Spartacus: The Gladiator Page 9

  ‘What was the first bit?’ hissed Seuthes to Getas, who had a smattering of Latin. The other whispered in his ear, and Seuthes’ expression grew angry. ‘Screw him anyway,’ he growled. ‘Gloating over us as if we were a herd of cattle going to the slaughterhouse.’

  ‘That’s about what we are,’ replied Getas grimly. ‘Except it’s the carrion birds who’ll feed on us after we’re dead, not people.’

  Phortis came stalking along the line, looking for someone to use his whip on, and they both fell silent.

  Spartacus, who’d also understood, kept his gaze fixed on the road. Inside, he was warning himself never to say a thing within fifty paces of Phortis. The man’s knowledge of Thracian was far better than he let on, and his hearing was uncanny. He didn’t relax until the Capuan had resumed his place at the head of the column. The moment he had, however, Spartacus’ eyes focused on the ludus. He kept his gaze fixed on it as they drew nearer. It looked impregnable. No doubt it was the same inside. Gradually, the sound of voices and the familiar ring of weapon on weapon carried to him through the air. Spartacus’ jaw hardened. The battles that he fought from now on would be much smaller scale that he was used to. According to Phortis, the majority would probably be one on one. That didn’t mean he’d approach them any differently. In fact, thought Spartacus savagely, he’d go in twice as hard. Twice as fast. Twice as brutally. With only one aim. To win. That’s all his life would be about from now on. Winning.

  It was that or death, which didn’t appeal.

  Spartacus didn’t overly care about himself, but it wasn’t just about him any longer. He had Getas and Seuthes to look out for. And most importantly of all, there was Ariadne. Spartacus had no real idea how he’d provide for her. He had heard a rumour that the best gladiators could earn good money, and hoped it was true. Ensuring that Ariadne had plenty of cash would mean that if, or when, he was killed, she had the resources to survive on her own.

  Grant me that much at least, O Great Rider.

  Carbo twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible. The filthy straw mattress beneath him was falling apart. It was also full of bed bugs. His blanket had more holes in it than a fishing net. Rats scuttered to and fro on the floor, looking for food. He’d emptied the bucket by the end of the bed the night before, but it still stank of piss and shit. Because he had no money to buy fuel for the little brazier that sat in the corner, the room was freezing. Room? Carbo scowled. It could scarcely be called that.

  The cheapest accommodation that he’d been able to find, it was located at the very top of a five-storey insula, or block of flats. There were no windows, and he rarely used his oil lamp, so the only light that came in was through the gaps in the roof tiles. Carbo glanced around the pathetic limits of his domain. It could be called a garret perhaps. Scarcely ten paces by six, it had an angled roof that made it impossible to stand upright. The door didn’t lock, and the walls were so thin that he could hear every sound made by his neighbour, a rheumy-eyed crone with a hacking cough.

  The old witch was at it now, as she had been all through the night, choking and wheezing until Carbo thought she’d vomit. He wanted to go next door and throttle her. Instead, he shoved his head into the excuse for a pillow and placed a hand over his free ear. It made little difference. Gods above. I might as well get up and go out. Because of the coughing, Carbo had had little sleep. He’d hoped now that she was up, he might get some rest. Why fare abroad anyway? It was so damn cold outside. Of course those weren’t the only reasons that Carbo was huddled, fully dressed, under his blankets. He had no money, and no job. Nowhere to go. No prospects. Impotent fury filled him. Since he had run away, things had gone from bad to worse.

  He’d kept his head low for several days, and then gone back to the family home. The only people he’d seen apart from a couple of the domestic slaves were an officious-looking man in a toga and several workmen. His attempt to speak with Crassus’ agent had been brushed off; so too had his request to meet with Paccius. Secure – and outraged – in the knowledge that his parents were gone, Carbo had begun looking for work. It hadn’t been long before the realisation sank home that his whole plan was a disastrous mistake. Most of the tradesmen he’d approached took one look at his well-made tunic and soft hands, and laughed in his face. Some had offered him work, but at such a low wage that Carbo had told them where to stick their miserable offers. Unfortunately, his savings had not lasted. The cost of living was much greater than he’d realised. His few remaining friends had helped where they could, giving him food and money, but even their goodwill had started to run dry.

