by Ben Kane
Chores over, that night Velvinna listened to her son recount Pertinax' tale yet again.
'Be careful, Romulus,' she said, her voice full of pride. 'Nobody must see you with a sword, especially Servilius. Gemellus will not stand for it.'
'Don't worry, Mother.' Romulus' eyelids drooped with tiredness as Velvinna pulled the blanket over his shoulders. 'Nobody knows.'
Exhaustion brought him sleep at once, and dreams of being a soldier in Spartacus' army.
Romulus was rudely awoken the next morning when cold links of metal fastened around both wrists. Confused, he found they had been bound with a light chain. The boy sat up and gazed round the room, terror replacing the alarm. Fabiola and his mother were motionless in their beds, staring at Gemellus.
The merchant stood in the doorway, flanked by Ancus and Sossius, two burly kitchen slaves. Neither would meet Romulus' eye. Most of the household had known him since he was a baby.
'Try and use a sword under my roof? Little bastard!' Gemellus spat. 'Then stab me in my sleep, no doubt. I've been soft far too long. It's the gladiator school for you. Today.' A smile flickered across his lips. 'Learn how to fight there.'
Romulus knew instantly that his life as a common slave had come to an end.
'No, Master, please.' Velvinna threw herself at Gemellus' feet.
Fabiola sat bolt upright, her face stricken. This was just what she had feared.
'Get up, bitch.' Gemellus hauled Velvinna up by the hair. She cried out in pain, but the merchant backhanded her across the cheek and she fell back on to the cot, sobbing.
'Take him.' Gemellus gestured.
The end of the chain extended several feet beyond Romulus' wrists. With a powerful yank, Ancus pulled him out of bed and on to the floor.
Tears filled Fabiola's eyes.
'My son!' Velvinna screamed.
'Useless whore. You'll never see him again,' sneered Gemellus. 'I'll be back for his sister later.'
'Don't worry, Mother.' The words rang hollow, but Romulus did not know what else to say.
She wailed and cried even louder. Everyone knew what entering gladiator school meant.
'Let's go. I can't listen to this.' Gemellus turned and led his men out of the room.
'It wasn't me who told on you!' Fabiola's voice was frantic. 'Romulus!'
'Take care of Mother!'
As Romulus opened his mouth to shout again, Gemellus gestured at Sossius, who turned back and slammed the door shut.
More sounds of distress echoed down the hallway as he was marched off, clad only in his loincloth. Romulus knew Fabiola would not lie. They were far too close. One of the others must have seen Juba training him and informed to curry favour. Servilius?
Slaves had no choice in their lives; they could be bought and sold at will. But Romulus had never imagined leaving Gemellus' possession – he had known no other life. He was torn between fear and excitement at what was happening. While the prospect of becoming a fighter was thrilling, he would probably never see his family again. Romulus looked back one last time, Velvinna's sobs tearing at his heart, wishing his weapons practice with Juba had been quieter. But the man holding the chain was twice his size.
Stories were frequently told in the kitchen about famous gladiators who fought barbarians and wild beasts in the arena. Romulus had always enjoyed listening to the tales, but had never been inside a training school and seen the reality. For a moment, his heart began to race, full of romantic ideas about being one of the people 's heroes.
Sensing something, Gemellus cuffed him across the head. 'A boy like you will be dead inside a month.'
Romulus' heart sank. Of course. What chance would a thirteen-yearold have against professional gladiators?
'You'll need to prove yourself damn quick.'
They had reached the alcove by the front door. Romulus saw with alarm that the Nubian was not in the usual spot.
'Think I'd keep anyone who teaches others to fight?' Gemellus laughed. 'The brute 's on his way to the Campus Martius right now.'
He gaped at the merchant, confused.
'To be crucified.'
Romulus lunged at Gemellus, eyes full of murderous rage.
Ancus pulled reluctantly on the chain, stopping the attack before it even started. Romulus stumbled and fell heavily, all too aware he could do nothing to save Juba.
Gemellus kicked him in the belly. 'Born a slave!' Another kick followed. 'Die a slave. Now get up.'
The door creaked open and the merchant led the way outside. No one paid any heed to the little party. It was common practice to shackle slaves outside the home.
Romulus remembered little of the walk. Still winded, he followed numbly, mind awash with grief and guilt at Juba's fate, whose only crime had been teaching him how to use a sword. Now he was responsible for a man's death. For the sale of Fabiola. What would happen to his mother? How long would he last in the savage world of the arena?
