Spartacus

by Robert Southworth

  ‘I have seen many things in the gladiator schools. I have seen men who have faced death and spilt so much blood that they leave the sane world behind. All they crave is the destruction of those in front of them. They are oblivious to anything else, even the baying of the crowd means nothing to them.’ Spartacus thought of such men as he spoke.

  ‘What do you do if you meet one in the arena?’ Cassian said, now beginning to fret.

  ‘Well, if he is lacking skill you kill the fucker as quickly as possible. If he's good you try and stay out of his way and hope someone else dispatches him or at least tires him out,’ Spartacus replied.

  ‘And if you can't stay out of his way?’ Cassian was still trying to find an answer, he was not accustomed to vague solutions.

  ‘Then that type of rage in a man tires them out quickly. You move with speed and, when you strike, you strike to kill. No honour will be found in these men, they would strike at you from the other world if they could. What I tell you will go straight from your head as soon as we enter the arena. All men find themselves on the bloodied sand and, if you are to survive, you will learn to kill and be just as savage as the next man.’ Spartacus looked at the man in front of him and wondered if a pampered upbringing was suitable for a man about to enter the arena. ‘Stay close to the men, concentrate on leading them. If you feel the moment becoming too much look to lead, responsibility for others often steadies the arm.’

  They tramped their way to the arena, their armour glistening in the sunlight. The cheers now echoed from inside the mammoth building. The roar was becoming deafening, obviously a kill had just been made. They descended down a large flight of steps, plunging into the darkness beneath the throng of battle above. The coolness of the dark, narrow passageways was a welcome reprieve from the heat of the day. However with each step they came closer to the din of the crowd and the waiting area where they would be announced to the crowd. There was a seating area but all remained standing, the nervous energy coursing through every vein.

  In time the cheers began to die down. The smell of blood wafted through the heavy grills and a number of them fought down the urge to vomit. Then suddenly a voice could be heard announcing the next bout. The heavy lock was drawn from the wooden doors at the end of the waiting area. Suddenly Spartacus was speaking.

  ‘Now is your time. Today each and every member of that crowd will know your name. Today we will kill every fucker that dares come close.’ He ended his words with a thunderous battle cry which echoed from the walls. Each and every man responded, adding their own roar, the time had come. Now they must kill.

  For a minute the sunlight blinded the eyes, each man taking his time to become accustomed to it. They glanced around to get their bearings. They spotted the marked areas, which they hoped they wouldn't need, or if they did that they could reach them in time before being slaughtered like swine. Suddenly the bout had begun and, just for moment, the world stood still. The fighters held their ground and silence reigned in the crowd. Then one of the groups of fighters simply charged into another one at the other end of the arena. The crowd hissed its anger, they wanted all the fighters together to deliver more carnage. Spartacus raised his arm and steered the men towards the remaining group.

  ‘If you can, kill them quick. The victors from over there will soon be coming this way,’ he advised, but the remaining group were already moving at pace towards them and little thought could be given to much else.

  As much as they were trying to work as a team they naturally ended up fighting individual skirmishes. A squeal to Spartacus’ left let him know someone had been injured but, while fending off an attack by his opponent, he dared not take a look. His opponent was skilful and moved with an elegant grace which kept him away from the reach of Spartacus. The crowd went into raptures time and time again. He had hoped he could kill his opponent quickly and from the corner of his eye he could see the other battle was over and those who were victorious were moving in, hoping to cause slaughter against the unprotected flank of those battling here. Suddenly Cassian yelled in victory. He had taken the throat out from his opponent who grasped at the wound, trying stem the deluge of blood.

  Cassian moved quickly past Spartacus and, with horror, Spartacus knew what he was going to do. The fool was going to slow the charge of the rushing oncoming enemy and so protect his men, but he would do it alone for everyone else was engaged in a fight to the death. He tried to end his opponent quickly, but the man had skill and evaded a killing blow that should have torn him apart.

