Spartacus

by Robert Southworth

  ‘You look tired centurion, maybe you should defend for a while.’

  It was impossible, how could a slave move so fast? The centurion defended for all his worth but was giving ground constantly to the barrage of thrusts and slashes which came from the gladiator. Finally searing pain took him in the thigh, he hadn't even seen the stroke coming. It was not too deep, not troubling the arteries but enough to slow movement.

  ‘Ok I need a rest, your turn,’ said the gladiator, mocking him. Flavius screamed in anger. He launched himself at his foe, slicing wildly. He was rewarded with a cut across his forearm.

  ‘Now, now. You know never to let anger beat you, you're fighting like raw recruit centurion.’ The sarcastic emphasis on centurion, reverberated around the fighting ring.

  It was funny to the gladiator, that here was the leader of many of these men, yet none of them showed anger at his downfall, in fact many seemed to show the faintest smile. Ten minutes later and six more cuts, Flavius was stumbling. None of the cuts had been disastrous but put them together and the loss of blood soon tells on a man, sapping his energy and speed. The gladiator was growing weary of this man. He raised the stakes, parry, parry, thrust and slash. Flavius’ severed hand rose like a bird in flight and then crashed next to the feet of Plinius who calmly kicked it from the ring. The loss of blood was incredible. It was amazing how the man still stood, but he knew once he fell he would never stand again. He removed some of his armour to try and gain more speed but it just gave more opportunity for pain. The next slash opened a six inch gap in his stomach, his intestines poured from the wound like startled snakes. He attempted in vain to stem the flow with his bloodied stump, but the energy required was too much. He slumped to his knees and awaited death, his sword dropping from his hand. He looked at the victor.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The gladiator kicked the fallen man's sword a safe distance away and then bent and whispered to the centurion.

  ‘I will say this, murderer of my son, so that you know before you die how you brought about your own downfall, for only a stupid man willingly challenges an unknown opponent.’

  ‘Your name?’ Spluttered the centurion.

  ‘I am Spartacus,’ the gladiator whispered. Comprehension spread over the face of the centurion, the next sweep of the sword brought Flavius to darkness forever…

  Chapter 2

  The centurion's end had taken place a week ago and still Spartacus had had no further contact with the aristocrat. Following the bout he had been taken a night's ride away to a country villa, where his wounds from the battle had been taken care of. Fresh tunics were made available and good food was bountiful. On the third day after arriving his wife and child were brought to the camp and six glorious hours followed. It was almost all they had both always dreamed of except, of course, for the watchers who were never too far away. There was no possibility of escape so, for now, Spartacus enjoyed the time they had together.

  The time away from his family he spent regaining his fitness. The battle fought had taken its toll both physically and mentally. He was surprised at how seeing his men cut down had affected him. Being a gladiator he had become all too aware that friends were easily lost, and had also realised this prevented you from ever really forming true friendships. However, when he had reclaimed his freedom, fellow escapees became dependent on him and he also on them and, as time passed, real friendships grew and they were as brothers. They turned back into men rather than lethal weapons, they loved and laughed. The sadness at their loss tore at him as a fast running stream drags at the swimmer, trying to pull him to oblivion.

  On the fifth day he was training with a wooden sword in the courtyard, when a familiar voice came from behind.

  ‘I see a dangerous man is intent on staying that way.’ The aristocrat eyed Spartacus impressed by the work ethic, many given this opportunity of good food and lodgings would have lazed in the sun but this man, this man was different. ‘Walk with me gladiator.’ Spartacus looked shocked this man wanted him to walk next to him with no guards. ‘Oh I think I am safe enough, as I said before, the manacles which hold you cannot be placed on your wrists.’ He said this with such unwavering confidence Spartacus was tempted to rip out his throat to test his theory but stayed his hands.

  Spartacus lowered his training sword and rose to join the aristocrat. They ambled down a dirt track which led to a babbling brook which, only days before, was where he and his wife had enjoyed their time together.

