‘You!’ Maharbaal snapped, pointing the whip at Spartacus, ‘new pup, you fucking step out and ‘ead down to the end o’ the line there. You’ll be sparring with that big dumb ox Oenomaus, you will! Fucking move, man, move! Are you deaf as well as stupid?’
Spartacus steeled his resolve against the sharp agony that was throbbing in his back, and then turned and jogged over to the end of the line where Oenomaus was waiting. Oenomaus – a platinum-haired, blue-eyed Germanic tribesman from the far north, with almost albino-pale skin – was a gargantuan specimen of manhood who towered head and shoulders over most of the other gladiators. A blacksmith in his former life, his arms were as thick and knotty as aged oak branches, and his torso was as substantial as a wine barrel, perched on two long and heavily muscled legs. Built for brute strength rather than speed and agility, Oenomaus wore heavy armour, and in the arena carried a massive war hammer. One well-struck blow from it could crush the skull of any man to pulp, even one wearing a steel helmet, so for training he used a lighter wooden hammer. However, even though it was less deadly than his steel hammer, the wooden training weapon could just as easily end a man’s life with a well-struck blow.
‘Rest for five minutes, ya bunch o’ fucking street dogs!’ Maharbaal shouted hoarsely as he strode back and forth across the sands, cracking his whip and rasping curses at the gladiators.
Two nubile slave girls, only barely out of their teen years, came strutting onto the training ground, each carrying an amphora of water. The girls were nude aside from tiny and near-transparent loincloths, and they wore their luscious hair loose and unbound around their slim shoulders. Each pair of male eyes traced the girls’ every move with a lust-dripping gaze – except for those of Spartacus. He ignored the girls completely, and instead used the opportunity to scope out the training arena, making mental notes for possible weak points from whence he could make an escape.
His roving eyes went unnoticed by Lucius and Batiatus, both of whom were also staring at the barely clad teenage girls as they offered water to the resting gladiators.
‘When I was one of your gladiators,’ Lucius remarked, leering at the young women with a lascivious grin, ‘I always said a silent and most sincere “thank you” to you every time you sent your beautiful wenches out to give us water, Batiatus. A most genius tactic, it was – is, my friend.’
Batiatus released a sanguine chuckle before replying.
‘It was no act of genius, Lucius. It merely came from keen observation and analysis from my time in the Legion. Sexually deprived men harbour far more frustration and ferocity than those who regularly partake of the delights of a woman’s body. Consequently, they fight like cornered beasts, with all that bottled-up lust manifesting itself as maddened aggression. I keep showing my dogs what they can’t have, and they get frustration building up with unbearable pressure inside … and this becomes furious battle-rage out on the sands. Furthermore, it serves to give a visual reminder to my fighters of the delights that await them as rewards for winning their matches, which is a good motivator for success, is it not?’
Lucius nodded, stroking the smooth metal of his goblet with appreciative fingers and toying absentmindedly with the little beads of condensation on its curves. He took a sip of wine, feeling a little intoxicated now, and then responded to Batiatus.
‘And it endears them to you, my friend, painting a picture of a most generous and benevolent master who showers his faithful servants with rewards.’
Batiatus clamped one of his hefty hands upon Lucius’s bony shoulder and gave the insubstantial flesh between his fingers a playful squeeze.
‘Quite the analyst of strategy, aren’t you?’ Batiatus said.
Lucius grinned, and with more than a dash of arrogance sparkling in his deep-set eyes he drained his goblet of the last dregs of wine before setting it down and speaking.
‘I wouldn’t have gotten where I am now without stretching this to the limits of its performance,’ he replied, tapping the side of his head.
‘Aye. Sharp wits are as essential as a sharp sword in the armoury of a gladiator. You certainly do have some of the sharpest I’ve come across.’
Lucius’s superciliousness was almost palpable now; flattery and praise stoked the fires of his vanity with the flammable intensity of sparks shot into dry brush.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said, beaming a cocky smile, stretching his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair.
Maharbaal’s booming voice interrupted their conversation as it resounded across the training ground.
‘Break is over! Get your worthless arses up off the sand and fucking FIGHT!’
With an excess of cursing, spitting and bellowing, Maharbaal strode around the sands, cracking his whip in the air and ruthlessly chastising any gladiators who were sluggish in obeying his command.
‘Let’s see how your suggestion pans out, shall we?’ Batiatus said to Lucius as he focused his attention on Spartacus, who was squaring off against Oenomaus. ‘Personally, I don’t think he’ll last more than a few seconds against my resident giant.’
Lucius merely shrugged quietly, still wearing his subtly arrogant smile.
Out on the sands, as he prepared for combat with Oenomaus, Spartacus adopted his usual guard position, that of the Roman legionary – that which had failed him so many times against Viridovix. The enormous German gripped his wooden war hammer in both hands, angling himself so that his heavily armoured left half was at his fore, effectively shielding him from any quick
