that he’d not even considered, until now. The German’s grim confidence had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and Servannus hated doubts of any kind. He had no desire to be looking over his shoulder for the blade in the shadows, the creeping assassin in the night. The threat could certainly be removed, although he knew it would be difficult while the German resided at the ludus. There’d be repercussions – even for him – if it was suspected that he’d murdered the valuable property of the Imperial School.
No, he would watch and plan for another day, and, there was no guarantee that the German would survive beyond his first contest. But if he did, that too would be entertaining.
*
Lucanus watched his master enter the amphitheatre .
Young, vital, Lucanus, was accompanied by a fellow slave, Leon, who was old and tired. Lucanus smiled, listening to the old man’s snores as he slept nearby on a seat in the shade.
Their master’s enthusiasm for the games was common knowledge, and when Marcus Tullius Servannus was not preoccupied with his own troupe at Herculaneum, he was travelling to numerous games and private gladiator shows throughout Campania. But, his servants never complained, because the more time he spent at the games meant that the less time he spent at the estate. Less time to vent his spleen on them.
Lucanus knew his master as a conceited bully, a man easily bored, spiteful and callous in his treatment of those he owned. He was one of Servannus’s more recent acquisitions, and had quickly learned how to avoid his master’s wrath, by being diligent in his chores. Servannus hated incompetence and Lucanus often wondered why he’d not dispensed of Leon’s services? Probably because he enjoyed ridiculing the old man as he struggled to go about his daily tasks.
Despite his youth, Lucanus, whose name had been given him by his new master, recognised that Servannus enjoyed causing pain for no reason, and took pleasure in watching others suffer. He’d witnessed it many times, both in the military camps on the frontier and on the estate. Lucanus was periodically subjected to his master’s cruelty, and although it was rarely a beating as his uses increased, Servannus chose instead to batter his spirit. He often reminded Lucanus that his future lay totally in his hands, and that one day all of his people would be slaves of Rome.
Lucanus tried to disguise his hurt, knowing that it would serve to only encourage his master further, but, privately his heart ached when he thought of a family now lost to him, with Servannus assuring him that none had survived on that dreadful day.
Yet, when the image of his brother’s battered face came to him at night, he cried. His poor, brave brother who always looked out for him, who found time to listen and understood that he was very different from the other boys of his age. His brother encouraged him to be true to himself. When death claimed him, it snatched away a part of Lucanus too.
The crying made him feel a little better, for a time, yet the pain always returned. Each night he said a prayer for his dead loved ones, all the while hoping that Guntram’s suffering had been brief.
* * *
Chapter XII
MUNERA
“There are those who quaff with
greedy thirst the blood of the criminal slain
in the arena, even as it flows
fresh from the wound.”
Tertullian
Belua’s voice jarred the troupe towards their seating area in the amphitheatre’s upper level.
One of the guards prodded Guntram into his seat, and he looked around, realizing that the surrounding tiers would soon be filled to capacity.
“You did well to check your anger my friend,” Ellios reflected, sat at his side.
“Do you know what the noble is called?” asked Guntram.
“I overheard Belua grumble his name to one of the guards. It’s Servannus.”
His heart still racing, Guntram mouthed the name to himself. It had been the moment he’d prayed for so often; the chance to repay
No, he would watch and plan for another day, and, there was no guarantee that the German would survive beyond his first contest. But if he did, that too would be entertaining.
*
Lucanus watched his master enter the amphitheatre .
Young, vital, Lucanus, was accompanied by a fellow slave, Leon, who was old and tired. Lucanus smiled, listening to the old man’s snores as he slept nearby on a seat in the shade.
Their master’s enthusiasm for the games was common knowledge, and when Marcus Tullius Servannus was not preoccupied with his own troupe at Herculaneum, he was travelling to numerous games and private gladiator shows throughout Campania. But, his servants never complained, because the more time he spent at the games meant that the less time he spent at the estate. Less time to vent his spleen on them.
Lucanus knew his master as a conceited bully, a man easily bored, spiteful and callous in his treatment of those he owned. He was one of Servannus’s more recent acquisitions, and had quickly learned how to avoid his master’s wrath, by being diligent in his chores. Servannus hated incompetence and Lucanus often wondered why he’d not dispensed of Leon’s services? Probably because he enjoyed ridiculing the old man as he struggled to go about his daily tasks.
Despite his youth, Lucanus, whose name had been given him by his new master, recognised that Servannus enjoyed causing pain for no reason, and took pleasure in watching others suffer. He’d witnessed it many times, both in the military camps on the frontier and on the estate. Lucanus was periodically subjected to his master’s cruelty, and although it was rarely a beating as his uses increased, Servannus chose instead to batter his spirit. He often reminded Lucanus that his future lay totally in his hands, and that one day all of his people would be slaves of Rome.
Lucanus tried to disguise his hurt, knowing that it would serve to only encourage his master further, but, privately his heart ached when he thought of a family now lost to him, with Servannus assuring him that none had survived on that dreadful day.
Yet, when the image of his brother’s battered face came to him at night, he cried. His poor, brave brother who always looked out for him, who found time to listen and understood that he was very different from the other boys of his age. His brother encouraged him to be true to himself. When death claimed him, it snatched away a part of Lucanus too.
The crying made him feel a little better, for a time, yet the pain always returned. Each night he said a prayer for his dead loved ones, all the while hoping that Guntram’s suffering had been brief.
* * *
Chapter XII
MUNERA
“There are those who quaff with
greedy thirst the blood of the criminal slain
in the arena, even as it flows
fresh from the wound.”
Tertullian
Belua’s voice jarred the troupe towards their seating area in the amphitheatre’s upper level.
One of the guards prodded Guntram into his seat, and he looked around, realizing that the surrounding tiers would soon be filled to capacity.
“You did well to check your anger my friend,” Ellios reflected, sat at his side.
“Do you know what the noble is called?” asked Guntram.
“I overheard Belua grumble his name to one of the guards. It’s Servannus.”
His heart still racing, Guntram mouthed the name to himself. It had been the moment he’d prayed for so often; the chance to repay
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