Realising there was no escape, Brude skipped straight to the moment they had joined the Romans in battle. He told how he had attacked the Roman line, killed his man, then been hit on the head and seen his father fall.
“I saw you both fall,” said Colm. “When Anndra went down, everyone panicked and the battle was lost. We thought you were both dead.”
“And when I woke up it was over,” said Brude. He told them that others had survived but he could not remember many names. He explained that he had been hit hard on the head but the truth was that his memory failed him after thirteen years. He remembered Frual and when he mentioned his name young Seoc spoke up, saying, “My father lives?”
Brude looked at him, saw the eagerness in his face. He remembered now. Frual had had two children, a boy and a younger daughter with a third child on the way. He saw that Seoc was harbouring thoughts that his father might yet return and wondered how he could tell him to give up any hope he had of his seeing him again. “He was alive after the battle,” he said after a moment’s pause. “But we were all separated shortly afterwards and I have not seen him since then. I’m sorry.”
Seoc’s face fell and he nodded sadly. Brude’s mother leaned close to his ear. She whispered, “Seoc’s mother died two winters past. He has two young sisters to care for now.” Brude saw that there were indeed two young girls, aged about fourteen and twelve, both with long dark hair and flashing eyes. Seeing them, he was suddenly reminded of Frual.
Mairead prompted him to go on with his story so he gave them an abbreviated version of his time as a field slave, omitting any mention of Julia. Then he recounted the long march to Hispania and the building of the aqueduct. “It took a long time,” he told them, “but it is quick to tell for each day was the same as every other. Then, when the aqueduct was nearly done, I was sold again and taken to Romefont color="black"> itself, a city like no other in the world.”
“Is that where you learned to fight?” Castatin interrupted.
“My son tells me you are a great warrior,” Colm said, his tone suggesting that he did not believe it. “He says you defeated all three of the men who took him.”
Brude felt uncomfortable but could not avoid the question. Speaking softly, he said, “Yes, I was taught to fight in a special school where slaves were trained to give shows and to die for the entertainment of the people of Rome.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Colm said happily. “Any man of the Boresti can fight a Roman any day!” That brought some laughter but Brude wondered how Colm could so easily forget the slaughter that had happened on the one occasion he had met the Romans in battle and how he had turned tail and fled in fear. But Colm went on, “Cruithne there would love that life.” The giant’s hairy face broke into a toothy grin.
“Well, between the fights it was easier,” Brude admitted. “We trained hard but we ate well and got plenty of rest.” He paused, staring into the clay mug in his hand, swirling the ale thoughtfully. “But every time you entered the arena could be the last time and your opponent was also trained and wanted to win. So that is why, when I was given my freedom after one particular show that pleased the people, I made myself a promise.”
A hush had fallen over the table. All eyes were on him. Even some of those further away were straining to hear what he was saying. “What promise did you make, Brude?” Mairead asked gently.
“I promised myself I would not kill again unless I had no other choice. That I would not even fight unless there was no alternative.”
“You fought Oengus and his men!” Castatin piped up excitedly. “Whipped them in a heartbeat!”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Brude told him. “But I did not kill them. I didn’t even hurt them that much.”
The giant Cruithne stood up slowly, waving his beaker extravagantly. “I could beat you!” he roared.
Brude sat still, looking up at him. “Yes, you probably could,” he said. “But I am done with fighting now anyway.”
Cruithne frwned. Normally when a man was challenged he was honour bound to accept and if any man accepted Cruithne’s challenge it gave the big man the opportunity to show how strong he was. But Brude just sat there, watching him. Confused by Brude’s immediate acknowledgement of his inevitable victory, Cruithne glanced at Colm who gestured for him to sit down.
Brude watched him carefully. The giant warrior had had a lot to drink but there was something in his eyes, which suggested that he was not just the big oaf he made out. He was a typical, boastful Pritani warrior and his size made him formidable but, even though he sat down at Colm’s gestured command, Brude thought the big man was perhaps no fool.
Castatin nudged Brude’s arm, distracting him. “Did you kill many men?” he asked with the eagerness to hear of battles typical of a young boy.
