IV
Lessons in Chains
The sun beat down on the training yard like a hammer on an anvil, turning the sand into a blistering furnace that sucked the moisture from every pore. Oenomaus stood at the center, his broad frame a pillar of unyielding authority, scars crisscrossing his dark skin like the maps of battles long etched into his flesh. He held the rudis in one hand, the wooden sword heavy and unforgiving. Around him, the new slaves (chained at the ankles, their bodies marked by the whips of their journey) shifted uneasily, eyes darting to the gladiators who moved with predatory grace along the edges of the yard.
Spartacus knelt in the dust, his muscles taut, the memory of the boy's blood still fresh on his mind. The Thracian's jaw clenched as Oenomaus's voice boomed across the yard, deep and resonant, carrying the weight of a man who had once spilled his own blood in the arena for the amusement of Romans.
"You are no longer men of the wild" Oenomaus declared, his eyes sweeping over the group like a scythe. "You are weapons. Blunt and useless until sharpened. The rudis will teach you form. The gladius will teach you death." He thrust the wooden blade toward Spartacus, who rose slowly, his chains rattling like a serpent's warning. The other slaves watched in tense silence.
Spartacus gripped the rudis, feeling its balance, lighter than the swords of his Thracian hills but no less deadly in intent. Oenomaus circled him, demonstrating the basic stance: feet planted wide, knees bent, blade held at an angle to parry or strike. "Strike true, or die trying." the trainer growled, lunging forward with a controlled swing that Spartacus barely blocked. The impact jarred his arms, sending vibrations up to his shoulders.
They moved through the forms (thrust, slash, block) Oenomaus correcting with sharp commands and sharper prods from his own rudis. Spartacus's body remembered the flow of battle, the instinctive dodge and counter from fights against Maedi raiders, but this was different. Structured. Merciless in its precision. Sweat poured down his back, mixing with the grit of the sand, as he parried a low sweep aimed at his legs. His breath came in ragged bursts, but he adapted, his strikes gaining power, each one landing with a thud against Oenomaus's guard.
Varro was next, the young Roman stepping forward with a determination that belied his years. His body honed by farm labor before the chains claimed him, but there was a fire in his eyes that Spartacus recognized: the spark of survival. Oenomaus put him through the same drill, and Varro moved with surprising agility, his rudis whipping through the air faster than expected. Among the younger ones, he stood out, disarming a scrawny Egyptian in a practice bout with a twist of his wrist that left the boy sprawling. Spartacus watched, a knot forming in his gut. Varro was strong, too strong for the predators that lurked in this place. The baths had shown him that much.
As the morning wore on, the yard filled with the grunts of effort and the crack of wood on wood. Crixus lounged against a stone wall, his massive arms crossed over a chest riddled with scars. The Gaul's eyes fixed on Spartacus, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He had killed the boy without hesitation, an act that still burned in Spartacus's mind, but there was something else in that gaze. Curiosity, perhaps, or the hunger of a champion sizing up fresh meat.
Oenomaus called a halt, wiping sweat from his brow. "Enough for the weak" he said, his voice cutting through the labored breaths. "Now, the gladius." He handed out the blunted blades, their edges dulled but heavy with threat. Spartacus hefted his, the metal cool against his palm, and faced off against a burly Illyrian who growled like a cornered beast.
The fight was brutal, no holds barred in this lesson of chains. Spartacus dodged a wild overhead swing, countering with a thrust to the man's midsection that doubled him over. But the Illyrian recovered, barreling forward with a shoulder that slammed Spartacus to the ground. Sand filled his mouth as he rolled, bringing the gladius up to block a descending blow. The clash rang out, sparks flying from the metal. Spartacus surged up, driving his knee into the man's gut, then slashing across his thigh (not deep, but enough to draw blood and a howl).
Oenomaus nodded approvingly, but his face remained stern. "Raw talent, Thracian. But talent dies without discipline." Spartacus straightened, chest heaving, the taste of blood (his own from a split lip) metallic on his tongue. He glanced at Varro, who had just felled another opponent, his gladius pinning the man's arm to the dirt. The boy met his eyes, a flicker of camaraderie passing between them, but Spartacus saw the vulnerability beneath. In this ludus, strength like Varro's painted a target.
Crixus pushed off the wall then, his presence drawing all eyes. His skin oiled and gleaming, every movement exuding the confidence of one who had never tasted defeat. "Doctore" he called, his voice a low rumble "allow me to demonstrate the true dance of the arena. Let the new blood test himself against a real champion."
Murmurs rippled through the yard. Oenomaus's eyes narrowed, knowing the Gaul's intent: to assert dominance, to remind the newcomers of their place. But he saw the potential in Spartacus, the fire that could be molded. "Very well" he conceded. "But no blood spilled. This is training, not the games."
Spartacus stepped forward, gladius raised, his heart pounding not with fear but with the thrill of challenge. Crixus grinned, a wolfish flash of teeth, and they circled each other in the center of the yard. The other gladiators formed a loose ring, their cheers a guttural roar that echoed off the stone walls.
