Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

14

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.

Porcino led them out from between the buildings into an open training area where the ground had been beaten hard and covered with fine gravel. He reined his horse in and turned it to face the prisoners, who shuffled to a halt and stood chained in a line, while the lanista surveyed them for a moment. The rain began to fall in earnest and Marcus and the others were quickly drenched to the skin as they stood in silence and waited to be addressed.

Porcino sat straight-backed in his saddle, drew a breath and then spoke loudly so that he could be heard above the patter of the rain.

‘This is your new home,’ he announced with a wave of his arm. ‘This is the only home you have from now on. Where you came from is no more than a memory and it will go easier with you if you try to forget your past lives. That is all dead to you now. All that remains is to learn how to fight and survive. If you master those skills you may live for many years, and some of you may earn your freedom one day. I won’t pretend that the odds are on your side. They aren’t. Most of those who pass through the gates of my gladiator school will find death in the arena. A few will die here, while they are being trained. It is a hard life. You will be driven to exhaustion. You will be taught to withstand pain. You will learn how to fight with all the skills of an elite warrior. Needless to say, it will be a long, difficult process. If you survive and succeed, you will fight, and maybe die, like real men. If you fail here, then there is only death on the sand, or the living death of a broken, pathetic cripple for those lucky enough to be sold on to a new master.’

Porcino paused to let his words sink in, then continued in the same harsh tone. ‘Your life here will be governed by strict rules. You break them at your peril. You will be whipped for minor breaches of the rules. If you raise your fist against any of the trainers, or if you attempt to escape, or if you are overheard plotting against me, or my trainers, then you will be beaten to death by your fellow students. Obey us and work hard and you will be rewarded from time to time. Learn all you can and put it to good use and ultimately you may be rewarded with fame, glory and riches that you could never have earned as free men. Think on that tonight, and in the morning your training will begin.’

Marcus shuddered. This was it. And there would be no escape.

Turning to Piso, Porcino nodded. ‘Remove the shackles. Take ’em to their quarters. Feed ’em and issue ’em with fresh tunics.’

‘Yes, master.’

Piso bowed his head as Porcino wheeled his horse round and walked it back towards the gatehouse. Piso strode up to the line of prisoners and took out the pin hammer from his haversack. He started at the far end of the line and Marcus was forced to watch as the rain slashed down. The last light had faded from the sky and now there was only the faint glow of the moon, appearing fitfully through the clouds scudding across the heavens. In the watch-towers and around the buildings, slaves were busy kindling the torches and braziers that would provide some illumination for the compound during the night.

Marcus was soaked through and shivering while he stood listening to the sharp ringing blows as Piso knocked out the pins that fastened each of the prisoners’ collars. One after another, they stood rubbing their necks and shoulders where the iron rings had weighed on their flesh. At last Piso finished with Pelleneus and moved on to Marcus.

‘Tilt your head to one side,’ Piso ordered.

Marcus did as he was told, flinching slightly as Piso roughly grasped the collar, feeling for the head of the pin in the gloom. He raised his hammer and took careful aim. The first blow sounded so close to Marcus’s ear that the ringing impact felt like it was inside his head. He could not help jerking his head and shoulders to one side.

‘Hold still!’ Piso growled, yanking on the collar to pull Marcus back into position.

‘Oww!’

‘Silence, boy.’

There was a tense pause as Piso found the pin again and readied the next blow. This time Marcus was expecting the impact and the deafening clamour in his ear. He still winced, but managed to keep his body and head still as Piso hammered the pin out.

‘There.’ Piso stepped back, hammer in one hand and the collar in the other.

Marcus had grown accustomed to the weight of the iron collar and now relished the sudden feeling of lightness. He reached up and gently rubbed the skin where the metal had rested.

‘Thank you.’

Piso gathered up the collars and the chain and nodded towards Marcus and the others standing in the rain. ‘Right, follow me!’

He turned and marched across the training ground towards two long, low buildings. The nearest was the bigger of the two and was fronted by a colonnaded shelter. Doors opened at regular intervals along the length of the building. The new arrivals passed a handful of burly men gathered around a table where they shared a jug of wine. One of them raised a cup to Piso.

‘New boys, eh?’

Piso did not reply and passed on by with a scowl as the man continued. ‘Those who are about to die salute us!’

His companions burst into good-natured laughter.

Marcus looked the men over as he walked by. They were in superb condition, with well-muscled arms. Some bore livid scars on their faces and one was heavily bandaged around his bicep. Marcus’s heart quickened as he realized these must be gladiators, the fighting elite of the Roman world.

‘Marcus!’ Piso snapped. ‘Don’t drag your feet, boy, or I’ll have you standing in the rain all night.’

Marcus hurried to catch up with the others. Some of the rooms were lit by oil lamps and he caught glimpses of simple, but comfortable-looking, rooms.

‘Doesn’t seem quite so hard a life to me,’ Phyrus muttered to Pelleneus. ‘I thought gladiators were supposed to have it tough.’

‘So did I,’ his fellow Athenian replied in a puzzled voice.

Piso chuckled unpleasantly as he overheard the brief exchange. ‘That’s the barracks for the gladiators who have completed their training. They’ve earned their privileges. You lot are starting at the bottom with the rest of the trainees. This way, come on!’

He led them past the barracks to the second building. It was a much simpler structure with no doors along the sides, no colonnaded shelter and only a handful of windows. There was a large door at one end, manned by two guards in full armour like those on the main gate. Beside the door were rows of pegs from which chains and shackles hung. Piso dropped his burdens by the door and nodded to one of the guards.

‘Open up. Then fetch some food.’

The guard nodded, and took a brief glance in through a small grille before he fitted his key to the lock and turned it. Opening the door just wide enough to admit Piso and the others, he stood to one side as they shuffled into the building, then closed the door behind them. The interior was one long hall, with stalls along each wall. A torch burned in a high bracket at each end of the building, providing a gloomy light that was enough for Marcus to see that there were no beds or bedrolls in the stalls, just straw. In the walkway between the stalls was a large tub of water and a latrine with six seats over an open drain that ran out through the far wall. Dimly visible figures stirred along the length of the building to inspect the new arrivals.

Piso pointed out two of the empty stalls near the door. ‘Thracians in the first stall. The Spartan, Athenians and the boy in the second.’ He pointed to the water-butt and the latrines. ‘You have all the necessaries here and two meals a day. This is your home until – or if – you pass basic fitness and weapons training. Better get as much sleep as you can before training begins tomorrow.’

He turned and rapped on the door. When the guard opened up, he handed a couple of coarsely made sacks to Piso.

‘Your evening meal!’ Piso grinned and chucked one bag towards the Thracians and the other at Phyrus, who fumbled the catch. Pelleneus picked the bag up for him. ‘Good night, boys.’

The door closed behind him, then the lock clanked. As Marcus followed his companions to the stall Piso had indicated, he saw the other inmates eyeing them warily. There was no attempt to greet the new arrivals, no sign that they were regarded as comrades in any way. Just a sullen, brooding silence and empty expressions. Outside the rain battered the tiles on the roof, and where it found a way through, it dripped on to the slaves in a steady, miserable rhythm. When they reached the stall allotted to them, Marcus and the others slumped down on to the straw. Pelleneus opened the bag and reached in to find several hunks of stale bread, hard and unappetizing. He shared them out and then Marcus slumped back into the corner of the stall and chewed slowly as his teeth chattered and his wet body shivered uncontrollably.

He would have to get out of here, he resolved. There must be some way to escape, some means to get away from this dreadful place and continue his quest to reach Rome and find General Pompeius. Before it was too late to save his mother.