  Carbo ground his teeth with rage. What had he or his family done to anger the gods so? He had visited all the major temples, asking for guidance. He’d heard back nothing. Nothing. Even the old soothsayer to whom Carbo given his last coins the previous day had been useless, telling him that he’d soon be married to a wealthy merchant’s daughter. ‘Louse-ridden charlatan,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I should find him and take back my money.’ The idea of marriage brought his mother to mind. Gods, but she must be worrying about me. Father too. His pride wouldn’t allow him to write them a letter, however. I’ll let them know when things have improved. When I’m making money.

  A new storm of coughing overtook the crone next door, and he gave up any pretence of trying to rest. Anything was better than this torture. Getting up, he fastened his cloak at one shoulder with the last valuable item he possessed, a silver brooch given him by his mother the year before, when he had taken the toga. Carbo ran his fingers over it, and silently asked Jupiter and Fortuna for help. Feeling a fraction better, he headed for the stairs. Perhaps his luck would change today. Perhaps the gods would help him at last. If not, maybe he could find a way to join the army. That at least would be better than returning in shame to his family in Rome. His belly grumbled, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten in three days. Carbo’s mind raced. Maybe he could steal a loaf from the bakery next door.

  All eyes were upon the column from the moment they passed under the stone archway and into the large colonnaded courtyard beyond. They had to be. Phortis had led them straight into the middle of the circular training area, forcing the gladiators there to move out of the way. None looked unhappy at the interruption to their training. Far from it. The fighters crowded in around the new arrivals. Insults and catcalls in several tongues rained down; these turned rapidly to wolf whistles and lewd suggestions when Ariadne and the other women were seen. Doing his best to ignore the abuse, Spartacus picked out the loudest individuals and memorised their faces. A thickset Thracian with a long ponytail. A skinny Gaul who was missing his top teeth. A Nubian with one gold earring. I’ll sort out those fuckers.

  Ariadne, who had worked her way into the midst of the women, kept her eyes firmly on the sandy ground. Until men knew that she was with Spartacus, the less attention she got, the better.

  ‘Shut it, you curs!’ shouted Phortis. He looked up at the archers on the first-floor balcony, which ran all the way around the courtyard. ‘You there! Tell Batiatus that I’m back. Quickly!’ As one of the guards scurried off, he turned back to his fifteen captives. ‘In a line! In a line! Face that way,’ he ordered. ‘Batiatus will want to see what kind of men I’ve brought back for him.’

  Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes had been near the head of the column, so they found themselves on the left of the line. While they waited for Batiatus, the thronging gladiators took their opportunity, jeering and throwing mocking comments at all and sundry.

  ‘Hey, new boy!’

  Instead of reacting, Spartacus scanned the dozens of hard faces arrayed before him: they were Gauls, Thracians and Germans for the most part, but there was also a smattering of Greeks, Egyptians and Nubians. There were three basic types of gladiator that he could see. Thracians, like himself, dressed in little more than a loincloth and wide leather belt, with a typical crested helmet to protect their heads. Lucky ones among them wore greaves. All carried wooden versions of the sica. Mixed amon
g his countrymen were dozens of shaggy-haired, bare-chested Gauls in belted trousers. Clutching wooden spears or long swords, they looked every bit as fierce as he’d heard. There were men he didn’t recognise too, in triple-crested helmets and with simple metal plates protecting their chests.

  ‘New boy! I’m talking to you!’

  Spartacus felt Getas nudge him. ‘It’s that big fucker on the left, with the scar right through his mouth.’ Spartacus’ eyes flickered sideways, taking in a blocky Gaul with long blond hair. His face had been ruined by a sword cut that would have killed most men. The result was an ugly purple cicatrice that ran from just under his right eye to the left side of his chin. Miraculously passing his nose, it had split his lips in two. Someone had stitched them back together, but, thought Spartacus, they hadn’t done a very good job. When the brute talked, one half of his face moved independently to the other.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ snapped Spartacus.

  ‘That’s right,’ growled the Gaul. He licked his ruined lips. ‘I’ll see you in the baths later. You can suck me off.’

  There was a burst of ribald laughter, and Phortis smiled.

  Spartacus waited until the noise had died down a little. ‘Suck off an ugly son of a bitch like you? You should be so lucky.’ He laughed. ‘Because we’ve just met, I’ll be nice. Next time you even look at me, though, I’ll send you to fucking Hades. Understand?’

