Spartacus: The Gladiator (16 page)

Clack
,
clack
,
clack
. Right on cue, Phortis’ weapon dragged along the bars of the cell’s window. The metallic sound of a key unlocking the door followed. ‘Stop ploughing your woman, latro! Get out here while the porridge is nice and hot.’

‘Filthy Roman bastard.’ Spartacus’ whisper was reflex.

‘Do you hear me, latro?’

‘I hear you.’ He sat up.

‘Good. Today we’ll see what kind of fighter you are to become.’ Phortis moved on.

Spartacus scowled.

‘About last night …’ Ariadne began.

He glanced at her, and saw the desire for reconciliation in her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you,’ he said. ‘Although I’d caught the creature, I was still feeling jumpy.’

‘I’m the one who should be apologising. It’s my snake, and my responsibility to make sure that it stays in the basket.’ She paused, looking awkward. ‘So I’m sorry.’

‘Let’s forget about it, and move on.’

‘Fine.’ Feeling better, she smiled.

‘You look much better like that than with a frown on your face.’

He likes me!
Delighted but also embarrassed, Ariadne floundered about for what to say. ‘What type of fighter do you think they’ll pick you for?’ she blurted.

‘Thracian, I’d assume,’ replied Spartacus, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll soon find out. What will you do with the day?’

‘The first thing will be to clean this room properly. Only the gods know when that last happened,’ Ariadne said disapprovingly. ‘Then I want to find something that will serve as an altar for my statues. If I have a chance, I’ll also sound out the women who already live in the ludus. Learn about how life works here.’

‘Stay safe. Keep away from the toilets and baths unless you’re with plenty of other women,’ he warned.

‘Don’t worry.’ She pointed to the basket. ‘That’s going everywhere with me.’

‘Good.’

She nodded. ‘Be careful.’

Her sudden thaw made him grin. ‘I will.’ Pushing open the door, he was gone.

Discomfited, Ariadne was grateful that he hadn’t seen the rising blush in her cheeks.

The new arrivals had barely finished their porridge when, accompanied by Phortis, the trainers who supervised the different classes of fighters came looking for them. The three middle-aged, hard-faced men were each armed with a club, a whip, or both. All were former gladiators who’d earned their freedom the hard way, by winning the rudis.

Forced out into the yard, to a chorus of jeers from the other inmates, the fifteen men were lined up side by side. Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes found themselves at the far end, away from Phortis, who began at once. He threw a barrage of questions at the first man, one of the Pontic warriors, demanding to know his age, his former occupation and his combat experience. The trainers listened carefully to the stumbling answers in poor Latin. Before long, the tribesman was ordered to stand by the man who would school him as a Thracian. The next captive was chosen to fight as a Gaul, and the one after that, as a Samnite. Gradually, Phortis worked his way down the line. The other Thracians grinned as they were selected to appear in the arena representing their own kind. Hearing this, Spartacus’ expectations grew. There’d be some pride to be had fighting as he had in real life.

‘Ah. The latro,’ drawled Phortis. He smiled as Spartacus’ face tightened. ‘This one’s a Thracian too,’ he explained to the trainers. ‘Age?’

‘Thirty.’

‘Occupation?’

‘I’ve been a warrior since the age of sixteen. That’s when I slew my first man,’ Spartacus growled. ‘He looked a bit like you.’

‘Ha! You’re a real killer, eh?’ Phortis’ eyebrows rose mockingly. ‘You have some military experience too?’

‘I’ve fought in every campaigning season since I reached manhood. In eight of those, I served with the Roman auxiliaries as a cavalryman. I’ve been in more fights and skirmishes than I can remember, and at least six full-scale battles.’

‘Killed many men?’ asked one of the trainers.

Spartacus stared him in the eyes. ‘I lost count after twenty. At least half of them were Romans.’

The trainer grunted noncommittally.

‘I don’t believe you,’ challenged Phortis.

‘It’s true. How many have you killed?’ retorted Spartacus. He was pleased as Phortis waved a fist in his face. Nor did he miss the smile that twitched across two of the trainers’ lips.
Good. I got under your skin, you miserable goat-fucker
.

‘I’ve slain plenty, damn your insolence! Harder men than you, too.’

Really? I doubt it
.

‘He’ll do best as a Thracian. I’ll take him,’ said a short trainer with a well-trimmed beard. His companions murmured in agreement.

‘No, you fucking well won’t,’ snapped Phortis. ‘He’s not to fight as a Thracian.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Batiatus says so,’ replied Phortis with smug satisfaction. ‘The dog is too arrogant. It’ll give him ideas above his station. The same applies to his two friends.’

‘I’ll take him on then. The others too,’ said the third trainer, who had the look of a Gaul.

Phortis shrugged. ‘Fine.’

Hearing no further protest, the trainer jerked his head at Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes. ‘Get over here.’

Spartacus couldn’t help himself. ‘But—’

In the blink of an eye, Phortis had pulled the short club from his belt. With an almighty heave, he brought it down across Spartacus’ head. ‘Do as you’re told!’

Half-blinded by pain, Spartacus still managed to leap forward. He was prevented from getting to Phortis, however, by Getas and Seuthes. They grabbed him roughly by the arms. ‘Leave it,’ hissed Getas. ‘He’ll kill you.’

Phortis watched expectantly.

Attacking him just gives the dog what he wants
. Spartacus took in a deep breath and relaxed in their grip. ‘All right. I’ll fight as a Gaul.’