  Dido watched from his lavish vantage point. He saw the young Roman dispatch his enemy with ease and sighed a little. However, his hope was raised as he watched the young Roman rush to protect his men's flank. He laughed and called to Yaroah.

  ‘You see! That young man will be dead soon and I will be substantially richer.’ He chortled to himself. Why do these people play the game against me? His eyes narrowed as Cassian took the head off the first incoming gladiator with a single swing. The action stopped the charge dead, for the sight threw a warning to the dead man's comrades that danger neared.

  Plinius took his opponent with a slash to the back of the knees. As he faltered Plinius finished him, a sword thrust in through the side of the neck. Quickly glancing around he rushed to aid Cassian. On his way he slashed a hopeful blow at Thulius’ opponent. The cut was not deep but the man instinctively dropped his guard, only for Thulius to seize his opportunity, taking the man's arm off at the elbow. The scream grated the teeth and was only silenced with Thulius’ second and fatal blow.

  What had been four against one soon became three against three, and the enemy began to retreat once Cassian took another of their number with a thrust to the groin. Thulius again delivered a blow to end the suffering of the man. Aegis wrestled with his opponent, both disarmed in the fight, a contest only one man was ever going to win. Before too long Aegis had broken the spirited opponents arm, and quickly got behind him, a quick snap of the neck, and the foe slipped peaceably to the floor. Taking up his sword Aegis too joined his comrades. The two remaining enemy fled to the safety area, accompanied by jeers from the crowd.

  All that was left was Spartacus and his agile opponent, so difficult to hit because of his speed. Spartacus could see his comrades standing not knowing whether to aid him or not. For so long Spartacus had led the way, now they had finished their opponents first. Spartacus looked to Cassian and smiled. He accompanied it with a movement so quick if his men had not seen it they would not have believed it possible. In one motion his hand went for the spare sword slung to his back, the opponent never even noticed. All he saw was a blur, the sword took him just below the left eye smashing through his face. There was silence from the crowd, disbelief etched on all faces. Then the cheers came and the body fell. The crowd were going wild. Spartacus looked across at his men and they too were cheering him. He held his arms in salute to the crowd and then to his own men. They all grasped each other by the arms and applauded the others endeavours. Spartacus caught the eye of Cassian and saluted him personally, for the Roman had proved himself a true warrior of the arena.

  The march back to the rest area seemed to go by in the blink of an eye, the mood far lighter than on the journey to the arena. The men joked despite the aches of battle starting to settle in. Cassian had worried that the men left behind would be filled with resentment but, if they were, they never showed it for an instant. They had prepared hot meals and laid out clean tunics and dressings had been prepared for any injuries. They applauded the men back into camp and talked non-stop about how they had seen the battle from the stands.

  Nothing more than deep scratches were the injuries for the day, Aegis though still insisted they received a heavy dressing of his special herbs, forcing Cassian to sit at one point.

  ‘You have shown yourself today, my lord, to be a great warrior but if you will not be seated I shall twist your head round so it faces the other way.’ The men erupted in laughter, including Cassian.

  ‘Well as
you put it like that my friend please, be my guest,’ Cassian replied. Spartacus went to move away from camp only to be heralded by the big man.

  ‘Spartacus sit!’ He vigorously pointed to a bench as he spoke.

  ‘Fuck! Aegis you will make someone a fine bride one day,’ Spartacus joked.

  The night bore down upon them and it found the men in a relaxed state, many retiring early at peace with the world craving the sleep they had not managed the night before.

  ‘A good day's work,’ Cassian spoke, stepping into the light of the fire.

  ‘You told me you couldn't fight,’ Spartacus said, in a mock accusatory way.

  ‘No, I said I had never served or been in a battle. The two are not the same,’ Cassian replied.

  ‘You are as slippery as an eel Cassian. Why not tell me?’ He asked the young Roman.

  ‘There was a time when you wanted nothing but my death Spartacus. It was a good idea that you believed me to be a spoiled rich kid who only knew how to give orders. If you were to try and kill me I would need all the advantage I could muster,’ he replied. The two chatted for a time in high spirits, joyed by the success in the arena.

