The General couldn’t help but chuckle at this, but in an instant the smile vanished from his face and his countenance once more assumed an air of cold severity.
‘What Oenomaus said is one reason that I have the nickname I do,’ N’Jalabenadou said, ‘but there are two others. The first is that I was supposed to die in my first appearance in the arena – yes, I was supposed to die along with the other members of the losing squad. It was one of those historical re-enactment performances, purporting to illustrate the battle of Zama, wherein the Roman general Scipio Africanus defeated Hannibal of Carthage. I was a raw recruit as a gladiator, but not as a fighter. The gladiator in my squad who was playing the part of Hannibal was killed almost immediately, as soon as the “battle” began. So, I took over and led my squad. We were poorly armed compared to those who represented the Roman Army, but thanks to some quick thinking and unconventional tactics on my part we managed to defeat them, to the complete surprise of the audience and our respective masters.’
Spartacus nodded.
‘I see. So this is what earned you the moniker?’
‘That yes, and the fact that in my pre-slave life, I was a general and I did lead an army.’
‘Your army clashed with that of Rome, then?’
‘No, never. I am from a place far south of Nubia. Many months’ journey, in fact. It is – was – a kingdom that no Roman will ever have heard of. In the halcyon era of my people, we were greater than Rome, but as the centuries passed we tore ourselves apart with greed and corruption, which eventually descended into civil war. A rebel faction split off from the royal family of my kingdom two hundred years ago in the time of my grandmother’s grandmother, and established a new kingdom to the north. They grew in size and strength, conquering and absorbing smaller tribes and kingdoms until they were large enough to raise armies against us. There were a series of wars, and in the last of them I became the head commander of my kingdom’s army. In the final battle, though, we were defeated, even though we inflicted heavy losses on the enemy. I was taken captive and sold into slavery. As far as I know, after the battle my city was razed to the ground, my people all slaughtered or taken as slaves by the victors … and that was the end for us. The ultimate, bitter end.’
‘How did you end up so far away from what was once your home? Nubia itself I thought was at the southern end of the earth, yet you say you are from a place many months south even of Nubia?’
The General nodded, and there was a great, near-crushing sadness in his tone as he continued.
‘None in Rome know of it, and indeed even many in the Egypt of today do not know of it, although their grandparents and great-grandparents certainly would have. The kingdoms of which I speak are cut off from the rest of the world by impassable mountains and dense jungles. Traders from our kingdoms used to travel up and down the Nile river. They needed slaves to row their boats, so they took the fittest and strongest for this task, for it is a long and arduous journey in which many slave rowers die of exhaustion. Those who survive are sold off in Nubia or, if they still have any strength left, further north in Egypt. I survived all the way to Egypt … but only just.’
‘And then?’
‘I was bought by an Egyptian who saw my worth as a fighter, and I was trained as a brawler to fight in cheap pit fights; base entertainment, and a means for sailors, thieves and other such lowlifes to place bets and gamble. I fought well though, for I had to to survive, and one day a visiting Roman merchant saw me fighting. He saw my potential as a gladiator and bought me from the Egyptian, and then brought me here to sell to Batiatus.’
‘Lucius Sertorius?’
The General nodded.
‘Aye, Lucius Sertorius.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the serving girl, who approached Oenomaus, Spartacus and N’Jalabenadou and squatted down next to them. N’Jalabenadou leaned back from Spartacus and coughed awkwardly and uncomfortably, putting on a charade of nonchalance.
‘Good evening gladiators,’ the girl said in a husky voice as she handed each of them an apple with her still-trembling hands.
Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears, and her bottom lip was still quivering from the trauma of her abuse at the hands of the guard.
‘I’m sorry about what that brute just did to you,’ Spartacus said in a gentle tone, with genuine sympathy radiating from his unremarkable face.
‘Thank you, gladiator,’ she replied, her voice cracking. ‘But I am just a slave. This is how things are for us. I must accept my lot, as fated by the gods.’
She set the platter down, and the gladiators began biting into the apples she had just given them. On the platter was a large melon, which Spartacus was eyeing out.
‘Girl, could you cut me a slice of melon, please?’ he asked.
‘Certainly.’
She picked up a large knife from the platter and sliced through the melon. Spartacus watched closely, narrowing his eyes as she cut up the fruit.
‘Thank you,’ he said with a warm smile as she handed him the melon. ‘Tell me, what is your name?’
‘My name is Euphemia.’
Spartacus chuckled softly as he took the slice of melon from her.
‘That’s a Roman name, girl. I meant, what is your real name? I can tell that you’re not Roman just from looking at you. What was your name before they took you? The name your parents gave you, I mean.’
‘I am from Carthage. At least … from what little remained of it after it was destroyed by the Romans. Slave traders took me when
