‘I’m sure you’re entertaining thoughts of escape,’ Lucius remarked coolly, ‘but trust me, there will be no escape from here.’ He paused and clamped a hand on Viridovix’s shoulder, and the fingers that squeezed the Gaul’s flesh were full of spite and condescension. ‘You’re no longer a man, Viridovix. You’re property, understand? The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for you. This is your new home, and you will die either within these walls or on the sands of some nearby arena. If you are exceptionally lucky though, you will survive the next ten years and be granted your freedom, along with a bounty of riches. I can tell you this … because it happened to me.’
Viridovix looked up, an expression of surprise splayed across his face.Lucius smiled, and his countenance took on a more sympathetic expression as he continued.
‘I may not look it Viridovix, but I was a gladiator once. Not a glorious champion by any means, but I was good enough to survive, and quick-witted enough to outlast many opponents. Lucky too, for when I lost matches, I was granted mercy by the whim of the crowd, or whatever important personage was watching. This may be your fate too, or it may not. Perhaps you will survive, perhaps you will not. Who can know the future? The gods have cast their dice, and this is the hand that you have been dealt. Accept it, do your best to survive, and perhaps in a few years things will turn out as well for you as they have for me.’
‘My fate will be written by my own hands, Roman dog,’ Viridovix growled in response, speaking the language of his extinct tribe. ‘The gods of tree, rock, stream and sky hold far more power than the false gods of your people. They will see me a free man again … and they will also give me your head.’
Lucius turned around to glare at Viridovix, with his features wrung into a tight scowl of wrath.
‘Stop mumbling in that savage tongue!’ he snarled, waving a threatening forefinger in the Gaul’s face. ‘This is Rome, and you will speak our language. If you refuse to, and continue to babble in that unintelligible prattle, Batiatus will have your tongue torn out with red-hot pincers. Gladiators don’t need tongues to fight, so I’m telling you this now: he’ll do it without hesitation. I know what you’re thinking, Viridovix – you’re thinking that you are strong, you have the soul of a warrior, that you are a hero. You think that you’re nothing at all like these other slaves, these broken men, these eunuch-like saps – for that is how you see them, is it not? You’re thinking that they will never break your spirit, that you will fight until the end, that you will choose freedom and death rather than a life of slavery and servitude.’ Lucius paused here to smirk, release a slow sigh and shake his head before he continued. ‘Really though, do you honestly think that none of them have ever entertained such fallacies? Bah! You’re a fool! Every single man in there once thought of himself as you currently do. And every single one of them has been broken. Every single one. You, Viridovix, you will be broken too. It will be easier for you to merely accept this truth rather than to continue to entertain foolish fancies of escape and freedom. Such dreams will cause you nothing but pain and endless torment. Trust me, just let them go. Let. Them.Go.’
‘Never,’ Viridovix growled.
Lucius sighed and shook his head once more.
‘Perhaps a more practical demonstration is in order.’
Without warning Lucius balled his fist and rocketed a fast jab into Viridovix’s nose. A blinding light flashed behind Viridovix’s eyeballs and then a sharp drill of pain bored its way through the top of his nose up into the centre of his brain, spreading disorienting ripples of agony throughout his skull. Lucius followed this up with a crunching blow to Viridovix’s solar plexus, which knocked the wind out of him. The injured man sank to his knees, stunned.
‘Guard! Come here at once!’ Lucius shouted.
One of the sentries, an armour-clad man who was standing guard at the entrance to the ludus, rushed over to Lucius.
‘Lucius Sertorius, hail!’
‘Aye, aye, hello, hello, let’s dispose of the formalities,’ Lucius said sourly. ‘Here’s a new recruit for Batiatus.’
‘He looks like a filthy street cur, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ the guard remarked dryly.
‘Yes, he does look rather rough around the edges, doesn’t he? He was a great warrior in his barbarian tribe though. Was. He needs a little “stern discipline”, I think. Would you be so kind?’
‘Gladly.’
The guard, grinning evilly, uncoiled a whip from his belt.
‘I don’t know who you are, dog, and I don’t need to,’ he snarled. ‘From this point on you belong to Batiatus. You are his property, you mangy mutt! That’s right, you’re nothing more than a dirty, flea-bitten dog owned by the master of this ludus. Let me tell you this: just as the good dog is showered with affection and treats from his master, so the good slaves are treated well here. But just like bad dogs are punished by their masters, bad slaves will be beaten – and I mean beaten without mercy. Believe me, you smelly beast, I know how to make you bleed, and I’ll bleed you to within an inch of your worthless life. You will not die unless you have the master’s permission to do so, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take you to death’s door itself and back.’
Viridovix glared up at the guard. Blood ran thick from his nose, matting his dense moustache, with the droplets that were perched on stray hairs gleaming in the torchlight.
‘I no fear—’
The guard lashed the whip with brutal force across Viridovix’s face, opening up a deep cut across his
