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.
Spartacus looked up to see the Capuan on the balcony beside the man who’d been escorted upstairs. The youth was sallow-skinned, with a thin, pockmarked face.
‘This young gentleman goes by the name of Carbo,’ announced Phortis. ‘He has asked Batiatus if he can enter the ludus as an auctoratus.’
‘He looks as if he’s still on his mother’s tit!’ bellowed a fighter.
‘The prick’s far too scrawny,’ cried another. ‘He’d snap in two if you hit him hard enough.’
A rumble of amusement rose from the yard, and Carbo flushed with anger.
‘Why is he here? Has he screwed his father’s mistress?’ asked Crixus.
A murmur of interest replaced the gladiator’s laughter. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a citizen to join their number as a paid contractee. Some joined for the thrill of it, the taste of danger that they might never experience otherwise. Most, however, entered the ludus under a cloud. Sometimes it was because they had broken the law in some way, but often it was the likes of gambling debts that drove them through the gate.
Above them, Phortis smirked. ‘It wasn’t that. Or so he says. I didn’t like to ask further.’
‘What was it then?’ cried Crixus. ‘Lost all your money on chariot racing?’
Carbo’s temper flared. ‘It’s none of your damn business.’
‘A sensitive issue, is it?’ retorted Crixus, glowering back.
‘Piss off,’ Carbo replied.
‘Come down here and say that again,’ yelled Crixus. Given Carbo’s request to enter the ludus, the huge difference in their status meant little, and he knew it.
Carbo cursed silently. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? I’ve just angered someone as big as Hercules. Even if by some miracle I win, he’ll want to kill me.