“Too many,” replied Brude sadly.
A.D. 200
The gladiator school was a few miles outside Rome, just off the Appian Way, to the south of the great city. By the time they got there, Brude knew Curtius as well as he had ever known any Roman. The man was a former gladiator himself, hard as nails and with a morbid sense of humour born of daily encounters with death. He allowed them some freedom when he could but they all knew he would be ruthless if they crossed him. His bite would be every bit as bad as his bark.
There were four of them under his guard: Brude, now called Brutus, a stocky German called Valerius, a Jew named Josephus and Sarcho, a tall, olive-skinned man from Africa who spoke little Latin. Curtius warned them not to get too friendly with one another. “You may have to face each other in the arena one day. It’s not pleasant to be up against someone you like and have to try to kill them. Believe me, I know.”
Josephus, small and quick with dark eyes that missed little, spoke up. “You had to fight a friend, Curtius? What happened?”
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“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Curtius grinned wolfishly. “You figure it out.”
So they reached their new home and found it was large, surrounded by a ditch and high wall which had a high wooden walkway running round the inside perimeter where armed guards patrolled day and night. There were at least a dozen buildings inside the wall, including some well-appointed rooms where the head of the school lived and some basic quarters for the slaves who slept in separate cells but ate and lived in a communal barracks. Compared to what they had been used to in Hispania, it was luxury.
At breakfast the new recruits quickly learned that there was a pecking order among the gladiatorial slaves. As untried and untrained new arrivals, they were right at the bottom of it. Josephus, eyes sparkling dangerously, was about to object when they were pushed to the back of the queue for food, but Brude grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him back. Josephus muttered something in his own language but made no trouble, even when the other men refused to make space for them at the long wooden tables. Brude simply stood against the wall, balancing his plate in his hand while eating. The food – barley gruel, bread, olives, grapes and cheese – was a lot better than he was used to so he did not mind standing. He was not fond of olives but knew better than to waste any food that was available. Sarcho and Valerius followed his lead but Josephus tried to squeeze onto a bench between two other men who growled at him but eventually moved. Brude wondered whether he had made a mistake by not doing the same, especially when he got some scornful looks as the men filed outside in answer to a blast on a horn. If he had, he supposed he would find out soon enough.
They followed the gladiators outside where Curtius greeted them with a barrage of curses, telling the four of them to follow him. He led them across a small courtyard, through a guarded gate and into another yard. The place seemed to be filled with small courtyards, most of them floored with hard-packed earth. As they walked, Curtius pointed out the bathhouse, bakery and infirmary with solitary words and a wave of his hand.
In the second courtyard a man with short grey hair and wearing a long white tunic was sitting on an ornately carved stool, flanked by two
armed guards. Two more guards stood at the edge of the courtyard, one on either side. Standing beside the seated man, wearing only a loincloth and sandals, was a large man with a shaven head. His muscled torso was tanned and criss-crossed with the fine white lines of many old scars. He gave the four newcomers a smile of eager anticipation as they followed Curtius across the small yard.
Curtius spoke to the seated man. “Hail, Lentulus. Here are the four new recruits.”
Lentulus cast his disapproving eyes over the four men. “I hope they are better than the last lot you brought, Curtius. Another two died while you were away and the last one was defeated and badly wounded. He may never fight again.”
Curtius ignored the jibe. “You know, it’s hard to tell, but I think these four all have potential.”
Lentulus waved him aside. “Let’s get on with it then,” he said impatiently. “Macro!” The shaven man bent down to pick up two wooden swords, tossing one to Josephus who caught it deftly. Curtius stepped to stand beside Lentulus’ stool and turned to watch.
Macro held his own wooden sword and adopted a practised fighter’s stance, gently waving the sword at Josephus. “Come on then, little man,” he said. “Show me what you can do.” Without warning he sprang forwards, his arm moving in a sweeping blow aimed at Josephus’ head. The little Jew jumped backwards, nearly crashing into Valerius who backed away quickly. Macro leaped again, aiming another blow, which Josephus parried, still going backwards. He reached the wall and could go no further. Macro’s arm moved with bewildering speed as he swung and thrust. Three blows Josephus frantically parried but the fourth, a whack to his sword arm, caught him hard and the fifth, a jab to the stomach could have done him serious injury had Macro not pulled the blow at the last instant. “You’re dead,” the shaven man hissed triumphantly. He backed away and Brude thought Josephus was about to hit him from behind until Curtius shouted the Jew’s name and ordered him to stop. Curtius beckoned him over, telling him to stand in front of Lentulus while Macro strutted back to take his place beside Curtius.
