Gladiator

by Simon Scarrow

  Porcino sat straight-backed in his saddle, drew a breath and then spoke loudly so that he could be heard above the patter of the rain.

  ‘This is your new home,’ he announced with a wave of his arm. ‘This is the only home you have from now on. Where you came from is no more than a memory and it will go easier with you if you try to forget your past lives. That is all dead to you now. All that remains is to learn how to fight and survive. If you master those skills you may live for many years, and some of you may earn your freedom one day. I won’t pretend that the odds are on your side. They aren’t. Most of those who pass through the gates of my gladiator school will find death in the arena. A few will die here, while they are being trained. It is a hard life. You will be driven to exhaustion. You will be taught to withstand pain. You will learn how to fight with all the skills of an elite warrior. Needless to say, it will be a long, difficult process. If you survive and succeed, you will fight, and maybe die, like real men. If you fail here, then there is only death on the sand, or the living death of a broken, pathetic cripple for those lucky enough to be sold on to a new master.’

  Porcino paused to let his words sink in, then continued in the same harsh tone. ‘Your life here will be governed by strict rules. You break them at your peril. You will be whipped for minor breaches of the rules. If you raise your fist against any of the trainers, or if you attempt to escape, or if you are overheard plotting against me, or my trainers, then you will be beaten to death by your fellow students. Obey us and work hard and you will be rewarded from time to time. Learn all you can and put it to good use and ultimately you may be rewarded with fame, glory and riches that you could never have earned as free men. Think on that tonight, and in the morning your training will begin.’

  Marcus shuddered. This was it. And there would be no escape.

  Turning to Piso, Porcino nodded. ‘Remove the shackles. Take ’em to their quarters. Feed ’em and issue ’em with fresh tunics.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Piso bowed his head as Porcino wheeled his horse round and walked it back towards the gatehouse. Piso strode up to the line of prisoners and took out the pin hammer from his haversack. He started at the far end of the line and Marcus was forced to watch as the rain slashed down. The last light had faded from the sky and now there was only the faint glow of the moon, appearing fitfully through the clouds scudding across the heavens. In the watch-towers and around the buildings, slaves were busy kindling the torches and braziers that would provide some illumination for the compound during the night.

  Marcus was soaked through and shivering while he stood listening to the sharp ringing blows as Piso knocked out the pins that fastened each of the prisoners’ collars. One after another, they stood rubbing their necks and shoulders where the iron rings had weighed on their flesh. At last Piso finished with Pelleneus and moved on to Marcus.

  ‘Tilt your head to one side,’ Piso ordered.

  Marcus did as he was told, flinching slightly as Piso roughly grasped the collar, feeling for the head of the pin in the gloom. He raised his hammer and took careful aim. The first blow sounded so close to Marcus’s ear that the ringing impact felt like it was inside his head. He could not help jerking his head and shoulders to one side.

  ‘Hold still!’ Piso growled, yanking on the collar to pull Marcus back into position.

  ‘Oww!’

  ‘Silence, boy.’

  There was a tense pause as Piso found the pin again and readied the next blow. This time Marcus was expecting the impact and the deafening clamour in his ear. He still winced, but managed to keep his body and head still as Piso hammered the pin out.

  ‘There.’ Piso stepped back, hammer in one hand and the collar in the other.

  Marcus had grown accustomed to the weight of the iron collar and now relished the sudden feeling of lightness. He reached up and gently rubbed the skin where the metal had rested.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Piso gathered up the collars and the chain and nodded towards Marcus and the others standing in the rain. ‘Right, follow me!’

  He turned and marched across the training ground towards two long, low buildings. The nearest was the bigger of the two and was fronted by a colonnaded shelter. Doors opened at regular intervals along the length of the building. The new arrivals passed a handful of burly men gathered around a table where they shared a jug of wine. One of them raised a cup to Piso.

  ‘New boys, eh?’

  Piso did not reply and passed on by with a scowl as the man continued. ‘Those who are about to die salute us!’

  His companions burst into good-natured laughter.

