Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

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.

‘Light group,’ he decided, and moved on to Phyrus.

‘By the Gods, this one is built like a bear. Ever killed anyone with those great paws of yours?’

‘No, master,’ Phyrus muttered.

‘A shame. But you will before long. Heavy group, no question about it.’

Taurus moved on to examine Pelleneus after a quick glance at the waxed slate Piso held out to him. The Athenian stood still as he was prodded, and then Taurus stepped back, glancing over him shrewdly as he scratched his chin. ‘Good muscle condition. As you would expect from a boxer. And you’ll be light on your feet, I should imagine. Could equally make a good secutor or a retiarius. Hmmm. Put him down in the mixed group for now.’

Piso nodded and made a quick note, while Taurus moved on to Marcus. Marcus stared straight ahead, not daring to offer any defiance that might be rewarded with a further blow from the training instructor.

‘Ah, here’s the centurion’s son again.’ Taurus leaned forward and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder hard in his vice-like fingers as he spoke in a mocking tone. ‘What to do? Make him a heavy fighter, perhaps? Except that he would collapse under the weight of the kit. A retiarius? No, he’d only tangle his feet in the net. Well, then, put him in the youth group. That’s all he’s fit for right now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marcus felt his face burn with embarrassment and he would dearly have loved to tell Taurus where he could shove his opinions. But he kept his mouth tightly sealed and looked straight ahead as he controlled his anger.

When Taurus reached the end of the line, he took one quick glance at the Spartan and gave his verdict. ‘Mixed group. If he lives long enough, I doubt that this one will ever be good for anything but fighting animals.’

‘I will fight you, master,’ the Spartan replied coldly. ‘Now, if you are brave enough.’

‘Fight me?’ Taurus looked amused. ‘I don’t think so. If you were to so much as raise your hand towards me, then I’d have you crucified within the hour. You’d best remember that.’ Taurus paused, then raised his voice so that all of the new recruits to the gladiator school would hear him. ‘That goes for you all. The only fate waiting for any one of you who strikes me, or any member of my training staff, is a slow, agonizing death. There are no second chances for a gladiator. Remember that well and you may live. Fail to, and you will surely die.’ He nodded sombrely. ‘You are dismissed!’

There were twenty-three other boys in the youth class under the command of a wizened old instructor named Amatus. Thin and sinewy, Amatus had fought as a retiarius for fifteen years. He had won most of his fights, and been spared by the crowds in the handful that he had lost, but had failed to distinguish himself sufficiently to win the favour and rewards that some of his contemporaries had achieved. So he was destined to live out the remainder of his days as a slave, instructing new recruits in the gladiator school of Porcino.

Marcus was one of the youngest in the class. He may have lacked the years but, having been brought up on a farm and encouraged to exercise regularly by his father, he was fit and strong for his age. The other boys had come from across the empire and had different-coloured skins and features, and Marcus could only understand a handful of them who spoke either Latin or Greek. They had all arrived at the school within the last month and a pecking order had already been established.

The self-appointed leader of the group was a large Celtic boy, named Ferax, from one of the tribes that lived close to the Alps. He was three or four years older than Marcus, and much taller and broader. He spoke Latin with a coarse accent and walked with a pronounced swagger when he led the youths out on parade each morning. From the outset he had taken a dislike to Marcus, when they first spoke shortly after Marcus had arrived. Marcus had finished using the latrine and was returning to his stall when Ferax and his four cronies blocked his path.

‘Son of a Roman centurion, eh?’ Ferax sneered. ‘You look more like the son of a sewer rat to me.’