‘You listen to your friends. That’s good.’ Phortis couldn’t quite hide his disappointment, however. ‘Keep doing that, and you might survive.’ He glanced at the trainers. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ve plenty to teach these whoresons.’

Amarantus, Spartacus’ instructor, was a Gaul of perhaps forty summers. Although a freeborn warrior, Amarantus told them how he’d elected to stay on as a trainer after earning his rudis. His first order was for the four men he’d chosen to take each other on with heavy shields and wooden swords. He set Spartacus against one of the Scythians, and Getas and Seuthes upon one another. ‘Fight until one man has been disarmed, or received a “mortal” wound,’ he shouted. Spartacus’ opponent was strong and fierce, but his skill did not compare. Within the space of a hundred heartbeats, Spartacus had knocked the Scythian’s sword from his hand and touched the tip of his own blade to the other’s throat. Amarantus nodded in satisfaction, and allowed them to rest as Spartacus’ two friends went at it like men possessed. Seuthes prevailed, tripping Getas and ‘finishing’ him with a thrust to the chest.

‘That’s told me how good, or not, you are with weapons,’ Amarantus declared. ‘Now we shall see if you’re any way fit, or just the bloated wineskins you look like.’ He waved his arm around the courtyard’s perimeter. ‘Twenty laps of that, at a run. The man who stops before that gets ten lashes. If he stops a second time, I’ll give him twenty. A third time, thirty. Clear?’

As Spartacus ran, he studied the gladiators who were also at their training. The yard was packed with men running as they were, or boxing and wrestling. Others lifted weights. Still more sparred against each other with wooden spears and swords, or attacked thick timber posts buried in the ground. One unfortunate was being lashed by his irate trainer, while his companions watched.

Spartacus was grateful that the journey from Thrace had not taken too much out of him. Although the food hadn’t been the best quality, he’d lost little weight or condition. Twenty laps was well within his capability, and that of Getas and Seuthes too. As it turned out, the Scythian was fit as well. Amarantus gave a satisfied grunt as they rejoined him, their faces dripping with sweat.

Carbo had reached his insula without further problems. He’d had a fleeting sensation of sweet revenge when his tread on the creaking floorboards had woken the crone. It had soon vanished during the coughing that followed, but Carbo had been too tired, and his head had hurt too much, to curse his neighbour. Uncaring of the layer of semi-liquid filth that coated his hair, back and legs, he’d eased on to his mattress and pulled up the ragged blanket. A few heartbeats later, he’d fallen asleep. Mercifully, he had had no dreams.

Waking to the chill of another grey dawn, Carbo had lain with a throbbing headache, wondering if becoming a gladiator was the wisest choice. He’d wrestled with the option for an age, worried that he would not be tough enough for the brutal world of the ludus. But Carbo could think of no other path to follow. Eventually, the bad smell coating every part of him had prompted him into action. At the public baths two streets over, he’d managed to cadge the entrance price from a kindly old man. Carbo had never enjoyed washing himself so much, or felt so grateful that he had grown up with the luxury of running water in his house. Once he was clean, the problem of his soiled tunic and undergarment –
licium
– became far more pressing. Wearing the drying cloth furnished by the baths attendant, Carbo had ventured on to the street, where he washed his clothes in the public fountain that sat alongside the bathing house. Donning his soaking wet garments, he had glowered at the passersby’s laughter. Next, he’d gone to Ambrosius’ door where he had returned the lamp and gladius to the same slave who had helped save him the previous night. Refusing the invitation to go in and meet the veteran, Carbo had headed straight for the city’s ludus, which lay outside the walls to the north.

Now that he’d reached its gates, his courage was threatening to desert him. Carbo stood mutely, staring at the thick metal strips that criss-crossed the timber doors, and the tall ramparts above. The ludus looked, and felt, like a prison. From within, he could hear shouts and the dull clash of weapons. It was quite daunting.

‘What do you want?’

Carbo focused on the guard, a swarthy man carrying a spear and shield. A battered helmet concealed much of his face, making the demand even more intimidating. ‘I’ve come to offer my services as an auctoratus.’

‘You? An auctoratus?’ The three words conveyed endless contempt.

Carbo held his stare. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you use a sword or spear?’

‘A sword, yes.’

‘Is that right?’ sneered the guard.

‘Yes, it damn well is, you cheeky bastard,’ snapped Carbo. For all his failures, he was far above this creature on the social ladder. ‘I demand to see the lanista.’

The guard blinked at his determination. ‘What do I care if you want to get yourself killed?’ He rapped on the timbers with his knuckles. ‘Open up!’

With a loud creaking noise, one of the gates began to open.

Carbo’s stomach twisted, but he stood his ground.
Stay with me, Jupiter, Greatest and Best
.

Chapter VI

WITH A LOUD creaking sound, the ludus’ main gate opened. This was enough to attract most gladiators’ attention. The trainers, Amarantus among them, were not immune either. A guard came stumping in, followed by a tall figure in a once fine tunic. The moment that they were both inside, the gate swung shut with a heavy clang.

‘Someone looking for fighters?’ wondered Getas.

‘No,’ answered Spartacus. ‘He’s only a boy. He can’t be more than eighteen.’

‘Look at the way he carries himself. He must be from a good family.’

‘His clothes are soaking wet,’ noted Spartacus. ‘That’s odd.’

The young man was led upstairs to Batiatus’ quarters. Rival theories about his reason for visiting the ludus rippled through the assembled gladiators.

‘Back to work,’ cried Amarantus. ‘Get a move on, you lazy scumbags. We haven’t got all day.’

‘Attention!’ Phortis’ voice cracked through the air like a whiplash.