Pax Res Publica - The Third Servile War

[isa0005]

By isa0005

[isa0005]

Forward
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(Coming in a little while)
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[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Hello, everyone!
It's been a while since I posted here in the Writer's Study and longer still since I've felt I could flex my creative muscles.
As some of you might remember I posted something similar here many years back. Recently I felt the need to return to my writing and this story was something that seemed to pique my interest. With that in mind, I have chosen to re-write and re-design the story from the ground up. I'd like to start posting something at least every fortnight and I will continue the story until I feel I have written enough .

For those who don’t know me, my name is isa0005. Before we begin, I’d like to explain what my intentions are for this work of creative historical fiction. I want to present a series of short pieces of historical fiction set during the latter part of the Roman Republic, a period of history that deeply fascinates me. The first of these, as you will discover, shall be set within the Roman city of Capua, during the infamous Third Servile War (71-73 BCE) also known as the Gladiator War and The War of Spartacus, respectively. As a student of classical history, I’ve always had a fascination with the untold stories, especially those of the lower and middle classes.

While these shorter works will be connected by an overarching theme or event, be that the Third Servile War or some other occurrence during this period of history, the characters will remain separated and shall exist within their own worlds. Some of their stories I may also discontinue based on both my interests and indeed the time I have available to work on them. Overall my intention is to explore the lives of your average individual during this period of history, be they a gladiator, slave, soldier, magistrate. I will try and avoid characters who are larger than life, as I feel that they tend to offer a rather narrow view of what Roman life may have been like.

I intend for each story to be as historically accurate as I am able to make them, with of course allowances made for the purposes of storytelling. As such, I’d ask, for any who read this, that they offer what assistance they could in terms of historical research and/or ideas. I’d also like to ask that if you see any grammatical, spelling or any other form of error, that you point them out. I am very open to constructive criticism, and I appreciate any advice that anyone can provide.


With this all said and done, I’d like to say that I hope everyone enjoys my work as much as I have done writing it, feel free to share some rep if you do, every little bit of encouragement helps!

[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Aprilis, 681 Ab Urbe Condita,
In the Spring of the Consulship of Lucullus and Longinus
Forum Calavius - Central Capua.
Campania felix, Italia.

"Citizens of Capua! Ample rewards are offered to any who may provide information on several missing slaves, either stolen or absconded from the House of Marcus Verus," Gesticulated the praeco of the Forum Calavius, the fat man standing amidst the hustle and bustle of the market square atop a marble dais.

"Floralia begins on the Ides; all temples will be shut, and no weddings shall be celebrated. Festivities will begin at the sixth hour, under the sponsorship of the Praefectus Capuam Cumas, Accius Pompo and the House of Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Vatia. The Ludi Florae will be held at the Amphitheatrum Campania. Wine, sweetmeats, and cakes to be provided by the Pompeiian Vinters Brotherhood and the Millers Fraternity of Capua, in other news…" the crier paused, looking over his wax tablets.

"You know, I've always wondered where that old Catullus gets all his 'news'," said Brasus, the hulking Dacian flexing his oiled muscles. "It's as though he has Mercury's ear."
"You might be right," chuckled Nikomedia, a Numidian woman with dark hair braided into thick locs. "Then again, the office of the praeconium is known to have many eyes and ears across the city." Nikomedia posed similarly, showing off her scarred and battle-hardened physique. The pair were gladiators, warrior-entertainers of the arena and, most importantly, lovers.

"...Rebellion persists in the province of Hispania Ulterior. The renegade Quintus Sertorius continues to evade capture. The Senate urges all able-bodied men to enlist now! Join the Legions for the Senate and the People of Rome!"
"Now there's something I can understand bloody war!" Brasuss hefted Nikomedia onto his shoulders with ease; the gathering crowd was awed by the display of strength and skill.

"What do you know of war, Brasus?" Nicomedia jibed, deftly balancing on the Dacian's shoulders.

"More than you, I should think! Have you forgotten that I bested Brennus, Champion of the Senones? The greatest warrior of all Gaul and in single combat no less…"

"We all know the story, my love…" Nikomedia interrupted, planting a kiss on the Dacian's cheek. "I'm sure even Megas Alexandros would be amazed by your strategic prowess in beating a shriveled old man to death."

"He was hardly an old man!" Brasus protested, playfully slapping Nikomedia's posterior.

"He was, too! I was right beside you the moment you sprang on him and crushed his skull with your bare hands! The crowd bloody loved it! That, my love, wasn't war. That was an execution." Truthfully, all Nikomedia knew of war was the fleeting memories of a distant childhood. Yet the power of the Roman legions still haunted her dreams at night, as did their atrocities.

"Stow it, you two, or Galba will have your heads", came the gruff yet paternal voice of Quintilius Varo, a middle-aged Samnite and primus palus of the gladiatorial troupe. "You are gladiators, not nattering wives! Show these people what they came to see!"

Flavius Galba appeared amidst the spectators as though summoned from the ether. The man's embroidered tunic and fine-dyed woollen cloak denoted his wealth. Yet nothing about Galba spoke of nobility or high status. He was an ugly man, his face pock-marked and scared, his dark hair oily and tousled. As the lanista of the Familia Vatia, Galba was equally reviled and praised for his skill and brutality in forging the greatest gladiators the Republic had ever known. He was also a vicious fighter and could match many of those stabled at his ludus. Thankfully, at this moment, Galba appeared to be in good spirits.

"...funeral munera shall be delivered for Gaius Aurelius Cotta in Rome on the nones of Maius. All expenses will be paid from the public purse in honourable recognition of his services to the Senate and the Roman people!

"A moment, friend Cattulus", Galba interrupted the praeco. "I would speak to the people if you would allow it?"

