Lentulus Batiatus, the lanista , would be waiting. A trainer who accepted only the best. Phortis sighed. Batiatus was the sole reason that they’d had drag their arses halfway to Asia Minor in their search for suitable gladiator material. Most lanistae were happy buying slaves off the block in their local market in Italy. Not Batiatus. Thinking of the heavy purse he’d get when they returned, Phortis relaxed. His hard work would have been worthwhile. For all that Batiatus was an exacting master, he paid well.
Phortis’ gaze flickered again over the men he’d bought and abducted in the previous two months. There was a quartet of Scythians; bearded, tattooed savages whom he’d kept apart from day one. That hadn’t stopped them from trying to converse with each other in their guttural tongue at every opportunity. Of course Phortis had seen it all before. They didn’t plot murder and escape any longer – at least not with each other. A particularly savage beating of the last one he’d caught whispering had kept the bastards silent for days now.
Phortis had bought the three Pontic tribesmen from a lank-haired trader on the Illyrian border with Thrace. Renegades who’d been part of Mithridates’ army, apparently, and captured by Thracians fighting for Rome. Phortis didn’t know the truth of that story, nor did he care. The scars on the warriors’ chests and arms, and their combative manner, spoke volumes. They were fighters, and that was what Batiatus wanted.
He studied the eight remaining men. As usual these, the majority of his captives, were Thracian. The most warlike of all the peoples Rome had ever encountered. Tough, intelligent and stubborn. Natural warriors, they were excellent at both ambushes and face-to-face combat. Always prepared to fight to the death. Bitter enemies. It was fortunate, thought Phortis, that the majority of Thracians had ended up as subjects of Rome. Now they provided much of the fodder for the gladiatorial games.
When the largest of the Thracians, a warrior with black hair, noticed Phortis looking, he glared back. Phortis affected not to notice. A beating at this stage would serve little purpose. It was important not to crush all of the slaves’ spirit. If the fool learned to curb his temper, he would survive the first weeks of savage training. A man with any brains at all could last twelve months in the ludus. If the Thracian was lucky as well as smart, he might make it to three years, when he’d be entitled to the rudis , the wooden sword that symbolised freedom. And, if the gods smiled upon him, he would reach the benchmark of five years as a gladiator, and be granted his manumission. The black-haired man looked strong enough to do that, Phortis concluded. So did the short, muscular warrior with swirling tattoos on his chest. And the rest? He idly scanned the group. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t last that long. Few did.
His gaze fell last upon the most unremarkable-looking Thracian, a compact man with short brown hair and slate-grey eyes. It was odd, thought Phortis, that he knew the man’s name. Normally, he didn’t bother with such details. It had all come out in the Maedi village, however, where he’d bought two other men as well. Kotys, the tribe’s chieftain, had accused the trio of plotting to overthrow him. That was good enough for Phortis. As with the rest of his new acquisitions, the three men’s guilt – or innocence – was irrelevant.
Phortis saw Spartacus staring at the little huddle of women who stood a short distance away. He sneered. Like some of the other captives, Spartacus’ wife had followed him into captivity. It wasn’t uncommon. The alternative, being left without a man’s protection, was worse. A slender, aloof figure, Ariadne was more composed than her companions, who wept and wailed at Phortis’ and the guards’ nightly sexual assaults. Yet none fought back. It was part of the unspoken price of being allowed to accompany the column.
Phortis’ gaze flickered again over the men he’d bought and abducted in the previous two months. There was a quartet of Scythians; bearded, tattooed savages whom he’d kept apart from day one. That hadn’t stopped them from trying to converse with each other in their guttural tongue at every opportunity. Of course Phortis had seen it all before. They didn’t plot murder and escape any longer – at least not with each other. A particularly savage beating of the last one he’d caught whispering had kept the bastards silent for days now.
Phortis had bought the three Pontic tribesmen from a lank-haired trader on the Illyrian border with Thrace. Renegades who’d been part of Mithridates’ army, apparently, and captured by Thracians fighting for Rome. Phortis didn’t know the truth of that story, nor did he care. The scars on the warriors’ chests and arms, and their combative manner, spoke volumes. They were fighters, and that was what Batiatus wanted.
He studied the eight remaining men. As usual these, the majority of his captives, were Thracian. The most warlike of all the peoples Rome had ever encountered. Tough, intelligent and stubborn. Natural warriors, they were excellent at both ambushes and face-to-face combat. Always prepared to fight to the death. Bitter enemies. It was fortunate, thought Phortis, that the majority of Thracians had ended up as subjects of Rome. Now they provided much of the fodder for the gladiatorial games.
When the largest of the Thracians, a warrior with black hair, noticed Phortis looking, he glared back. Phortis affected not to notice. A beating at this stage would serve little purpose. It was important not to crush all of the slaves’ spirit. If the fool learned to curb his temper, he would survive the first weeks of savage training. A man with any brains at all could last twelve months in the ludus. If the Thracian was lucky as well as smart, he might make it to three years, when he’d be entitled to the rudis , the wooden sword that symbolised freedom. And, if the gods smiled upon him, he would reach the benchmark of five years as a gladiator, and be granted his manumission. The black-haired man looked strong enough to do that, Phortis concluded. So did the short, muscular warrior with swirling tattoos on his chest. And the rest? He idly scanned the group. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t last that long. Few did.
His gaze fell last upon the most unremarkable-looking Thracian, a compact man with short brown hair and slate-grey eyes. It was odd, thought Phortis, that he knew the man’s name. Normally, he didn’t bother with such details. It had all come out in the Maedi village, however, where he’d bought two other men as well. Kotys, the tribe’s chieftain, had accused the trio of plotting to overthrow him. That was good enough for Phortis. As with the rest of his new acquisitions, the three men’s guilt – or innocence – was irrelevant.
Phortis saw Spartacus staring at the little huddle of women who stood a short distance away. He sneered. Like some of the other captives, Spartacus’ wife had followed him into captivity. It wasn’t uncommon. The alternative, being left without a man’s protection, was worse. A slender, aloof figure, Ariadne was more composed than her companions, who wept and wailed at Phortis’ and the guards’ nightly sexual assaults. Yet none fought back. It was part of the unspoken price of being allowed to accompany the column.
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