‘You’re nothing but a coward,’ Viridovix snarled.
‘You believed in what he is saying Viridovix, once upon a time,’ N’Jalabenadou said softly. ‘Once, you said these exact same words yourself.’
‘Taking his side now are you?’ Viridovix snapped. ‘Bah! So much for friends! I’ll eat the rest of my meal alone!’
He snatched up his loaf of bread, stood up and stormed off. The General watched him go and shook his head, while Oenomaus merely shrugged and continued shovelling down his food.
‘He really was once like you, despite how he is now,’ the General said to Spartacus. ‘All he could talk of was freedom. Yet his successes in the arena have changed him, and not for the better, I fear. The master’s leash is fast around his neck, and the more he denies it the tighter it chokes him.’
‘He is the best fighter in this ludus, is he not?’ Spartacus asked, chewing slowly on a tough crust. ‘That’s what I know of his reputation, at least. And what I experienced in the training yard today, of course.’
‘You’re right, Spartacus. He and Crixus are the best fighters in this ludus … perhaps in all of the Roman Republic. Neither has yet met his match in any arena we have travelled to.’
Spartacus turned to stare across the dining hall at Crixus, who was sitting on the floor in the far corner, away from all the other gladiators, all by himself. The big Carthaginian’s scarred, ugly face was as blank and expressionless as ever, and he was shoving his bread and porridge mechanically into his mouth.
‘Look at him,’ Spartacus muttered. ‘You all say he’s one of the greatest warriors of Rome, but what is he really? He has had every last ounce of whatever once made him a man, whatever once made him human, thrashed and flogged out of him. What now remains? An empty machine capable of combat, yes, but nothing else. And your friend Viridovix, he is just the same as Crixus.’
‘They ain’t nothing alike,’ Oenomaus muttered. ‘I mean, Crixus don’t talk to nobody, like, but Viridovix you can have a good chat with, and—’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Spartacus interjected. ‘What I mean is that neither possesses the essence of what makes a free man free any longer. Crixus had his humanity beaten out of him with a whip. Viridovix had it stolen away by the applause of the plebs, the cheers of the mob.’
‘But Viridovix is a bloody amazing fighter, he deserves them cheers,’ Oenomaus said.
Spartacus shrugged dismissively and dipped his bread once more in the porridge, driving it in deep to scoop up a big chunk of the glutinous goo.
‘It does not matter. He is a true slave, no matter his abilities with blade, spear or axe. Look how he laps up his master’s attention like a pathetic dog, how proud he is to wear his shackles.’
‘What else can we lot do? We’ve not got no other choice,’ Oenomaus rumbled. ‘I was a blacksmith, I was, many summers ago. It was a good life. I had my forge, my hammer, my anvil … I wasn’t no good at doing the complicated and detailed stuff, mind you, but for ploughs and hoes and spades I was your man, I was!’
‘Did you have a wife? A family?’ Spartacus asked.
Oenomaus nodded, and the corners of his wide mouth drooped with sudden sadness.
‘I had a wife. Big buxom redhead, she was! Gods, how her hair used to shine like fire in the autumn sun. We had us two lil’ brats too that managed to live beyond their first few years. Boys, both of ‘em. Good, strong boys. They were nowt but knee-high when the Romans came.’
‘And what happened to them?’
‘Dead,’ he murmured, his enormous shoulders slumping, his massive body seeming to curl in on itself. ‘All of ‘em. Most of my village, they was killed or taken slave by the Romans, they was.’
‘And that’s how you ended up here?’
Oenomaus nodded sadly.
‘That’s how.’
‘What about you, General?’ Spartacus said, turning to N’Jalabenadou.
The General’s face steeled over with a cold and sombre look.
‘My story opens too many wounds inside me to retell. I would rather not speak of it.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll not push you. Myself, I had a wife who I loved more than anything in the world, and I was a village headman in Thrace. The chieftain of our clan made an alliance pact with the Romans, and called us up to fight as auxiliaries to the Roman Army. We trusted our chieftain; indeed we trusted him far too blindly. It turned out that he had allied with the Romans against another tribe … a tribe who had been our closest allies for generations. We had kin in that tribe, all of us from the village. I found out that the chieftain, in his greed, wanted their fertile lands, and coveted the daughter of that tribe’s chieftain, who would not agree to her marrying our man. The Romans wanted the land too, so a secret deal was struck. When we were led into battle and we realised who we had been sent against, we turned coat and deserted the Roman Army, switching sides in order to help our kin fight against the Romans and the traitorous chief. It was all in vain though. We lost the battle and most of us were slaughtered. I was taken prisoner and sold into slavery for the crime of desertion.’
‘What about your wife, then?’ Oenomaus asked.
‘Taken by Rome,’ Spartacus croaked hoarsely, his voice cracking and his eyes tearing up as emotion surged through him. ‘Sold into slavery as a prostitute, raped, killed … I don’t know, and I don’t think I will ever find out. And that uncertainty about her fate is a thorn twisting its way through my entire body, every single minute of every single day. I have still not learned how to live with it yet, or to accept that … that I will never see her
