Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

He raised his head and spoke softly. ‘What about the others? The Thracians and the Spartan?’

Pelleneus scratched his chin. ‘I hardly know anything about them, only what Piso has told me, and that’s no more than a few comments. The Thracians were part of a gang of brigands who were hunted down and destroyed by a Roman column. The Spartan – well, he’s something of a mystery. Piso says he is an outcast. He disgraced himself among his people and they condemned him to slavery.’

‘Disgraced himself? How?’

‘Who knows?’ Pelleneus shrugged, and glanced at the sleeping Spartan warily before he continued. ‘They’re not as civilized as us Athenians. They’re a prickly people, the Spartans. Still think they are the toughest nation in Graecia. Even today they raise their young as if the only thing in life that mattered was being tough and going to war. Chances are that he just looked at someone’s wife the wrong way. Or maybe he couldn’t face fighting a pack of wolves with his hands tied behind his back and they branded him a coward.’ Pelleneus smiled quickly to show that he was joking. ‘Anyway, he doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t talk about anything, come to that. Only speaks when spoken to by Porcino or Piso, and then only in sentences of one word. Seems that Spartans are somewhat lacking in small talk.’

‘But they know how to fight,’ Marcus responded. ‘My father told me that. He said that when he was serving with Pompeius’s army, they had some Spartan mercenaries fighting with them. The toughest men he had ever seen.’ Marcus recalled the admiration in his father’s voice as he’d spoken of them. ‘And the most fearless.’

‘Well, our Spartan friend is going to need those qualities if he is to survive in the arena,’ Pelleneus mused. ‘Of course, he’ll need other qualities too. Fast reflexes and quick thinking. And thinking doesn’t come easily to a Spartan.’

‘Nor does sleep,’ a deep voice growled. ‘Not when some Athenian keeps you awake all night with his prattle.’

Pelleneus started and then he and Marcus looked across the sinking flames of the fire to where the Spartan lay, eyes open. He closed them again, without another word, and lay quite still. The others watched him for a moment, not sure if he was awake or asleep. At length Pelleneus muttered, ‘Better get some rest. Bound to be another long day’s march tomorrow.’

Marcus nodded, still watching the Spartan. Then he eased himself down on to his side, with the curve of his back as close to the fire as he could bear. For a while he thought about his companions. Most of them were hard men with experience of fighting. There was much he could learn from them. And he was beginning to realize that he would need to learn quickly in order to survive if he had to begin a new life in Porcino’s gladiator school.

The next day they left the mountains behind them and descended on to the plain of Campania. A vast expanse of farmland sprawled out before them and Marcus was astonished by the number of large farming estates and grand villas that he could see from the foothills. The Romans of Italia were clearly as wealthy as he had heard they were when his father had told him of his travels through the heart of the empire.

The view quickened the heart of Piso as well, and he raised his club and pointed out into the plain. ‘There’s Capua. Home for us all now, boys!’

Marcus tried to follow the direction Piso had indicated, but he could see several towns on the plain, and in the distance the looming mass of a great mountain appeared as a vague outline against the horizon.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing.

‘The mountain? That’s old father Vesuvius. Some of the best wines in all Italia are made from the grapes that grow on his slopes. Quite a sight, ain’t it, boy? You’ll grow used to it. You can see the mountain clearly from the gladiator school.’

Piso’s tone was light and Marcus realized it was the first time he had seen the slave in a cheerful mood. He turned and raised an eyebrow at Pelleneus. The Athenian smiled back as he spoke out.

‘You’re cheerful this morning, Piso.’

‘Of course. I’m coming home. Haven’t seen my wife and the girls for over four months.’

‘You have a wife?’

‘Yes.’ Piso scowled at Pelleneus. ‘So?’

‘Nothing. Just a side to you I haven’t seen before. That’s all.’

Piso’s expression assumed its customary surliness. ‘Pick up the pace there. No dawdling! The master wants to reach the school before dark. Move it!’

The shackled slaves lengthened their stride, while Porcino rode some twenty paces ahead of them, casually munching on an apple.

The well-worn road gave way to a paved surface as they descended from the hills and stretched out across the plain in a straight line. The air was warm for most of the day, but towards the end of the afternoon the sky clouded over, the atmosphere grew hot and cloying and the prisoners sweated freely as they were driven on by Piso to keep up the pace. As dusk crept across the landscape there was a flicker of lightning in the distance, in the direction of Vesuvius, and a puff of breeze stirred Marcus’s hair and cooled his face. Just after they passed a milestone a short distance outside Capua, Porcino turned off the main road and led them down a narrow lane lined with poplar trees. The first drops of rain began to fall as they came to the end of the lane. It descended gently into a vale. Before them, in the gloom, Marcus saw the gladiator school.

A ten-foot-high plastered wall surrounded a large complex of buildings, pens and training areas. Immediately outside the wall stood an oval wooden arena, perhaps a hundred feet across, linked to the school by a covered way. Beyond the arena stood some stables and large cages, and in the nearest of them Marcus could see the grey shape of a wolf, ceaselessly trotting back and forth behind the bars. A short distance away sprawled a large villa with a courtyard garden which, Marcus guessed, must be where Porcino lived. At each corner of the walled enclosure stood a solid tower where guards watched over the gladiator school and its inmates.

Porcino led his small column down into the vale and up to the main gate of the gladiator school. A heavy wooden door, barred on the outside, filled an arch wide enough to take a large covered wagon. As the lanista approached, six guards emerged from a door in the side of the gatehouse. Marcus saw that each man wore a helmet, and scale armour with a sword-belt hanging from the shoulder. They looked like soldiers to him. It was clear that Porcino guarded his gladiators closely. Marcus thought his training school would probably better be described as a prison.

The guards heaved the heavy timber bar through the iron holders fastened to the door and slid it into the slot in the gatehouse before hauling the door open. Then they stood to the side and bowed their heads at their master as he rode by. As soon as the last of the column of prisoners had passed inside, the gate was closed and there was a deep grating sound as the timber bar was hauled back into place, locking the gate.

Marcus glanced around and saw that they were passing between low buildings. An enticing odour of food wafted from an open door and inside he could see a handful of slaves labouring over some steaming cauldrons as they poured in diced vegetables and chunks of meat. On the other side was a storage area, protected by stout iron bars. Inside, on shelves and pegs, hung a wide variety of weapons: swords, spears, tridents, daggers, axes and maces, with wooden versions of the same weapons hanging nearby. The sight of so many deadly weapons made Marcus flinch as he imagined what damage they might do to his flesh and bones. The next storeroom contained armour: helmets, shields, armguards, greaves and breastplates, neatly arranged on shelves.