II
The Auction Block
The chains clanked like the tolling of a funeral bell as the cart jolted over the rutted road from the Thracian frontier, each bump sending fresh jolts of pain through Spartacus' battered body. Days had blurred into a haze of mud and mockery since that night in Glaber's tent, the last time his feet would touch the soil of his people land. The taste of the Roman's seed still a bitter ghost on his tongue. They had marched him south, naked save for the iron around his wrists and ankles, prodded by the butts of spears and the jeers of the legionaries. His skin, once bronzed by the hill winds, now bore the bruises of beatings and the grime of captivity, with wounds exposing raw flesh.
Suro's face haunted him in the fevered hours between floggings (Those dark eyes, that firm hand on his hip) but the guards had laughed when he demanded word of his husband. “That Thracian whore of yours? Sold off to some villa, no doubt.” one had sneered, and Spartacus had lunged, earning a lash across his back that split skin like overripe fruit.
Now, the cart creaked to a halt amid the clamor of Capua's slave market. The city sprawled like a living beast, its forums and insulae teeming with the free and the fettered alike. Spartacus was hauled down, his feet hitting the packed earth of the auction yard, where pens overflowed with humanity reduced to chattel. Gauls with pale limbs and tangled beards huddled in one corner, Africans with skin like polished ebony in another, and Thracians like him scattered among them, eyes hollow with defeat. Merchants barked prices, buyers prodded flesh with casual cruelty, and the auctioneer's voice rose above it all like a whipcrack.
“Lot twenty-three!” the overseer bellowed, yanking Spartacus toward the wooden block at the yard's center. A slave boy, no older than fourteen with trembling fingers and a distant look, slathered him in oil. A slick, scented stuff that gleamed on his muscled chest, tracing the lines of his arms, the ridges of his abdomen, down to the heavy sway of his cock and balls. Spartacus stood rigid as the boy worked, his jaw clenched, refusing to flinch even as fingers brushed his ass cheeks, spreading the oil. The boy's hands, cold but with a sweet touch, on his body were like a reminder of a past that was receding further and further away. He remembered Suro's touch, soft and inviting like that one. Perhaps at another point in their history, when the couple's lives intersected with the boy's, they would have adopted him and given him a life worth fighting for.
Lost in his memories, he didn't see when the boy had moved from his injured body to another. He then began to notice the sounds around him: women haggling over kitchen drudges, men appraising field hands by the calluses on their palms. But for the fighters, the warriors-in-waiting, it was different. A sharper scrutiny, eyes lingering on breadth of shoulder, thickness of thigh, the scars that spoke of battles past.
He mounted the block, chains rattling, and the auctioneer launched into his patter. “A Thracian warrior, fresh from the hills! Bid high, lords and ladies, for a beast worth taming!”
Bidders gathered, a motley press of bright togas and tunics. A fat merchant poked Spartacus' bicep, squeezing the flesh. “Solid enough. But will he swing a sword or just swing his prick?" Laughter rippled. A nobleman in red silks eyed his groin, his lips pursing. "Pretty when oiled. Might fetch a denarius more for the brothels." Spartacus stared straight ahead, his mind a storm of rage. He pictured his village, the flames Glaber's men had lit, and vowed silently: I will not break. Not for these crows.
From the edge of the crowd, a figure watched with sharper interest. Ashur, the Assyrian, leaned on a staff that masked his limp, his dark eyes scanning the block like a hawk sighting prey. Once a gladiator himself, crippled in the arena by a rival's blade, he now served as bookkeeper to Quintus Lentulus Batiatus, the lanista whose ludus churned out champions for Capua's blood-soaked sands.
Ashur's face was a map of cunning, scarred and lean, his limp a constant reminder of debts unpaid. He hobbled closer, weaving through the press, his gaze fixed on Spartacus. The Thracian's frame spoke of power untapped, eyes that burned with something fiercer than fear. "Potential" Ashur murmured to himself, tasting the word. Batiatus needed fresh blood, the ludus' coffers ran low after last season's losses, and whispers of rebellion in the provinces made Roman patrons demand spectacle.
He slipped to where Batiatus stood, a stocky man with a paunch straining his tunic, his face flushed from wine even at midday. The lanista's eyes were small and shrewd, but his ambition was a fire that consumed all.
"Master" Ashur whispered, voice low as a serpent's hiss "The Thracian, look at him. Built like the gods' own forge. Train him right, and he'll bring glory to the house. More than that Syrian whelp we lost last moon."
Batiatus squinted, wiping sweat from his brow. "If the stories about this Thracian are true, it could be very dangerous if left untamed. But... yes, I see it. The lines of him, the hate in his stare. A champion, you think?"
Ashur nodded, his limp shifting as he leaned in. "Maybe a legend, if we break him proper. And the price? Let it be high. Shows Rome that in the Hosue of Batiatus are no beggars."
The bidding began in earnest. "Five hundred denarii!" the fat merchant called.
