by J M Hemmings
‘Certainly master. I will make sure his defiance is broken.’
‘Yes, yes. Feel free to beat him if you must. Just take care not to damage him too badly. I expect him to start his training and conditioning the day after tomorrow at sunrise.’
‘Master, pray tell, what is the new recruit’s name?’
‘I believe he is called … Spartacus. Yes, yes, that’s it. Spartacus.’
38
BATIATUS
August, 73BC. Batiatus’s Ludus
‘You’re short,’ Viridovix remarked with a sneer.
The man named Spartacus, a stocky and relatively hairless man with common and unobtrusive features, glared at Viridovix with wrath-blazing eyes. These eyes, deep set and small, were eyes that never rested; always they darted from this object to that, analysing, scrutinising. His face was one that would have been quick to disappear in the blur of a passing crowd; his features were hard and masculine, but not strikingly so, and they seemed to straddle the line between angular and soft quite comfortably. A skew nose and a profusion of scars around the rims of his eyes, and the fact that one ear had a large chunk torn out of it, marked him as an individual with a propensity for fighting, but in the arrangement of his features there was nothing brutish or coarse; indeed, there was a subdued refinement and quiet dignity evident in his visage. His rocky muscles, while not as intimidatingly large as some of the gladiators’, bore testament to resilient qualities of strength and endurance.
‘And what of it?’ Spartacus snarled hotly in retaliation.
Viridovix answered the man’s aggression with a mocking grin.
‘A short gladiator doesn’t have particularly good reach, so you won’t stand much of a chance against a man with a foot or two’s better reach than yours. And what’s that tattoo on your hand? An eagle, eh? Look, General, this one used to be in a Roman auxiliary unit! He must be a deserter or a thief! A coward is what he is, I’ll wager. He won’t last two seconds on the sands of the arena.’
‘Who says I give a shit about lasting on the sands of the arena? You snivelling slave! Talking about this gladiator idiocy as if it’s something to be proud of! Bah!’
Spartacus spat with virulent defiance at Viridovix’s feet. The General, who was reclining on a stone bench in the corner of the cell, merely chuckled and shook his head as he observed the argument unfolding. Crixus, who also happened to be in the room, sitting on the floor on his own in a corner, watched the ongoing confrontation with his usual reticent disinterest.
‘What the fuck did you just say to me?!’ Viridovix roared, his eyes ablaze, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. ‘What the fuck did you call me?! Do you know who I am?!’
Spartacus seemed both unimpressed and completely unintimidated at this primal display of aggression.
‘It doesn’t matter who you are,’ he sneered, ‘because really, you are a pathetic slave; a loyal dog and nothing more. A vicious one, I’ll give you that, but truly, a common cur.’
Viridovix sprang over the crude wooden table that stood between himself and Spartacus and grabbed the smaller man by the lapel of his rough-spun tunic, his eyes bulging with fury and bubbly saliva foaming at the edges of his mouth.
‘I am a fucking god!’ he growled. ‘I’ll tear your worthless heart out with my bare hands and eat it—’
Strong hands gripped Viridovix’s arms from behind, and they levered his hands off of Spartacus’s tunic.
‘Leave him be, brother. Remember, you were once like him.’
‘Me!?’ Viridovix yelled angrily as he yanked his arms free from N’Jalabenadou’s arm-lock. ‘I was never like this spineless rat! Never!’ He turned back to glare with raw contempt at Spartacus, his hackles raised as he bristled with naked aggression and sizzling-hot wrath. ‘Don’t want to be a gladiator eh? Well fuck you then, you dirty little coward! Go out onto the training ground tomorrow with a blade in your hand and I’ll make sure you don’t have the chance to ever even learn to be one! I’ll end your pathetic life so fucking quickly—’
‘Calm down Viridovix,’ the General said in a soothing and even tone. ‘He is a new brother. He has yet to learn—’
‘I’m not one of your fucking brothers,’ Spartacus spat with acidic vehemence. ‘You’re all dogs. You, you and that, that mute imbecile sitting in the corner!’