Lentulus looked at Josephus appraisingly, then turned to Curtius and raised an eyebrow. “Thracian, do you think?”
“He’s fast enough,” Curtius agreed. “Not many can block Macro first time out.”
“Thracian then,” said Lentulus. He hesitated, “He’s a Jew, you say?”
“He just has some funny rules about what he eats,” said Curtius, trying to gloss over any potential complications. “Nothing to worry about.”
Lentulus was not convinced. “Don’t the Jews have some funny rules about not doing anything on one day a week?”
Curtius dismissed the objection. “If he doesn’t fight, he’ll be killed. End of problem.”
Josephus cautiously looked at Curtius and said, “May I speak, Master?”
Curtius nodded.
“Some of my fellow Jews, who were taken into captivity with me, tried to observe the Sabbath,” Josephus said. “They are dead. I am still here. You need have no worris about me.”
Lentulus tilted his head to one side then gave a small nod. Brude thought the man probably didn’t care much whether Josephus lived or died. “Next!” Lentulus shouted. Josephus was waved aside and Curtius told him to give the sword to Valerius.
Taking up his fighting stance again, Macro attacked Valerius. The German tribesman was not as fast as Josephus but he was stronger. He let Macro hit him, the sword raking across his chest, then lashed out with his own sword, forcing the big man back to avoid the blow. If Macro’s sword had been real, Valerius would have been badly cut, but he simply ignored the blow from the wooden rudis and made his own attack. Macro grinned, attacked again. This time his sword rapped Valerius on the knee, making the German shout in pain. Still, he did not go down. “Enough!” Curtius shouted. Macro immediately backed away, leaving Valerius looking puzzled.
Curtius said to Lentulus, “Secutor, I thought. Samnite or Murmillo?”
Lentulus considered for a moment. “Murmillo,” he said, and Valerius’ fate was decided.
Sarcho was next but he did not last long. Macro changed his attack style, jabbing and thrusting the wooden sword, making the tall African dance to avoid the blunt end of the cylindrical wooden blade. Sarcho tried to block, was better at dodging but was concentrating so much on the sword that he walked straight into a left cross from Macro’s fist. Sarcho collapsed, knocked from his feet by the strength of the blow. While he lay on the ground, trying to get up, Lentulus and Curtius discussed him.
“He’s tall,” observed Lentulus. “Retiarius probably. It would be better if he was a bit faster on his feet.”
“He can learn,” Curtius said.
“He’ll die if he doesn’t,” observed Lentulus dryly. “Very well, Retiarius. That gives us a nice balance to the first three. What about the last one?”
It was Brude’s turn. He picked up the wooden sword from where Sarcho had dropped it. The blade was short, about the length of a legionary’s gladius, which Brude remembered so well, but this blade was a thick cylinder of smooth, polished wood with a flat end at the tip. The handle was basic, shaped slightly to fit his hand, which was protected a little by the flat crosspiece bars of the hilt. It was heavier than he expected. Macro grinned at him and adopted his fighting stance. Brude had watched the first three fights carefully and had already decided his tactics. He knew this test was not designed to kill them, simply to see how fast and strong they were. Or how well they could think.
He decided not to defend himself but to attack first, forcing Macro to step backwards to parry his sudden swing of the sword. His blows were clumsy, wild and inaccurate but if they had landed they would have done some damage. Macro twisted, dodged, then parried a blow that was aimed for his head. He tried to strike back but Brude blocked his thrust, lashing out with his left hand, hoping to catch Macro off guard the way he had done to Sarcho. The shaven man, though, was incredibly fast and he ducked away from the punch then jumped aside as Brude tried to kick him. Brude’s foot missed by a fraction but he realised he had overextended himself. Macro’s wooden sword smacked against his left leg as the big man danced round behind him. It hurt but Brude turned, swinging his own sword, trying to strike Macro’s back. He missed again. And Macro’s sword was at his throat. “You’re dead,” the big man gasped, breathing heavily.