"Six!" a rival lanista countered.
Batiatus raised a hand. "Eight hundred."
Murmurs rippled. The auctioneer grinned, pounding his staff. "Eight hundred from the lord of Batiatus! Who says more?"
"Nine!" came a voice from the brothel owner.
Batiatus' face hardened. He lived for this. The flex of coin, the nod of respect. "Twelve hundred!" he barked, voice carrying like a trumpet.
The yard fell hushed. Twelve hundred for a slave? But Batiatus' ludus was known. Its gladiators had spilled blood in the amphitheaters of Rome itself. No one topped it. The gavel fell. "Sold to Quintus Batiatus!"
Spartacus was yanked down, chains exchanged for new ones linking him to a coffle of other purchases: Gauls, Dacians, a Numidian with eyes like coals. Batiatus approached, circling him as Ashur watched with a satisfied smirk. "Strong neck" the lanista said, gripping Spartacus' jaw, turning his head. "Eyes like daggers. You'll fight for me, Thracian, or rot in the cells. Understand?"
Spartacus met his gaze, silent, the oil on his skin making him gleam like a statue defiled. Batiatus laughed, slapping his ass hard enough to sting. "The gods have certainly blessed me this morning."
The journey blurred into hours of jolting wagon and burning sun. The coffle was crammed into an open cart, guarded by Hector and Aulus, two brutes in Batiatus' employ, Hector the taller with a scarred face and a laugh like grinding stones. Aulus shorter but thick as a bull, his hands callused from years of wielding the lash. They rode alongside on mules, whips coiled at their belts, eyes roving for any sign of trouble. Spartacus sat chained to the rail, his naked body pressed against the others, the oil long sweated away, leaving sticky residue. The road wound through olive groves and dusty plains, Capua fading behind.
His mind churned. Escape. The word pulsed like a heartbeat. Suro was out there. Enslaved, perhaps, but alive. He had to find him, break free before Roma swallowed him whole. The cart slowed at a stream crossing, guards dismounting to water the mules. Hector barked orders: "Piss if you must, dogs, but keep your places!" The slaves stirred, chains clinking as they shuffled for relief.
Spartacus saw his chance. As Hector turned to fill his waterskin, he tested the chain's lock: loose, rusted from the market's haste. With a twist of his wrists, calluses tearing, he slipped free. The Numidian beside him widened his eyes, but Spartacus pressed a finger to his lips. He waited for Aulus to glance away, then vaulted over the cart's side, feet hitting soft earth. The grove beckoned: shadowed trees, underbrush thick enough to hide a man.
"Run!" he hissed to the others, but fear rooted them. Too late, he was already bolting, muscles coiling like springs, the wind whipping his naked form. Branches lashed his skin, thorns drawing blood, but freedom tasted sweet, even if fleeting. He heard shouts behind: Hector's bellow, Aulus' curse and the thunder of hooves.
The chase was brutal, short. Spartacus burst into a clearing, lungs burning, but Aulus cut him off on the flank, leaping from his mount to tackle him. They rolled in the dirt, Spartacus' fists flying, cracking the guard's nose in a spray of blood. Hector arrived, whip uncoiling like a serpent, lashing across Spartacus' back. The pain was fire, but he rose, grabbing the whip's end, yanking Hector close for a headbutt that split the man's lip.
Yet numbers won. Aulus pinned his arms, Hector's knee driving into his gut, doubling him over. They bound him tighter, ropes biting into wrists and ankles, dragging him back to the road. The other slaves watched in silence as the guards hauled him before the cart, his body smeared with mud and blood.
"Tried to run, eh?" Hector growled, wiping blood from his face. "Batiatus won't like that. But we'll soften you first." He glanced to Aulus, a dark grin splitting his features. "Bend the bastard over"
They forced Spartacus to his knees, then forward, ass up in the dirt, ropes securing his hands to a wagon wheel. The position exposed him utterly: his tight hairy hole clenching in the open air, balls dangling, the slaves' eyes on him like brands. Humiliation burned hotter than the lash marks, but Spartacus bit his tongue, refusing to beg.
Aulus unlaced first, his cock springing free: thick, veined, already hard with the thrill of dominance. He spat into his palm, rubbing it over the shaft, then pressed the blunt head against Spartacus' ass. "Tight as a virgin's cunt" he muttered, gripping hips hard enough to bruise. With a grunt, he thrust in, no mercy, the dry friction tearing a grunt from Spartacus' throat. Inch by inch, Aulus buried himself, the burn like hot iron splitting him open.
"Fuck, he's gripping like a vice" Aulus panted, pulling back only to slam forward, balls slapping against Spartacus' taint. The rhythm built, brutal and unyielding, each stroke pounding deep, stretching him, the pain mingling with an unwelcome heat. Spartacus' body betrayed him, cock twitching half-hard against the dirt, but his mind screamed defiance. Suro's name echoed in his head, a talisman.
