A few days after his brutal encounter with Crixus, an unexpected order arrived. Batiatus was to attend games in Capua's grand arena to honor a Roman official, and some gladiators and recruits were to accompany him. Not to fight, but to "learn" and serve as a display of the House of Batiatus's might. Thomas, still sore from the bruises covering his body, was herded along with Varro and the others. Upon entering the arena gates, the sheer scale of the place took his breath away. This was no dingy training yard. This was a coliseum of death, built of stone and a thirst for blood. Thousands of spectators roared from the stands, their voices merging into a deafening clamor. The scent of hot sand, cheap wine, sweat, and the faint, long-dried smell of blood, filled the air. From their position near the fighters' tunnel, Thomas could see across to the magnificent place of honor. He recognized the enthusiastic silhouette of Batiatus and the elegant Lucretia by his side. Near them sat a man with a rigid military posture and a face full of arrogance, Gaius Claudius Glaber. Next to him was his wife, Ilithyia, looking both graceful and bored.
"The gods," Varro whispered beside him, his eyes fixed on the crowd. "I've never seen so many people in one place."
A booming announcer's voice proclaimed the next event. Not a fight of honor, but the "enforcement of Roman justice." A public execution.
The gates on the opposite side opened. Four gladiators from their ludus strode onto the sand with arrogance. Thomas recognized them as mid-tier fighters, men he often saw training brutally. They were fully armed and looked confident.
Then, from another gate, a group of Thracian men were dragged in, still chained at their wrists. They were thin, dirty, and their gazes were vacant. They were lambs being led to slaughter. Among them, there was one man whose gaze was different. Not vacant, but burning with suppressed rage.
The fight began. One of Batiatus's gladiators approached a trembling Thracian, raising his sword for a final, contemptuous swing. Suddenly, the man with the burning gaze roared, a sound more like a wild beast than a human. With impossible, desperate strength, he violently pulled his arm. There was a screech of metal as one of the links in his manacles snapped. He was free. In the blink of an eye, before anyone could react, he lunged forward. He had no weapon, so he used his body, slamming into the unsuspecting gladiator and wrenching his sword away. A swift, brutal cut to the throat, and Batiatus's first gladiator fell to the sand, his blood gushing. A momentary silence fell over the arena, followed by a roar of confusion from the crowd.
What happened next was a chaotic, unexpected slaughter. The three remaining gladiators attacked the Thracian man together, but he moved with wild agility. Thomas, his analytical brain trained to observe, saw it clearly. This man didn't fight like a gladiator. He had no rigid stances or practiced movements. He was a true warrior. He used his opponents' shields as footholds, kicked sand to blind eyes, and used every momentum of their attacks to turn against them. It was an efficient, merciless dance of death. One by one, the trained gladiators of Batiatus fell at the hands of a man without armor, armed only with rage and combat skills honed on real battlefields. The crowd's cheers changed. Jeers turned to admiration. They no longer saw a rebel to be executed; they saw a legend being born before their very eyes.
Finally, only the Thracian man remained standing, panting amidst four corpses. His chest heaved, his body covered in blood, and his eyes stared intensely towards the seat of honor, towards Glaber, with pure hatred. Thomas followed his gaze and saw the elites' reactions. Glaber was pale with fury, his hands tightly clenched. But Batiatus... Batiatus leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with undisguised greed. He didn't see an enemy of Rome; he saw an invaluable pile of gold coins. Suddenly, Batiatus's voice boomed across the arena, full of drama and authority. "A name worthy of such courage! The name of a mighty Thracian king of old! I name him... Spartacus!" As Glaber was about to give the order to kill, Batiatus quickly intervened, claiming the man as his property, his latest acquisition, effectively saving him from instant death. Thomas stood transfixed. He had just witnessed the impossible. A man defy his fate and win. And now, the monster just born in the red sand, that "Spartacus," would be coming home with them. To the ludus. To his world.
The journey back to the ludus felt starkly different. The guards and gladiators who had accompanied them talked incessantly about the arena events, their voices filled with awe and disbelief. They had witnessed four of their comrades slaughtered by a single Thracian who was supposed to be a victim. Crixus, the champion, was completely silent. His face was hard as granite, his jaw clenched tight. Thomas, observing him from a distance, could see the suppressed rage and shame in his eyes. His anger came not from feeling his strength challenged, but from deep humiliation. Four gladiators from the House of Batiatus, his house, had been disgraced in front of all of Capua. It was a stain on the ludus's reputation, and by extension, on his honor as champion.
"I've never seen anything like it," Varro whispered to Thomas, his eyes still holding traces of awe. "He didn't fight like a gladiator, but like... a demon."
"He fought not to die," Thomas replied quietly, his mind racing. He saw more than just strength; he saw the implications. Batiatus hadn't bought a slave; he had just thrown a hungry wolf into an already crowded dog run.
As they arrived back at the ludus training yard, a tense atmosphere greeted them. The Doctore was waiting, his face as expressionless as ever, but his sharp eyes indicated he knew something monumental had occurred. Batiatus strode to the center of the yard with a wide, theatrical grin. "My sons!" he exclaimed in a jovial, forced voice. "Today, the gods have smiled upon our House! They have sent us a gift!" At his signal, guards dragged Spartacus to the center. He was wounded, exhausted, and still covered in dried blood, but he stood tall, his wild eyes defying everyone who looked at him. "Welcome the newest member of our brotherhood!" Batiatus continued, roughly patting Spartacus's shoulder. "A man who showed Rome what true Thracian spirit means! Welcome... Spartacus!"
No one cheered. The gladiators simply stared with a mix of curiosity and hostility.
Crixus stepped forward, a sneering smile on his face. "This man?" he said, his voice dripping with venom. "He killed four of our men who were unprepared for the savagery of an animal. Here, under the Doctore's discipline, he is nothing." "Oh, I disagree, my champion," Batiatus retorted cunningly. "I see boundless potential. A little polish from the Doctore, and his savagery will become an unrivaled weapon." He was deliberately stoking the flames, relishing the spark of rivalry between his two greatest assets. Spartacus, who had been silent until now, finally turned towards Crixus. He said nothing, merely staring into the champion's eyes with cold, unwavering hatred. That look said more than a thousand words: You and I, we are not finished.
"Enough!" The Doctore's voice cut through the tension. "In this yard, only one voice matters, and that is mine. Take him," he commanded the guards, pointing at Spartacus. "Clean him and throw him into a cell with the other worms. Tomorrow, we shall see if he is more than just a beast." As Spartacus was dragged past the line of recruits, his eyes briefly met Thomas's for a split second. No recognition, no emotion. Just the gaze of two strangers, equally stranded in the same hell.
Thomas slowly exhaled. He could feel the entire dynamic of the ludus shifting before his eyes. The conflict between Spartacus and Crixus would become the center of attention. It was a storm coming. And in the middle of a storm, a clever observer could often find shelter, or even an opportunity to move forward undetected. His mind unconsciously turned to Naevia, and Crixus's threat from a few days ago. Perhaps, he thought, the champion's now divided attention was the opening he needed.