  ‘It's time for me to tell you what I know. Your name is Teres, named after a very successful ancient Thracian King, successful in Thracian terms that is. You were given the name ‘Spartacus’ by your Roman captors. You were of noble birth but your family lost their fortune due to the poor decisions of your father. Rather than starve, you joined the Roman Army. After twenty of your fellow Thracians were slaughtered due to an incapable centurion, you deserted after, of course, the centurion had been found butchered. It seems to be a recurring theme around you. After a year you were captured and sold into the gladiator ludus at Capua. Correct?’

  ‘It seems you have me at a disadvantage,’ replied Spartacus trying to disguise the wonder at what this man knew about him.

  ‘That, you will find, is my business. Killing is your profession, information is mine and, like you, I am very good at it.’

  ‘So what would you have me do?’

  ‘All in good time. You may call me Cassian Antonius.’

  ‘And judging by your wealth, a senator?’ Spartacus suggested.

  ‘No, I am what they call a facilitator. Rome is a cumbersome beast and politics often get in the way. Sometimes certain tasks need to be carried out quickly and without fuss, that is where I come in.’

  ‘An assassin?’

  ‘Oh that can happen, but my duties are far more extensive than that, to be honest killing is regrettable, but a necessity at certain times.’

  ‘Like my son?’

  ‘Spartacus, if I told you I regretted such action, you wouldn't believe me. That was an order from the people I work for and, although I understood their logic, I didn't agree with it. As I said, killing is regrettable. One day no doubt you will seek a reckoning; it's probably a race to see which one of us gets killed first.’

  Spartacus wondered if this man had children of his own and would think it regrettable if one had been murdered.

  ‘Down to business. In two days you will be joined by twelve men, their job is to follow your orders…um unless of course they contradict mine,’ Cassian added.

  ‘Who will they be?’ Spartacus asked.

  ‘Six will be men who I have used before in such tasks. They are good, very good, but they are followers not leaders. Another two will be the gentlemen you saw at my side when you so efficiently dispatched the centurion. The other four you will pick from a squad of soldiers which will use this villa in the next few days. A word of warning, choose well and best not use the name ‘Spartacus’ just yet. I am afraid you have rather upset a number of Romans in the past couple of years. I will return to give you your orders. Until then prepare well, you will need to.’ Cassian put emphasis on the latter words. Spartacus watched the man go. So this man was a puppet to Rome like most others. Despite his self importance he took orders just like everyone else. What was required from him now was to do this man's bidding until he found the puppet master, which would be a day of true reckoning.

  The next two days passed without incident, but on the morning of the eighth day a squad of legionaries filed into the courtyard led by a Goliath of an optio. He barked orders at his men and when the orders weren't acted on quickly enough he exacted a more physical approach. It seemed to Spartacus he enjoyed directing his fury towards a young guard who, after Spartacus had moved in closer, he recognised as Plinius, the guard who had handed him a sword to kill the centurion with. Spartacus was about to intervene when Lucius the villa charge hand began to speak.

  ‘Soldiers of Rome, my master apologises for not being here to welcome
you, however that is not important. What is important is you listen clearly to my instructions. This man,’ he gestured towards Spartacus, ‘has been selected for special duties for Rome. Four of you will be selected to join this man and will be rewarded justly; the others will assist him in any way necessary to help prepare for his mission. Whilst under this roof this man will be treated as your commanding officer. Are there any questions?’ Lucius ended his announcement abruptly and briefly waited for questions. As none arrived he quickly turned and left to go about his business.

  Roman soldiers had learnt through experience they did not question orders, however that did not mean they had to like them. The optio spat on the ground. It was clear this was one Roman who disliked obeying non-Romans. Spartacus ambled across to the men. He walked up and down the line, an occasional tut issuing from his lips. His secondary vision kept the optio in view, and he noticed the man was getting more and more angry.

