Read Online Spartacus: The Gladiator by Ben Kane - Free Book Online

man wearing a faded green cloak. From the belt around his waist hung a sheathed gladius. The newcomer looked as if he knew how to use it too. He resembled a Roman soldier, thought Spartacus. So did the eight similarly armed figures following him. Hard-faced, their limbs laced with scars, they had to be veteran legionaries. The men in ragged clothes who stumbled along behind, and who were chained to each other’s necks, were a different matter. Even the smallest child could see that they were slaves. They were of different nationalities: some were Thracian, but others seemed to be Pontic or even Scythian. Two men took up the rear, leading a trio of mules.
    Slave-trader scum, thought Spartacus savagely. Men like these – human vultures – had followed in the wake of every army he had ever served in. They usually bought prisoners captured by the legionaries, but they weren’t above abducting anyone weak or foolish enough to come within their grasp. Men, women, children – they took them all. In recent decades, Rome’s appetite for slaves had become insatiable. This individual was not an average slave trader, however. He only had males, which meant that his prospective clients owned farms or mines. Spartacus closed his eyes and tried to rest. This was nothing to do with him.
    ‘That’s close enough,’ shouted Polles when the newcomer was a dozen steps from Kotys. ‘Bow to the king.’
    Immediately, the other obeyed. ‘My name is Phortis. I am a trader,’ he said in poor Thracian. ‘I come in peace.’
    ‘It’s as well,’ said Kotys acidly. ‘Nine of you wouldn’t make much impression against my bodyguards.’
    ‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’ Phortis smile’ was rueful.
    ‘Why are you here?’
    ‘My master in Italy has sent me in search of slaves, Your Majesty.’
    ‘I can see that. Agricultural slaves and the like, eh?’
    ‘No, Your Majesty. I want men who can fight in the arena, as …’ Phortis paused, searching for the right word before reverting to Latin. ‘… gladiators.’
    Spartacus’ ears pricked. He had seen Roman prisoners of war forced to fight each other to the death for the amusement of thousands of cheering legionaries. The savagery of these combats had been mitigated by the fact that the victors were often allowed to go free. Spartacus doubted that that was the case in Italy. Shifting position on the rack, he shuddered as fresh waves of agony radiated from the raw flesh of his back. He closed his eyes again, breathing into the pain.
    ‘Gladiators?’ asked Kotys, frowning.
    ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis in Thracian. ‘Skilled fighters of various classes who battle each other in front of a crowd until one is victorious. It makes for a first-class spectacle. The practice is very popular among my people.’
    ‘You use only slaves? How can they be entertaining?’ demanded Kotys contemptuously.
    ‘It’s not that simple, Your Majesty. Prisoners of war and criminals also provide large numbers of suitable candidates.’ Phortis jerked his head at his captives. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using slaves either, if you pick the right ones. Scythians are savage bastards, and Pontic tribesmen fight like cornered rats. But the pick of the lot are Thracians. Everyone knows that your people are the most warlike in the world. In Italy, we say that the Thracians are “worse than snow”, and that if every tribe were to join together, you would conquer every race in existence.’ He smiled at the growls of appreciation that rose up from those within earshot.
    ‘Honeyed words from a Roman,’ interrupted Kotys, snarling. ‘So you have come looking for slaves to buy?’
    ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis in a humble tone. ‘Prisoners that your warriors might have taken during raids on other tribes, and the like.’ His gaze moved to Spartacus and his companions and slithered away.
    Kotys did not miss Phortis’ interest. ‘Do these gladiators live for long?’
    Phortis’ eyes