  Stung by the roars of laughter that met Spartacus’ riposte, the Gaul took a step forward. ‘You dirty Thracian bastard,’ he hissed.

  Phortis moved into his path, whip raised high. ‘Get back!’ he bawled. As the Gaul sullenly obeyed, he rounded on Spartacus. ‘Unless you’re asked to speak, keep your stinking mouth shut!’ Flecks of his spittle flew to land on Spartacus’ cheeks, who had the sense not to wipe them off.

  ‘Phortis. You have returned.’ The voice was not loud, but its authority cut through the noise. ‘Welcome.’

  Phortis’ evil expression vanished as he turned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He bowed to the short, portly man who had appeared on the balcony above.

  ‘Having a little trouble with the new “recruits”?’ Batiatus’ eyes were already dancing along the captives, appraising them. Spartacus deliberately didn’t meet the lanista’s gaze. Instinctively, his comrades copied him. No point attracting Batiatus’ attentions this early.

  ‘Not at all, sir. Just a few of the usual wisecracks. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Reaching the end of the line, Batiatus regarded the Capuan. ‘Your journey was successful?’

  ‘I think so, sir, yes. I didn’t have to pay the moon and stars for any of these scumbags, but they’re all tough men who look able to handle themselves. I’m optimistic that you’ll agree with my choices.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Spartacus scanned the watching gladiators sidelong as Phortis began exalting each of his purchases. Where were the leaders, the men he’d come up against sooner rather than later? Not far from the scarred man who’d shouted at him, he spotted another Gaul, an immense figure with bulging muscles and an arrogant look smeared across his broad, handsome face. That bastard’s one. I hope he’s not as skilful as he’s big. Spartacus slid his gaze onwards. A moment later, it stopped on a broken-nosed German, a figure almost as large as the haughty Gaul. He didn’t look that remarkable, but the two men who stood at each of his shoulders told a different story. He’s a leader. They’re his bodyguards. Spartacus didn’t spot any more like the first pair he’d picked, but he knew there’d be plenty of fighters who fancied themselves as superior to him, a lowly new arrival.

  Phortis finished his descriptions.

  ‘Of course we won’t know until they have to fight, but you appear to have done well,’ Batiatus pronounced.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The Capuan grinned.

  ‘Get them to take the oath, then take off their chains and get them settled in. No point in wasting any more training time than necessary, eh?’ With a pleased nod, Batiatus disappeared from view.

  ‘So the whoreson lives in the ludus?’ whispered Getas.

  ‘Seems like it,’ replied Spartacus, eyeing the rest of the first storey. ‘The armoury and the infirmary look to be up there too. We poor shitbags get to stay down here.’ With a jerk of his head, he indicated the lines of cells that ran under three sides of the portico.

  ‘Listen to me, you miserable sacks of shit!’ bellowed Phortis. ‘It’s time for you to swear your allegiance to your new familia – the gladiators you see all around you.’ He repeated his words in Thracian and Greek. ‘Understand?’

  One of the Scythians, a man with a thick black beard, moved forward a step. ‘What if … we … refuse take oath?’

  Phortis clicked his fingers, and an archer on the balcony lifted his bow. ‘Your journey comes to an end. Here. Now. Clear?’

  The Scythian grunted and stepped back.

  ‘Anyone else? No?’ Phortis sniggered. ‘I didn’t think so. Repeat after me, then, the words of the sacramentum gladiatorum, the most sacred oath that any of you wretched excuses for men will ever take!’

  A silence fell over the ludus. Glancing around, Spartacus realised that the assembled fighters respected what Phortis was about to say. All of them had been through the same ritual. In the brutal world of the ludus, it gave their lives a purpose.

  ‘Will you swear to endure being burned and being bound in chains?’

  There was a heartbeat’s delay.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered the fifteen men.

  ‘Do you vow to accept being beaten and flogged?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you commit yourself to Batiatus, body and soul, asking nothing in return? Will you swear to meet your death by sword, spear …’ Here Phortis paused. ‘… or in any other way that the lanista sees fit?’

  There was no response.

  Ariadne stiffened. She’d had no idea quite how powerful the gladiator’s oath was.

  She could not see Spartacus grinding his teeth. Body and soul?

  ‘Answer me! If you don’t, the bowmen above will start to loose. On the count of three,’ shouted Phortis. ‘One.’