"But of course, friend Galba, please take the podium", the praeco responded, forcing a slick grimace. Much to the crier's dismay, it was clear that Galba's appearance was entirely planned and paid for.

"Many thanks." Galba bowed before he strode towards the steps leading up the central dais.

"Be ready", Varro hissed as Nikomedia deftly leapt off her Dacian lover's shoulders, the pair taking their place for the combat. From behind Varo, more gladiators filled into the Forum Calavius. They bore various wooden weapons, polished armour, plumed helms, and brightly coloured cloaks. In homage to the Goddess Flora, they all bore crowns of roses, their trained and toned bodies oiled and scented.

"People of Capua and citizens of the Republic", Galba began ", as thanks for your many years of patronage, the house of Lentulus Vatia has a special treat for you all! A taste of what is to come during the festivities. Behold the finest fighters the Familia Gldiatoria Vatia has to offer!"

Reaching for his wooden Rudis, a symbolic wooden short sword that denoted his status as a freedman, Varo waved the weapon in a cutting motion. Taking their place around the dais, the warriors began an expertly choreographed melee, deftly ducking and weaving, viciously striking and slashing with their weapons. To any onlooker, the gladiators engaged in a life-or-death struggle. Some men fell, feigning death from superficial wounds or unconsciousness. Others bled and bruised but fought on, driven by the prospect of victorious rewards and the cries of the crowds about them.

Descending from the dais, Galba approached Varo with a smile. Yet whatever good-natured humour he may have felt was lost in the man's eyes.

"Where are the Thracians?" Asked Varo, who had noted their absence upon the gladiator troupes' entrance into the forum.

"In the Pitt with the damned Gauls and the Celt", Galba hissed; the man was furious.

"They'll tear each other apart down there."

"Good. The sooner I'm rid of the bastards, the better! I'm not a nursemaid." Gauls and Celts were always rebellious; a thorn Galba had become accustomed to in his many years as a lanista. The Thracians were another beast entirely.
"Does Dominus approve?" Varo queried, knowing full well that Master Vatia was significantly averse to Galba's brutal yet effective methods. The lanista turned to his primus palus and gave him a stern look.

Hailing from the mountainous regions northeast of the Roman province of Makedonia, they were wily, cunning, and fearless. Where their fellow barbarians were often savage and straightforward, the inhabitants of Thrace were more akin to their learned Greek neighbours. Many slaves from the region were prized not only for their strength and hardiness but often for their ability to read, write and slaughter in equal measure, so much so that the Republic employed them as auxiliaries in their mighty legions. Much to Galba's dismay, the Thracian's stabled at his ludus proved most difficult to bend to his iron will.

"You overstep your station, Varro." The freedman returned Galba's stare, gripping his rudus by his side. As much as he respected Galba's skill in forging warriors, Varo hated the lanista as much as any of his charges. "If I required Vatia's approval, I'd be out of the business. Like his father before him, he trusts me to make the right decisions." Galba had served as lanista to the Lentuli Vatiae for the better part of three decades. He had inherited the title from his uncle, who'd begun the venture with Vatia's grandfather. He wasn't about to let this lowly freedman question his decisions.

Captivated though the crowd was, it was clear they hungered for more. Galba's eyes gleamed with a devious spark as he watched Brasus and Nikomedia deliver an awe-inspiring performance with their wooden weapons. They were Varo's favourites, and for good reason, they were some of the best. It was about time he put their skills and Varro's to the test.

"Varo," Galba called out, his voice cutting through the growing clamour of the forum. The primus palus turned to face him, a questioning look on his face.

"Prepare them," Galba commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Let Brasus and Nikomedia demonstrate their mastery with iron." Varo's eyes widened in surprise and concern.

"This was meant to be a showcase…" Varo began to protest.

"Prepare them", Galba repeated icily.

[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Varo's eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to challenge Galba further.

"As you wish, dominus," Varo replied, his voice laced with resentment. He turned away. Galba watched Varo's retreating figure with a mixture of satisfaction and suspicion. He knew Varo resented him, but he recognized the primus palus's loyalty and dedication to the gladiators under his charge. Galba had chosen Varo for his position precisely because he was a formidable warrior and a capable leader. However, the lanista was always cautious of those who held too much influence over the gladiators. He couldn't afford any potential challenges to his authority.

Varo turned to Brasus and Nikomedia, relaying the orders. The gladiators exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with excitement and trepidation. They were no strangers to danger, but this was unexpected.
As the crowd hushed in anticipation, Galba stepped onto the dais again, his voice projecting across the forum.

"People of Capua!" Galba raised his hands to quiet the murmuring crowd. "You have seen a glimpse of the skill and prowess of our gladiators. But now, I promise a true display of martial mastery!" A murmur spread through the crowd, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He continued, "Varo, bring forth Brasus and Nikomedia. Let them showcase their talents with steel!"

Varo nodded stiffly and signaled to the gladiators. Brasus and Nikomedia stepped forward, exchanging glances as their wooden practice weapons were replaced with sharpened steel - a gladius for Brasus and a pugio dagger for Nikomedia. The pair stepped to the centre of the forum. The weight of the weapons in their hands felt different, the danger more palpable. They knew that one wrong move could lead to severe injury or death.
With a nod from Galba, Varo threw down his wooden rudis, and the combat began,
Nikomedia and Brasus moved with lethal grace, their strikes practised and precise. The clash of steel rang out as gasps and cheers erupted with each exchange; the crowd caught in the grip of the gladiators' deadly dance.
Brasus swung his sword with raw power, his muscles rippling with every strike. Nikomedia countered with agility and finesse, her movements a deadly whirlwind. They were a sight to behold, the embodiment of strength and skill honed through countless battles; time seemed to stand still as the gladiators engaged in their lethal display. Every move was met with bated breath, every parry and thrust met with awe. The crowd was enthralled, their eyes locked on the spectacle unfolding before them.

