‘That’s told me how good, or not, you are with weapons,’ Amarantus declared. ‘Now we shall see if you’re any way fit, or just the bloated wineskins you look like.’ He waved his arm around the courtyard’s perimeter. ‘Twenty laps of that, at a run. The man who stops before that gets ten lashes. If he stops a second time, I’ll give him twenty. A third time, thirty. Clear?’
As Spartacus ran, he studied the gladiators who were also at their training. The yard was packed with men running as they were, or boxing and wrestling. Others lifted weights. Still more sparred against each other with wooden spears and swords, or attacked thick timber posts buried in the ground. One unfortunate was being lashed by his irate trainer, while his companions watched.
Spartacus was grateful that the journey from Thrace had not taken too much out of him. Although the food hadn’t been the best quality, he’d lost little weight or condition. Twenty laps was well within his capability, and that of Getas and Seuthes too. As it turned out, the Scythian was fit as well. Amarantus gave a satisfied grunt as they rejoined him, their faces dripping with sweat.
Carbo had reached his insula without further problems. He’d had a fleeting sensation of sweet revenge when his tread on the creaking floorboards had woken the crone. It had soon vanished during the coughing that followed, but Carbo had been too tired, and his head had hurt too much, to curse his neighbour. Uncaring of the layer of semi-liquid filth that coated his hair, back and legs, he’d eased on to his mattress and pulled up the ragged blanket. A few heartbeats later, he’d fallen asleep. Mercifully, he had had no dreams.
Waking to the chill of another grey dawn, Carbo had lain with a throbbing headache, wondering if becoming a gladiator was the wisest choice. He’d wrestled with the option for an age, worried that he would not be tough enough for the brutal world of the ludus. But Carbo could think of no other path to follow. Eventually, the bad smell coating every part of him had prompted him into action. At the public baths two streets over, he’d managed to cadge the entrance price from a kindly old man. Carbo had never enjoyed washing himself so much, or felt so grateful that he had grown up with the luxury of running water in his house. Once he was clean, the problem of his soiled tunic and undergarment – licium – became far more pressing. Wearing the drying cloth furnished by the baths attendant, Carbo had ventured on to the street, where he washed his clothes in the public fountain that sat alongside the bathing house. Donning his soaking wet garments, he had glowered at the passersby’s laughter. Next, he’d gone to Ambrosius’ door where he had returned the lamp and gladius to the same slave who had helped save him the previous night. Refusing the invitation to go in and meet the veteran, Carbo had headed straight for the city’s ludus, which lay outside the walls to the north.
Now that he’d reached its gates, his courage was threatening to desert him. Carbo stood mutely, staring at the thick metal strips that criss-crossed the timber doors, and the tall ramparts above. The ludus looked, and felt, like a prison. From within, he could hear shouts and the dull clash of weapons. It was quite daunting.
‘What do you want?’
Carbo focused on the guard, a swarthy man carrying a spear and shield. A battered helmet concealed much of his face, making the demand even more intimidating. ‘I’ve come to offer my services as an auctoratus.’
‘You? An auctoratus?’ The three words conveyed endless contempt.
Carbo held his stare. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you use a sword or spear?’
‘A sword, yes.’
‘Is that right?’ sneered the guard.
‘Yes, it damn well is, you cheeky bastard,’ snapped Carbo. For all his failures, he was far above this creature on the social ladder. ‘I demand to see the lanista.’
The guard blinked at his determination. ‘What do I care if you want to get yourself killed?’ He rapped on the timbers with his knuckles. ‘Open up!’
With a loud creaking noise, one of the gates began to open.
Carbo’s stomach twisted, but he stood his ground. Stay with me, Jupiter, Greatest and Best.
Chapter VI
WITH A LOUD creaking sound, the ludus’ main gate opened. This was enough to attract most gladiators’ attention. The trainers, Amarantus among them, were not immune either. A guard came stumping in, followed by a tall figure in a once fine tunic. The moment that they were both inside, the gate swung shut with a heavy clang.
‘Someone looking for fighters?’ wondered Getas.
‘No,’ answered Spartacus. ‘He’s only a boy. He can’t be more than eighteen.’
‘Look at the way he carries himself. He must be from a good family.’
