Should you lose, of course, that will likely be the end of your life. In my ludus, I do not permit my gladiators to ask for mercy, ever. If you are lucky, the crowd will decide to give you your life – but you will never, ever ask for it. If you are defeated in the arena, and the crowd denies you mercy, you will die with honour on the sands. If you do ask for mercy and are granted it, I will guarantee you a very slow and painful death in the torture chamber beneath this ludus. To beg for mercy with an opponent’s blade at one’s throat is to bring great dishonour upon this house, and I will not stand for it. I will not. Do you understand these terms?’
Viridovix nodded, but still the thirst for freedom continued to burn unquenched within his soul. Batiatus, oblivious, clasped his hands together, cocked his head to one side and smiled.
‘Good! You will report to your doctore at sunrise in three days, but until then you will be kept in solitary confinement in one of the subterranean cells.’
Viridovix’s eyes grew wide at this statement.
‘But, no, I—’
Batiatus punched Viridovix across his face with a vicious right cross, knocking him to the ground in a daze. He shook his hand out afterwards, opening and closing his fingers and grimacing.
‘I find the best way to instil discipline, slave, is to subject you to the horrors of the underground cells as soon as you arrive here. After three days in the pitch-black hell below the sands, you will do whatever I command, I assure you of that.’ Batiatus then gave the guard a nod. ‘Guard, take him to the underground cells. The next time I see you, Viridovix, I will be looking down at you from the stands above the training ground, and I expect you to be following your doctore’s orders to the absolute letter. This you will gladly do, I suspect, after your coming ordeal underground.’
Viridovix was dragged off in a daze, drooling a mess of saliva and blood from his battered mouth. Lucius, meanwhile, turned to Batiatus and grinned with sadistic delight.
‘Your fists have the power of a soldier half of your age, Batiatus. I wouldn’t have liked to have faced you on the battlefield in the days of your youth.’
‘Aye, aye, I was a feared adversary, I was. I miss my soldiering days, I do; the thrill of battle, the razing of villages, the destruction of the barbarian tribes for the glory of the Empire! Still, there is excitement to be had in the arena – vicarious, of course, but with this ruined leg of mine, a swordsman with even an ounce of skill would make short work of me. You know how important footwork is, Lucius, as a former gladiator yourself.’
‘I certainly do, dear friend. Why, the speed and dexterity of my own footwork afforded me great victories over opponents far larger and stronger than myself.’
‘Yes, yes. You had a fantastic eye for sizing up fighters and playing against their weaknesses. This talent has also been put to good use in your selecting of gladiatorial material from the slave markets.’
‘And for that you have duly rewarded me in gold,’ Lucius said, his gratitude plain. ‘Far more than I know what to do with, in fact.’
Batiatus shrugged.
‘There is ample coin to be made from entertaining the plebs. More so than commanding armies, if you do it right.’
Lucius’s smile morphed abruptly into a deep frown.
‘Speaking of armies, my friend, I must tell you of a new force that appears to be amassing in secret. I know not their purpose, but they have come for me with the intention of taking my life on a number of occasions … including right now, on the road to your villa.’
Batiatus raised a surprised eyebrow.
‘What? What is this force of which you speak?’
‘I know little about this mysterious group … which is why I need your assistance in discovering more about them, and their greater purpose. All I know is that they are called “the Huntsmen”.’
PART FOUR
15
MARGARET
3rd October 2020. Banamba Villlage, in the far east of the Democratic Republic of the Congo
The cockroach sat nibbling on a crumb of maize meal on the floor of the tent, completely unaware of the long-legged rain spider preparing to pounce from a nearby shadow. Both creatures, however, had failed to see the hulking baboon spider who was waiting in a hairy crouch, behind a half-crushed soda can, with bared fangs, razor-honed focus and single-minded intent. Margaret could not take her eyes off of this scene of primordial horror, this tableau of violence distilled to its ancient essence: fight, kill, or be killed. This was the primal law of tooth and claw, written as plainly as it could be.
An abrupt voice, thick with a French accent, yanked her from this hypnotic scene back to the oppressively humid present of this green hell.
‘Doc,’ Bouchard drawled as he poked his