Hector watched, stroking his own length (longer, curved upward) until Aulus finished with a roar, flooding Spartacus' ass with hot spurts of cum, the seed leaking down his thighs as he pulled out.
"Your turn" Hector said, swapping places. He entered slicker now, the mess easing the way, but his strokes were vicious, hips snapping like a battering ram.
"Take it, Thracian whore" he snarled, one hand fisting Spartacus' hair, yanking his head back. The angle drove deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst, unwanted pleasure coiling despite the ache.
The slaves averted eyes or stared transfixed, the air thick with the slap of flesh, grunts and gasps. Batiatus, who had ridden ahead but circled back at the commotion, observed from his horse, face impassive. Ashur beside him, nodding approval. "See, master? Even bent and fucked, he doesn't break. Chin up, eyes forward. That's the fire we need."
Hector climaxed with a shudder, pumping his load alongside Aulus', the excess dribbling out as he withdrew. They left Spartacus there, ass gaping and sore, cum-streaked thighs trembling, body wracked but spirit unbowed. The guards hauled him up, shoving him back into the cart, where he slumped against the rail, the burn a constant throb.
Batiatus, who had now dismounted from his horse and was observing the form used by Spartacus, spurred close, leaning down. "Run again, and it's the cross for you. Now, to the ludus, where you'll learn to kill for me." The cart lurched forward, the road stretching toward the training grounds, where sand and steel awaited.
The sun had already set, dipped low, as they crested the hill overlooking Batiatus' ludus, a fortified sprawl of walls and cells nestled in the Campanian hills. Smoke rose from cookfires, the clash of wooden swords echoing faintly. Spartacus' body ached with every jolt (the welts from the whip, the raw stretch in his ass) but his resolve hardened like tempered iron. He thought of Suro, chained somewhere in this empire of wolves, and of the revenge that simmered in his veins. The auction block was behind. The arena loomed. But he would endure. He would rise.
Inside the gates, the air hummed with the rhythm of captivity. Warriors drilled in the yard: muscled forms slick with sweat, thrusting spears at straw dummies. Doctore, the trainer, a scarred veteran with a voice like thunder, barked corrections. Ashur led the new slaves to the baths, where they were scrubbed roughly, wounds salved with herbs that stung like nettles. Spartacus stood under the cold spray, water sluicing the grime and seed from his skin, but the humiliation lingered, a shadow in his gut.
Batiatus summoned him that evening to the triclinium, where the lanista reclined on couches with his husband Lucretio, a sharp-featured men with eyes that stripped a man bare. Wine flowed, slaves served platters of dormice and figs. "The Thracian" Batiatus said, gesturing. Spartacus was brought in, still naked, chains removed but guards at his elbows. "Kneel."
He did, slowly, muscles coiling. Lucretio leaned forward, tracing a finger along his shoulder scar. "Such vigor. Will you reward us with victories in the arena, or just in the beds?" His laugh tinkled, but his touch lingered, nails scraping lightly Spartacus skin.
Batiatus waved him off. "He'll fight first. Ashur belives you're no common meat. Prove it in training, and you'll eat like a man. Fail, and the beasts get you." He tossed a crust of bread at Spartacus' feet. "Eat."
Spartacus picked it up, chewing deliberately, eyes never leaving the lanista's. The taste was stale, but it fueled him. That night, in the dim cell allotted to novices, he lay on the straw pallet, the stone walls pressing close. The punishment on the road replayed in his mind (the guards' grunts, the burn of intrusion) but it only steeled him.
Days blurred into the grind of the ludus. Dawn brought Doctore's lash and the weight of wooden gladius, the sun beating down as Spartacus sparred with shadows of men.
Varro, a young recruit with a boy's face and quick hands, naturally became his reluctant partner. "You're a storm, Thracian" Varro panted after one bout, wiping blood from a split lip. "But storms break on rocks."
Spartacus clapped his shoulder. "Then I'll be the rock."
Varro breathless voice clearly betrayed his youthful exuberance. The boy was everything Spartacus was not: small, thin, with eyes as blue as the rivers of his village, curly, golden hair like the coins that had bought him. He was like an angel sculpted by the gods themselves.
In stolen moments, they learned the ludus' secrets form the others warriors and slaves: Ashur's limp hid daggers, Batiatus' husband traded favors for whispers.
One evening, as the gladiators gathered for the evening meal (gruel and dirty water) rumor spread of a primus fight. Batiatus sought a new star and Spartacus' name was whispered.
But escape gnawed at him. In the baths, steam rising like ghosts, he confided fragments to Varro. "My husband was taken by Glaber's men. I must find him."
Varro's eyes widened. "Husband? The Romans care not for such. But... there are ways. Smugglers, bribes. Ashur knows them all."
The seed planted. Spartacus trained harder, body honing to a blade's edge. The rape on the road and his village reduced to ashes in flames, became a scar, not a wound.