‘His clothes are soaking wet,’ noted Spartacus. ‘That’s odd.’
The young man was led upstairs to Batiatus’ quarters. Rival theories about his reason for visiting the ludus rippled through the assembled gladiators.
‘Back to work,’ cried Amarantus. ‘Get a move on, you lazy scumbags. We haven’t got all day.’
‘Attention!’ Phortis’ voice cracked through the air like a whiplash.
Spartacus looked up to see the Capuan on the balcony beside the man who’d been escorted upstairs. The youth was sallow-skinned, with a thin, pockmarked face.
‘This young gentleman goes by the name of Carbo,’ announced Phortis. ‘He has asked Batiatus if he can enter the ludus as an auctoratus.’
‘He looks as if he’s still on his mother’s tit!’ bellowed a fighter.
‘The prick’s far too scrawny,’ cried another. ‘He’d snap in two if you hit him hard enough.’
A rumble of amusement rose from the yard, and Carbo flushed with anger.
‘Why is he here? Has he screwed his father’s mistress?’ asked Crixus.
A murmur of interest replaced the gladiator’s laughter. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a citizen to join their number as a paid contractee. Some joined for the thrill of it, the taste of danger that they might never experience otherwise. Most, however, entered the ludus under a cloud. Sometimes it was because they had broken the law in some way, but often it was the likes of gambling debts that drove them through the gate.
Above them, Phortis smirked. ‘It wasn’t that. Or so he says. I didn’t like to ask further.’
‘What was it then?’ cried Crixus. ‘Lost all your money on chariot racing?’
Carbo’s temper flared. ‘It’s none of your damn business.’
‘A sensitive issue, is it?’ retorted Crixus, glowering back.
‘Piss off,’ Carbo replied.
‘Come down here and say that again,’ yelled Crixus. Given Carbo’s request to enter the ludus, the huge difference in their status meant little, and he knew it.
Carbo cursed silently. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? I’ve just angered someone as big as Hercules. Even if by some miracle I win, he’ll want to kill me.
‘Before Batiatus agrees, he wishes to have Carbo’s ability with weapons judged,’ said Phortis loudly. ‘I need a volunteer to spar a round or two with him.’ He smiled at the animal sound of interest which met his words. ‘With wooden swords. I know what you lot are like. Otherwise, Carbo would spend his first month here in the infirmary. Who’s interested?’
At least half the men in the yard stepped forward with raised hands. Spartacus regarded them with faint amusement. Thrashing a nobleman, especially a damp, beaten-down one, was the last thing on his mind. To most, however, the prospect was clearly appealing, even if it was only with a blunt-edged practice weapon.
Phortis looked down in silence, studying the fighters.
Crixus was busy hissing at every Gaul within earshot. ‘Stand back! Lower your hands! This is my fight.’ With sullen glances, some of his countrymen obeyed. Wary of antagonising him, a number of other gladiators did the same. Plenty ignored Crixus, however.
‘It seems that some want to fight you more than others,’ said Phortis, casting a sardonic glance at Carbo.
‘Fine,’ snapped Carbo. ‘I don’t care.’
And he genuinely didn’t. He had run out of ideas, bar one: to pass the entrance test here.
‘In that case,’ said Phortis, his tone silky smooth, ‘you won’t mind if …’ His gaze fell on Crixus, before moving on. He pointed to Spartacus. ‘… a fellow newcomer, as yet untested in the arena, has the honour of welcoming you to the ludus?’
Carbo eyed the Thracian. Despite Phortis’ deprecating comments, he was compactly built, and looked expert at handling himself. His guts churned. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said, trying to sound confident.
Spartacus could sense Crixus’ rage from twenty paces away. Anger surged through his own veins. Phortis had done this deliberately, not to see Carbo beaten, but to set the Gaul against him – as if he wasn’t already, after what had happened the previous night. He set his jaw. There was nothing to be done about it for now. ‘Where do I go?’
‘Follow me,’ directed Amarantus. He headed for the roped-off square in the centre of the courtyard. Already fighters were standing three and four deep around it. Spartacus and his comrades followed. So did the Scythian. They shoved their way through the throng, right up to the waist-high ropes which formed the area’s perimeter.