  ‘Strip to tunics only,’ Spartacus blasted out quite suddenly and a number of the men flinched. ‘Soldier your name please?’ He gestured to Plinius. The young soldier stood proud and screamed out his name. ‘Good man, be so kind as to fetch me, let's say, four of the training swords.’ He said it in a matter of fact way, but the boy still scurried off, clearly eager to impress. Spartacus wasn't sure if the young soldier had recognised him, but he would no doubt soon find out. The boy returned in double quick time with the blades.

  ‘Right, three best swordsmen to the front,’ he barked. The optio immediately stepped forward, this Spartacus had expected. Then a tall, deep olive skinned man, thin and wiry stepped forward. He had the longest arms Spartacus had ever seen. He made a mental note to beware of the reach and then, to his surprise, a short man who, apart from his head, was covered in thick black hair stepped out of line. Spartacus noted he didn't rush out, he sauntered but, as unimpressive as his movement seemed, Spartacus noticed his eyes were everywhere, completely alive, noticing everything. He observed Spartacus the same way as he was being observed.

  ‘OK gentleman you've retired, Rome has conquered the world. You're sitting on your perfect chair in your perfect settlement, the farm is making money and you are at peace with the world. Then along comes this bloody foreigner who fucks your best bull and shits on your favourite pair of boots. What are you going to do?’ Sniggering broke out in the ranks. The optio silenced them.

  ‘Ah optio, just the man, what are you going to do?’

  ‘With respect sir, I'd cut his balls off.’ He stared at Spartacus, sending out the message that's just what he'd like to do to him.

  ‘And you other two?’ He gestured to the others. The tall guy simply ran a thumb across his neck. ‘And you?’

  ‘Never seen a man shag a bull, I'd ask was he on top or the bull?’ Spartacus smiled.

  ‘Good answer, what's your name?’

  ‘My mother called me Drakis, sir.’

  ‘And what do the men call you?’ Spartacus asked, wanting to know the man.

  ‘They call me Bull, sir.’ A huge smile spreading on his face.

  Spartacus erupted with laughter and struggled to stop smiling for some time. He told the men, apart from the three who had stepped forward to whom he gave blades, to get comfortable. The men were still smiling and chattering when Spartacus gave his next order.

  ‘Right gentlemen, kill me.’ Spartacus spoke in a calm, secure manner but his words still had weight. The remaining crowd of men stopped, they couldn't believe it, one man against three. This man was either like a God with a sword or just plain stupid. They edged towards stupid.

  Immediately the optio and the tall man crouched, ready to attack. Bull on the other hand held back simply observing. The tall soldier again and again used his impressive reach trying to throw Spartacus off balance, but it was clear he relied too heavily on the same moves too many times. The optio lunged, but Spartacus simply moved to the side, tripping him up on his way by. As he did so he crouched low and wasn't surprised, the tall man had used the same move and his blade whistled over his head. Spartacus simply punched the man, knocking him out cold. Still Bull stood watching. Returning to his feet the optio attacked from behind but he was too slow and too loud. Spartacus again side stepped his advance, this time bringing the flat of the sword slapping into his face. His nose splattered, throwing blood and mucus at least two feet into the air and he collapsed to the floor unable to see his opponent let alone fight him.

  ‘You're good, a real professional,’ said Bull.

  ‘Oh just lucky I guess. You like to observe an opponent don't you,’ replied Spartacus.

  ‘It's always a benefit to know an opponent's strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘Not too many weaknesses I hope.’

  ‘A few,’ Bull said confidently.

  They circled one another, a few testing moves to see how each other moved, then both rained in full bloodied attacks. Neither was able to break the defence of the other and, after what seemed a lifetime, they broke away from one another, each breathing heavily.

  ‘Well Bull have you learnt enough from me yet?’ Said Spartacus, breathing heavily.

  ‘I think I have the measure of you,’ replied an equally tired Bull.