Crixus struck first, a feint to the left followed by a sweeping arc that Spartacus parried just in time. The force drove him back a step, his boots digging into the sand. Spartacus retaliated with a quick thrust, aiming for the Gaul's shoulder, but Crixus twisted away, his blade coming down in a brutal overhead chop. Spartacus rolled, sand spraying, and came up swinging low, clipping Crixus's shin.
The fight intensified, steel clanging in a symphony of violence. Crixus was relentless, his strikes powerful and precise, each one testing Spartacus's defenses. Sweat flew from their bodies as they grappled, muscles straining. Spartacus landed a solid hit to Crixus's ribs, eliciting a grunt, but the Gaul countered with a pommel strike to Spartacus's jaw that snapped his head back, stars exploding in his vision.
They locked blades, faces inches apart, breaths mingling hot and heavy. Crixus's eyes bored into his, dark and intense, a spark of something unspoken passing between them (respect, perhaps, or the raw edge of attraction born from combat).
"You still fight like a free man." Crixus murmured, his voice low amid the din.
Spartacus shoved him back, circling again. "I am no man's slave." He lunged, a flurry of strikes that forced Crixus to give ground, the crowd roaring approval. But the Gaul was a master, anticipating the Thracian's moves. He sidestepped a thrust, hooked Spartacus's leg with his own, and brought him crashing down. Before Spartacus could rise, Crixus's gladius pressed against his throat, the blunted edge a cold reminder of defeat.
The yard fell silent save for the labored breathing of the two warriors. Oenomaus stepped forward. "Enough. The lesson is learned." Crixus extended a hand, pulling Spartacus to his feet with a grip that lingered a moment too long, calluses rough against skin. Spartacus met his gaze, unbowed, the fire in his eyes undimmed.
As the sun dipped lower, the training continued, but Spartacus felt the shift within him. The chains were not just iron: they were forging something unbreakable.
The flickering light of oil lamps cast long shadows across the triclinium of Batiatus's villa, where the air hung heavy with the scents of roasted quail, spiced olives, and the faint tang of fermenting wine. The room, a testament to the lanista's rising fortunes, gleamed with polished marble floors veined in crimson and walls adorned with frescoes of triumphant gladiators spilling blood in sunlit arenas.
Reclining on ornate couches draped in Tyrian purple were Quintus Lentulus Batiatus and his husband, Lucretio, their faces flushed from the first courses and the warmth of the evening. Opposite them sprawled Legate Gaius Claudius Glaber, his Roman armor shed for a simple tunic that did little to hide the scars of campaigns etched into his broad chest.
Tonight's gathering was no mere indulgence, it was a delicate dance of alliances. Glaber had arrived from the legions' outposts, his presence a boon to Batiatus, who sought favor in Capua's cutthroat circles. As the slaves cleared the remnants of dormice stuffed with figs, the conversation turned to matters of empire. "The tribes beyond the Danube grow restless." Glaber said, his voice a low rumble as he swirled his goblet. "Maedi scum, stirring the pot like rats in the granary. But I've plans for them. We have villages to raze, leaders to chain."
Batiatus leaned forward, his dark eyes alight with ambition. "A grand campaign, Legate. Your victories will echo in the Forum, and Capua's sands will thirst for the tales. My ludus stands ready to supply the spectacle." Lucretio, ever the smoother edge to his husband's blade, nodded with a serpentine smile. "Indeed. Let us toast to the villages that will kneel, their fields salted and their men claimed as spoils." The three men raised their cups, the clink of silver ringing.
Batiatus clapped his hands and from the shadowed alcove emerged two figures, their forms cutting through the lamplight like bronzed statues come to life. Crixus moved with the coiled grace of a panther, his massive frame rippling under oiled skin. Beside him strode Varro.. They wore nothing but gleaming gold chains draped over their biceps and forearms, links forged in intricate patterns that caught the light and proclaimed the opulence of Batiatus's house. No cloth concealed their nudity as their cocks hung heavy between muscled thighs, swaying with each step.
Glaber eyes lingered as the gladiators approached, goblets extended. Crixus poured for Batiatus first, his thick fingers steady despite the weight of the ewer. "My champion" Batiatus murmured, his gaze tracing the Gaul's broad shoulders down to the thick shaft nestled against his balls. "You honor us with your service." Crixus inclined his head, silent as stone, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. Varro, less seasoned, filled Glaber's cup next, his cheeks flushing under the legate's scrutiny. The boy kept his eyes downcast, but his posture was straight, the chains glinting like manacles of gold.
The talk flowed onward. Glaber described the rugged terrain of the Thracian borders, the hidden passes where barbarians ambushed legions. “We'll burn their granaries first” he said, gesturing with a meaty hand. “Starve the fight from them, then crush what's left. Villages like those in the hills ripe for the taking.” Batiatus nodded eagerly, envisioning the influx of slaves to bolster his ludus, fresh meat for the arena. Lucretio interjected with questions on logistics, his voice smooth as he probed for details that might yield profit in arms or provisions.