‘In you go,’ said Amarantus, lifting the rope.
As Spartacus entered the square, he felt a tickling thrill of anticipation. A fight was still a fight.
‘Who’ll back Carbo?’ shouted a voice. ‘The boy looks unremarkable, but he wouldn’t have walked in here if he couldn’t handle himself.’
Glancing around, Spartacus recognised Restio, who had seen him kill the Gaul. So he’s a betmaker too.
‘What odds?’ asked a German.
‘Twenty to one against.’
‘That’s well worth a gamble.’ The German’s grin was feral. ‘Put me down for five denarii.’
A clamour of voices rained down, placing even larger wagers on the newcomer. Restio’s business was only interrupted by the arrival of Phortis and Carbo in the square. The Capuan had two practice swords under one arm. Ordering Carbo to shed his tunic and sandals, he made the pair stand ten paces apart.
Spartacus stared hard at Carbo, who surprisingly held his gaze.
The onlookers were eyeing the Roman’s well-muscled chest and upper arms. ‘Sure you should have given me such long odds?’ asked the German.
‘Compared to Spartacus, he looks like a plucked chicken,’ retorted Restio with aplomb. ‘Just wait and see.’
Next, Phortis tossed each man a weapon: to Spartacus, a gladius, and to Carbo, a sica. Spartacus gripped his blade like a lover, and wishing that he’d been given the other sword. Unused to the wooden sica’s weight, Carbo hefted his to and fro. A damn shame that I didn’t have more lessons from Paccius.
‘Helmets and shields!’ Phortis bellowed.
There was a short delay before two slaves appeared. One carried a scutum, while the other bore a small, square shield and a distinctive Phrygian helmet. The first headed for Spartacus, and the other to Carbo. They handed over the items and scurried to safety.
Phortis looked up at the balcony, where Batiatus was now waiting. An expectant hush fell over the courtyard.
‘The bout will last until one man is either disarmed or acknowledges defeat,’ said the lanista. ‘Begin!’
Phortis scrambled out of the way, and Spartacus moved forward at a trot.
By now, Ariadne had heard what was going on. Using a bench to stand on, she peered out of the cell window. Let it be over quickly, she prayed. Keep Spartacus from harm.
Carbo had the sense not to meet Spartacus’ overwhelming attack head on. With nimble footwork, he dodged to one side. Instantly, the air filled with jeers. Spartacus spun around and went after him with deadly speed. He caught up within six strides. Clattering his shield off the other’s, he thrust his gladius straight at Carbo’s face. The Roman’s head jerked frantically to one side, and the wooden sword’s tip skittered off the side of his helmet.
Carbo’s lightning-fast response caught everyone off guard, Spartacus most of all. Even as Carbo reeled backwards, he thrust around the side of his shield, driving the point of his weapon into Spartacus’ bare midriff. The Thracian doubled over with pain. He had the wits to pull close his shield and shuffle backwards but even so, Carbo was on him like a dog on a rat. He rained down a flurry of blows, aiming for Spartacus’ head. Maybe I can win this!
‘No!’ whispered Ariadne in horror. It was easy to imagine that the bout was real.
A few men began cheering for Carbo. ‘What odds will you give me on the Roman now?’ demanded a Samnite.
Restio recovered his betmaker’s poise fast. ‘The rookie’s wasting his time. Everyone knows that Thracians’ skulls are incredibly thick. Spartacus probably doesn’t even know that Carbo’s hitting him.’ He smiled as the men around him roared with laughter.
Spartacus heard none of the exchange. He was concentrating on recovering the breath that had been driven from his lungs by Carbo’s first blow. The moment that the young Roman’s attack slowed, he’d strike like a snake. Fast and lethal. End this charade for once and for all.
Realising that his assault was having little effect, Carbo swung his right arm down. Trying to repeat his earlier success, he made a desperate thrust at Spartacus’ abdomen. This time, however, the Thracian was ready for him. With a powerful sideswipe of his shield, he smashed Carbo’s blade up and out of the way. In the same instant, Spartacus launched a massive swing at the other’s head. His gladius connected with a loud, metallic clang, and Carbo staggered away, his vision blurred, and with a huge dent in his bronze helmet.
