SPARTACUS: BLOOD AND FREEDOM

  Capua rose from the Campanian plain like a boast carved in stone. No mere provincial outpost, but a true Roman city, second only to Rome itself in grandeur. The wagon bearing us rattled through streets thronged with citizens in bright tunics and togas, merchants hawking wares from distant lands, and slaves of every description hurrying about their masters' business.

  I had never seen such wealth. Market stalls overflowed with goods unknown in Thrace: spices from the eastern kingdoms, delicate glasswork, fabrics dyed in impossible colors. Fountains flowed with fresh water carried by massive aqueducts that strode across the landscape like stone giants. Temples to Roman gods loomed over public squares where orators held forth to attentive crowds.

  And everywhere, the inexorable presence of Rome itself: soldiers in polished armor, officials in purple bordered togas, the standards of the Republic fluttering from buildings of imposing size.

  "Magnificent, is it not?" Crixus murmured beside me, observing my carefully controlled reaction to the city. "Built on the blood and sweat of a hundred conquered peoples."

  "Including your Gauls," I replied, keeping my voice low to avoid the guards' notice.

  "Including my Gauls," he agreed with a bitter smile.

  Our journey from Philippopolis had taken nearly a month. By ship across the narrow sea, then overland through the Italian peninsula. Throughout, we had remained chained, though our treatment had improved once we entered lands directly controlled by Lentulus Batiatus. His investment in us required we arrive in reasonable condition.

  The wagon turned from the main thoroughfare onto a narrower street that climbed a gentle slope toward the northern edge of the city. The crowds thinned, replaced by larger villas set behind walls and gates. These were the homes of Capua's elite, those wealthy enough to escape the noise and stench of the city center.

  "The House of Batiatus lies ahead," Crixus said. "One of the largest gladiatorial schools in the Republic."

  "You know much of this place for one who claims never to have seen it," the Dardanian prisoner observed.

  Crixus merely smiled. "Information has value. I collect it when possible."

  The wagon slowed as we approached a sprawling compound surrounded by high walls. Unlike the ornate villas we had passed, this structure had a functional solidity, its stone face unadorned except for a worn relief above the gate: two gladiators locked in mortal combat.

  "Home," Crixus said, his voice tinged with an emotion I could not identify. Not fear, not resignation, but something almost like anticipation.

  The gates swung open to admit our wagon into a large courtyard. Guards moved immediately to surround us, their expressions professionally blank as they unshackled us from the wagon and ordered us to form a line. Our weeks of travel had forged a certain unity among the twelve prisoners. Now we stood shoulder to shoulder, awaiting whatever came next.

  We did not wait long. A door opened in the inner wall of the courtyard, and four men emerged. The corpulent figure of Lentulus Batiatus I recognized from Philippopolis. Beside him walked an older man with a face like weathered leather and the bearing of a veteran soldier. Behind them, two younger men in simple tunics carried writing implements and tablets.

  "My new treasures," Batiatus announced, surveying us with the proprietary gaze of a man examining fresh livestock. "Doctore, what do you think of this latest batch?"

  The leather-faced man, evidently the training master of the ludus, walked slowly along our line, his expert eye noting details most would miss: the balance of our stance, the thickness of wrist and ankle, the scars that told tales of past battles.

  "Promising raw material," he concluded, his Latin crisp and precise. "The Gaul and the Thracian show particular potential." He nodded toward Crixus and myself.

  "Yes, those two caught my eye in Philippopolis." Batiatus approached us, studying us more carefully now that we had been cleaned and rested after the journey. "The Gaul is obvious gladiatorial material. But the Thracian... there is something in his eyes I cannot quite place. Defiance, yes, but something more."

  "Purpose," the doctore suggested. "He does not merely survive; he waits."

  "Perceptive as always, my friend," Batiatus nodded. "Well, we shall see what the training reveals." He turned to his scribes. "Mark them all for basic training. The Gaul to train as a murmillo. The Thracian..." He studied me a moment longer. "As a thraex, naturally. Let him fight with the weapons of his people. The crowd appreciates such authentic touches."

  The scribes noted these instructions on their tablets as Batiatus continued assigning fighting styles to the remaining prisoners. When he finished, he addressed us directly for the first time.