Turning his attention away from the ongoing spectacle in the Forum Calavius, Galba looked upon the crowd, allowing himself a rare moment of satisfaction. They cheered and applauded as Brasus and Nikomedia displayed their prowess in combat, eagerly expecting bloody slaughter. Regardless of their allegiances, the pair of gladiators were worthy of Familia Gladiatoria Vatia, and Galba intended to capitalize on their popularity. The gladiators continued their performance as Galba's mind drifted to the Thracians locked away in their underground cells. Since they had arrived at his ludus, they had proven time and time again a constant risk, challenging his authority and resisting his attempts to break them. Galba knew he had to find a way to subdue or eliminate them; the Thracians threatened the harmony within the Ludus and his position as lanista.
Movement from the corner of his eye broke Galba's reverie; he spied a young man. He was plain looking, his pale hair cut short. Were it not for the white-purple-bordered Toga praetexta he wore about him, he might have been any other citizen.

"Ah, Dominus!" Galba called with surprise. "I did not expect you to arrive so soon!"

"And miss all the fun, dear Galba? Nonsense!" The man responded, "As important as my quaestorial duties may be, I wouldn't miss this for all the gold in Rome!"
Galba eyed the young man warily. Though he presented himself casually, Galba knew Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Vatia took his role as patron of the Ludus seriously. He disapproved of the lantisa's more brutal training methods but understood their place in the arena.

"Dominus, I hope the demonstration has pleased you," Varo said smoothly. "Our fighters are in fine form for the Floralia games."

Vatia smiled politely as he joined Galba upon the dais, he'd been watching for some time.

"They appear so. Though I must ask, where are my Thracians? I had hoped to see their skills as well." Galba bristled at the question.

"My apologies, Dominus, the Thracians are...indisposed at the moment. But fear not, they will be ready for the games."

Having retreated to the rear of the forum, Varo watched the exchange closely. He knew the Thracians' absence would not be so easily explained away. Vatia was no fool. Before the Dominus Vatia could question further, Varo spoke up.

"The Thracians have been practising a new manoeuvre, Dominus, which requires... privacy. But you have my word as primus palus they will astound at the Floralia."
Vatia contemplated Varo. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well, I shall hold you to that, Varo."

Galba shot Varo a glare as Vatia turned away. Again, the primus palus had overstepped his position, yet Galba could not deny he had deftly diverted the attention of their master for now. Both men knew the Thracians' fate would not remain hidden much longer.

Steel rang as Brasus and Nikomedia came together again in a flurry of precise blows. Brasus pressed forward aggressively with his short sword, but Nikomedia evaded his strikes with dancer-like grace, retaliating with flashing lunges from her dagger. Their fighting was a display of martial artistry. The pair now circled each other, the air crackling with tension. Their eyes, filled with passion and determination, locked in a fierce gaze. The crowd watched in anticipation, sensing that something more than a mere demonstration was unfolding. With a sudden surge of emotion, Brasus lunged forward, his gladius gleaming in the sunlight as it aimed for Nikomedia's side. But Nikomedia, swift and agile, swiftly parried his attack with her pugio dagger. The clash of metal echoed through the forum, sending a shiver down the spectators' spines. Brasus pushed forward with raw strength and determination, while Nikomedia, like a gazelle, her movements agile and swift, strikes calculated and calm. The crowd watched in awe as the gladiators' fight took on a new dimension. It was no longer a demonstration of their combat skills but a passionate display that evoked an almost primal, sensual energy.

This time, as Brasus charged ahead, Nikomedia saw an opening. With lighting reflexes, she spun low and slashed upwards. Her dagger bit deep into Brasus' thigh. A gasp rose from the crowd as Brasus stumbled backward, pain twisting his features. He gripped his wounded leg, feeling the blood soak his hand as his sword slipped from numb fingers. Though his strength remained, the injury overcame his will to fight. Nikomedia froze the dagger aloft, horror dawning in her eyes at what she had done to her beloved. The passion that fueled their combat had led her blade too far in battle. Before the crowd, the consequences of their emotions lay bare.

"Bravo! Well done!" Vatia called out, his voice carrying across the forum. The crowd erupted into applause, their excitement reaching a crescendo. Vatia's words of praise were met with cheers and admiration. He turned to Galba, a smile playing on his lips. "Galba, you have outdone yourself once again," Vatia remarked, his tone filled with genuine appreciation. "These games will be remembered for years to come."

Galba's chest swelled with pride as he accepted Vatia's praise. The lanista had worked tirelessly to ensure the games would be a spectacle worthy of the Lentuli Vatiae name. He had carefully selected the gladiators, trained them rigorously, and orchestrated this demonstration to showcase their skills and entertain the crowd.

"Thank you, Dominus," Galba replied, masking his suspicion and resentment towards Varo. "I am honoured to have your approval. The gladiators have trained hard and will continue to impress in the upcoming games."
Vatia nodded, his eyes still fixed on the gladiators before him.

"I do not doubt that, Galba. Your expertise in moulding these warriors is unparalleled. I trust that you will ensure their success in the arena."

Galba bowed slightly, a mix of gratitude and relief washing over him. He knew that Vatia's approval was crucial for the continued prosperity of his ludus. He could secure more wealthy patrons and attract greater fame and fortune with his patron's support.

"As always, Dominus, I am committed to delivering the finest gladiatorial spectacles," Galba affirmed. "The gladiators under my charge will be ready to face any challenge that comes their way, and rest assured, your Thracians will be ready come the games."