  Marcus looked the men over as he walked by. They were in superb condition, with well-muscled arms. Some bore livid scars on their faces and one was heavily bandaged around his bicep. Marcus’s heart quickened as he realized these must be gladiators, the fighting elite of the Roman world.

  ‘Marcus!’ Piso snapped. ‘Don’t drag your feet, boy, or I’ll have you standing in the rain all night.’

  Marcus hurried to catch up with the others. Some of the rooms were lit by oil lamps and he caught glimpses of simple, but comfortable-looking, rooms.

  ‘Doesn’t seem quite so hard a life to me,’ Phyrus muttered to Pelleneus. ‘I thought gladiators were supposed to have it tough.’

  ‘So did I,’ his fellow Athenian replied in a puzzled voice.

  Piso chuckled unpleasantly as he overheard the brief exchange. ‘That’s the barracks for the gladiators who have completed their training. They’ve earned their privileges. You lot are starting at the bottom with the rest of the trainees. This way, come on!’

  He led them past the barracks to the second building. It was a much simpler structure with no doors along the sides, no colonnaded shelter and only a handful of windows. There was a large door at one end, manned by two guards in full armour like those on the main gate. Beside the door were rows of pegs from which chains and shackles hung. Piso dropped his burdens by the door and nodded to one of the guards.

  ‘Open up. Then fetch some food.’

  The guard nodded, and took a brief glance in through a small grille before he fitted his key to the lock and turned it. Opening the door just wide enough to admit Piso and the others, he stood to one side as they shuffled into the building, then closed the door behind them. The interior was one long hall, with stalls along each wall. A torch burned in a high bracket at each end of the building, providing a gloomy light that was enough for Marcus to see that there were no beds or bedrolls in the stalls, just straw. In the walkway between the stalls was a large tub of water and a latrine with six seats over an open drain that ran out through the far wall. Dimly visible figures stirred along the length of the building to inspect the new arrivals.

  Piso pointed out two of the empty stalls near the door. ‘Thracians in the first stall. The Spartan, Athenians and the boy in the second.’ He pointed to the water-butt and the latrines. ‘You have all the necessaries here and two meals a day. This is your home until – or if – you pass basic fitness and weapons training. Better get as much sleep as you can before training begins tomorrow.’

  He turned and rapped on the door. When the guard opened up, he handed a couple of coarsely made sacks to Piso.

  ‘Your evening meal!’ Piso grinned and chucked one bag towards the Thracians and the other at Phyrus, who fumbled the catch. Pelleneus picked the bag up for him. ‘Good night, boys.’

  The door closed behind him, then the lock clanked. As Marcus followed his companions to the stall Piso had indicated, he saw the other inmates eyeing them warily. There was no attempt to greet the new arrivals, no sign that they were regarded as comrades in any way. Just a sullen, brooding silence and empty expressions. Outside the rain battered the tiles on the roof, and where it found a way through, it dripped on to the slaves in a steady, miserable rhythm. When they reached the stall allotted to them, Marcus and the others slumped down on to the straw. Pelleneus opened the bag and reached in to find sever
al hunks of stale bread, hard and unappetizing. He shared them out and then Marcus slumped back into the corner of the stall and chewed slowly as his teeth chattered and his wet body shivered uncontrollably.

  He would have to get out of here, he resolved. There must be some way to escape, some means to get away from this dreadful place and continue his quest to reach Rome and find General Pompeius. Before it was too late to save his mother.

  15

  A harsh clattering sound shattered Marcus’s sleep. He jerked upright and winced as he felt the stiffness in his limbs and neck. Blinking, he looked round and saw that his companions were also stirring.

  ‘What in Hades is that racket?’ Phyrus grumbled as he sat up, rubbing his face.

  Marcus looked round and saw the other occupants of the building tumbling from their stalls and rushing to the main door. With a clank from the lock the door groaned on its hinges as the guards outside opened it. One of them was holding up a metal chime and beating it with the flat of his sword.

  ‘Move yourselves!’ he bellowed. ‘The last man out gets a beating!’

