Stung by the roars of laughter that met Spartacus’ riposte, the Gaul took a step forward. ‘You dirty Thracian bastard,’ he hissed.
Phortis moved into his path, whip raised high. ‘Get back!’ he bawled. As the Gaul sullenly obeyed, he rounded on Spartacus. ‘Unless you’re asked to speak, keep your stinking mouth shut!’ Flecks of his spittle flew to land on Spartacus’ cheeks, who had the sense not to wipe them off.
‘Phortis. You have returned.’ The voice was not loud, but its authority cut through the noise. ‘Welcome.’
Phortis’ evil expression vanished as he turned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He bowed to the short, portly man who had appeared on the balcony above.
‘Having a little trouble with the new “recruits”?’ Batiatus’ eyes were already dancing along the captives, appraising them. Spartacus deliberately didn’t meet the lanista’s gaze. Instinctively, his comrades copied him. No point attracting Batiatus’ attentions this early.
‘Not at all, sir. Just a few of the usual wisecracks. You know what it’s like.’
‘Indeed.’ Reaching the end of the line, Batiatus regarded the Capuan. ‘Your journey was successful?’
‘I think so, sir, yes. I didn’t have to pay the moon and stars for any of these scumbags, but they’re all tough men who look able to handle themselves. I’m optimistic that you’ll agree with my choices.’
‘Tell me about them.’
Spartacus scanned the watching gladiators sidelong as Phortis began exalting each of his purchases. Where were the leaders, the men he’d come up against sooner rather than later? Not far from the scarred man who’d shouted at him, he spotted another Gaul, an immense figure with bulging muscles and an arrogant look smeared across his broad, handsome face. That bastard’s one. I hope he’s not as skilful as he’s big. Spartacus slid his gaze onwards. A moment later, it stopped on a broken-nosed German, a figure almost as large as the haughty Gaul. He didn’t look that remarkable, but the two men who stood at each of his shoulders told a different story. He’s a leader. They’re his bodyguards. Spartacus didn’t spot any more like the first pair he’d picked, but he knew there’d be plenty of fighters who fancied themselves as superior to him, a lowly new arrival.
Phortis finished his descriptions.
‘Of course we won’t know until they have to fight, but you appear to have done well,’ Batiatus pronounced.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The Capuan grinned.
‘Get them to take the oath, then take off their chains and get them settled in. No point in wasting any more training time than necessary, eh?’ With a pleased nod, Batiatus disappeared from view.
‘So the whoreson lives in the ludus?’ whispered Getas.
‘Seems like it,’ replied Spartacus, eyeing the rest of the first storey. ‘The armoury and the infirmary look to be up there too. We poor shitbags get to stay down here.’ With a jerk of his head, he indicated the lines of cells that ran under three sides of the portico.
‘Listen to me, you miserable sacks of shit!’ bellowed Phortis. ‘It’s time for you to swear your allegiance to your new familia — the gladiators you see all around you.’ He repeated his words in Thracian and Greek. ‘Understand?’
One of the Scythians, a man with a thick black beard, moved forward a step. ‘What if… we… refuse take oath?’
Phortis clicked his fingers, and an archer on the balcony lifted his bow. ‘Your journey comes to an end. Here. Now. Clear?’
The Scythian grunted and stepped back.
‘Anyone else? No?’ Phortis sniggered. ‘I didn’t think so. Repeat after me, then, the words of the sacramentum gladiatorum, the most sacred oath that any of you wretched excuses for men will ever take!’
A silence fell over the ludus. Glancing around, Spartacus realised that the assembled fighters respected what Phortis was about to say. All of them had been through the same ritual. In the brutal world of the ludus, it gave their lives a purpose.
‘Will you swear to endure being burned and being bound in chains?’
There was a heartbeat’s delay.
‘Yes,’ muttered the fifteen men.
‘Do you vow to accept being beaten and flogged?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you commit yourself to Batiatus, body and soul, asking nothing in return? Will you swear to meet your death by sword, spear…’ Here Phortis paused. ‘… or in any other way that the lanista sees fit?’
There was no response.
Ariadne stiffened. She’d had no idea quite how powerful the gladiator’s oath was.
She could not see Spartacus grinding his teeth. Body and soul?
‘Answer me! If you don’t, the bowmen above will start to loose. On the count of three,’ shouted Phortis. ‘One.’
Spartacus glanced at Getas and Seuthes. ‘Pointless dying over a few words, eh?’ he hissed. They both gave him a tight nod.
‘Two,’ roared Phortis.
‘Yes,’ cried the fifteen men.
‘Louder!’
‘YES!’
‘Good. Welcome to our familia.’ Phortis’ smile reminded Spartacus’ of a wolf’s snarl. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a chain, upon which hung a set of keys. ‘Time to set you arse bandits free. Free!’ Laughing at his own joke, he began unlocking the iron ring that sat around each man’s neck. When he reached Spartacus, their eyes met.
I’ll kill you one day, thought Spartacus. Out loud, he said quietly, ‘Where do we sleep?’
‘Have a look around. Some of the cells are empty. It’s first come, first served,’ the Capuan growled.
‘When do we get fed?’ asked Getas.
‘First thing in the morning, and when training finishes, in about half an hour. It’s a good diet too.’ Phortis saw their interest and chuckled. ‘Barley porridge twice a day, and as much water as you can drink.’
‘I-’ protested Seuthes.
‘Yes?’ Phortis’ tone was silky smooth, but his eyes were full of venom.
Seuthes looked away.
‘Get as much rest as you can. Tomorrow the trainers will decide which of you will fight for each of them,’ Phortis advised. He scowled at their incomprehension. ‘You stupid bastards better start learning some Latin or you just won’t get on. This once, I’ll explain. There are three basic types of gladiator: the Gaul, the Samnite and’ — he broke off to spit on the ground — ‘the Thracian.’ With that, he moved on to the next man.
‘See if you can get us a couple of cells beside each other,’ said Spartacus to his comrades. Rubbing at the raw flesh on his neck, he made for the group of women. He’d only gone a few steps before he was shoved violently from behind. He stumbled and fell to one knee. He knew who it was without even looking. This fight had to be fought right now. If he avoided it, his life in the ludus would be twice as hard. Yet he had no weapon, while the other probably did. Instinctively, his fingers scraped into the sand, picking up as many of the yellow grains as he could. Spartacus jumped to his feet, spinning as he did. ‘Did you push me?’ he snarled.
‘I did.’ The Gaul with the mangled lips shrugged. He pointed with the filed-down piece of iron in his right hand. ‘I was aiming you in the direction of the baths.’ He glanced to either side, and his two companions grinned evilly.
Spartacus focused on the leader’s homemade weapon, which had probably been filched from the smithy. He wasn’t surprised that his one of his opponents was armed. Any fighter with a titter of wit would be. Those who weren’t, or who were too weak, would end up as followers, or pieces of meat for men like the Gaul before him. Spartacus had no idea what chance he had against three of them, but he wasn’t going to back down. He couldn’t. ‘Is that so?’ he said softly, taking a step forward. ‘Well, I don’t feel the need for a wash right now.’
The Gaul’s gash of a mouth twitched, and he rubbed his crotch. ‘Who said anything about a wash?’
His companions laughed.
Crouching, Spartacus took another step. He had to get as close as possible. ‘You certainly need one. You stink worse than a sow in farrow!’
Roaring with anger, the Gaul jabbed the homemade dagger at Spartacus’ belly.