"Indeed", Vatia cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Citizens of Capua, the gods have blessed us with a display of skill and passion", Vatia addressed the crowd, his voice projecting across the forum. The spectators quieted down; their attention focused on the senator. "I stand here in awe of the expertise and dedication of our esteemed lanista, Galba, and the gladiators under his charge," Vatia continued, his tone filled with genuine admiration. "Their training and discipline have produced warriors whose abilities are unmatched. I have witnessed firsthand the sacrifices they make and the risks they take to pursue excellence."
A wave of applause and cheers swept through the crowd, acknowledging the gladiators' efforts and Vatia's praise. The Dominus raised his hand, signalling for silence once more.

"However, I believe it is prudent to end the demonstration here," Vatia stated, his gaze shifting to Brasus and Nikomedia, who were now tending to their wounds. "We have witnessed their tremendous skill and the passion that burns within them. Rest assured, the upcoming games will offer even greater spectacles, where these gladiators and others will face formidable challenges."

The crowd murmured in agreement, understanding Vatia's decision. They eagerly anticipated the grand games and the battles that lay ahead. The Dominus's words had only fuelled their excitement.
"I implore you all to join me in supporting Galba and his gladiators," Vatia declared, his voice resonating with authority. "Let us celebrate their strength, courage, and unwavering determination. I assure you, the Floralia games will be an unforgettable experience, a testament to the power and glory of the Republic."

The crowd erupted into applause once more, their enthusiasm unabated. Vatia stepped back, allowing Varro to attend to Brasus' wound.
The crowd's excitement lingered as the praeco, Cattulus, returned to the dais.

"Such a marvellous display from Ludus Vatia. The office of the Praeconium thanks them for this captivating showcase of martial skill," Cattulus announced, his voice projecting across the forum. "Your dedication to providing exceptional entertainment for the citizens of Capua is to be commended."

The crowd responded with applause, expressing their appreciation for the Ludus Vatia's efforts in bringing such spectacles to the city. Cattulus, taking in the positive energy, continued his duties as the city crier, clearing his throat dramatically.

"As the office of Praefecti Capuam Cumas has warned, the threat of piracy in our seas persists. Any individual found participating in high-seas banditry or unlicensed privateering shall face the punishment of Damnatio ad Bestias."

The mention of damnation by the beast stirred excitement among the crowd. The punishment's brutal nature and the thrill of witnessing such a spectacle always captivated the citizens of Capua.
Cattulus paused momentarily, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. The forum grew silent, the anticipation palpable. Cattulus continued, his voice carrying a note of seriousness. "To ensure the safety of our seas and the prosperity of our city, all citizens must report any suspicious activities or information regarding piracy or acts of banditry to the office of the Praetor Urbanus!" Cattulus concluded, stepping down from the dais; the citizens of Capua continued to discuss the events and eagerly awaited the grand games as they went about their daily chores in the forum. Galba stood to the side, a mixture of pride and anticipation on his face.

[Alwyn]

Welcome back to the Study! I'm enjoying the demonstrations of skill of the gladiators, and you've got me interested in what's been happening with the Thracians while they are 'indisposed', and also in the reports of suspicious activities.

[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Aprilis, 681 Ab Urbe Condita,
In the Spring of the Consulship of Lucullus and Longinus
Ludus Vatia, the Pitt – Capuan Countryside.
Campania felix, Italia.

The Pit, a former subterranean cistern repurposed as a prison, existed as a punishment exclusively reserved for the most defiant among the gladiators of the Ludus Vatia. Concealed deep beneath the earth, it remained a hidden abyss, severed from the outside world. Within its confines, natural light was fleeting, save for a solitary skylight adorned with iron bars that cast a feeble illumination upon the desolate chamber. Its harsh glow, however frail, only magnified the oppressive and suffocating atmosphere that prevailed throughout the dungeon.

The air about the prison clung to the senses, heavy and noxious, tainted by a putrid amalgamation of human excreta, mud, and the lingering scent of blood. Its unyielding presence permeated every nook and cranny of the cavern, an unrelenting assault on the senses. The very stones of the chamber bore the weight of dampness as if the earth’s moisture had seeped through the walls, leaving behind a perpetual humidity that clung tenaciously to the skin and garments of those condemned to the forsaken place.

The Thracian and Gallic gladiators, stripped of their dignity, sought solace in the collective warmth of their fellow prisoners, their weary bodies pressed together in a desperate quest for respite. Yet, even in their huddled masses, the lack of sanitation was a stark reality, with excrement and refuse strewn upon the floor, a repugnant reminder of their abasement.

Time itself became a malleable concept, distorted and warped within the confines of the Pit. Days melded into nights, and nights into days, until the gladiators lost all semblance of the passage of time. Their only markers were the meagre rations lobbed callously through a diminutive aperture in the ceiling and the passing of what sunlight penetrated through the barred opening. These scant morsels, barely fit for consumption, served as a cruel and taunting reminder of their diminished status and the unyielding cruelty of their masters.

A place of unrelenting despair, the Pit stood as a crucible where spirits were broken. Without hope, a sad acceptance of their fate settled upon the prisoners like a shroud draped over their weary souls. In its grim and lonely existence, the dungeon stood as a chilling testament to the depths of cruelty and brutality of lanista Flavius Galba in his quest to forge the mightiest gladiators the Italian peninsula had ever known. Within its walls, the strongest were shattered, and only those who possessed an unyielding will and unwavering resilience could hope to survive its unforgiving grasp.

Gannicus sat alone in a darkened corner of the dungeon, his body still aching from the brutal beating he had endured at the hands of Galba’s guards. The wounds on his back and limbs throbbed with persistent pain, a constant reminder of his defiance and the price he had paid for it.

