Path of the Tiger

but air, however, and in a split-second the champion gladiator was under the blade, sliding forward through the sand in a sharp skid. Combining the dexterity of his bare feet with the force of his momentum, Viridovix brought Spartacus down hard by hooking the outside of his ankle and pushing his knee out. Using his expert command of acrobatics, he then sprang from a prone position on the sand, landing back on his feet with frightful speed. Then with his Gallic longsword he battered aside a feeble thrust from Spartacus, who had had the wind knocked out of him, and slashed his blade with vicious speed toward his adversary’s throat, stopping its edge only millimetres from Spartacus’s Adam’s apple. He held the blunt blade there for a while and locked an intimidating glare into his defeated opponent’s eyes, pinning him down beneath the weight of his aggression and his bestial blood-fury.

‘Splendid performance, Viridovix!’ cried Batiatus, who was sitting with Lucius Sertorius in the stands above the training arena. ‘Flawless technique!’

Viridovix removed his blade from Spartacus’s throat and bowed to Batiatus.

‘For the glory and honour of your house, master!’

Batiatus beamed a benevolent smile at his top gladiator.

‘Aye, aye, and you certainly have brought much of it on my ludus. For that I am thankful, most thankful Viridovix, Beast of the North! Carry on then!’

Viridovix begrudgingly helped Spartacus to his feet and they continued sparring, along with fifteen other pairs of gladiators. Batiatus turned his attention away from the training ground to speak to Lucius, his brow furrowed, with shards of consternation swirling about his eyes like jagged ice in a winter stream.

‘Another goblet of wine, Lucius?’ he asked, staring out over the field.

‘Thank you, Batiatus.’

‘Tell me, this Spartacus … He fights like a Roman legionary, yet he is Thracian, is he not? Why then does he fight like a Roman infantryman? When I was commanding legions in the Army, the Thracian auxiliary units were usually cavalry units, and fought exclusively on horseback. They did not use our Roman equipment and did not fight on foot like our soldiers. Why then does this man fight like this? Are you sure he is a Thracian?’

‘Yes, he’s Thracian alright,’ Lucius answered. ‘And he was part of an auxiliary cavalry unit in the Roman Army. He’s got the tattoo on his hand to prove it. From what I’ve seen of him he’s shrewd, and a fast learner. He doubtless spent a lot of time keenly observing the Roman legionaries in their training, and perhaps in battle too, taking pointers from what he saw an applying it to how he himself fought on foot. One cannot observe a fully trained Roman Legion and not be impressed by their discipline, skill and training, and as a reasonably intelligent man – even if he is a barbarian – he realised our ways were superior to the undisciplined flailing of his fellows, as brave and reckless as they are. Why wouldn’t he try to fight like a superior soldier, when made to fight on foot?’

Batiatus nodded, narrowing his eyes as he continued to study Spartacus.

‘Yes, yes, I suppose you are right.’

‘He deserted and fled the battlefield when ordered to attack his own people, I believe,’ Lucius continued. ‘He was later captured and sold as a slave along with some other fugitives. The other deserters were the typical cowards, drunks and thieves one finds among such sorts, but this one, he was different. He deserted not out of cowardice or a desire to shirk responsibility, but rather, it seems, out of his own sense of honour.’

‘Bah!’ Batiatus scoffed with a disdainful snort of disapproval. ‘No deserter has honour of any sort. Especially not some uncultured Thracian barbarian.’

‘You cannot deny that he is a solid fighter though, if a little wooden in his movements.’

Batiatus quaffed another mouthful of wine and then raised a sceptical eyebrow and set his jaw tight, shaking his head as he stared out over the training ground and took in the battles that were being fought there, analysing the participants’ movements and techniques with his veteran soldier’s eye.

‘My gladiators dance rings around him,’ he grumbled. ‘He fights too much like a soldier in formation. Those tactics work well when you’re one brick in a shield wall, facing a horde of undisciplined savages, but they don’t work so well one-on-one, against men trained like mine, who are all experts in the arts of speed, deception, fluidity and agility.’

Lucius was cautious not to appear argumentative in his response, so he made sure he adopted an overtly deferential tone before he spoke.

‘I agree completely, Batiatus. And I also understand that most of what he learned before is next to useless against the might and skill of your elite warriors. However, despite his stubbornness, I do feel that he can successfully be trained to become a successful gladiator.’

Batiatus slammed down his goblet with his meaty fist and turned to glare at Lucius, his mercurial temper suddenly flaring up like an unexpected thunderclap out of a blue sky.

‘Viridovix has been giving that stupid Thracian all sorts of pointers this morning, and has he taken heed of any? No! Like a stubborn brat he simply glowers, mutters and curses, and tries the same tactics again and again! This stubbornness, this downright stupidity, will damn well get him slaughtered, and thus cost me all that wasted time and coin spent on training and feeding him! All of it will go to waste, damn you!’

Lucius took a hefty swig of wine before replying, and reminded himself that he needed to remain calm and respectful in his response.

‘Batiatus, with all due respect, my friend, I believe that you may well be overlooking his most complimentary characteristic.’

‘I hope you’re not going to say “stubbornness”, Lucius, because that seems to be his overriding idiosyncrasy,’ Batiatus said sourly.

‘Stubbornness, bravery … are they not merely two faces of the same coin?’

The brewing storm vanished from Batiatus’s ruddy cheeks as quickly as it had materialised, and most of the dark anger