  Yaroah stood next to a gilded chair and waited for Dido to finish, the squeals of pain emanating from behind the curtain. He chose not to look. Some practices which Dido called sport could make the most travelled of people, who had witnessed many uncommon things, blush in an instant. The sobbing started and as it did Dido exited the curtains.

  ‘Takes a while to train them to it,’ he said, straightening his tunic.

  ‘I feel we need to talk,’ Yaroah said, almost begging for an audience.

  ‘Oh what is it now?’ Dido was quickly losing patience with the man.

  ‘Did you see them fight? There could be a problem.’ Yaroah would not let it drop. Dido smiled and placed his arm around Yaroah's shoulder.

  ‘Listen my friend. It's the first bout, there are many more ahead of them.’ He patted the man on the back, inside repulsed by the man and everything stood for. He was fat, lazy and had no will for the fight, a waste of human flesh.

  ‘But…’ Yaroah never finished.

  The first blow knocked him to the ground. As he turned his head upwards he saw Dido wielding the second blow, the large bust clasped in his hands. It smashed into Yaroah's skull. Blow after blow rained down upon the shattered fragments of the now pulverized skull. Yaroah was dead long before the blows ceased. Eventually, with blood and brain matter decorating the floor and furniture, Dido stopped. He looked down at the remains of Yaroah.

  ‘Perhaps now you will shut up.’

  He called for a servant. The servant arrived in good time and gagged at the sight, but Dido was nonplussed.

  "Be a good girl and fetch me a clean robe. Oh and best clean that up.’ He waved his hand casually, as though the deep red ooze was merely a goblet of wine, accidently tipped to the floor. He sauntered away leaving the servant to behold the carnage. She went and fetched a silken robe for Dido and then the slave and a number of servants cleaned away the blood and scrubbed the brain matter from the gaps between the marbled floor. Dido lay back and relaxed, he smiled, it had been a good day.

  Across the city, away from the rich splendour of Dido's would be palace, there was a much more modest accommodation. The owner's wife busied herself in the kitchen. They had servants, but tonight was to be special. Her husband had been troubled the night before and she wanted to ease his woes. She cooked his favourite meal and wore the blue dress he always liked. The children were packed off to bed early, though they complained, they liked to say good night to their father. The night wore on and still he was not home. It was not like him for he was not like the man he worked for. Her husband had always been both a dedicated father and husband. The dinner ruined, she waited watching the door for her husband's return, willing the heavy door to move. As the night passed and the early light of the following day moved into its place, she lowered her head onto her arms and sobbed. Later that day she would rise and visit her children to tell them that their father would not be returning, for she knew her husband, Yoroah, was dead.

  Chapter 20

  Cassian's men negotiated the second, third and fourth bouts but the euphoria they had felt in the earlier round was gone. The injuries were sapping the strength. The emotional strain and the willpower required for facing death on consecutive days was beginning to take its toll. They trundled back to the rest camp, muscles burning with the exertion they had been put through. Even Bull, the ever cheerful, looked sullen. The enemies they faced in each match were becoming more and more skilled, confident from the victories they had tasted in the arena. It was now becoming mere chance that all had passed through the bouts without serious injury or death.

  Spartacus was thankful that, from now on, it would just be the one team of gladiators they faced in the arena. It was becoming increasingly difficult to fend off multiple attackers, especially as word had got around of Spartacus’ skill and therefore he often found himself facing a number of foe intent on taking out the best first. He felt his right shoulder, the cut was reasonably deep but caused only an irritation, that was all. He had become accustomed to pain in the arena's of the empire. He had to admit though fighting day after day was a new experience, one which he did not enjoy. Even the pig Batiatus realised that men needed to rest after such feats of physical exertion and to risk losing his prize assets to tiredness rather than skill would not have interested him, unless of course the coinage was sufficient.

  They entered the rest area. Most didn't bother attempting washing or eating, they just slumped to their cots and wished for sleep. Spartacus signalled Cassian just as the Roman was to take to slumber himself.

