‘Yes, that’s what you say now, you useless fucking cur!’ he roared, spraying spittle into the Gaul’s face. ‘Come on, say it again, give me an excuse to use this one more time!’
Viridovix remained stock still, glaring at the guard with eyes as fiery as red coals in a brazier as blood trickled down his bearded cheek. ‘You will die bleeding like slaughtered pig on the end of my blade,’ he growled in the language of his people.
That statement earned him another blow from the whip, and this time the force was enough to knock him to the ground.
‘Don’t speak your barbarian shit here, dog!’ the guard yelled. ‘I swear, if I catch you speaking that again I’ll have your fucking tongue ripped out! A gladiator doesn’t need a tongue! Now get the fuck up, you stinking, ugly pile of shit!’
The guard slashed the whip across Viridovix’s bare thighs, opening up two massive, blood-welling welts. This time the Gaul could not help but cry out in pain, and as he did the guard’s grin grew even more savage.
‘Ha! Not as brave as you’re pretending to be, dog!’ he growled. ‘I thought so. You scum always break eventually. Now I’m going to show you the true meaning of pain—’
‘Hold there Marcus,’ a calm, steady voice called out. ‘I wish to inspect my new item before you damage it further.’
The guard immediately tucked the whip under his arm and saluted, staring ahead and standing with a ramrod-straight back.
‘Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Batiatus, hail!’ the guard barked.
‘At ease, at ease,’ the newcomer said.
Lucius too turned to greet Batiatus.
‘Batiatus. Good evening to you.’
‘Welcome, old friend. I see you have succeeded in procuring me a new gladiator.’
Batiatus, who had been observing this scene from the entrance to his villa, hobbled through the perfectly sculpted shrubs and flower bushes of his expansive, manicured garden. His limping gait was the result of a shattered leg that had never healed properly, a battle wound dealt to him many years prior, when he had been a centurion in the Roman army. Now in his fifties, he sported a youthful-looking face that seemed to be at odds with the bald pate above it, haloed by wisps of salt and pepper hair at the sides. His barrel chest and thick, muscular legs were lasting echoes of the conquering warrior he had once been.
‘Where is this one from?’ he asked Lucius, pointing at Viridovix. His soft, almost effete voice seemed as if it should have belonged to a smaller and less imposing man.
‘He was a warrior chieftain from northern Gaul,’ Lucius answered. ‘I found him amidst Sextus’s rabble, most of whom were destined for the quarries.’
‘Did you now?’ Batiatus murmured, studying Viridovix with a connoisseur’s eagle-eyed scrutiny. ‘You do have a fine talent for plucking gems from dung heaps, I’ll give you that.’
Lucius couldn’t resist smirking smugly, and he twirled the Gallic longsword with a flamboyant flourish in his hands.
‘Aye, and I have a suspicion that this one is far more gem than dung, despite his current appearance.’
Batiatus locked eyes with Viridovix, who was on his knees and still grimacing from the last lash of the guard’s whip.
‘What is your name, slave?’ he asked in the native dialect of northern Gaul.
‘I, I am called Viridovix,’ the slave stammered, taken aback at Batiatus’s fluent command of the Gallic language.
‘How many ears have you taken in battle?’
‘Over thirty,’ Viridovix replied slowly, still amazed that this Roman could speak his tongue so well.
‘Thirty!’ Batiatus exclaimed, genuinely impressed. ‘You were quite the warrior then, were you? That is an incredibly respectable count, I must say. I myself spent many years in northern Gaul, you see. I was a centurion in the Roman army before a battle-axe from one of your people shattered the bones of my right leg and put an end to my military career. Aside from the martial arts, one of my keenest interests has always been linguistics, and I thoroughly enjoy the pursuit of acquiring fluency in new languages. When I was in your land, I studied the common tongue of your tribes. I hope my pronunciation is not too unintelligible?’
‘It … it is excellent. You speak as one of my own people.’
Batiatus’s countenance lit up with subdued pride.
‘I’m glad I have not become too rusty. Now, if you will, let me explain a few things. As Lucius and my guard have been trying to explain, you are now my property. Your life, your entire existence, is mine to do with as I please. I have a reputation as a harsh master, I’ll admit, but if you ask the gladiators here you will discover that I am also a fair and a just master. As I mentioned, I was a centurion for many years, and I treat my gladiators as I did my soldiers; stay in line, obey orders, display courage and valour, and be utterly disciplined and committed, and I will reward you handsomely.
Yes, if you win victories in the arena, you will be allowed to enjoy the choicest wine, the finest food and the most attractive women, or boys, if you are so inclined. You will be showered with sensual pleasures and treated like a living god. If, however, you disobey me, and are rebellious, surly, cowardly or otherwise misbehaved, you will be shown the true meaning of the word “pain”. And I will not only break your body, I will break your mind and soul. For this purpose, I have cells deep beneath my own little arena in which no light shines. Each cell is perhaps large enough for a small child to lie down in … except that you are no small child, you are a fully-grown man. I assure you, it will be most uncomfortable for you down there in the darkness of the cell, with nothing but worms, spiders and other low creatures for company.’
‘I—’
‘No, no, don’t interrupt me, I haven’t finished yet. Here are the rules by which you are expected, nay, commanded, to conduct yourself in