  "Welcome to the ludus of Lentulus Batiatus," he proclaimed, speaking in accented but understandable Thracian, then repeating himself in what I assumed was Gaulish for Crixus and the others. "You are now my property, purchased at considerable expense. But you are not mere slaves. You are gladiators in training, with the opportunity to win wealth, women, and fame beyond anything possible in your miserable former lives."

  He paced before us, warming to his subject. "Serve me well in the arena, and you will find me a generous master. Disappoint me, and the mines will seem pleasant by comparison." He gestured expansively around the compound. "This ludus is the finest in Capua. Food, training, medical care, all of the highest quality. You need only fight, and fight well, to enjoy its comforts."

  A cynical speech, delivered with practiced conviction. I wondered how many times he had welcomed new "recruits" with the same promises and threats. From the expressions of my fellow prisoners, most believed him, or wanted to. After weeks of mistreatment and uncertainty, even false hope was preferable to none.

  "Doctore," Batiatus concluded, "they are yours to train. Make them worthy of the mark of Batiatus."

  The doctore nodded solemnly. "It shall be done, Dominus."

  Batiatus departed with his scribes, leaving us in the care of the training master. The guards remained, watching us with the alertness of men who knew precisely how dangerous we might be.

  "I am Oenomaus," the doctore announced, his gaze sweeping over us. "Within these walls, my word is law. Obey, and you may live to fight in the arena. Disobey, and you will not survive to see the sand." He drew a short whip from his belt, the multiple tails tipped with metal. "This is my voice when words fail. Learn to heed both."

  Without further ceremony, he ordered the guards to escort us into the ludus proper. We passed through the door he had emerged from, entering a different world from the courtyards and streets of Capua.

  The ludus was essentially a prison designed for a single purpose: to create gladiators. A central training area of hard packed earth dominated the space, surrounded by small cells for sleeping. Above, a wooden gallery allowed observation of the training below. Guards patrolled this balcony, always watching. No part of the ludus offered privacy or escape from surveillance.

  Various training equipment stood arranged around the yard: wooden practice swords, straw dummies, weighted weapons for building strength. In one corner, a small group of men were already training, their bodies glistening with sweat as they repeated sword strikes against wooden posts.

  "Your brothers in bondage," Oenomaus informed us, gesturing toward the training gladiators. "Learn from them. The ones who still live have earned their place here."

  We were led to a row of cells along the western wall. Each tiny chamber contained nothing but a straw pallet and a clay chamber pot. "Two men to a cell," Oenomaus ordered. "Choose quickly."

  I moved toward the nearest cell, and Crixus followed without hesitation. The other prisoners paired up according to tribal affiliations where possible. Better to share such close quarters with someone whose language and customs you understood.

  "Tomorrow your training begins," Oenomaus announced once we were settled. "Rest well. You will need your strength." With that, he departed, leaving guards to watch over us.

  Inside the cell, Crixus immediately claimed the pallet furthest from the door. "Stone walls, stone floor, iron bars," he observed. "Built to contain men who are trained to kill."

  "Yet you seem pleased to be here," I noted. Throughout our journey, I had spoken little, observing much. Crixus remained an enigma, his knowledge of Roman ways too extensive for a simple tribal warrior.

  He stretched out on the pallet, surprisingly at ease in our new prison. "There are worse places for men like us. Here, at least, we have worth."

  "As entertainers," I said, the word sour on my tongue. "Performing death for Roman pleasure."

  "As warriors," he corrected. "Respected for skill and courage, not merely endured as laborers or house slaves." He studied me with those startling blue eyes. "You were a warrior before, were you not? A leader among your people?"

  I did not answer directly. "How can you know this?"

  "The way other prisoners look to you, though you rarely speak. The scars on your body, earned in battle rather than punishment. The way you observe everything, always planning." He smiled faintly. "I recognize the qualities because I share them."

  Before I could respond, the doors to the training yard opened again. The gladiators we had seen earlier filed past our cells toward their own quarters, their training evidently concluded for the day. They studied us with the measuring gaze of veterans assessing new recruits, some contemptuous, others merely curious.

  One man, taller than the rest and bearing himself with unmistakable authority, paused before our cell. Deep scars marked his chest and arms, testaments to arena battles survived. "Fresh meat," he remarked to Oenomaus, who walked beside him. "They look stronger than the last batch."

