by J M Hemmings
‘Let me go!’
Lucius knelt down beside Viridovix and slapped him hard across his face.
‘That was a mere love-tap compared to the sort of floggings Batiatus will dish out if you show this sort of stubborn insolence in his ludus!’ he hissed. ‘Now stop this foolishness and do as I say!’
Viridovix growled, and his eyes were aflame with a blistering wrath, but this time he did not attempt to argue.
‘I walk,’ he muttered under his breath, defeat and impotent anger clouding his speech to the point of inaudibility.
Lucius smiled cheerfully, his dark threats metamorphosing abruptly into a light, playful sprightliness. He clapped a friendly hand onto Viridovix’s shoulder.
‘Excellent choice! Now, on to the ludus,’ he said. Maintaining his toothy smile, he loosened Viridovix’s leg irons by a few degrees and then started on his way, stepping over the bloodied corpses of the Huntsmen soldiers as if they were mere rocks in the road.
‘Come on, move quickly,’ he called out. ‘If we hurry, we may just get there in time for them to get some porridge into you. Wouldn’t that be nice, then?’
‘Not as nice as I’ll feel when your severed head rolls at my feet, Roman scum,’ Viridovix whispered to himself in his native tongue. ‘I will have my vengeance. I swear it … I swear it on all the gods of rock, tree, sky and stream.’
It was well past nightfall when Lucius and Viridovix reached Batiatus’s villa, a lavish, expansive estate built on top of a slight rise; the terrain here was mostly flat, although Mount Vesuvius loomed on the distant horizon. The ludus, where the gladiators lived and trained, was a fort-like structure situated behind the great villa. Attached to the ludus was a small amphitheatre.
‘It’s built like that not to keep enemies out, but to keep the likes of you in,’ Lucius said with a smirk.
Viridovix said nothing, but beneath his outer veneer of calm he was subtly observing everything with keen determination, taking mental notes and performing calculations; if there was a way into this prison, there had to be a way out. It seemed, eerily enough, that Lucius was reading his mind, though.
‘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 cheek.
‘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 slaught
ered 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 this ludus: firstly, you will never speak to any free citizen unless spoken to. This includes all of the guards here, and of course my family members, friends and associates who will be around, and who will visit from time to time. You may speak to the other slaves, and of course to your fellow gladiators, but only in our Roman tongue, and loudly enough that the guards can hear exactly what you’re talking about. You will not speak your own tongue unless I speak it to you. You will wake at sunrise every day to begin your training, and you will train every day from sunrise to sunset, rain or shine. The only exceptions to this regime will be when you are scheduled to fight in the arena. The day before your fight you will be allowed a day of rest in the baths, and should you win your match, you will be provided with wine and women for the night following and the day after your victory.
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 c
oming 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?’
