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 among 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.
Even as Seuthes rained a flurry of blows upon the man’s face and midriff, Spartacus was looking for the scarred Gaul and his other companion. To his utter relief, Getas was giving the second man short shrift, while his original attacker was still cursing and trying to clear his eyes of sand. Quickly, Spartacus scooped up the sharpened piece of iron, which was lying by his feet. A sideways glance at the archers told him that although they had noticed the fight, they were not going to intervene. Yet. No doubt this was a daily occurrence, he thought. ‘Don’t kill them, but make a decent racket,’ he hissed. ‘I’m going to the baths.’
Without waiting for Getas or Seuthes to reply, Spartacus ran in behind the Gaul. Grabbing his right arm, he twisted it up behind his back. He touched the homemade dagger to the other’s throat. ‘Walk,’ he ordered. ‘Walk, or I’ll stick this in so far that it comes out the outer side of your fucking neck.’
The Gaul did as he was told, walking stiff-legged in the direction he’d pointed a few heartbeats earlier. ‘What are you going to do?’ he growled.
Spartacus jabbed the iron into the Gaul’s skin until blood ran down his neck. ‘Shut your trap.’ Behind him, he heard his comrades screaming abuse as they kicked and spat on the other two tribesmen. Spartacus grinned with satisfaction. The archers’ attention was now completely on that brawl. Just what he wanted. ‘Move it. Faster,’ he hissed.
Seeing steam coming out of a pair of latticed windows, Spartacus aimed for the nearest doorway. He bundled the Gaul inside and out of sight of the guards. The warm room they’d entered was square, and tiled from ceiling to floor. Colourful depictions of fish, sea monsters and Neptune covered the walls. A low bench ran around the room; it was covered with bundles of clothing, left there by the gladiators who were in the baths through the door opposite. The air was laced with the thick, pungent smell of aromatic oils. The only other occupant of the room was a half-dressed, dark-skinned, short man with black hair. He goggled in surprise at the pair’s dramatic entrance.