As a Celt from the lands of Britannia, it could be said that Gannicus was a distant cousin to the Gauls and Thracians who populated the prison. In truth, however, he was an outsider among them. Their language was foreign to his ears, their customs and traditions unfamiliar. But in the depths of the Pit, where survival was the only currency that mattered, those differences meant little.

Gannicus glanced around at his fellow prisoners, their faces etched with weariness and frustration. Among them, Crixus and Castus, Gauls from the lands of the Aquitani, simmered with a furious intensity that set them apart from the rest. Their eyes burned with a desire for vengeance, their minds consumed by thoughts of rebellion and reclaiming their freedom. Gannicus admired their spirit and determination, but he couldn’t help but reflect on the reasons behind their failed uprising, the very reason these Gladiators found themselves so confined. One thing troubled Gannicus more than anything else – the absence of Oenomaus, the Galatian a trusted ally, or so he thought.

When the rebellion had begun, Oenomaus was conspicuously missing. The plan had hinged on his distraction of Galba’s guards. His absence had raised suspicions in Gannicus’s mind, leaving him to question the Galatian’s loyalty and motives.

“Where is Oenomaus?” Gannicus wondered silently. “Why did he not stand with us in our moment of defiance?”

Oenomaus had always been a stalwart, dependable companion, fierce warrior, and strategic thinker. But his absence during their rebellion and now in these dungeons raised doubts in Gannicus’s mind.

Was Oenomaus genuinely committed to their cause? Or did he have ulterior motives for his absence? Gannicus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Their failure left them vulnerable, and Oenomaus’s absence only added to their challenges.

As Gannicus sat deep in thought, his mind consumed by questions and doubts, he reflected on their attempted escape.

He could still taste the bitterness of their failed rebellion, their defeat and capture leading them from the open Campanian countryside to the suffocating confines of the Pit. Their hopes of freedom dashed at the hands of Capuan Urban Cohort, dreams of escape evaporating like mist in the morning sun.

Ushered back into the Ludus Vatia under the cover of darkness, the events of their failed escape were kept tightly concealed, hidden from the prying eyes of the outside world. As they crossed the threshold of the ludus, a heavy silence hung in the air. The familiar sounds of clashing swords and the boisterous laughter of the spectators were absent, replaced by an eerie stillness. It was as if the ludus had held its breath, aware of the secrets brought back within its walls.

Their return had been orchestrated with the utmost secrecy, it seemed. No crowds lined the streets to witness their defeated procession. No jeers and insults were hurled their way. The only witnesses to their ignominious arrival were silent and unyielding shadows that danced upon the walls.

Led through dimly lit corridors, their footsteps muffled by the weight of their chains, Gannicus passed their familiar training grounds and living quarters, now eerily deserted that stabled those that had not partaken in their aborted insurrection. Next, they were guided through a narrow passage, their bodies weary, their spirits battered until they reached a small courtyard to the rear of the Ludus. At its centre was the barred skylight of the Pit, a rope ladder coiled nearby providing the only means to descend and return from the dungeon below.
One by one, they climbed down, spear and bow trained upon them as they descended. Some quickly descended, arriving at the bottom of the cavern in relative safety. Others were not so lucky and were now among the rotting dead piled up in the far corner of the dungeon. As Gannicus climbed his way down, the temperature dropped, and the air grew colder, a feeble illumination from a single torch casting eerie shadows on the rough-hewn stone walls.

“Brother,” A lone voice called out, the calm voice breaking Gannicus from his reverie. “What troubles your mind in this forsaken place?” For a moment, Gannicus thought that the Pitt had finally driven him mad. Yet within the darkness, the Celt noticed a familiar unflinching stare from amongst the huddled Thracians. Known as Sparadok among his compatriots, the gladiator possessed an enigmatic aura and exceptional fighting ability. Gannicus had shared little, if any, words with the Thracian and was surprised at his command of the Roman language.

“You speak the language of the Romans well, friend,” Gannicus answered evasively. Sparadok’s face flickered with a mix of acknowledgment and guardedness.

“A skill born out of necessity, nothing more “, he replied cryptically, his voice low and measured.
Gannicus studied Sparadok’s bearded visage, searching for any hint of his true intentions. A certain air of mystery surrounded the Thracian gladiator, and Gannicus couldn’t help but wonder what secrets he held. At that moment, Gannicus recalled their training sessions. Although a recent addition to the Ludis Vatia Gannicus couldn’t help but observe the Thracian’s keen precision of their movements, their calculated discipline and swift ferocity. Every strike and every parry carried a purpose, revealing a depth of knowledge and experience beyond any ordinary warrior, let alone a gladiator. At that moment, it dawned on him.

“He fights like a Roman”, Gannicus realized silently “he fights like the very people who have enslaved us”. For the briefest of instants, Gannicus’ despair found new depths. Was Sparadok a traitor? Was he working for Galba and his Roman comrades?

As quickly as they had come, his suspicions passed. In this grim and treacherous environment, trust was a rare and precious commodity, and if Sparadok was a spy, why in the Tribe Father’s name would he be trapped in this god’s forsaken hole?

“I have my doubts about Oenomaus,” Gannicus finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “His absence, the way he vanished without a trace... It troubles me greatly.”
Sparadok’s gaze remained fixed on Gannicus, his eyes revealing little emotion. “Doubt is a burden we all carry in this place,” he responded, his voice carrying a weariness. “But it is not doubt alone that will set us free.”
Gannicus nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth in Sparadok’s words. Doubt alone was useless without action.

“Oenomaus may have abandoned us,” Gannicus continued, his voice tinged with frustration. “He was our ally, our brother in arms. But now? I don’t know what to believe.”
Sparadok’s face remained impassive, but a flicker of understanding passed through his eyes. “Trust is easily shattered,” he remarked. “We cannot know for certain that Oenomaus has betrayed us, certainly not while we remain here”, Sparadok gestured to their surroundings.

