Republic, his father’s main creditor? Carbo didn’t know, but given Jovian’s grim expression, and the tears that had appeared in his mother’s eyes, there weren’t many other conclusions to draw. Neither of his parents proffered any further information and Carbo spent a restless night wondering how he could help. Nothing came to mind, which wasn’t surprising. At sixteen, with no trade or profession yet to his name, he had little to offer anyone. Carbo’s frustration at this was exacerbated by the fact that his father’s career choice for him – that of a lawyer – was very well paid. So it wouldn’t be for years, but he’d earn far more that way than he would as a lowly soldier.

  The following morning, Jovian left early, saying again that he would be gone all day. Carbo’s mother was in bed, feeling unwell. Once he had checked on her, Carbo and Paccius headed out into the city. The family’s modest house was situated in a prosperous area near the forum. Self-conscious as always, and more angry than he had ever been, Carbo glowered at the people who thronged the narrow streets. He longed for the peace of the countryside, where he’d spent his childhood. Few but Paccius noticed his f
ury. The shopkeepers selling wine, bread, fresh meat and vegetables were more concerned with bawling at more receptive passersby. The tradesmen – blacksmiths, carpenters, potters, fullers and wheelwrights – were toiling in their workshops, too busy to stand around studying those who walked past.

  Where there was space, jugglers and acrobats stretched their muscles, preparing to start their entertainment. An occasional snake charmer sat cross-legged, flute in hand, pointing at his basket and describing the most venomous serpents imaginable. It was early, so the doorways between the open-fronted shops that served as entrances to the flats above were empty of the prostitutes that usually hustled there for business. Only the lepers, scabrous and maimed, pestered Carbo. Their presence helped him to raise a sardonic smile. There were others even more ugly than he.

  Paccius took him to a dingy establishment near the south gate. Carbo’s excitement grew as he studied what was on sale. Rather than the usual foodstuffs, ironware or domestic goods, this place sold weapons. Wooden racks outside held swords by the dozen, mostly gladii; Carbo also spotted the distinctive curve of at least one Thracian sica and, beside it, several Gaulish longswords. Bundles of javelins and thrusting spears were propped against the shop’s walls; shields of various sizes and shapes were stacked carelessly alongside.

  Clutching the money given him by Carbo, Paccius went inside to talk to the grizzled proprietor. He emerged a moment later with two large wicker shields. Under one arm, he bore a pair of wooden gladii.

  ‘We can hardly bring them back to the house,’ said Carbo. ‘Father will realise what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s all arranged. For a nominal fee, we can leave the equipment at the shop and pick it up each morning.’

  Paccius’ ingenuity brought a grin to Carbo’s face. His anger returned with the next heartbeat, however. Unless his father secured a new loan, they would have three days, no more. Three days until what? He didn’t want to imagine.

  Paccius led Carbo out from Capua’s southern walls, past an area of open ground that was littered with huge piles of household refuse and human waste. The carcasses of mules, dogs and even an occasional man sprawled here and there, their rotting flesh adding to the acrid stench that filled the air. Unsurprisingly, the spot was deserted. Even the beggars who came daily to search the heaps of stinking rubbish did not linger unless they had to. Carbo’s skin snaked with dread. Gods, could we end up picking through the filth here? he wondered, staring at the black, hopping shapes of crows pecking busily at eyeballs and body openings. Their cousins, the vultures, hung far overhead in lazy ones and twos, searching out the best morsels.

  Paccius stopped by the skeleton of a dead tree, the branches of which grasped at the air like claws. ‘This will be your palus. We’ll begin here.’

  Carbo knew enough of gladiator training to understand that the narrow, gnarled trunk would act as a post for him to launch attacks on with his sword. He grinned savagely, imagining that it was not a tree, but Marcus Licinius Crassus, tied to a stake. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  With a veteran’s poise, Paccius showed him how approach the tree, shield in hand. ‘Treat it with respect, as if it’s an enemy warrior who wants to cut you into pieces. Move lightly, on the balls of your feet. Position your head low, so that only your eyes are visible, and keep your sword close to your side. When you’re near enough, thrust for the belly, or the heart.’ He pointed at a blackened opening in the centre of the trunk, where some disease had eaten away the tree’s core. ‘Pull back, hack the right side and then the left. Keep doing that until I tell you to stop.’

  Copying what Paccius had done, Carbo padded confidently towards the ‘palus’. As soon as he could, he stabbed the gladius into the hole. His arm jarred under the impact of healthy wood, and he pulled the heavy blade back. At once he set to, chopping at both sides of the dead tree with a vengeance. Splinters flew and chunks of rotten timber fell away, and Carbo redoubled his efforts. By the time he’d counted twenty blows, Crassus was long dead, cut into mangled chunks of flesh. Carbo’s right arm had also begun to tire. He looked questioningly at Paccius.

  ‘Did I tell you to stop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep going then,’ snapped the Samnite.