  Spartacus glanced at Getas and Seuthes. ‘Pointless dying over a few words, eh?’ he hissed. They both gave him a tight nod.

  ‘Two,’ roared Phortis.

  ‘Yes,’ cried the fifteen men.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘YES!’

  ‘Good. Welcome to our familia.’ Phortis’ smile reminded Spartacus’ of a wolf’s snarl. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a chain, upon which hung a set of keys. ‘Time to set you arse bandits free. Free!’ Laughing at his own joke, he began unlocking the iron ring that sat around each man’s neck. When he reached Spartacus, their eyes met.

  I’ll kill you one day, thought Spartacus. Out loud, he said quietly, ‘Where do we sleep?’

  ‘Have a look around. Some of the cells are empty. It’s first come, first served,’ the Capuan growled.

  ‘When do we get fed?’ asked Getas.

  ‘First thing in the morning, and when training finishes, in about half an hour. It’s a good diet too.’ Phortis saw their interest and chuckled. ‘Barley porridge twice a day, and as much water as you can drink.’

  ‘I—’ protested Seuthes.

  ‘Yes?’ Phortis’ tone was silky smooth, but his eyes were full of venom.

  Seuthes looked away.

  ‘Get as much rest as you can. Tomorrow the trainers will decide which of you will fight for each of them,’ Phortis advised. He scowled at their incomprehension. ‘You stupid bastards better start learning some Latin or you just won’t get on. This once, I’ll explain. There are three basic types of gladiator: the Gaul, the Samnite and’ – he broke off to spit on the ground – ‘the Thracian.’ With that, he moved on to the next man.

  ‘See if you can get us a couple of cells beside each other,’ said Spartacus to his comrades. Rubbing at the raw flesh on his neck, he made for the group of women. He’d only gone
a few steps before he was shoved violently from behind. He stumbled and fell to one knee. He knew who it was without even looking. This fight had to be fought right now. If he avoided it, his life in the ludus would be twice as hard. Yet he had no weapon, while the other probably did. Instinctively, his fingers scraped into the sand, picking up as many of the yellow grains as he could. Spartacus jumped to his feet, spinning as he did. ‘Did you push me?’ he snarled.

  ‘I did.’ The Gaul with the mangled lips shrugged. He pointed with the filed-down piece of iron in his right hand. ‘I was aiming you in the direction of the baths.’ He glanced to either side, and his two companions grinned evilly.

  Spartacus focused on the leader’s homemade weapon, which had probably been filched from the smithy. He wasn’t surprised that his one of his opponents was armed. Any fighter with a titter of wit would be. Those who weren’t, or who were too weak, would end up as followers, or pieces of meat for men like the Gaul before him. Spartacus had no idea what chance he had against three of them, but he wasn’t going to back down. He couldn’t. ‘Is that so?’ he said softly, taking a step forward. ‘Well, I don’t feel the need for a wash right now.’

  The Gaul’s gash of a mouth twitched, and he rubbed his crotch. ‘Who said anything about a wash?’

  His companions laughed.

  Crouching, Spartacus took another step. He had to get as close as possible. ‘You certainly need one. You stink worse than a sow in farrow!’

  Roaring with anger, the Gaul jabbed the homemade dagger at Spartacus’ belly.

  Spartacus swung his right arm around and opened his fingers, letting the sand fly. In the same instant, he dodged sideways, out of reach. There was a scream as the Gaul’s eyes filled with grit, and Spartacus spun, smashing a punch into his side. The Gaul stumbled, and Spartacus hammered home more blows, sending the other sprawling to the ground. Sensing movement behind him, he half turned, but a fist collided with the side of his head. Stars burst across Spartacus’ vision and a thousand needles of pain lanced into his brain. His knees buckled, and it was only with a supreme effort that he managed not to topple on top of the Gaul. Someone grabbed at his arms from behind, trying to pinion them to his sides. He snapped his head back, catching his assailant on the bridge of his nose. Spartacus felt the crunch of breaking cartilage, and heard the man scream and fall away. Desperately, he glanced to either side. Where was the third motherless cur? Too late, he saw a blur of movement coming at him from the left. The glitter of metal in the figure’s hand told Spartacus that he was in mortal danger. Too late, too slowly, he tried to get out the way. He steeled himself for the agonising sting as the dagger slid into his flesh. By some miracle, however, the blow never landed. Instead, Seuthes came leaping through the air, knocking the third Gaul backwards.