  ‘Good, then I can switch to using my proper sword arm.’ Spartacus’ face portrayed just a slight smile, whereas for the first time Bull's face displayed a look of complete and utter disbelief. From that point on the dual was totally one sided. Spartacus’ cuts and thrusts were delivered with more speed, accuracy and power and it wasn't long before Bull was felled. But there was no vicious hit or taunting, Bull had fought well and deserved respect. Spartacus offered his hand which Bull accepted and used it to heave himself to his feet.

  ‘Right, all of you the weapons you brought with you are to be checked in with Lucius. It is time to be washed and ready for a feast which our generous host has provided for us. Bull and Plinius you will come and see me when I have finished speaking. The rest of you eat and sleep well, for tomorrow we will be busy.’ Spartacus thought to himself how easy it was to command men, no matter the origins. These soldiers did his bidding as easily as the slaves who rallied to his cause to fight against Rome, but he didn't simply want them to obey him. For what he had in mind he needed them to love him, love him so much they would betray their own people. ‘But that's for another day,’ he spoke quietly to himself and moved to talk to Bull and Plinius.

  He grasped a pitcher of wine and poured them all a drink. ‘Tough day,’ he mentioned in a throw away fashion. ‘How long have you been with the legion?’ He enquired, although he was eager for them not to feel he was interrogating them in any way.

  ‘Three years for myself, the boy joined us about six months ago.’ Bull said. Spartacus noticed that Plinius bit his lip as the word ‘boy’ was used.

  ‘Clearly this Plinius wants to prove himself. Well he may just get his chance if he lives long enough, if any of us live long enough,’ he corrected himself. ‘What made you join?’ He knew this was a tricky moment. Much of the legion was made up from the scrags of mankind. They were running or hiding usually, or had reached the bottom of society and it was either jump in the Tiber or join the legions, both usually ended in death, it was just the Tiber was a little quicker. Surprisingly Bull was quite open.

  ‘My mother was Greek and my father a Roman centurion and, like most centurions, was a bastard. So when I had the chance I skipped, joined the triremes first with the navy but transferred over to the legion as I must be the only Greek who can't stand the movement of a ship. My father pulled strings and here I am, about the only thing he ever did for me that didn't involve that bloody cane, bastard.’ Bull spat as he finished.

  ‘Plinius, what about you?’ Spartacus smiled. Nervously the young man re-counted how he and his brother Aelius, had joined when his family couldn't pay the landlord; it was either that or starve. ‘Where's your brother now?’ Spartacus asked, but could tell that maybe he shouldn't have asked because Plinius turned away. Bull interrupted.

&nbs
p; ‘The boy and his brother joined together. At first they were doing well, showing a lot of promise. Back then our centurion, Flavius, was a sword sparring freak. At first I thought he just loved it as an art form but what he actually liked was the opportunity to bully. One morning he was undertaking his usual torment on a new recruit, young Plinius here. He took it too far and broke Plinius’ arm. I remember because Flavius never stopped laughing, right up to the point when Aelius knocked him cold. Everyone except Aelius was sent back to barracks. We were quite a distance away but we could all hear the screams. When Flavius came round he and our dear optio kicked Aelius to death, and for what? Aren't we supposed to stand up for one another, a bloody crying shame that was.’ Spartacus stared at Plinius still with his back to the two men and then at Bull.

  ‘Both of you go and get some food I'll see you in the morning.’ Spartacus watched them go, thoughts turning over in his mind.

  The next morning Cassian joined the camp. From the moment Spartacus saw him he could tell there was something wrong. He was talking to messengers constantly, sending them hurtling on their way. His composure seemed less than normal, which had to that point been the very essence of calm, complete control. The morning passed and it was well into the afternoon when Cassian finally came to speak with Spartacus. He seemed agitated and really didn't say much, generally just passed the time of day and retired early. Spartacus knew the look that had portrayed itself upon Cassian's face; it was of a man whose plans had taken an unexpected turn. This was something Spartacus had learned to live with while he had commanded his slave army.