All four lives had been turned upside down overnight. Romulus blinked away tears. Show the bastard no weakness. Be strong, like Fabiola. He took a deep breath in, concentrating hard, trying to release the guilt. Jupiter protect me. Look after my family.
By the time Gemellus reached a set of iron gates set into an archway, Romulus had regained some control of his emotions. Red-eyed, shoulders broad, he was determined to remain courageous.
A square stone was set into the bricks over the entrance, inscribed with two words. Although he could not read, Romulus knew their meaning. It was the Ludus Magnus, largest of the four gladiator schools in Rome and a supplier of men for Milo's gangs.
The bare-headed guard outside wore a battered chain mail shirt reaching to mid-thigh. Leaning against the wall behind was a long spear. A short stabbing sword was ready on the man's belt; a sturdy rectangular shield decorated with a strange emblem hung from his left arm.
'State your business.'
'I want to sell this brat to Memor.'
He looked Romulus up and down. 'Bit young, isn't he?'
'What has it to do with you?' Gemellus snapped. 'Let us inside!'
Sullenly the guard pulled open the nearest gate a fraction, just enough space to enter. As soon as they had passed inside, it clanged shut.
Romulus' pulse quickened at the finality of the sound. Many of the inmates were criminals, hence the sentry. For most, entry to the ludus was a death sentence, a career that only the very best survived for more than a year or two. His dreams of glory had been ludicrous, but he could not suppress a shiver of excitement.
Gemellus advanced through a short corridor into an open training area.
The large two-storey building was built with a hollow square in the centre, providing a whole world within four walls. It was full of gladiators training and sparring with each other.
Romulus watched, fascinated. The two nearest made up the classic pairing of retiarius versus secutor.
'You will be a fisherman.' Gemellus pointed at the man in a loincloth, armed only with a trident. The retiarius was waving a weighted net back and forth, readying himself to throw. The merchant spat in Romulus' face. 'Lowest form of fighter. Good prey for a hunter!'
The secutor crouched warily, oval shield held high, a short wooden sword ready in his right hand. Romulus took in the visored helmet, the greave on the left leg and the leather bands protecting the right arm. It all seemed very one-sided. The secutor was so heavily armoured compared to his opponent, whose only protection was armour on the right shoulder.
Suddenly the hunter began weaving from side to side. He lunged forward to the left, then immediately to the right. But the fisherman judged the perfect time to throw the net. The secutor went down, limbs flailing in the weighted mesh. In a flash, the retiarius was on him, wooden trident touching the throat. The defeated gladiator thrust up a hand, forefinger extended, pleading for mercy. Laughing, the retiarius hauled him to his feet and they started the process all over again.
Romulus felt a tiny surge of hope. He saw the merchant scowling
at the unexpected turn of events.
Gemellus led the way around the edge of the training area to a thick timber post, against which other gladiators were practising.
'The palus,' whispered Ancus. 'If chosen to fight with a sword, that's where you'll spend your days.'
Romulus glanced at the two kitchen slaves. Still neither would meet his eyes, but he felt no anger towards them. If Ancus and Sossius had not followed Gemellus' orders, they would have swiftly followed Juba to the Campus Martius.
On one side of the palus was a short, grizzled figure in a richly cut tunic. The long grey hair contrasted with his lined, tanned skin. Alongside him stood a huge man carrying a whip. When he saw Gemellus approach, the lanista stopped shouting orders.
'Gemellus. I don't normally see you here.' He studied Romulus.
The merchant propelled him forward. 'What will you give me for this boy?'
'I need men here. Not children.'
The hulk with the whip grinned toothlessly.
'Look at the size of him,' protested Gemellus. 'And he's only thirteen!'
Cold eyes sized Romulus up. 'Can you fight with weapons?'
Romulus stared back. To have any chance of survival, there must be no fear visible. He nodded.
'That's why the little bastard is here,' interjected the merchant.
Memor rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'A thousand sestertii.'
Gemellus laughed. 'I'd get more on the slave block! He 's worth at least three. Look at those muscles!'
'I'm in a good mood this morning, Gemellus. Fifteen hundred.'
'Twenty-five hundred.'
'Stop wasting my time.'
'Two thousand?' There was still hope in the merchant's eyes.
'Eighteen hundred. Not a sestertius more.'
Gemellus had little choice but to accept. It was a better price than Romulus would fetch in the market. 'Very well.'
Memor snapped his fingers.
A scrawny little man with ink-stained fingers and a dirty tunic materialised, money bags in both hands.