  "The Thracian and the Gaul show promise," the doctore replied. "The others, we shall see."

  The scarred gladiator examined us more carefully. "The Gaul has the look of a fighter. The Thracian..." He met my gaze, and I saw recognition of a kind in his eyes. Not of my face, but of something less tangible. "We shall see," he echoed, moving on with the others.

  "Gannicus," Crixus murmured after they had passed. "Champion of the ludus. A Celtic tribesman who has fought thirty bouts and never lost."

  "Your collection of information continues to impress," I said.

  He shrugged. "The guards talk. The servants talk more. Listen, and the world reveals itself."

  Servants appeared with the evening meal: a ladle of bean stew, a chunk of coarse bread, and watered wine. Simple fare, but more substantial than the rations we had received as prisoners. Batiatus evidently invested in keeping his gladiators adequately fed.

  "Tomorrow will test us all," Crixus said as we ate. "The first day of training always reveals which men might survive to see the arena."

  "You speak as one who has experienced such training before," I observed.

  For the first time, a flash of genuine emotion crossed his face, gone almost before I could identify it. Pain, perhaps. Or rage carefully banked. "Let us say I have knowledge of many things Roman. It serves us now, does it not?"

  I did not press further. We all carried secrets, histories we preferred to keep hidden. Mine remained locked within, shared with no one since my separation from Sura. Perhaps, in time, trust might grow between myself and this enigmatic Gaul. For now, wary alliance was enough.

  Night settled over the ludus, bringing a quiet broken only by the occasional call of the guards changing watch. Sleep came reluctantly, my body still adjusting to the confines of the cell after weeks of travel. In the darkness, images of home flashed behind my closed eyelids: the mountains of Thrace, the village now lost to me, Sura's face in firelight.

  I wondered if she lived still, if the Bessi settlement had survived the Roman sweep through the region. Had our sacrifice purchased their safety? The thought that it might have made the weight of chains more bearable, if only slightly.

  Morning arrived with the blaring of a horn, startling us from sleep. Guards moved along the cells, unlocking doors and ordering us into the training yard. We assembled in the growing light of dawn, shivering in the cool air, our breath fogging before us.

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  Oenomaus stood waiting, flanked by several men who had not been present the day before. These wore the simple tunics of servants rather than the armor of guards, but carried themselves with the confidence of men who knew their place in the hierarchy of the ludus.

  "Today you begin the journey from slave to gladiator," Oenomaus announced. "Few will complete it. Some will break. Others will die. Only those with the will and strength to endure will earn the mark of the Brotherhood." He gestured to the men beside him. "These are your trainers, each skilled in a particular fighting style. Heed their instruction if you wish to live."

  The morning passed in a blur of physical assessment. We ran laps around the training yard until our lungs burned. We lifted weighted swords until our arms trembled. We performed endless drills designed to test strength, speed, and endurance. Throughout, Oenomaus and his trainers watched, occasionally making notations on wax tablets or exchanging observations.

  By midday, two of our original twelve had already collapsed, unable to continue. These were dragged to the side of the yard, water splashed on their faces to revive them, then forced to resume training or face the bite of Oenomaus's whip.

  I performed each task with controlled precision, neither showing off nor holding back. Beside me, Crixus approached the training with surprising enthusiasm, his movements fluid and practiced. Too practiced for one who claimed never to have held a gladius before.

  "The Gaul has prior training," I heard one trainer remark to Oenomaus. "Military, perhaps."

  "Many barbarians have martial traditions," the doctore replied. "It serves us well. Watch the Thracian as well. He conserves energy, paces himself. A tactician's mind in a warrior's body."

  After a brief rest for food and water, the afternoon brought our first taste of actual combat training. We were paired off and given wooden practice swords, instructed in basic strikes and blocks. Most of us had wielded weapons before, but gladiatorial combat followed specific forms and rituals unknown outside the arena.

  I was paired with a Lusitanian prisoner, a man of few words but considerable strength. We worked through the prescribed drills, wood clacking against wood as we learned the rhythms of attack and defense. The sword felt strange in my hand, balanced differently from the weapons of my homeland, but my body adapted quickly, muscle memory from years of combat guiding my movements.

