by J M Hemmings
The brewing storm vanished from Batiatus’s ruddy cheeks as quickly as it had materialised, and most of the dark anger left his eyes.
‘Perhaps,’ he replied, his gaze locked on Spartacus as the Thracian hacked and stabbed and parried with his training sword. ‘I’ll give him this, he is determined. Viridovix has been beating him black and blue, and yet not once has he asked for mercy. Viridovix defeats him again and again, and yet this Thracian still attacks with the same vigour as ever … expecting a different outcome every time, presumably.’
Lucius grinned and cracked his knuckles, inwardly feeling a soothing wash of relief at the sudden dissipation of Batiatus’s tempestuous wrath.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Courage, my friend! This Spartacus is not lacking in it by any means, none whatsoever! It merely needs to be shaped and moulded and given a sense of direction, that is all.’
Batiatus set down his goblet and began drumming his thick sausage-fingers on the table as he contemplated his options.
‘Aye, and I think I know just how. A week in the underground cell should start to get this savage to appreciate the necessity of actually listening to what his doctore instructs him to do. Or perhaps we should look to Crixus as an example of how to handle this little rebel. Simply flog the defiance out of him, yes, drain the bad blood out of him with cuts from a whip until only a shell, obedient and demure, remains.’
Lucius was quick but carefully submissive in tone in his response to this suggestion.
‘Before resorting to such extremes,’ he said, ‘why don’t you consider trying something a little milder … just to see if it might work, of course.’
‘Like what?’ Batiatus scoffed haughtily. ‘Viridovix is my best fighter! If even he can’t get this foolish brute to learn something new, what’s the point of pairing him with a lesser gladiator?’
There was a subtle narrowing of Lucius’s eyes and a curving of the edges of his mouth into a sly smile as he replied.
‘It’s just a hunch I have. Humour me.’
Batiatus scratched at his granite-hewn chin and masticated on this suggestion for a while. He then nodded his head slowly.
‘Very well, I’ll give this Thracian one more chance.’
Batiatus stood up and beckoned to Maharbaal, the head doctore who oversaw all of the gladiators’ training.
‘Maharbaal! Come over here.’
Maharbaal, a tall Carthaginian with dreadlocked hair and tawny skin, whose body was ripped with sculpted muscle despite being well into middle age, came jogging over to the patch of dirt twelve feet beneath the stands where Batiatus and Lucius were seated. The doctore, a former champion of the arena, saluted Batiatus and stood to attention with a ramrod-straight back. The man’s powerful arms and torso were crisscrossed with scars and keloids; ineradicable evidence of the sixteen years he had survived – and triumphed – as one of Batiatus’s most prized gladiators. After Maharbaal had won his freedom, Batiatus had convinced him to stay on at the ludus as the head doctore, and now he was a well-paid employee instead of a slave, and, more importantly, one who could impart his combat skills to the newer gladiators. Maharbaal had lived a life of violence and depredation amongst the ruins of Carthage since before he could remember; fighting and brutality were all he had known his whole life, so he thought that he may as well stay on at the ludus and live comfortably while doing what he did best. He worked with undeniable vigour and enthusiasm, but also with unshakeable loyalty to his employer and former owner, Batiatus.
Batiatus leaned over the railing and spoke gruffly to the doctore.
‘Maharbaal, take that new recruit Spartacus and pair him with someone else. He’s being given too much of a battering by Viridovix.’
Maharbaal saluted and responded with rapid enthusiasm in his deep, gravelly voice.
‘Can do, boss! Is there any gladiator you think I should pair the fresh meat with?’
As an employee instead of a slave, Maharbaal no longer had to refer to Batiatus as ‘master’, but despite this, he had grown so accustomed to ending his sentences with an expression of deference that he had simply replaced ‘master’ with ‘boss’.
‘I don’t want him with any of the new recruits. He already knows how to fight, even if it is in the unimaginative and limiting style of the Roman Legion. I can’t pit him against my very top gladiators either, as he’ll just be trounced again.’
Maharbaal turned and scanned his vision across the sands, making a few quick mental calculations and estimations as he analysed the sparring pairs of gladiators. He turned back to face Batiatus, squinting his dark eyes against the morning light.