  ‘You must get them up. They must eat and dress their wounds.’ He said it not as a request but as an order.

  Cassian didn't reply or complain to Spartacus that he had suddenly decided he was in charge, but instead turned and, with his most enthusiastic voice, cajoled the men into movement. They received treatment from those not fighting in the tournament. Massages were performed with perfumed spices, anything to try and reawaken the bodies to the enormous tasks which faced them. Only when the warriors had been completely cleaned and feasted would Cassian allow them to sleep. Though he knew Spartacus was correct, he hated being the one delaying the men the opportunity to sleep. To their credit they simply carried out the tasks with no malice towards Cassian for, despite their tiredness, they knew what he ordered them to do was the right course of action.

  Dido sat, as usual relaxing and tasting the fine foods which seemed to follow him wherever he ventured. He had not bothered to go to the games today, it was a message sent to the crowds who still thought back to the enormous gamble Dido had made with the now respected gladiator Cassian. The message was simple; no nerves, no distress, Dido was in complete control. Still the Roman was beginning to irritate, he should be dead by now.

  ‘Melachus!’ He called.

  ‘My lord?’ Came the answer, as a tall, willowy character slipped through the door. The figure never ventured too close. The news of Yoroah and the manner of his death spread quickly through the household and it had been with a fearful heart Melachus had accepted the post offered by Dido. To refuse appointment would have meant death but, as many from the after-life could testify, accepting was no guarantee of safety either.

  ‘And how did our young Roman friend do today?’ Dido asked, eyeing Melachus closely.

  ‘Another fine victory my lord,’ replied Melachus, taking a step back as he did so.

  ‘Good… Good,’ Dido said with false joviality. ‘Tell me, are you a betting man?’ He enquired.

  ‘It has been known my lord.’ Too bloody right thought Melachus as he answered but I'm no good at it, that's why I have to work for a fuck like you.

  ‘Then tell me, who are the favourites to reach my champions?’ Dido smiled his lecherous smile.

  ‘Oh the Parthians by far. They have danced through the rounds easily. Then Suetos�
�� group, that's the one with Colossus and then, I suppose, Cassian Antonius’ men.’ He tried to keep the admiration he felt for Cassian from his voice.

  ‘Excellent! Tell you what, let's pair the Parthians up against Cassian's men.’ The smile was now replaced by a look that sent the message; disobey me and the carrion will be feasting on your flesh before the sun falls.

  ‘I…I will see to it.’ Melachus bowed from the room, his veins pulsating with anger. You cheating bastard the draw is supposed to be chance. It was evident Cassian had Dido worried. If he was fixing the draw then the seeds of doubt were obviously beginning grow. Melachus smiled as he strode through the chambers of the villa.

  The morning came and so did the orders for who and when the men would next fight. Their muscles still ached and each simple movement produced the type of noise old soldiers made as they rose from a chair. Thulius toiled away cleaning his armour and Plinius deposited himself next to him, groaning at the aches as he bent his tired muscles. He watched Thulius meticulously scrub each speck of dust from his equipment. He had thought Thulius a good soldier and knowledgeable in most of what he did, but he had never truly realised that there could not be more than a couple of years in age between them, and yet the man next to him seemed so worldly.

  ‘You will wash the breast plate away soon if you clean it anymore,’ Plinius said, in a tired attempt at humour. Thulius gazed unflinchingly at Plinius.

  ‘Plinius my friend.’ A kind of sadness seemed to have settled over him. ‘It is good armour and I noticed yours has been quite badly damaged. When I am finished with it today I would like you to have it.’ He finished speaking and immediately went back to cleaning.

  ‘What do you mean? You will need it tomorrow,’ Plinius looked at the man, confused at such behaviour.

  ‘No…I won't. I will die today in the arena.’ The words were spoken quietly but with absolute certainty. Plinius was so taken aback that he stood and left. He feared the insane mood that had befallen Thulius could infect him too. He sought out Spartacus. He needed to help Thulius.