Crixus’s face remained as blank as ever; he did not react at all to the insult flung so casually his way.
‘I’m a free man!’ Spartacus continued. ‘They will not break me, they will not. They tried, they tried with that dungeon of darkness, but that only strengthened my resolve. I tell you this, I will not become like you three lickspittles. Never.’
‘Call me a dog, call me a dog again, you fucking—’ Viridovix snarled, trying to lunge for Spartacus again, but once more the General held him back. Crixus continued to quietly observe the whole thing with no expression on his face whatsoever. N’Jalabenadou, still holding Viridovix in a lock, turned to Spartacus and transfixed him with an intense stare, but there was neither malice nor injury in his gaze. He nodded after a while, almost imperceptibly, and smiled at the newcomer.
‘I like your attitude, Spartacus,’ he remarked amicably, ignoring the Thracian’s simmering hostility. ‘You know, both this barbarian and myself were once like you. I’m not sure about our silent friend in the corner there, but I suspect that even he too was once full of life and energy and passion. But somewhere along the line that fire, which burns now so intensely in your veins … was extinguished in ours. I’ve been fighting to keep the spark aglow within myself, but our master is ruthless in such matters. He does not tolerate any hint of rebelliousness; no, none at all. I must warn you that the days you just spent in that subterranean prison will become weeks or even months down in that black pit of hell should you defy him.’
Spartacus, cooling off somewhat now, folded his arms across his chest and shook his head defiantly.
‘He will not break me,’ he muttered. ‘He will not, no matter what he tries. He will not break me.’
‘This one here,’ N’Jalabenadou countered, jerking his head in Viridovix’s direction, ‘he once said the same thing. And yet now he relishes in the blood he sheds for the entertainment of the plebs. As for Crixus over there in the corner … well, just look at him. His heart beats, his lungs breathe, but is he truly alive?’
‘It’s not for entertaining the fucking plebs!’ Viridovix snapped angrily. ‘You’re making it sound like we’re a bunch of fucking dancing bears!’
The General turned and raised a sceptical eyebrow at Viridovix.
‘You think we’re not dancing bears? Pray tell, what are we then?’
‘We are the most elite warriors in all the known world! We are carrying on a time-honoured and ancient tradition, one that embodies the nobility and glory of single combat, of the utter mastery of sword and spear, of—’
‘We’re dancing bears,’ the General interjected flatly. ‘Nothing more.’
‘You might be,’ Viridovix scoffed, his fists clenched tight with wrath. ‘But I am not. I am—’
‘A slave,’ Spartacus mocked. ‘A whimpering dog who crawls and quivers with shameful loyalty beneath the whip of his master. That’s what you are. And there is no slave more pathetic than the one who grows to love the hand that crushes him.’
‘Why you—’ Viridovix snarled, stepping aggressively towards Spartacus. The General, however, grabbed him once more and restrained him.
‘Easy brother, easy,’ he said in a soothing tone, while holding Viridovix tightly in a lock. ‘We are supposed to be showing the new recruit the ropes.’
‘Aye, and instilling some discipline and respect in him, which he clearly lacks in bucketloads!’ Viridovix spat, struggling against the General’s lock, but transfixing Spartacus all the while with a ferocious glare, his jaw clenched and his muscles taut.
‘There will be plenty of that coming from the guards, the doctore, and Batiatus himself. We do not need to add to that. Let’s
try and make this as easy as possible for this new brother.’
Spartacus crossed his arms over his broad chest with defiant resolve, his countenance scrunched into an expression of disdain and seething anger.
‘I said, I’m not your bro—’
‘Yes you are,’ N’Jalabenadou interrupted, his voice steeled with the weight of an unspoken yet potent authority. ‘Whether you like it or not, for the time being you are a gladiator, just like myself and Viridovix and Crixus. Tell me, if you truly harbour the desire for freedom, will you be more likely to attain it if you are strong, healthy and highly skilled in the art of combat, or if you are sick and weak, broken by constant torture and lacking in fighting skills due to so much training time lost by being thrown in the underground dungeon? Think about that.’