‘Stick ‘im with Oenomaus, boss. That’s what I think, I does. Oenomaus is fucking strong, but he’s nowhere near as fast and nimble as ol’ Viridovix, Crixus or the General there. I think that Spartacus rat might be able to give Oenomaus a run for ‘is money, instead of getting a fuckin’ batterin’ like the top lads would give ‘im. Just my ‘umble opinion, take it or leave it as you will, boss.’
Batiatus nodded and sipped slowly on his wine.
‘Yes, yes … What you say certainly does make sense. Very well, pair Spartacus with Oenomaus and we’ll see how he fares.’
Maharbaal saluted Batiatus again, every one of his muscles contracting tight and threatening to burst through the honey-coloured skin that covered his statuesque body.
‘Yes boss! I’ll get that scum right on it, I will!’
Maharbaal uncoiled the whip from his hip and cracked it in the air with a vicious thwack that resounded around the training ground. Crixus, his body a canvas of scars, shuddered as and cringed involuntarily when he heard the whip crack, but his face remained as blank and neutral as ever. The gladiators all stopped what they were doing to listen to Maharbaal.
‘All right you worthless sons of gutter whores!’ the doctore boomed. ‘Time to have a five-minute breather and switch sparring partners! Fucking get on a move on, ‘urry your lazy, good-for-nothing arses up! Go!’
In a single, unified manoeuvre the gladiators all moved into two opposing lines, with each man taking a step to his left in order to face a different opponent. Maharbaal strode over to Spartacus, and without warning slashed his whip across the Thracian’s bare back. Next to Spartacus, Crixus winced as if the whip had been laid across his own skin. A line of crimson began to ooze through the Thracian’s pared flesh, and Spartacus gritted his teeth with pain, but he said nothing.
‘You!’ Maharbaal snapped, pointing the whip at Spartacus, ‘new pup, you fucking step out and ‘ead down to the end o’ the line there. You’ll be sparring with that big dumb ox Oenomaus, you will! Fucking move, man, move! Are you deaf as well as stupid?’
Spartacus steeled his resolve against the sharp agony that was throbbing in his back, and then turned and jogged over to the end of the line where Oenomaus was waiting. Oenomaus – a platinum-haired, blue-eyed Germanic tribesman from the far north, with almost albino-pale skin – was a gargantuan specimen of manhood who towered head and shoulders over most of the other gladiators. A blacksmith in his former life, his arms were as thick and knotty as aged oak branches, and his torso was as substantial as a wine barrel, perched on two long and heavily muscled legs. Built for brute strength rather than speed and agility, Oenomaus wore heavy armour, and in the arena carried a massive war hammer. One well-struck blow from it could crush the skull of any man to pulp, even one wearing a steel helmet, so for training he used a lighter wooden hammer. However, even though it was less deadly than his steel hammer, the wooden training weapon could just as easily end a man’s life with a well-struck blow.
‘Rest for five minutes, ya bunch o’ fucking street dogs!’ Maharbaal shouted hoarsely as he strode back and forth across the sands, cracking his whip and rasping curses at the gladiators.
Two nubile slave girls, only barely out of their teen years, came strutting onto the training ground, each carrying an amphora of water. The girls were nude aside from tiny and near-transparent loincloths, and they wore t
heir luscious hair loose and unbound around their slim shoulders. Each pair of male eyes traced the girls’ every move with a lust-dripping gaze – except for those of Spartacus. He ignored the girls completely, and instead used the opportunity to scope out the training arena, making mental notes for possible weak points from whence he could make an escape.
His roving eyes went unnoticed by Lucius and Batiatus, both of whom were also staring at the barely clad teenage girls as they offered water to the resting gladiators.
‘When I was one of your gladiators,’ Lucius remarked, leering at the young women with a lascivious grin, ‘I always said a silent and most sincere “thank you” to you every time you sent your beautiful wenches out to give us water, Batiatus. A most genius tactic, it was – is, my friend.’
Batiatus released a sanguine chuckle before replying.