  Sullenly, Carbo obeyed. This wasn’t what he had been expecting; it was a world away from wielding a real gladius, as he had the day before. And his target was just a tree, not the man who held his family’s fortunes in the palm of his hand. Soon every fibre of muscle in his arm was screaming for rest, and the air was catching raggedly at the back of his throat with each breath. His remaining pride, such as it was, wouldn’t let him glance at Paccius.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  Gasping with relief, he let the gladius fall. Without warning, Paccius jumped forward and drove his shield against Carbo’s. He stumbled backwards, away from his weapon. With a snarl, the Samnite advanced, his sword at the ready. ‘So that’s what you would do in a real battle, is it? Drop your gladius, and leave yourself completely defenceless? That’s the best example of pure stupidity I’ve seen in a while.’

  ‘But this isn’t real. It’s only practice,’ retorted Carbo.

  Grimly, Paccius drove at Carbo again, hammering a brutal series of cuts on his shield. An occasional blow glanced off the side of his head, sending stars shooting across his vision. It was all he could do just to hold his ground. Finally, the Samnite eased his assault. ‘Do you understand now why you never drop your weapon?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Carbo resentfully. To his relief, Paccius did not belabour the point. ‘Go and pick it up. We’ll come back to the palus later. It’s time to start building up your general fitness.’ He saw Carbo’s questioning look and laughed. ‘See that tree?’ he asked, pointing into the distance.

  Carbo squinted, making out a lone beech about half a mile away. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want you to run there and back again.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Five times, carrying your gladius and shield. Without stopping.’

  Carbo wanted to tell Paccius where he could shove his wooden sword. I’m here to learn. He nodded firmly.

  ‘Go on, then! What are you waiting for?’

  Beginning to realise what he had let himself in for, Carbo took off at a fast trot.

  Several hours passed, during which the Samnite allowed Carbo three breaks, brief affairs to allow him to catch his breath, swallow a mouthful of water and nothing more. After his five-mile run, Paccius had set him to attacking the palus again, although at a slower pace. Press-ups, stretches and more running followed; after that, there had been yet more work with the sword and shield. When the Samnite declared at last that they had done enough for the day, Carbo was on the point of collapse. He was damned if he’d admit to that, however. ‘How was I?’ he asked boldly.

  Paccius stared at him askance. ‘Looking for praise on your first day? Don’t bother. You’d have been killed in the initial moments of any battle.’

  Carbo glowered.

  Paccius clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t lose heart. I could say the same of any raw recruit. To be fair, you showed a lot more passion than most.’

  Carbo grinned. This was high praise indeed. Then his smile faded. Has Father succeeded?

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Samnite. ‘You’ve been preoccupied all day.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ replied Carbo grimly.

  Paccius’ eyebrows rose.

  I can’t tell him. Carbo glanced at the sun. ‘We’d better head back.’

  ‘No point raising your parents’ suspicions,’ agreed the Samnite.

  Carbo grunted in agreement, but his mind was already fixed upon finding out what was going on with his father. He couldn’t bear not knowing any longer.

  They trudged back in silence. Soon they had joined the last part of the Via Appia before it entered the city. As always, the road was choked with traffic travelling in both directions. Sturdy carts full of hay or root vegetables creaked along, drawn by pairs of impassive oxen. Farmers
walked alongside, using murmured encouragements and, intermittently, their whips. Merchants strode in front of their wagons, which were laden with trading goods: red Samian ware, amphorae containing wine or olive oil, and bales of cloth. Next were the bodyguards: groups of unshaven, dangerous-looking men carrying spears, clubs and the occasional sword. It was their job to protect the merchandise rumbling along the road before them. A column of slaves, each attached to the next by a neck chain, shuffled along behind their owner and his armed henchmen. Official messengers on horseback distastefully picked their way through flocks of sheep being driven to slaughter. A party of legionaries marched by, their shields slapping gently off their backs. They bawled a rowdy chorus, which their optio chose studiously to ignore.

  Impotent fury filled Carbo. That was the kind of comradeship he longed for but would never have. Crazy ideas filled his mind. Maybe he should just run away and join the army? His conscience instantly reined him in. You can’t desert your family while it’s in such dire straits. Carbo was desperate to help in some way, and a legionary’s yearly pay would be nowhere near enough to cover his father’s debts. In frustration, he kicked a loose stone along the road’s paved surface. It skittered away and struck the fetlock of a nervous horse in front. Rearing up in panic, it almost unseated its rider, a florid-faced man in early middle age. Curses filled the air and Carbo quickly took an interest in the landscape off to his right. A pity that wasn’t Crassus. A pity he didn’t fall off and break his neck.

  ‘Fortunate that you weren’t seen, eh?’ murmured Paccius as the man regained control of his mount. ‘I’d say he would have shown you the business end of his whip. Sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?’

  Carbo shook his head. He couldn’t bear the idea of Paccius having a new master, of never seeing him again. The Samnite shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  They passed under the massive archway that formed Capua’s southern entrance. There were several other such gates in the tall stone walls that ringed the city. The defences hadn’t been used since the second war with Carthage, when the local politicians had foolishly decided to defect to Hannibal’s cause. The punishment meted out by Rome had been severe: to this very day, the city was directly ruled by a praetor, and its inhabitants had not yet regained the civic rights accorded to the rest of Italy’s population. Civic rights? thought Carbo resentfully. Will I even have any of those soon?