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.’