  "Good," the trainer approved, passing behind us. "The Thracian shows natural talent. Continue."

  Across the yard, Crixus was similarly impressing his trainer, his technique refined in a way that spoke of previous instruction. When our eyes met briefly between drills, I saw in his the same calculation that undoubtedly showed in mine. We were both holding back, revealing only enough skill to satisfy the trainers without displaying our true capabilities.

  The day wore on, the sun arcing across the sky above the open training yard. My muscles burned with the unaccustomed exertion after weeks of relative inactivity during transport. Sweat stung my eyes and soaked the simple loincloth we had been issued for training. Yet I welcomed the physical challenge, the chance to reclaim some measure of strength and control over my body.

  "Enough," Oenomaus called as the sun began to lower toward the western wall. "To the baths, then food. Tomorrow we continue."

  Guards directed us to a room adjoining the training yard, where a large sunken pool steamed in the cooling air. Another luxury I had not expected in a prison for slave gladiators, though the purpose was practical enough. Muscle could not be maintained without proper care.

  We stripped and entered the water, the heat a blessed relief for aching bodies. Attendants moved among us with oils and strigils, the Roman instruments used to scrape sweat and dirt from the skin. The sensation was foreign but not unpleasant.

  "The Romans understand the body, if nothing else," Crixus remarked, submerged to his shoulders in the steaming water. "Train, feed, restore, repeat. We are but animals to be conditioned for their entertainment."

  "Yet you embrace the role," I observed.

  He smiled enigmatically. "I embrace opportunity, whatever form it takes."

  Before I could question him further, the baths grew suddenly quiet. The champion Gannicus had entered with three other senior gladiators, their bodies maps of scar tissue and hard won muscle. The new recruits parted before them, yielding prime positions in the bath without being asked.

  Gannicus ignored us all, speaking quietly with his companions. The hierarchy was clear: champions at the top, then sworn gladiators who had survived their first arena fights, then recruits like ourselves, lowest of the low until we proved our worth on the sand.

  After bathing, we were provided with simple tunics and led to a dining hall where food waited: a hearty stew of beans and pork, dark bread, and more watered wine. Again, the quality surprised me. Batiatus clearly believed that well fed gladiators performed better, a shrewd investment in his living property.

  "Meatier fare than the mines would provide," Crixus remarked as we ate. "A small compensation for shortened life."

  "You have a gift for finding cheer in dire circumstance," I replied dryly.

  He laughed, a genuine sound that turned heads among the other recruits. "And you have a gift for seeing only the darkest path ahead. Perhaps together we balance."

  The veteran gladiators ate at separate tables, their status evident in every aspect of ludus life. They watched us with the detached interest of men who had seen many recruits come and go, few surviving to join their ranks.

  When the meal concluded, we were returned to our cells for the night. My body ached with the day's exertions, but the discomfort was welcome, a reminder that I lived still, that my strength would return and grow.

  "They will assign our fighting styles tomorrow," Crixus said as we settled onto our pallets. "Though Batiatus has already marked his preferences."

  "You as murmillo, me as thraex," I recalled.

  "Yes. The murmillo fights with large shield and straight sword, heavily armored but slow. The thraex uses curved sword and small shield, lightly armored but faster." He studied me in the dimming light. "It suits you. Your people are known for speed and ferocity rather than brute strength."

  "And the murmillo suits you?"

  He shrugged. "I can adapt to any style. The weapons matter less than the will behind them."

  Silence fell between us, comfortable rather than strained. For all his mysteries, Crixus had proven a valuable companion in our journey from freedom to servitude. I found myself glad of his presence, though I remained cautious of trusting too completely.

  "Why did you choose me as cell mate?" I asked suddenly. "There were others of your tribe among the prisoners."

  Crixus did not answer immediately, his expression thoughtful. "I recognized something in you," he said finally. "A fire that burns beyond mere survival. The Romans believe they have broken us, made us their creatures. But fire confined does not extinguish. It builds until the pressure must release." He turned on his pallet, his back to me. "Sleep well, Thracian. Tomorrow brings fresh pain."

  His words echoed in my mind as I drifted toward sleep. Fire confined. Pressure building. Was that what I felt, this slow burning rage that had replaced despair? Not just the desire to survive, but to make Rome pay for all it had taken from me, from my people, from countless others crushed beneath its expanding borders?

