‘I do not understand, old friend. What possible ill could come of this? He has all the makings of a fine gladiator. He is not as stubborn and unwilling to learn as we first surmised, and—’
‘He is deceitful!’ Batiatus spat. ‘That whole performance with Viridovix was a charade, a very well-orchestrated charade, and of such things no good can possibly come! I don’t like this, Lucius, I don’t like it at all. I have half a mind to cut my losses and sell him to the quarry.’
Lucius felt the spurs of pride pricking his argumentative nature, and he found it unbearable to remain diplomatic for a second longer. Annoyance gleamed in his eyes and he gripped the edge of the table tightly.
‘Surely you are being overly cautious here, Batiatus! I honestly cannot understand this! He is a slave, and he will be broken as surely as all the others have been broken. Remember how defiant Viridovix was when he first came here? Why, it seemed that breaking him would be nigh on impossible, yet there he now stands, champion of the arena and as loyal and trustworthy as any lapdog. Why are you suddenly so, so paranoid and obstinate? What on earth makes you think that Spartacus will not follow the same route?’
Batiatus glared at Lucius with white-hot rage for a few charged moments … but then seemed to decide against escalating the tension further, and instead shook his head, frowned deeply and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘I feel it in my bones, Lucius. There is something about that Thracian that I do not like, that I do not like in the least.’
‘Surely … surely you are not frightened—’
At this, Batiatus lunged across the table and gripped Lucius’s tunic with rage-quivering fists. His eyes bulged red and flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he roared.
‘How dare you, you fucking cur! You would name me coward in my own ludus?! Nobody, and I mean nobody, not even fucking Jupiter himself accuses Batiatus of cowardice! You, you fucking slave shit! I ought to give you to Octavian and his Huntsmen, give you to them and let them flay you and tear your filthy entrails from your belly!’
Lucius raised his hands in a submissive gesture, his eyes wide with sudden fright as he tried to lean back in a retreat from the immediate proximity of Batiatus’s wrath-purple visage.
‘I meant no offence, my friend. It was not my intention—’ he began meekly, all traces of arrogant argumentativeness purged from his system.
‘Don’t you fucking ever call me a coward again, Lucius!’ Batiatus snarled as he eased his grip off Lucius’s tunic and shoved the smaller man roughly away from him. ‘Ever! Do you understand?! Do you fucking understand?!’
Lucius swallowed slowly.
‘I understand, old friend … I understand.’
***
‘You fought well today, little man,’ Oenomaus remarked as he, Spartacus, Viridovix and N’Jalabenadou sat and ate their bowls of porridge together on the rough-cobbled floor of the dining hall.
N’Jalabenadou nodded as he dipped a hunk of his bread into the communal bowl of porridge. Viridovix, seemingly jealous of the praise given to this haughty newcomer, merely huffed and looked away as he wolfed down his food, declining even to acknowledge Spartacus’s presence in their circle. The General noticed this and shook his head with quiet frustration and disapproval. He then looked up and flashed a toothy smile at the stony-faced Thracian before addressing him.
‘Oenomaus speaks the truth. You used your mind as a weapon in addition to the steel you carried, and this is the surest sign of an elite warrior in the making. Few here possess the raw talent that you have been blessed with, Spartacus.’
‘Thank you, General,’ Spartacus muttered, dabbing with stiff and unenthusiastic fingers at the lukewarm porridge with his hunk of bread. ‘I have no desire, however, to become any sort of “elite”, warrior or otherwise. I never have.’
The General masticated both on this sentiment and the mouthful of bread he was chewing, an expression of intense concentration coming over his visage as he stared with unabashed fascination at the newcomer.
‘Freedom is what you desire most. I see this. I know this.’
‘There won’t be no freedom for us gladiators,’ Oenomaus grunted. ‘We fight until that day comes that some faster, stronger or just plain luckier bastard gets the better of us in the arena. It’s a shit roll of the dice that the gods cast for us lot, but what else can we do but accept it?’
Spartacus shook his head sullenly and took a swig of water from his earthenware cup. He lifted the cup too quickly and bumped his swollen, freshly broken nose, causing him to yelp with pain and spit the water out onto the floor.
‘Sorry about the nose, friend,’ Oenomaus commented sheepishly. ‘Was just doing as I been trained to, see.’
Spartacus nodded, grimacing against the throbbing agony that was inching its way up his forehead.
‘You broke my nose,’ he growled through clenched teeth to Oenomaus.
‘I said I was sorry about—’
Spartacus held up a hand to silence the giant.
‘You didn’t let me finish. You broke my nose, why?’
‘Because, er, because, well, we was training, see.’
‘That’s right. Training for what?’
Oenomaus’s brow became furrowed with confusion.
‘Well, er, uh, to fight in the arena, what else?’
‘And why do we need to fight in the arena?’
‘Because we’re fucking gladiators!’ Viridovix roared, barging with sudden fury into the conversation. ‘The best gladiators in all of Rome are in this ludus! We fight to bring honour to the house of Batiatus, and for the glory of victory against any and all comers! That is why we fight, Thracian!’
Spartacus shook his head slowly, his countenance grim and severe.
‘No. That’s a lie, and nothing more. We fight because we’re slaves, because we have no other choice. We fight in the arena because we’re forced to by our master. We fight in the arena because if we don’t we’ll be thrown into that dungeon and left to rot, or worse, we’ll be crucified. And nobody will