Gannicus pondered Sparadok’s words, realizing the wisdom they held. It was impossible to know whether Oenomaus had betrayed, and dwelling on such things was pointless in their current state of confinement.

“Tell me, Sparadok, what is it the Romans called you?”

“Spartacus” the Thracian answered defiantly.

[isa0005]

Welcome back to the Study! I'm enjoying the demonstrations of skill of the gladiators, and you've got me interested in what's been happening with the Thracians while they are 'indisposed', and also in the reports of suspicious activities.

Thanks, it's good to be back! I'm glad you're enjoying it
Hopefully my new chapter will answer some of those questions you might have about the Thracians.
I was considering having this chapter come up later in the story, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and it doesn't compromise my structure or anything. That and it's been pretty well edited I think . I also wanted to go a little less dialogue heavy in this chapter too and work out my sensory and environmental descriptive language muscles.
As for the suspicious activities, I think I'll address that in the next chapter, but I'm concerned I'm introducing too many characters so I may re-write it using characters we've already seen/mentioned.

[Flinn]

Glad to see a new CW on the run.

Great job, keep those coming!

[isa0005]

Glad to see a new CW on the run.

Great job, keep those coming!

Thanks! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Aprilis, 681 Ab Urbe Condita,
In the Spring of the Consulship of Lucullus and Longinus
Residence of Accius Pompo, Praefecti Capuam Cuma - Central Capua
Campania Felix, Italia.

With his fine-cropped golden curls, plump cheeks, and round silver eyes that glimmered with a youthful sparkle, Accius Pompo was an unconventional sight for one of the most powerful men in Campania. As one of four Praefecti Capuam Cumas, the citizens of Capua often marvelled at the irony of his cherubic appearance against the power he wielded within the province. Indeed, his youthful countenance and diminutive stature were most unlike his colleagues and those who’d held the prestigious position of authority before him. Yet woe betide any who drew his ire, for his innocent appearance was but a façade, hiding a wrathful, furious creature akin to a rabid host of Furies.

“What in Hades are a bunch of gladiators doing in my forum!” Exclaimed the Praefecti, launching a pile of papyrus into the air as he sat at his desk. “No, don’t tell me, they’re Scaurus’ men, I know it! Damn it all, I swear by the Jupiter Optimus Maximus I’ll have him crucified for this...”

“Dominus, they’re here for…” began his slave and personal assistant, a young Italian named Tarentulus.

“Honestly! How in Jupiter’s name will the forum ever be ready for Floralia with those beasts battering each other unconscious?”

“Dominus, if you would just…”

“How dare you interrupt me, boy. I’ll have you crucified, too!” Pompo rose to hurl a rather hefty bronze wine cup at the young slave.

“They’re Vatia’s men, Dominus!” Tarentulus sputtered, cowering behind his wax record tablet. Pompo tilted his head; a look of bewilderment replaced his furious visage.

“Vatia?” Pompo fell back into his chair with the wine cup on his desk. “You don’t mean ol’boy Lentulus Vatia, do you?” Tarentulus stood frozen behind his tablet. He was familiar with his master’s rages, but they had become more violent lately.

“Y-y-yes Dominus.”

“He attained the quaestorship recently, no?”

“Y-yes, Dominus.”

“So, the gladiators aren’t Scaurus’ men then?”

“N-no, Dominus.”

“Well, by Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that is a relief… then why are Vatia’s men in my forum?” Tarentulus came out from behind his tablet, equally bewildered as his master.

“Domnius Vatia sought to exhibit his gladiators for the Ludi Florae. You permitted him before the Nones, Dominus.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Dominus”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I must have…” Pompo stroked his hairless chin, eyes staring off in the distance as if trying to conjure some ancient memory. “Was I inebriated at the time, Tarentulus?”

“Dominus?”

“Y’know, was I pie-eyed? Pickled? Potted? Three sheets in the wind, as it were.”

“P-perhaps, Dominus?”

“Hmm-m-m, Vatia always was one to take advantage of another man’s folly.”

“Dominus, if I may…” Tarrentulus hesitantly continued, “Dominus Vatia awaits you in the atrium this very moment.”

“Vatia? Here? Now? Well, why didn’t you say sooner, my dearest boy? Show him in at once!” Tarentulus hurried to the double wooden doors of Pompo’s office, staring back in amazement at the space before him.

Accius Pompo’s lavishly appointed office was rectangular. It featured Doric columns inlaid into the walls along the room’s length, between which were opulent frescoes, each depicting the siege of Capua during the Hannibalic War. A grand desk of African Tthyine timber stood at the centre of the space, displaying scattered papyrus scrolls, wax tablets, and ornate writing tools. Before the bureau sat a plush velvet couch and an elegant wooden table holding delicate wine cups and gourmet sweetmeats. Luxurious, handwoven rugs in rich colours covered the floor, complemented by heavy silk curtains framing the windows on the rear wall and a portal between them.

Through the opening, Tarentulus could see out to a walled garden of lush greenery, with meticulously manicured bushes and vibrant flowers adding colour and fragrance to the surroundings. He also spied a marble fountain adorned with a small statue of Venus at its heart. The soothing sound of trickling water filled the room, adding a sense of tranquillity and elegance to the luxurious ambience.

“What are you gawking at?” Pompo questioned, the praefcti knowing full well that his assistant was awestruck at the room about them. “You can gaze at the frescoes again, fetch Vatia and be quick about it!”

