‘He’s lost already,’ Batiatus grumbled, shaking his head with disappointment as he crossed his hirsute forearms over his barrel chest. ‘See, he’s going to try his legionary tactics on Oenomaus. He’ll get battered to pulp by that giant.’
Lucius simply remained silent, staring with cool concentration at the unfolding fight.
Spartacus attacked first, driving forward with his shield and then opening it up at the last minute to dart a fast thrust out from behind it, attempting to get under Oenomaus’s arm and stab his ribs with the blunt training blade.
Oenomaus, however, was far faster than he looked. Using his steel-armoured elbow as a shield, he deflected the attempted strike with a force that almost knocked the gladius out of Spartacus’s hand, while whipping the war-hammer around in a whistling arc. It crashed into the centre of Spartacus’s long shield, and the power of the blow cracked the wooden shield in half and sent Spartacus stumbling to his right. With only the barest of margins he managed to keep his footing, and he ducked just in time to avoid having his head crushed by the instant follow-up hack from the war-hammer. There was no time to attempt a riposte; all he could do was to leap back as the hammer whistled through the air again just a few centimetres from where his face had been a split second earlier.
Oenomaus leered at Spartacus, who had adjusted his guard now that he had been forced to discard his destroyed shield. The German stood well over seven feet tall, and atop his gargantuan body was perched a huge rectangular skull. This block-like head was dominated by an over-large face, the distortion of the features of which was caused by his gigantism; jutting cheekbones, a bulging forehead and a massive chin were all symptoms of this. Disproportionately small eyes peered out from beneath a bushy golden unibrow, below which sat a bulbous, heavily pockmarked nose.
‘Come here little Thracian,’ he growled, his voice as rough and deep as an elephant’s belly rumble.
‘He’ll murder him,’ Batiatus murmured, staring with horrified fascination as the giant advanced on Spartacus.
‘No he won’t,’ Lucius murmured. ‘He won’t.’
Oenomaus swung his war-hammer once and then twice in two scything arcs, both of which Spartacus only barely managed to evade. Spartacus darted in with a quick stab at the giant’s lower belly, but Oenomaus brought up an armoured thigh with surprisingly agile speed to block and deflect the blow. In the same movement he swivelled his hips and crashed the butt of his hammer into Spartacus’s face, sending him flying backwards to land heavily on the dirt, with blood running freely from his nose. Spartacus’s sword flew from his hand and landed nine feet away, leaving him completely unarmed.
‘This is the part where you beg for mercy, little man,’ Oenomaus snarled as he sprang forward with his war-hammer raised high above his head, ready to bring it down in a killing blow.
‘No,’ Spartacus whispered, ‘this is the part where you beg for mercy.’
Oenomaus roared and brought his hammer hurtling down in a vertical chop, aiming directly for Spartacus’s wide-open chest – but at the last moment before impact Spartacus rolled acrobatically to his right, and applying the same technique that Viridovix had just used to trip him up, with his feet he hooked and twisted the giant’s leading leg, bringing him crashing to the ground. Without giving his adversary even a second to recover, Spartacus grabbed a sharp shard of the shattered wooden shield and thrust it with deadly force at Oenomaus’s exposed throat.
‘No!’ Batiatus howled, jumping out of his seat despite his gammy leg and almost falling over in the process.
The splintered stake of wood stopped abruptly, hovering in the air a mere millimetre from Oenomaus’s acne-scarred skin. The giant peered up at Spartacus with fear-tinged eyes and raised his hand in the gladiatorial gesture for mercy. Panting from the effort of the fight and bleeding copiously from his broken nose, Spartacus flung the splintered wood away and staggered back. He offered a hand to the fallen titan, who accepted it gratefully and rose to his feet.
Lucius jumped up and applauded loudly and enthusiastically from the stands.
‘Well done Spartacus! Well done!’ he cried, the vociferousness of his praise bolstered by his partial inebriation. ‘There are few in this arena who can best that giant, and certainly none have done so in their first fight against him … none until you, that is! Bravo!’
‘You did well, little man,’ Oenomaus rumbled begrudgingly.
Batiatus, who was supporting himself against the railing, shook his head and said nothing to the gladiators. He turned and eased himself back into his chair, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and then he glared icily at Lucius with wrath-simmering eyes and crimson-flushed cheeks.
‘He almost killed one of my most prized fighters,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
‘Indeed,’ Lucius replied smugly, beaming a self-satisfied grin. ‘This does not please you?’
Lucius’s conceitedness oozed through his skin with the palpable heat of summer sweat, acrid and sour. He knew that he was treading on thin ice here with the adoption of this tone, but he was so drunk on his victory of opinion that he didn’t care. In a sudden burst of rage, Batiatus picked up his goblet and flung it as hard as he could onto the tiled floor with a snarl of explosive anger. A slave hurried over to clean up the mess as Batiatus thumped an angry fist onto the table and glowered across the training ground at Spartacus.
‘It does not please me, and I do not like him! I regret purchasing this one, Lucius. I don’t know what it is about him, but something about that Thracian makes me uneasy, very uneasy. You brought him here Lucius, and I will say this: any ill that befalls this house on his account will be visited tenfold on your head. I’m warning you, do not take my words lightly. Do not.’
Lucius was genuinely confused, and he turned and looked