  Sleep claimed me before I could answer my own question, bringing dreams of mountain snow and Sura's voice, distant but clear: "Remember who you are."

  The days fell into a punishing routine. We woke before dawn for a sparse meal of porridge and water, then trained until midday. Food, brief rest, then training again until dusk. Bathing, heavier meal, sleep. Then repeat, each day building on the lessons of the one before.

  As Crixus had predicted, we were formally assigned our fighting styles on the second day. I stood still as a trainer measured my height, the length of my arms, the width of my shoulders, confirming Batiatus's initial assessment. "Thraex," he pronounced, making a note on his tablet. "Begin specialized training tomorrow."

  The wooden practice swords were replaced with weighted iron replicas of the actual weapons we would eventually wield in the arena. Mine was the sica, a forward curved blade traditional to Thrace, though longer and heavier than those I had used before. With it came a small rectangular shield that strapped to my left forearm.

  "Learn to love these," the weapons trainer instructed. "They are the only friends you can trust in the arena."

  Hours were spent building the specific muscles needed to wield our assigned weapons effectively. The thraex fought with distinctive footwork, shield held high to protect the face while the sica struck from below or curved around an opponent's guard. It was a style that favored speed and precision over brute force, well suited to my natural abilities.

  Crixus, as expected, was confirmed as a murmillo. His larger shield and straight gladius required different techniques, a more planted stance and powerful thrusting attacks. He took to it with the ease of one reclaiming familiar skills rather than learning new ones, further confirming my suspicions about his mysterious past.

  Other recruits were assigned as retiarius, wielding net and trident; dimachaerus, fighting with dual swords; or hoplomachus, armed in the Greek style with spear and small round shield. Each style had its strengths and weaknesses, designed to create interesting matchups in the arena.

  By the end of the first week, three of our original twelve had been removed from training. One died from a blow to the head during sparring, his skull proving thinner than his courage. The other two were judged inadequate and sent to the mines, their fate sealed by failure to meet Oenomaus's exacting standards.

  "Consider them fortunate," remarked an older gladiator named Barca as we watched the two being led away. "Their deaths will come quickly in the mines. Yours await in the arena, prolonged for Roman pleasure."

  Barca was one of the few veterans who bothered to speak with recruits. A massive Carthaginian with a fearsome reputation, he had fought for the House of Batiatus for five years, an eternity in the lifetime of a gladiator.

  "You speak as one who has accepted death," I replied.

  He smiled grimly. "Death accepted me long ago, when Carthage fell and my people were scattered to the winds. I merely await our final meeting." He studied me with unexpected perception. "You have not accepted it yet. Good. The best gladiators are those with reason to live beyond the next fight."

  His words stayed with me through the grueling days that followed. I had a reason to live, though it remained unspoken even to myself. Not just survival. Not just the hope of seeing Sura again. Something larger, still forming in the depths of my mind as I learned the ways of Roman gladiatorial combat.

  Two weeks into our training, Batiatus visited the ludus to observe our progress. He stood on the wooden balcony above the training yard, accompanied by Oenomaus and several richly dressed Romans I took to be potential patrons.

  "Show them the Thracian and the Gaul," I heard him instruct the doctore. "My latest acquisitions of note."

  Oenomaus called a halt to the general training and ordered Crixus and me to the center of the yard. "Demonstrate the thraex and murmillo training sequence," he commanded. "Full speed, but controlled contact only."

  We took our positions, facing each other with practice weapons at the ready. The sequence was a choreographed combination of attacks and defenses designed to showcase the contrasting styles, a rehearsal for the genuine combat of the arena.

  I moved as instructed, the sica sweeping in the distinctive arcs of the thraex fighting style, while Crixus responded with the measured, powerful thrusts of the murmillo. We had practiced this sequence repeatedly in the preceding days, our bodies learning the rhythm of advance and retreat, strike and block.

  Yet something changed when we performed under Batiatus's watchful eye. A subtle shift in tempo, a fraction more force behind each blow. Crixus pressed harder than usual, testing my defenses with strikes that came dangerously close to breaking through. I responded in kind, the competitive instinct of a warrior rising unbidden.

