The Forgotten Legion

instruction to produce a trained gladiator, ready for combat. He mouthed a swift prayer of thanks to Jupiter, promising to make an offering later at the shrine in his cell.

'Memor wants you ready in a month. Stand a good chance by practising like that.' Cotta jerked a thumb at the group of retiarii in the far corner of the yard. 'He 'll probably put you up against a fisherman. And not a novice either.' He winked. 'That'd be far too easy. More sport for the crowd watching a rookie secutor fighting a crafty old retiarius.'

Romulus redoubled his efforts with the palus, knocking chips off with each blow. He knew the self-educated Libyan spent more time with him than the other new gladiators. Sensing Romulus' thirst for knowledge, Cotta had also been giving him regular lessons in military tactics. It was immensely empowering to learn the details of battles such as Cannae, when Hannibal had annihilated eight Roman legions, and Thermopylae, where three hundred Spartans had held off a million Persians. There were recent tales too, stirring accounts of Caesar's incredible victories against the Gaulish tribes. Romulus now knew the basics of warfare and how great minds could often beat overwhelming odds. While his body was contained within the walls of the ludus, his mind, fed by Cotta's classes, roamed far beyond. Now, more than ever, he longed to be free.

'I will be ready, Master Cotta,' he muttered. 'I swear it.'

The old gladiator smiled as he walked away, yelling instructions.

After five months of intensive exercise, Romulus' frame was heavily muscled and his black hair had grown long. A thin leather band held it back, exposing a tanned face. The boy was becoming a handsome young man. He was already as tall as some of the gladiators, and as fast, even if he lacked combat experience.

When Cotta let him finish at last, Romulus' arms were burning. He let the shield fall wearily to his side and trudged off the dirt practice ground.

All but one side of the square building was given up to cells accommodating the trainers and fighters, while the other contained the baths, kitchens, mortuary and armoury. On the second floor lay the offices, sick bay and Memor's luxurious quarters. Apart from prostitutes and rich clients, few ever set foot inside the lanista's domain.

It was only a dozen steps to the tiny room he shared with three other gladiators. There was barely space in it for their beds and a shrine to the gods. Sextus was the most friendly inmate, a short, tough Spaniard who seldom spoke. Lentulus was nearer his own age, a Goth with two years' experience and a fierce temper. The last was Gaius, a broad-shouldered retiarius with little brain, whose flatulence was the main topic of conversation in the cell.

Fortunately Romulus' roommates had no taste for young men, and he had slept undisturbed since arriving. From the glances some fighters gave him, Romulus knew that he would be raped if they ever cornered him. He had already had several lucky escapes. He was particularly careful never to go to the toilet area alone and wore a sharp dagger on his belt at all times. Although Memor did not allow swords or larger weapons in the cells, knives were tolerated. The lanista's archers had nothing to fear from these.

The walls of the poorly lit room ran with damp. Anyone who slept by them constantly had wet bedding. And as he was the newest inmate, the worst spot belonged to Romulus. He bore his obligation silently, knowing it was part of the ritual of acceptance. Each morning, he dutifully carried his straw mattress outside to dry while the others laughed. Every evening he reversed the performance.

Romulus picked up the heavy load beside the door and paused. Taking a deep breath, he entered.

'Still soft, boy!'

'Too used to the good life!'

Romulus flushed. There was some truth to the jibes. Life in the ludus was much harsher than in Gemellus' service. He dropped the bedding back onto the rough slats of his cot.

'Wait till winter comes,' sneered Lentulus. 'Then you'll really know how miserable that corner is!'

Romulus disliked the stocky young Goth, who was always looking for ways to bait him. Angered by the constant comments, Romulus suddenly took a stand. 'I might take your bed instead.'

Gaius opened both eyes warily.

'How are you going to do that?' Lentulus laughed. 'Stick me with that excuse for a sword?'

The retiarius sniggered.

Lentulus lay back on his mattress, picking his rotten teeth with a splinter.

Romulus took hold of his dagger. 'I'll teach you a lesson,' he said slowly.

The Goth stiffened, hand reaching for something on the floor. Iron grated off the stone as he slid out a gladius that he had hidden under his bed.

A rush of adrenalin and fear hit Romulus. Better to pick a fight in the yard, not such a confined space. And when he had more than a knife or a wooden sword to fight with. His own real one was locked up with all the others in the armoury. Thirty paces and a lifetime away. Maybe it had been a mistake to answer back.

Lentulus began to sit up, pulling the gladius on to his lap.

'Peace, Lentulus,' said a familiar voice. 'We are all tired and hungry.'

Romulus looked gratefully at Sextus.

The little Spaniard was one of the ludus' most feared gladiators. Wielding his axe with ferocious skill, the scissores' speciality was picking off the weak and wounded men in the arena.

Not confident enough to antagonise Sextus, Lentulus fell silent. But it was only a matter of time before things with the malevolent Goth got physical.

And the scissores wouldn't always be around to defuse the situation.

Sooner or later he would have to fight Lentulus. The thought filled Romulus with a mixture of dread and excitement. As well as being five or six years younger, he was a lot shorter than the secutor, who had survived half a dozen single combats unscathed, a respectable record for any gladiator.

The dinner gong clanged loudly.

Sextus smiled and got to his feet. 'Time to eat.'

Lentulus made a stabbing motion that was not lost on Romulus.

They glared at each other, both refusing to drop their gaze.

'Time for food,' repeated the scissores.

Romulus picked up his bowl and trooped out, keeping Sextus between him and Lentulus. Next time he would be more careful. Stomach growling, he put the matter from his mind.

'Keep rubbing!'

The unctor poured more drops of aromatic oil on to the Gaul's vast back, expertly kneading the muscles.

Brennus lay naked on a bare wooden table, luxuriating in the massage.

Memor took care of his top gladiators, allowing them favours others only dreamt of. After the unctor had finished, he was going to enjoy a long soak in the baths, followed by a meal prepared by Astoria, his woman.

'You killed the murmillo too quickly today. That damn contest took months to arrange.'

Brennus opened his eyes to find that Memor had entered the room. 'The crowd seemed to like it,' he replied casually.

'They are fickle,' snapped the lanista. 'How many times must I tell you to make the fights last as long as possible?'

The Gaul's habit of dispatching men fast was something that had irritated Memor for years. But despite Brennus' unorthodox modus operandi, the people had come to love him, which annoyed the lanista even more.

Brennus grunted as the unctor found a knot in one shoulder. He wasn't prepared to make men suffer and Memor knew it.

'Pay attention, damn you!'

The Gaul closed his eyes. 'I heard.'