With a swift and curt entrance, Tarentulus ushered Vatia into the room. In his mid-30s, Vatia entered the office with a sense of quiet and cool confidence that immediately set him apart from his peers. His tall stature and neatly styled brown hair, accented by strands of grey, gave a distinguished air to his appearance whilst hinting at a man of both authority and approachability. There was a casually natural charm about him that put those in his presence effortlessly at ease.
“Ah, my dear Accius,” Vatia greeted Pompo with a warm familiarity, using his praenomen, a practice typically reserved for close friends and family. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

"Nonsense, Lentulus, nonsense!" Pompo waved off any sense of disturbance with a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s always a delight to see you. Rumour has it you’ve risen to become quite a man of influence, a quaestor in the Senate no less! Quite a departure from days past, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, Accius,” Vatia replied smoothly, acknowledging the layered nature of the compliment. “One simply strives to serve the Republic and its people to the best of one’s abilities.” Vatia's emphasis on ‘republic’ and ‘people’ did not go unnoticed.

A silence fell over the room as Pompo and Vatia locked eyes, the air heavy with shared memories of their childhood and the fiery political rivalry that had defined their relationship for nearly four years.

“But where are my manners,” Pompo suddenly broke the tension. “Tarentulus, my boy, please fetch us a fresh jar of wine, perhaps a Falernian if we have it.”

“Of course, Dominus,” Tarentulus replied, moving to fulfil the request, leaving a momentary pause in the conversation as the room settled into a comfortable anticipation of what was to come.

“So, my quaestoral friend; what brings you to my home?”

[isa0005]

This one is a little shorter than the previous chapters. I was a little more pressed for time than usual, but I personally want to try and release a new chapter every fortnight if I can. I hope you all enjoy it. My intention for Chapter V is to explore Vatia's character a little more. His motivations etc and the missing slaves. This may or may not involve Oenomaus and the pagus Dianae Tifatina and the pagus Herculaneus which seemed (based on my limited research) to be administrative regions or townships outside of Capua. I'm intending to treat the pagus both as literal locations and somewhat like the Collegia in Rome who were a combination of a labor union, criminal syndicate and/or a political lobbyist group. I also want to introduce the Urban Prefect of the City but I'm wary of introducing too many characters.

[isa0005]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Vatia settled into the plush velvet couch, his outward demeanour remaining calm and collected. Internally, he felt a sense of urgency and desperation, not that anyone would ever know. Observing Pompo keenly, he noted the contrasting shifts in his emotional expressions and the vivid display of feelings that crossed his face. Despite their tumultuous history and stark political differences, Vatia understood Pompo was his only hope. Clearing his throat, Vatia cautiously broached the delicate matter at hand.

“Accius,” he began, deliberately using a familiar tone he would often use to settle his old friend’s children, “I find myself in dire need of your assistance in a rather sensitive matter.”

Pompo raised an eyebrow, his expressive face reflecting curiosity and intrigue at Vatia’s cryptic plea.

“Go on, Lentulus,” he urged, leaning back in his chair with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“You know I’ve always been drawn to a good mystery.”

With calculated precision, Vatia continued to navigate the conversation, carefully choosing his words. “It has come to my attention that a considerable number of slaves, including a group of gladiators, have gone missing from my estate recently. Their absence has caused quite a stir in certain circles.”

Pompo’s silver eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of missing slaves and gladiators, his smile widening to a devious grin.

“Oh, my Lentulus, so the rumours of a band of ne’er-do-wells roaming about the countryside ARE real, and some of them are your people no less. How delightful!” Pompo had heard through the proverbial grapevine, otherwise known as his man in the office of Praetor Urbanus, that a band of escaped slaves and armed warriors were roaming across the province. “I suppose Verus’ rabble are with them too, no doubt. Would that I could see that weasel’s face when he arose to find his entire ergastulum emptied and the grain silos of his latifundia burned to the ground!”

Vatia shifted in his seat, his expression maintaining his calm façade.

“Indeed. With the ongoing troubles throughout the province, I fear if they recaptured, that Capua may experience more…” he paused to consider his words “Extreme complications if news of their disappearance spreads. We must handle their retrieval discreetly to avoid further incidents.”

Unbeknownst to Pompo and his fellows, the absconding of slaves, especially Gladiators, increased in frequency and number throughout Campania and the provinces of Apulia, Lucania, and Bruttium. Someone or something was freeing slaves throughout southern Italia, and whispers spoke of the “Via Libertatis.”

Though his eyes remained devious as ever, Pompo’s face contorted in thoughtful contemplation as he processed Vatia’s words.

“I see,” he murmured, tapping his fingers against the chair’s armrest. “So, you seek my help locating and recovering these missing slaves, especially the gladiators, without causing a commotion?”

Vatia nodded slightly, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Indeed, Accius. Your insight and extensive resources can assist us in swiftly and quietly resolving this matter to benefit all involved.”

A pregnant pause lingered in the air, the unspoken tension between the two men palpable. Pompo regarded Vatia with curiosity and consideration as he deliberated upon the request.

“A favour done is a favour owed, I suppose” Pompo smiled, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands. “You ask much of me, Lentulus. Escaped slaves are one thing, but escaped gladiators? Escaped trained killers? That is an entirely different matter…”

“I might remind you, Accius, that it was not so long ago that our fair republic was embroiled in slave rebellions to the south.” Vatia interrupted, “We can ill afford a similar uprising here in Campania. If we could end it here and now…” Pompo raised his hand to quiet his friend, Tarrentulus, re-entering the room with a fresh jar of wine.

“Come Lentulus, join me in my garden, and we shall discuss the matter privately. Tarrentulus, my boy, see that we are not disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.”

As Pompo dismissed Tarentulus with a nod and a wave, he rose from his seat and gestured for Vatia to follow him towards the inviting garden view behind them. The marble fountain glistened in the sunlight; its gentle water splashes provided a soothing backdrop to the impending conversation.