  ‘Come on!’ Pelleneus leapt up, dragging Marcus on to his feet behind him. ‘Hurry, Phyrus!’

  They rushed out of the stall, into the scrambling tide of bodies making for the door. Most of the other prisoners were men, but there were a few boys among them, Marcus’s age and older. He saw the Thracians just ahead, thrusting through the crowd that was packed in around the door. Then they were lost amid the tall figures of adults pressing round him. Marcus felt a stab of fear. What if he fell over now? He was sure to be crushed underfoot. He grabbed Phyrus’s tunic and pushed in beside his bulk.

  ‘What the –?’ Phyrus looked over his shoulder with a scowl. Then he saw Marcus and tucked his arm protectively around the boy’s body. ‘Stay close and keep on your feet,’ he growled as he edged forward. ‘I’ll look out for you, lad.’

  Together, they moved slowly towards the door. Packed close to the others, Marcus could smell their sweat and dirt and he sensed their fear as they strove not to be the last man out of the door. Then the timber frame loomed ahead, outlining the pale morning sky. There were only a handful of men behind them, and as Marcus passed through the door he glanced back and saw the Spartan standing outside the stall, staring at the last of those struggling to get out. He had a contemptuous expression on his face as he slowly walked towards the door.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, lad!’

  Phyrus pushed him forward and Marcus turned to see that the rest of the slaves were forming a line in front of the cell block. A tall, severe-faced man with a lean, muscular build stood glaring at the slaves as they formed up. He wore a leather jerkin over a red tunic, leather armguards and heavy military boots like those Marcus’s father had favoured. He carried a vine cane in one hand and tapped it against his heel as he stood and watched. Piso came trotting up with a large waxed tablet and stood at the man’s shoulder. Marcus looked at the man warily as he followed Phyrus into position alongside Pelleneus and stood waiting as the last occupants hurried to join the end of the line. There was a brief pause before the Spartan emerged from the door and strolled calmly towards the line.

  The man who had been watching them assemble came striding over with a furious expression. He stopped right in front of the Spartan and thrust his face forward so that they were almost nose to nose.

  ‘What kind of a hurry do you call that?’ he bellowed in Latin. ‘When the morning call is sounded, you run out here as fast as you can. Do you understand me?’

  The Spartan just stared back without any sign of fear, or even interest.

  The other man whirled round. ‘Piso! Over here, at the double!’

  Piso scurried over. ‘Yes, Centurion Taurus?’

  ‘Who is this ’orrible little man?’ He jabbed his finger at the Spartan. ‘Is he one of the new batch Porcino brought in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They make up the last batch of the new intake. The master bought this one from an auction in Sparta. Name’s Patroclus.’

  ‘Sparta, eh?’ Taurus turned fully to the man and rested one hand on his hip as he clutched his cane tightly in the other. ‘Must think he’s a hard man. Does he speak Latin?’

  Piso nodded. ‘That was my understanding, sir. But he’s barely spoken a word to me since the master bought him, and then only in Greek.’

  ‘I see.’ Taurus sneered at the Spartan. ‘So, I imagine you think you must be King-bloody-Leonidas reborn, the way you ponced out of the cell block like that. Well?’

  The Spartan stared straight ahead, in total silence. Taurus suddenly slammed the head of his cane into the man’s stomach. Patroclus doubled over with an explosive grunt.

  ‘How dare you refuse to reply!’ Taurus bellowed. ‘How dare you walk out on to my training ground without a care in the world. It will not do!’ He lashed out with his cane, striking the Spartan across the shoulders. Marcus flinched as he heard the crack of the blow just a few feet to the right of where he stood. He risked a glimpse sideways and saw that the Spartan was on his knees. Patroclus gritted his teeth, then rose slowly to his feet and faced his attacker again.

  ‘Not had enough?’ Taurus slapped his face with a vicious backhanded blow and followed it up with a forehand.

  Patroclus blinked, but his face remained impassive as he opened his mouth and spat out some blood.