The lanista counted the coins with care, in the manner of someone proud of his ability to do so. When finished, he handed a pouch to Gemellus.
'Beat him often. It's the only thing he understands.'
'My sister, Master?' Romulus asked pleadingly.
The merchant smiled. 'I'm going to sell the bitch to a whorehouse. Piece of ass like her will fetch a good price. And as for your whore of a mother – we'll see what the mines' overseer offers.'
Romulus glared at his former owner with utter hatred.
One day I will kill you, very slowly.
To the boy's surprise, Gemellus' eyes flickered away and he turned on his heel without another word. But Romulus had no time to savour the minor victory. A vice-like grip took hold of his chin.
'You're mine now.' Crisscrossed with old scars, Memor's face was uncomfortably close. The smell of cheap wine was overpowering. 'In the Ludus Magnus, men learn to be killed. Till the end of your life, the fighters here will be your new familia. You eat. You train. You sleep. You shit with them. Clear?'
'Yes.'
'Do what I say quickly and there 'll be no beating, like that fat bastard suggested.' Memor's jaw hardened. 'Don't do what I say and, by Hercules, you'll regret it. I know ways of hurting most cannot even imagine.'
Romulus did not let his gaze waver.
'Before everyone present, take the oath of the gladiator!'
Memor's bellow had stopped every fighter in the yard. This was a ritual they had all been through.
'Do you swear to endure the whip? The branding iron? And do you swear to endure death by the sword?'
Romulus swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was steady. 'I swear it.'
The circle of hard faces relaxed a little. If nothing else, the new addition was courageous.
'Brand the boy and strike off those chains,' Memor ordered the clerk. 'Find a blanket and a space to sleep. And return him to me swiftly!'
'Come on, lad.' The voice was not unkind. 'The iron won't hurt that badly.'
Carefully, Romulus surveyed the dirt of the training yard and the ludus' thick stone walls. Like it or not, this was now home. His survival would be a decision of the gods alone. He followed the thin clerk, his head held high.
Chapter VI: The Ludus Magnus
Forum Boarium, Rome, 56 BC
'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!'
The chanting was deafening.
The Gaul stood over his vanquished opponent, listening to the familiar noise. Over five years, the blond-haired warrior had become one of the mightiest gladiators Rome had ever seen. And the crowd loved him.
Warm afternoon sun lit up the entire circle of sand contained within temporary wooden stands. That morning the grains had been a rich golden colour, raked by slaves into uniform smoothness. But after more than an hour of savage combat, the surface had been kicked into disarray. Bloodstains spread around dead men lying scattered all over the arena. The air was filled with moans and cries of the injured.
It was late spring and the citizens watching were happy. The set piece between two teams had been gripping and all the participants were now dead or maimed – except the prize fighter who had led each side.
The organisers of such fights were lanistae, owners of the gladiator schools in Rome who met on a regular basis to arrange spectacles with real mass appeal. When the rich and powerful wanted to stage a contest, they could offer a range of options from basic single combats to tailor-made arrangements. It depended on the depth of the purse of the editor – the sponsor – and how impressive a display was required.
The clash between Narcissus and Brennus had been something the public – even the lanistae – had craved for a long time. Within months of his arrival in Rome, the huge Gaul had defeated every gladiator of repute. After that, there was no entertainment in watching Brennus cut weaker men to pieces. Fights were supposed to take time, impressing the crowd with skill and endurance. Memor had quickly limited Brennus' appearances even though his popularity demanded ever more exposure.
Today the sponsor wanted real quality and had personally asked for the Gaul. The lanista had had to look far and wide for a worthy opponent. Eventually he 'd found Narcissus the Greek in Sicily, where the formidable murmillo had earned a similar reputation to Brennus.
The fight had seemed perfect. Gaul against Greek. Muscle against skill. Savagery against civilisation.
Not a seat had been left empty in the stands.
Now Narcissus lay on his back, bare chest exposed, sucking air painfully through a twisted visor. The fish crest of his bronze helmet was bent in two, battered into submission. His sword lay ten feet away, kicked beyond reach.
The contest had not lasted long. Brennus had unexpectedly shouldercharged the murmillo, knocking him off balance. A spinning blow from his shield had followed, breaking several ribs and driving Narcissus to his knees, half stunned. Then a savage chop of Brennus' longsword had cut open the Greek's right shoulder above the manicae, the thick leather bands protecting the arm. Narcissus had dropped his weapon, collapsing on to the baking sand, screaming in pain.