Spartacus, scowling, brooded on this in silence.
‘You shouldn’t be encouraging such things,’ muttered Viridovix, who was calming down somewhat.
‘On the contrary,’ N’Jalabenadou said, ‘I should be encouraging such things. If there is any way that we will achieve our freedom, outside of death, it is through the leadership of one such as this. This one … he is different. I can feel it. I don’t know how, exactly, but I sense that his coming precipitates an event of great significance.’
Crixus, who had been listening to this whole conversation with increasing interest, it seemed, turned and stared at Viridovix, his eyes narrowed, waiting for his reaction.
‘Bah, that sounds like rubbish to me!’ Viridovix spat. ‘All that I see in this one is a walking corpse who’ll get skewered in his first fight in the arena. He thinks he’s too good for us, does he? Well he’ll get a sword through his belly.’
‘We will see, brother, we will see,’ the General murmured sagely.
***
Inside Batiatus’s Villa
Batiatus swirled the wine around inside his mouth, doing his best to coat every tooth and irrigate every gap between each of them before he swallowed it. Afterwards he closed his eyes, sinking into a warm haze of bliss.
‘Mm … this truly is a fine vintage, Octavian.’
Octavian couldn’t resist flashing Batiatus a smile laced with smugness and arrogant pride; his teeth shone with a flare of ivory brightness, catching the morning light, and the self-congratulatory hubris evident in that curling of his lips was mirrored in his eyes.
‘Only the best for a true friend. You’ll not find its equal in all of the Republic.’
‘I can believe that.’
Batiatus topped up his golden goblet with more of the wine, and then tilted the amphora toward Octavian’s goblet, but Octavian held up his hand in a gesture of polite refusal.
‘No thank you, Batiatus. I brought this gift for you to enjoy.’
‘And a most generous gift it was, Senator, along with the others. I thank you most generously for it! Now, you must forgive me for my bluntness, but as you know I am a military man, and we do not beat about the bush when it comes to battles and alliances. Why have you come here, bearing these gifts?’
Octavian beamed another beguiling smile at Batiatus, his pores oozing self-assured haughtiness; he was convinced that he knew what the result of this bribe would be before he even brought it up; making the request of Batiatus was a mere formality. Still, he enjoyed lubricating his marks well before he shoved his metaphorical member into them.
‘You are indeed a most renowned former soldier. Rome is exceedingly grateful for the many victories you won her, and—’
‘Senator, if you will, please answer my question; flattery does not sit well with me. You’d do best to state your intent in clear and unpretentious terms.’
A hint of anger flickered briefly across Octavian’s attractive features like an unexpected, half-seen streak of lightning at the farthest edges of a blue sky. As soon as it appeared, however, it vanished, concealed behind a carefully constructed mask of congeniality.
‘Very well, but I think you already know exactly why I’ve come.’
Batiatus sighed.
‘So, it’s the same old story. You want me to give up Lucius Sertorius?’
‘I will reward you most handsomely for his body, dead or alive, but preferably alive. My compatriots and I have decided to up our previous offer by fifty percent, and even for a wealthy man such as yourself, that is a tremendously generous sum. Come now, Batiatus, put these silly loyalties aside and give up the man. We know that you know where he is. We also realise how much you value his skill in finding you the best gladiators from the slave markets, and to compensate for this loss to your business interests we will provide you with any former champion gladiator you wish from the city of Rome to replace Lucius.’
‘I don’t need any more gold, Octavian,’ Batiatus muttered, exasperated. ‘How many times must I tell you this before you understand? And I don’t believe any man you offer me could be Lucius’s equal in terms of skill for discovering gladiators. He has an uncanny knack for it, the likes of which is a genuine rarity. And that is something that doesn’t come around very often in this business – trust me on that. Besides, despite what you are insisting, I honestly have no idea where he is. He comes here once every few months with a fresh gladiator from the slave market, and that is all I see of him. After our business transactions are complete, he vanishes once more like a phantom into the mists of the forests…’
Octavian gritted his teeth and tried to swallow his rising frustration. This was not going nearly as well as he had expected it would.