Throughout, Crixus and Varro circled the couches, refilling cups and clearing platters of honeyed dates and garum-drizzled oysters. The gold chains clinked softly with their movements. Glaber's attention, however, began to drift from conquests to the servers. His eyes fixed on Varro, tracing the curve of the young man's ass as he bent to pour, the firm globes flexing under the legate's stare. Varro felt it like a brand, his skin prickling, but he pressed on, offering the goblet with steady hands.
As the final course (a platter of figs split open and glistening with syrup) arrived, Glaber reached out. His fingers, callused from sword hilts, brushed Varro's thigh under the guise of steadying the pour. But they lingered, sliding upward to cup the slave's heavy testicle, rolling it gently in his palm. Varro froze, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as blood surged southward. His cock twitched, then hardened swiftly, the shaft thickening and rising to full erection, the head flushing pink against his abdomen.
Glaber's lips curled into a wolfish grin. “A fine vintage you serve here, Batiatus. This one responds well to command.” Varro's face burned, his erection bobbing slightly as he stepped back, but there was no retreat.
Batiatus chuckled, a sound rich with satisfaction. “Varro is one of the new dogs I had the pleasure of buying at the last auction. You should see him at the training field. The boy has a future in the arena. And he’s eager to please, Legate. A trait I cultivate in all my stock. He shall accompany you to your chamber tonight.” Lucretio's eyes gleamed with amusement, his hand idly stroking his own thigh. “Go, boy.” Batiatus commanded Varro. “Tend to the Legate's needs as you do the wine.” Varro bowed, his rigid cock leading the way as he followed Glaber from the triclinium, the legate's hand now possessively on the small of his back.
With the young slave dismissed, Batiatus turned to Crixus, who stood rigid by the couch. “And you, my champion. Come with us. The night requires your particular attentions.”
The Gaul's expression remained stoic. The trio rose, Lucretio's arm linking with Batiatus's as they led Crixus through the villa's corridors, past tapestries depicting Bacchanalian revels and statues of nude gods locked in eternal embrace. The air grew cooler as they entered the private chambers, a lavish suite with a sunken bath fed by aqueduct waters, steam rising lazily from the heated pool.
Batiatus stripped first, his tunic pooling at his feet to reveal a body softened by indulgence but marked by the scars of his own arena days. His cock jutted forward as he stepped into the bath, the water lapping at his calves. "Bathe me, my champion." he ordered, settling onto a marble bench beneath a gentle cascade.
The Gaul obeyed, already free from the chains. His hands, large and rough, took up a sponge and amphora of scented oil, lathering Batiatus's shoulders with firm strokes. Water sluiced over the lanista's chest, beading on his nipples as Crixus worked downward, soaping the swell of his belly and the coarse hair at his groin.
Lucretio watched from the edge, reclining on a cushioned divan, his own tunic hiked up enough to reveal his hardening cock. He stroked himself slowly, fingers wrapping around the veined length, his breaths deepening as the scene unfolded before his hungry eyes.
"Look at him, Quintus." Lucretio murmured, his voice laced with incantatory fervor. "Your champion, unbreakable in the sand, yet here he kneels to your will." His words wove a spell of dominance, each syllable fueling Batiatus's arousal, his shaft now fully rigid, the head breaching the water's surface. "Command him, and the gods themselves bow."
Crixus's hands moved to Batiatus's thighs, parting them to wash the sensitive skin beneath his balls. The lanista groaned, guiding the Gaul's head downward with a hand fisted in his damp hair. "Your mouth now, dog. Satisfy me like you do on the sand."
Crixus submerged slightly, the water bubbling around his face as he took Batiatus's cock between his lips. His tongue flattened against the underside, tracing the throbbing vein before he swallowed deeper, the thick girth stretching his jaw. He bobbed steadily, cheeks hollowing with suction, the wet sounds mingling with the trickle of the falls.
Batiatus's hips bucked, fucking into the heat of Crixus's throat with increasing urgency. "Yes, champion... You're mine to wield, in arena or bed." he whispered, wile is free hand pinching a nipple as he chanted softly.
"You are the master, Quintus. He is but the blade you sharpen." Lucretio's words pushed Batiatus to the edge, his balls tightening as pleasure coiled low. With a guttural roar, he erupted, hot spurts flooding Crixus's mouth and sliding down his throat. The Gaul swallowed convulsively, not spilling a drop, his own cock aching untouched beneath the water.
As Batiatus slumped back, panting, Lucretio rose to his climax. His fist pumped furiously, and with a hissed invocation he came. Ropes of cum splattering across his sculpted abdomen, like pearling on his ridges of muscle. The sight drew a lazy smile from Batiatus. "Clean him, Crixus."
Crixus emerged from the bath, water streaming from his powerful frame, and knelt before Lucretio. His tongue extended, lapping at the warm spend with broad strokes, tracing the lines of the Roman's abs. He sucked gently at the cum in the navel, then lower, cleaning every trace from the softening cock with meticulous care. Lucretio sighed in contentment, threading fingers through Crixus's hair. "Good dog."
The ludus's hierarchy was ironclad: even the mightiest gladiator bent to the will of his masters. As Crixus finished, rising to towel them dry, the night settled into quiet satisfaction. Outside, the villa hummed with the distant clank of chains and murmurs of slaves, a world where power was seized, wielded, and never relinquished.