Brude dropped his sword. He turned to face Curtius and Lentulus, noticing that Lentulus was looking at him with keen interest. Brude quickly dropped his gaze the way a slave should, standing still while they openly discussed him as if he could not hear them.
“Fast and strong,” Lentulus commented admiringly. “Thracian, do you think?”
“He’s fast enough,” Curtius agreed. “But I think he would be better as a Samnite.”
Lentulus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You think so? I suppose he has the strength for that but he was very fast. He’d make a good Thracian.”
“He’d make a better Samnite,” Curtius insisted. “If he survives the training he could be very good indeed.”
Lentulus nodded but did not seem convinced. He looked at Macro and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think, Macro?”
Macro looked at Brude, testing him with his eyes. After a few moments’ thought he said to Lentulus, “I agree with Curtius. Samnite.”
Lentulus nodded. “Samnite it is then. Excellent! One of each class. Begin the training immediately.”
So Brude’s fate was decided. He was to be a Samnite. Whatever that was.
“There are five main types of gladiator,” Curtius explained. “We train them all here. Lucius Fulvius Lentulus runs the school and I am the lanista. I am in charge of the training. There are others, all experienced fighters, who help me. Macro, you’ve met. He trains the Thracian fighters.”
They stood at the edge of yet another courtyard, a large one this time, the floor covered in sand. It was full of men training. At one side were a few who were practising with various weapons under the watchful eye of their trainers while arme
d guards stood close by. Elsewhere the men used shields and wooden swords in mock combat while closer to where they stood men were running, jumping, dodging mechanical devices which swung heavy wooden beams with frightening speed, or dancing along blocks of wood protruding from the ground, leaping as quickly as they could from one to the next. It was the strangest sight Brude had ever seen.
Curtius pointed to the men with the real weapons. “That’s a Murmillo, the one with the fish crest on his helmet. Large shield, heavy sword, face guard, shin guard, armoured sword arm. Heavy and strong, the Murmillones are. Well protected but usually a bit slow because of the weight they carry.” Brude glanced at Valerius who had been nominated to fight as a Murmillo. “Why a fish?” he asked Curtius.
“Tradition,” Curtius replied without thinking. He went on, “Then there’s the Samnite. Basically the same armour but uses the gladius of the legions and has a slightly different helmet. Still heavily armoured. These two are the Secutors, the chasers. It is their job to hunt down their opponents in the arena.
“Then the Thracian.” He indicated another gladiator. “Hardly any armour, just the very small circular shield and the curved sword, the sica. Relies on speed and agility to defeat the armour of the Secutors.” Brude saw Josephus nodding. The little Jew had shown that he was quick and would train as a Thracian.
“Finally the Retiarius,” Curtius said. “No armour, just the trident and the net. Uses speed and the long reach of the trident. If he catches you in his net, you’ve had it.” That was Sarcho’s designated role.
“You said five types,” Josephus pointed out. “That’s only four.”
Curtius gave him that wolfish grin they knew heralded a macabre joke. “The fifth kind are the dead ones. We get lots of those.” He laughed aloud at the joke, which they soon discovered was a stock one at the school. Curtius looked at them all, his face serious again. “But before you learn how to fight, you must learn how to move. If you are fast, you must become faster; in thought and in movement. We will train you so well that you’ll be able to catch a fly off the wall with your bare hand. If you are strong, you must become stronger, able to take the pain and stand in the sweating sun and keep on fighting no matter what.” He lifted a hand, pointing at them, one at a time. “I warn you, many do not survive the training. Either you get killed here or, if I judge that you are not up to it, you’ll be sent to the arena with the criminals and war captives. Either way, you’re dead.” He let that sink in, then said, “I expect at least one of you to fail the training, maybe two of you. That’s normal. It’s up to you to prove to me that you deserve to stay and become the best.”
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