“Ah, the serenity of nature, Lentulus,” Pompo remarked as they strolled along the meticulously manicured paths. “An oasis amidst the tumult of our political world. Tell me, my friend, what is it truly that you seek in this delicate matter?”

Vatia’s gaze turned contemplative as he considered his response, the weight of his words measured and deliberate. “Accius, what I seek is not merely the retrieval of these individuals but the preservation of stability within our province. These are not just runaway slaves; they are symbols of a growing unrest that threatens to unravel the delicate balance we have strived to maintain.”

Pompo nodded thoughtfully. Despite his power and influence, Pompo was speaking to a magistrate of the Roman senate and one who was intricately familiar with the business of slave trading and gladiatorial training. His expression betrayed a flicker of reminiscence as he gazed into the distance. “Ah, stability. It is a fleeting concept in our turbulent world that we must safeguard at all costs. You did not answer my previous question: what do you truly seek? You and I have enough wealth; the auctoritas and potestas shared between us are almost unmatched within the province. Why come to me?”

Vatia’s eyes met Pompo’s, a glint of resolve shining through his gaze. “Because, Accius, I need an army. Though I may be a senator, I hold no right of imperium…”

“I might remind you that neither do I,” Pompo interrupted.

“Indeed, but as a member of the Vigintisexviri as a man of the College of Twenty-Six, as one of four of the Praefecti Capuam Cumas, you have the ear of the Praetor Urbanus.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Pompo’s lips, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken truths.

“So, it comes to the Praetor Urbanus, Lentulus, you seek the assistance of my father then?” It was the obvious outcome Pompo knew. As influential and powerful as he was, his influence paled in comparison to Quintus Pompo, Praetor Urbanus of Capua and the senior magistrate in all of Campania. In the absence of a Roman Consul, if there was anyone in Capua that could legally raise an army; it was the Praetor Urbanus without a doubt. The pair paused at the garden’s edge, the hedge walls making way for a view of Capua below.

Under the scorching sun in the lively streets of Capua, Pompo could spy the Aedes Alba, a magnificent marble senate house, its grand facade, adorned with marble statues and majestic columns, symbolised the city’s governance and authority. Within its walls, the esteemed members of Capua’s elite, including the Praefecti Capuam Cumas, the Praetor Urbanus and other high-ranking magistrates, gathered to deliberate on matters of foremost importance to the province and its people.

Perched atop a raised podium, the senate building overlooked a walled courtyard with a central stage. Host to numerous events throughout the day, the square was often witness to political debates, oratory performances, executions, and even comedic spectacles. On this day, Pompo recalled he had sat on the edge of the stage, enveloped in his chalk-white toga candida.Beneath this garment of distinction, he wore his favourite luxurious tunic of blue-violet silk, intricately embroidered with vibrant hues that subtly hinted at his elevated status and wealth.

Lost in contemplation, Pompo vividly recalled a memory of his younger days, of the vibrant atmosphere of the senate halls, abuzz with impassioned debates surrounding a contentious proposal for a veteran's colony along the picturesque coastline stretching between Cumae and the municipiumof Herculaneum. The divisive issue had stirred deep emotions and had further divided the Senate between the three distinct factions: the Coloniae, comprised of Roman colonists hailing from the plebeian and equestrian social strata; the Civitates, representing the affluent Roman citizens and landowners of Campania; and the Socii, native Campanians and Hellenes primarily residing in the bustling cities of Capua, Cumae and Neapolis. It had been Quintus Pompo, the Pater familias, head of the Pompo family; and at the time the senior of the Praefecti Capuam Cumas that had brought the factions together with his peerless rhetorical skill and diplomatic genius. The coveted land was allocated to construct opulent villas intended for Roman aristocrats; a resolution conveniently aligned with Pompo Senior’s interests.

Returning to the present, Pompo turned Vatia; and spoke.

“Very well Lentulus; I understand the gravity of the situation, and the need for discretion. I shall intercede with my father on your behalf. However, I have a request of my own.” Pompo smiled, his gaze calculating.

“Name it” Vatia answered, intrigued.

“It is a simple matter, yet one that requires a very specific set of skills. My affairs have been disrupted of late. A certain individual that you and are I well acquainted with..."

“Scaurus” Vaita interrupted, knowing full well that Pompo’s list of enemies was brief.

“Indeed” Pompo's smile widened, a glimmer of approval flashing in his eyes “You’ve crossed paths then?”

“Many times; he is a sponsor of several ludi gladiatoria throughout Capua. I believe we partnered on several debates during the last elections for praefecti” Vatia winked, in truth Scaurus had been a political ally of convenience more then anything else. In many circles he was known for his vocal opposition for Pompo’s policies as praefecti and was often seen turn whispering in the ears of his praefectorial colleagues.

“Then you know he remains one of my chief critics…”

“Of course. You seek a resolution that goes beyond mere words or warnings, am I correct?"
“Words may sway man so much. Action is required."

“I understand. Consider the matter dealt with.”

“Excellent. Ah by dear friend Lentulus; it is so very good to see you again! Come, let us drink to our future!”

[isa0005]

Took a bit longer to write this bit then I thought. I hope people are still reading this. Would love to hear people's thoughts.
Next chapter we should be returning to Varrus, Nikomedia, Brassus and Galba. We should also find out a little more about Oenomaus and why some gladiators are imprisoned, and others are not. Following that I'm thinking we'll get into the Ludi Floralia etc.
I feel like I need to start developing the story further. Get to where I want to go a little faster. I have a habit of drawing things out, getting a little too wordy and descriptive. This was meant to be more of a short story type deal so we'll see how we go!

[Narf]

Very nice!