‘It was no act of genius, Lucius. It merely came from keen observation and analysis from my time in the Legion. Sexually deprived men harbour far more frustration and ferocity than those who regularly partake of the delights of a woman’s body. Consequently, they fight like cornered beasts, with all that bottled-up lust manifesting itself as maddened aggression. I keep showing my dogs what they can’t have, and they get frustration building up with unbearable pressure inside … and this becomes furious battle-rage out on the sands. Furthermore, it serves to give a visual reminder to my fighters of the delights that await them as rewards for winning their matches, which is a good motivator for success, is it not?’
Lucius nodded, stroking the smooth metal of his goblet with appreciative fingers and toying absentmindedly with the little beads of condensation on its curves. He took a sip of wine, feeling a little intoxicated now, and then responded to Batiatus.
‘And it endears them to you, my friend, painting a picture of a most generous and benevolent master who showers his faithful servants with rewards.’
Batiatus clamped one of his hefty hands upon Lucius’s bony shoulder and gave the insubstantial flesh between his fingers a playful squeeze.
‘Quite the analyst of strategy, aren’t you?’ Batiatus said.
Lucius grinned, and with more than a dash of arrogance sparkling in his deep-set eyes he drained his goblet of the last dregs of wine before setting it down and speaking.
‘I wouldn’t have gotten where I am now without stretching this to the limits of its performance,’ he replied, tapping the side of his head.
‘Aye. Sharp wits are as essential as a sharp sword in the armoury of a gladiator. You certainly do have some of the sharpest I’ve come across.’
Lucius’s superciliousness was almost palpable now; flattery and praise stoked the fires of his vanity with the flammable intensity of sparks shot into dry brush.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said, beaming a cocky smile, stretching his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair.
Maharbaal’s booming voice interrupted their conversation as it resounded across the training ground.
‘Break is over! Get your worthless arses up off the sand and fucking FIGHT!’
With an excess of cursing, spitting and bellowing, Maharbaal strode around the sands, cracking his whip in the air and ruthlessly chastising any gladiators who were sluggish in obeying his command.
‘Let’s see how your suggestion pans out, shall we?’ Batiatus said to Lucius as he focused his attention on Spartacus, who was squaring off against Oenomaus. ‘Personally, I don’t think he’ll last more than a few seconds against my resident giant.’
Lucius merely shrugged quietly, still wearing his subtly arrogant smile.
Out on the sands, as he prepared for combat with Oenomaus, Spartacus adopted his usual guard position, that of the Roman legionary – that which had failed him so many times against Viridovix. The enormous German gripped his wooden war hammer in both hands, angling himself so that his heavily armoured left half was at his fore, effectively shielding him from any quick attacks Spartacus may have wanted to make.
‘He’s lost already,’ Batiatus grumbled, shaking his head with disappointment as he crossed his hirsute forearms over his barrel chest. ‘See, he’s going to try his legionary tactics on Oenomaus. He’ll get battered to pulp by that giant.’
Lucius simply remained silent, staring with cool concentration at the unfolding fight.
Spartacus attacked first, driving forward with his shield and then opening it up at the last minute to dart a fast thrust out from behind it, attempting to get under Oenomaus’s arm and stab his ribs with the blunt training blade.
Oenomaus, however, was far faster than he looked. Using his steel-armoured elbow as a shield, he deflected the attempted strike with a force that almost knocked the gladius out of Spartacus’s hand, while whipping the war-hammer around in a whistling arc. It crashed into the centre of Spartacus’s long shield, and the power of the blow cracked the wooden shield in half and sent Spartacus stumbling to his right. With only the barest of margins he managed to keep his footing, and he ducked just in time to avoid having his head crushed by the instant follow-up hack from the war-hammer. There was no time to attempt a riposte; all he could do was to leap back as the hammer whistled through the air again just a few centimetres from where his face had been a split second earlier.
Oenomaus leered at Spartacus, who had adjusted his guard now that he had been forced to discard his destroyed shield. The German stood well over seven feet tall, and atop his gargantuan body was perched a huge rectangular skull. This block-like head was dominated by an over-large face, the distortion of the features of which was caused by his gigantism; jutting cheekbones, a bulging forehead and a massive chin were all symptoms of this. Disproportionately small eyes peered out from beneath a bushy golden unibrow, below which sat a bulbous, heavily pockmarked nose.