  "Excellent," I heard Batiatus exclaim to his guests. "See how the Thracian moves, quick as a serpent? And the Gaul, solid as a mountain yet surprisingly agile. Both born fighters, needing only proper Roman training to become true gladiators."

  The sequence called for twelve exchanges before concluding with a staged stalemate. On the tenth, Crixus suddenly altered his attack, shifting from the prescribed thrust to a sweeping blow that caught me unprepared. I barely managed to block, the impact jarring my arm to the shoulder.

  Our eyes met over crossed blades, and I saw the challenge in his. This was no longer a demonstration but a test of skill and will. Without conscious thought, I responded in kind, abandoning the choreography for genuine combat techniques.

  For several breathless moments we fought for real, wood cracking against wood with force that would have drawn blood had our weapons been steel. I dimly heard Oenomaus shouting for us to return to the sequence, but the world had narrowed to this: the opponent before me, the weapon in my hand, the surge of life that came with fighting at the edge of capability.

  It ended when both of us, as if by unspoken agreement, pulled back from the brink and resumed the final positions of the sequence, concluding the demonstration as if nothing untoward had occurred. We stood, chests heaving, sweat pouring down our bodies, awaiting judgment from above.

  Oenomaus's face promised later punishment for our disobedience. But Batiatus was laughing, clapping his hands in delight.

  "Did you see that?" he asked his guests. "The instinct, the fire! These two were worth every denarius. When they debut in the arena, it will be a spectacle worthy of Rome itself."

  Later, in the baths, Oenomaus approached us with the promised retribution. "You disobeyed direct instruction," he said, voice low with controlled anger. "Such disregard for orders cannot stand in my ludus."

  "Apologies, Doctore," Crixus offered, not sounding particularly contrite. "The excitement of the moment carried us beyond intention."

  "Save your charm for Batiatus," Oenomaus replied coldly. "He may be pleased, but I am not. Ten lashes each, to be administered after the evening meal." He fixed us with a hard stare. "Remember, you are not yet gladiators. You are property being molded to purpose. The sooner you accept this truth, the better your chances of survival."

  The lashes, when they came, were delivered with precision rather than cruelty. Oenomaus was not a man who enjoyed inflicting pain, but neither did he shy from necessary discipline. Each stroke laid fire across my back, but I accepted the punishment in silence, refusing to give voice to pain.

  Crixus bore his lashes with the same stoic resolve, though I noted the corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly as we were released back to our cell, as if the entire affair secretly amused him.

  "Worth it," he murmured once we were alone. "Batiatus was impressed. He will remember when choosing who fights in the next games."

  "You planned this," I realized. "The deviation from the sequence."

  He shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his fresh wounds. "I recognized opportunity. As did you, or you would not have responded in kind."

  He was right, though I was reluctant to admit it. Something had awakened in me during those moments of genuine combat, a familiar fire long banked but never extinguished. The warrior I had been in Thrace still lived, beneath the slave collar and the enforced obedience.

  "What game do you play, Crixus of the Allobroges?" I asked quietly. "You are more than you appear."

  For once, his habitual mask of sardonic amusement slipped, revealing something harder beneath. "As are you, Spartacus of the Maedi. Perhaps one day we shall share truths. For now, let us be content with mutual advantage. Together, we rise faster than alone."

  It was not a complete answer, but it was more honesty than he had offered before. I nodded, accepting the temporary alliance for what it was. In this place of chains and blood, trust came in small measures, hard earned and easily broken.

  That night, lying awake as my back throbbed with fresh pain, I considered the path that had brought me here. From free Thracian warrior to Roman captive to gladiator in training. Each step removed me further from the life I had known, from the man I had been.

  Yet something essential remained. A core of identity that Rome could not touch with whip or chain or arena. I was still Spartacus, husband to Sura, warrior of the Maedi. That truth lived in muscle memory when I lifted the sica, in the dreams that came in darkness, in the steady beat of a heart that refused to surrender to despair.

  Tomorrow would bring more training, more pain, more lessons in dealing death for Roman entertainment. I would learn them all, excel in each, become what they wished me to be. And in becoming their perfect gladiator, I would forge the weapon of their destruction.

  The thought brought a smile to my lips as sleep finally claimed me.