‘I don’t understand why you insist on protecting this, this vile criminal—’
Batiatus was quick to counter this.
‘Those are your personal charges. As far as I’m concerned, he is innocent of these murders you accuse him of. You have not been able to furnish your accusations with proof, and as I have known the man for years and can vouch for his character, he’ll remain innocent until proven guilty, as our laws dictate. What’s more, Senator, tell me, what is to stop him from accusing you of attempted murder, eh? From what I hear, you “Huntsmen”, or whatever it is that you call your little secret society, have sent troops after him on more than one occasion with the sole intent of ending his life. What have you to say of this?’
Octavian’s fingers were quivering with rage as they grasped the goblet in a death-grip, and the mask of collected calm was beginning to melt from his face; a wax sculpture left too long in harsh sunlight.
‘Huntsmen? Preposterous. I know not of what you speak,’ he muttered. ‘And would you care to repeat what you have just said, Batiatus? Are you really accusing a senator of Rome of conspiring to commit murder?!’
‘I’m just repeating hearsay, is all,’ Batiatus responded with a stony face. ‘I would not make such accusations unless I had proof … something that you are still evidently lacking, with regards to my friend Lucius. You want me to give him to you? Well don’t come here with offers of gold. As I said, I’ve got enough of that. Bring me proof of the man’s crimes, proof, Octavian, and then I’ll cooperate, as any good Roman citizen would. And why do you not humour me by giving me a few details regarding this Huntsmen organisation of yours? Come now, end this charade. I know the secret society exists. If you were to explain to me what exactly it is, I might become more amenable to the idea of turning him in to you.’
Another vein of lightning-wrath ripped across the plain of Octavian’s face, but he quickly suppressed the emotion and readjusted his mask of haughty indifference.
‘As I said, I know not of what you speak, Batiatus. “Huntsmen”? Really? Despite what you insist, I tell you this: no such secret society exists. These are all ridiculous fabrications, concocted in the wild and unrestrained imagination of your uncouth associate. Don’t take too seriously these outrageous things he says.’
‘I don’t take too seriously anything anyone says, Octavian. I judge men by their actions, not their words.’
Octavian threw back his head and laughed, but his tone left little doubt that there were steel barbs a
nd razor-tipped blades in his put-on mirth.
‘So do we in the senate, my friend! Which is why we need … well, never mind, I can see that there is no convincing you. However, should you happen to change your mind—’
‘I won’t.’
Octavian stood up and bowed lightly to Batiatus.
‘In that case I bid you a good evening, Batiatus. I assure you, however, we will speak of this again soon. And I do hope that by next time we speak, some reason will have entered your mind and overridden this stubborn, emotive loyalty that is currently clouding your judgment.’
Batiatus’s lips stiffened into a cold smile that was bereft of any humour or friendliness.
‘Reason is the only thing that guides my hands and mind, Senator. The guards will see you out. Good evening.’
Octavian turned on the heels of his jewelled sandals and strode briskly out of Batiatus’s ostentatious dining hall. The two guards who had been stationed at the door of the hall, both of whom were kitted out in the ornate plate armour of hoplomachi gladiators, replete with full-face helms, followed Octavian out to make sure he got safely to his luxurious litter, which was manned by twelve burly slaves, all waiting in obedient silence.
After a few minutes the armoured guards returned, and one of them strode up to Batiatus, who was still sipping on the exquisite wine that Octavian had given him. The guard leaned his spear against the table, and then removed his full-face helm.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said.
Batiatus shrugged and waved a dismissive hand.
‘It is nothing. You heard what I had to say to that snake: I’ve got more gold than I know what to do with, and I’ve got the finest gladiators in the Republic. What more could I want? He’s got nothing he can tempt me with.’
Worry nonetheless bubbled its noxious fumes up through the ponds of Lucius’s eyes.
‘He is trying his best though.’
Batiatus took a slow sip of his wine and closed his eyes, savouring its flavour and body for a few drawn-out moments before replying.