  ‘Bah!’ Taurus snarled. ‘I’ll break you down to size soon enough, my friend. You’ll see. Now then …’ He took a pace back and ran his eyes along the line. Marcus was just too slow in looking away and caught the man’s eye. In an instant Taurus sprang towards him and poked his vine cane into Marcus’s chest, forcing him back a step.

  ‘What’s this?’ He glanced round at Piso. ‘Is Porcino planning on a fight between pygmies?’

  Piso and the other guards laughed dutifully, while Taurus turned his attention back to Marcus. ‘Name?’

  ‘Marcus Cornelius, sir,’ he replied, then thinking quickly he added, ‘son of Centurion Titus Cornelius of the Sixteenth Legion.’

  Taurus frowned. ‘Your father was a soldier?’

  ‘A centurion, sir.’

  ‘And now you’re a slave, eh?’ Taurus tutted. ‘The Gods will play their games. Tough luck, boy. From now on you are plain and simple Marcus. That is the only name you will have until we find a fighting name for you, if you live that long.’

  He was about to move on and Marcus could not believe his chance to explain the injustice of his situation was slipping away.

  ‘Wait!’

  Taurus froze. ‘What? Did you say something?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Marcus said quickly. ‘I was taken illegally and sold as a slave.’

  He never saw the blow, just felt his head snap to one side as Taurus struck him. He staggered back, dazed, as the man shouted into his face.

  ‘Never, ever speak out of turn again, slave! You hear me? I don’t give a monkey’s who your father is, or what your story may be. Got that? You are a slave, the scum of the earth, and I hate the very sight of you. Your only hope now is that I let you become a gladiator one day. Until then you are nothing. And you will call me master whenever you are called to speak. Understand?’

  ‘Yes … master,’ Marcus blurted out. His head was still ringing and he felt dizzy enough to be sick. He fought the nausea off as he swayed on his feet.

  ‘That’s better.’ Taurus turned away and strode back to the centre of the training ground to address the line of men. ‘Now that we are all here, the training can begin. I will start with some introductions … I am Aulus Tullius Taurus, your chief training instructor. I trained soldiers before I trained slaves, and before then I was busy killing barbarians for Rome. I will train you to become killers, eventually. Before then, you must become fit and fearless, so I will work you until you drop and I will beat anyone who complains or falls behind the others, like our foolish Spartan friend over there. From time to time we will be honoured with the presence of Porcino, the lanista who owns this
school. You will not address him unless he speaks to you first. And then you will call him master. Next, there is my assistant Piso. He is a slave, but unlike you lot he has proved himself in the arena. Piso is in charge of issuing kit, rations and rewards, so you will treat him well.’ Taurus turned to indicate four men standing to one side. ‘Those men are your drill instructors. Me you call master. Piso and the drill instructors call me sir, and you call them sir in turn. If you fail to remember this simple rule, you will be beaten. There are only two other rules here. Do exactly what you are told and do it at once. Disobedience or hesitation will be punished without mercy.’

  He paused to make sure that everyone had time to let his words sink in. ‘For the next four months, you will be trained to build your strength and fitness up. After that, you will begin basic weapons training. I will be watching you closely and in another four months I will choose your fighting speciality. Some of you will fight as heavy infantry. Some will be lightly armed. Others will be trained to fight animals. The youngest of you will be given kitchen and cleaning duties until I decide you are big enough to handle weapons. When you are ready for your first real fights, then you will be moved out of the recruits’ barracks and into more comfortable quarters. To work, then.’ He finished abruptly and clicked his fingers to summon Piso to his side. ‘Time to assign the training groups.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Piso opened his waxed slate and took out a brass stylus, the four drill instructors came trotting over and stood apart in front of the line of slaves. Marcus watched them blankly as his mind filled with sad memories of his life on the farm outside Nydri. Back then, he had been loved and looked after and was happy. Now he was subject to the cruel discipline of the gladiator school and he wondered just how long he could endure his grim new life. Taurus and Piso paced over to the far end of the line and began making their way along. Taurus stopped in front of every man and boy, examined them briefly and then told Piso which group to enter them into. As he reached the Thracians, Marcus saw him squeeze their shoulders and arms and then examine their hands and legs.