Take that, you bastard, thought Spartacus.
Many of the gladiators cheered loudly. Ariadne joined in.
Carbo adjusted his helmet and shook his shoulders. What in Hades should I do now? There was no possible way that he could beat Spartacus. But I can still impress Batiatus.
‘Game over,’ announced Restio with satisfaction. ‘Why bother with swordsmanship when brute force will do?’
Spartacus sauntered towards his opponent. ‘Ready to surrender?’
Carbo raised his sword and shield determinedly. ‘No,’ he said, his voice muffled by his helmet. Jupiter, help me.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ growled Spartacus in a low voice.
‘Piss off.’ Carbo didn’t back away either, nor did he drop his weapon. Instead, he slid his bare feet across the sand, moving towards Spartacus with just as much intent as he’d shown earlier. He wasn’t aware quite how dangerous the Thracian was, however.
Powering forward, Spartacus swept away Carbo’s thrust as easily as he’d have swatted a fly. Dropping his right shoulder, he smashed his shield into the other’s, sending Carbo sprawling to the ground. Spartacus stooped and shoved the point of his sword right under the lower edge of Carbo’s helmet. ‘Yield!’
Carbo shook his head. Batiatus has to see that I’m no coward.
‘What’s he doing?’ hissed Restio. ‘Does the fool want to die?’
Spartacus suspected his reason for not giving in. His pride won’t let him. Sometimes, death is preferable to dishonour. ‘Yield!’ he repeated.
Again Carbo shook his head in refusal.
‘Finish the stupid bastard!’ roared Crixus.
‘Iugula! Iugula!’ shouted many of the gladiators. ‘Kill him!’
Spartacus glanced up at the balcony. There was no longer any sign of Batiatus. Phortis merely shrugged. He didn’t care whether Carbo lived or died.
The roar of ‘Iugula’ swelled until the very walls of the ludus rang with it.
Spartacus glanced around the square, and saw the fighters’ bloodlust. He felt it himself. The decision was down to him. His strength and the proximity of the strike meant that even with a wooden sword, Carbo ran a real risk of dying. He hardened his heart. Is that my fault? The fool had had two chances, and refused both. If he didn’t follow through now, the other gladiators would see him as weak. He’s only a fucking Roman after all. With a snarl, Spartacus pulled back his right
arm.
Suddenly, Carbo realised that he might have pushed things too far. He clenched his teeth in bitter acceptance.
‘No,’ whispered Ariadne. ‘You can’t kill an unarmed man.’
‘Iugula! Iugula!’
Closing his left eye, Spartacus took aim at the small hollow at the base of Carbo’s throat. If he drove the wooden sword in hard enough there, it would kill the Roman. So be it.
‘Hold!’ bellowed Batiatus through the shouting.
Spartacus barely heard. He just managed to check himself. Confused, he squinted up at the lanista.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘He won’t give in,’ replied Spartacus. ‘And Phortis didn’t say not to.’
Batiatus rounded on the Capuan. ‘Idiot! I step away from the balcony for a moment, and this is what happens? Why didn’t you end the fight? Carbo fought well enough for a tiro. He might be inexperienced, but he’s no good to me as a damn corpse. Eh?’
‘No, sir,’ muttered Phortis. He shot a vengeful look at Spartacus.
‘Step away from him,’ ordered Batiatus.
Spartacus did as he was told.
Ariadne felt a wave of relief. The Roman would live. She glanced at Spartacus again, feeling awe, and a little fear. Gods, but he is a tough bastard.
Slowly, the Roman sat up. Thank you, Jupiter.
‘I didn’t expect you to fight so well, Carbo. But your inexperience was also obvious. You have a lot to learn,’ said the lanista. ‘The first thing should be that if you go into a fight looking to die, you’ll probably succeed.’ He smiled at the guffaws this produced.
Carbo nodded wearily. With an effort, he took off his helmet.
‘Return tomorrow. You’ll be paid your joining fee, and you can start training at once. My lawyer will have drawn up the contract by then.’ Batiatus turned and was gone.
‘The entertainment is over. Back to your training!’ Phortis shouted. He threw another venomous stare at Spartacus, but the Thracian ignored him.