‘Come here little Thracian,’ he growled, his voice as rough and deep as an elephant’s belly rumble.
‘He’ll murder him,’ Batiatus murmured, staring with horrified fascination as the giant advanced on Spartacus.
‘No he won’t,’ Lucius murmured. ‘He won’t.’
Oenomaus swung his war-hammer once and then twice in two scything arcs, both of which Spartacus only barely managed to evade. Spartacus darted in with a quick stab at the giant’s lower belly, but Oenomaus brought up an armoured thigh with surprisingly agile speed to block and deflect the blow. In the same movement he swivelled his hips and crashed the butt of his hammer into Spartacus’s face, sending him flying backwards to land heavily on the dirt, with blood running freely from his nose. Spartacus’s sword flew from his hand and landed nine feet away, leaving him completely unarmed.
‘This is the part where you beg for mercy, little man,’ Oenomaus snarled as he sprang forward with his war-hammer raised high above his head, ready to bring it down in a killing blow.
‘No,’ Spartacus whispered, ‘this is the part where you beg for mercy.’
Oenomaus roared and brought his hammer hurtling down in a vertical chop, aiming directly for Spartacus’s wide-open chest – but at the last moment before impact Spartacus rolled acrobatically to his right, and applying the same technique that Viridovix had just used to trip him up, with his feet he hooked and twisted the giant’s leading leg, bringing him crashing to the ground. Without giving his adversary even a second to recover, Spartacus grabbed a sharp shard of the shattered wooden shield and thrust it with deadly force at Oenomaus’s exposed throat.
‘No!’ Batiatus howled, jumping out of his seat despite his gammy leg and almost falling over in the process.
The splintered stake of wood stopped abruptly, hovering in the air a mere millimetre from Oenomaus’s acne-scarred skin. The giant peered up at Spartacus with fear-tinged eyes and raised his hand in the gladiatorial gesture for mercy. Panting from the effort of the fight and bleeding copiously from his broken nose, Spartacus flung the splintered wood away and staggered back. He offered a hand to the fallen titan, who accepted it gratefully and rose to his feet.
Lucius jumped up and ap
plauded loudly and enthusiastically from the stands.
‘Well done Spartacus! Well done!’ he cried, the vociferousness of his praise bolstered by his partial inebriation. ‘There are few in this arena who can best that giant, and certainly none have done so in their first fight against him … none until you, that is! Bravo!’
‘You did well, little man,’ Oenomaus rumbled begrudgingly.
Batiatus, who was supporting himself against the railing, shook his head and said nothing to the gladiators. He turned and eased himself back into his chair, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and then he glared icily at Lucius with wrath-simmering eyes and crimson-flushed cheeks.
‘He almost killed one of my most prized fighters,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
‘Indeed,’ Lucius replied smugly, beaming a self-satisfied grin. ‘This does not please you?’
Lucius’s conceitedness oozed through his skin with the palpable heat of summer sweat, acrid and sour. He knew that he was treading on thin ice here with the adoption of this tone, but he was so drunk on his victory of opinion that he didn’t care. In a sudden burst of rage, Batiatus picked up his goblet and flung it as hard as he could onto the tiled floor with a snarl of explosive anger. A slave hurried over to clean up the mess as Batiatus thumped an angry fist onto the table and glowered across the training ground at Spartacus.
‘It does not please me, and I do not like him! I regret purchasing this one, Lucius. I don’t know what it is about him, but something about that Thracian makes me uneasy, very uneasy. You brought him here Lucius, and I will say this: any ill that befalls this house on his account will be visited tenfold on your head. I’m warning you, do not take my words lightly. Do not.’
Lucius was genuinely confused, and he turned and looked Batiatus in the eye.
‘I do not understand, old friend. What possible ill could come of this? He has all the makings of a fine gladiator. He is not as stubborn and unwilling to learn as we first surmised, and—’
‘He is deceitful!’ Batiatus spat. ‘That whole performance with Viridovix was a charade, a very well-orchestrated charade, and of such things no good can possibly come! I don’t like this, Lucius, I don’t like it at all. I have half a mind to cut my losses and sell him to the quarry.’
