The bare-headed guard outside wore a battered chain mail shirt reaching to mid-thigh. Leaning against the wall behind was a long spear. A short stabbing sword was ready on the man's belt; a sturdy rectangular shield decorated with a strange emblem hung from his left arm.
'State your business.'
'I want to sell this brat to Memor.'
He looked Romulus up and down. 'Bit young, isn't he?'
'What has it to do with you?' Gemellus snapped. 'Let us inside!'
Sullenly the guard pulled open the nearest gate a fraction, just enough space to enter. As soon as they had passed inside, it clanged shut.
Romulus' pulse quickened at the finality of the sound. Many of the inmates were criminals, hence the sentry. For most, entry to the ludus was a death sentence, a career that only the very best survived for more than a year or two. His dreams of glory had been ludicrous, but he could not suppress a shiver of excitement.
Gemellus advanced through a short corridor into an open training area.
The large two-storey building was built with a hollow square in the centre, providing a whole world within four walls. It was full of gladiators training and sparring with each other.
Romulus watched, fascinated. The two nearest made up the classic pairing of retiarius versus secutor.
'You will be a fisherman.' Gemellus pointed at the man in a loincloth, armed only with a trident. The retiarius was waving a weighted net back and forth, readying himself to throw. The merchant spat in Romulus' face. 'Lowest form of fighter. Good prey for a hunter!'
The secutor crouched warily, oval shield held high, a short wooden sword ready in his right hand. Romulus took in the visored helmet, the greave on the left leg and the leather bands protecting the right arm. It all seemed very one-sided. The secutor was so heavily armoured compared to his opponent, whose only protection was armour on the right shoulder.
Suddenly the hunter began weaving from side to side. He lunged forward to the left, then immediately to the right. But the fisherman judged the perfect time to throw the net. The secutor went down, limbs flailing in the weighted mesh. In a flash, the retiarius was on him, wooden trident touching the throat. The defeated gladiator thrust up a hand, forefinger extended, pleading for mercy. Laughing, the retiarius hauled him to his feet and they started the process all over again.
Romulus felt a tiny surge of hope. He saw the merchant scowling at the unexpected turn of events.
Gemellus led the way around the edge of the training area to a thick timber post, against which other gladiators were practising.
'The palus,' whispered Ancus. 'If chosen to fight with a sword, that's where you'll spend your days.'
Romulus glanced at the two kitchen slaves. Still neither would meet his eyes, but he felt no anger towards them. If Ancus and Sossius had not followed Gemellus' orders, they would have swiftly followed Juba to the Campus Martius.
On one side of the palus was a short, grizzled figure in a richly cut tunic. The long grey hair contrasted with his lined, tanned skin. Alongside him stood a huge man carrying a whip. When he saw Gemellus approach, the lanista stopped shouting orders.
'Gemellus. I don't normally see you here.' He studied Romulus.
The merchant propelled him forward. 'What will you give me for this boy?'
'I need men here. Not children.'
The hulk with the whip grinned toothlessly.
'Look at the size of him,' protested Gemellus. 'And he's only thirteen!'
Cold eyes sized Romulus up. 'Can you fight with weapons?'
Romulus stared back. To have any chance of survival, there must be no fear visible. He nodded.
'That's why the little bastard is here,' interjected the merchant.
Memor rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'A thousand sestertii.'
Gemellus laughed. 'I'd get more on the slave block! He 's worth at least three. Look at those muscles!'
'I'm in a good mood this morning, Gemellus. Fifteen hundred.'
'Twenty-five hundred.'
'Stop wasting my time.'
'Two thousand?' There was still hope in the merchant's eyes.
'Eighteen hundred. Not a sestertius more.'
Gemellus had little choice but to accept. It was a better price than Romulus would fetch in the market. 'Very well.'
Memor snapped his fingers.
A scrawny little man with ink-stained fingers and a dirty tunic materialised, money bags in both hands.
The lanista counted the coins with care, in the manner of someone proud of his ability to do so. When finished, he handed a pouch to Gemellus.
'Beat him often. It's the only thing he understands.'
'My sister, Master?' Romulus asked pleadingly.
The merchant smiled. 'I'm going to sell the bitch to a whorehouse. Piece of ass like her will fetch a good price. And as for your whore of a mother – we'll see what the mines' overseer offers.'
Romulus glared at his former owner with utter hatred.
One day I will kill you, very slowly.
To the boy's surprise, Gemellus' eyes flickered away and he turned on his heel without another word. But Romulus had no time to savour the minor victory. A vice-like grip took hold of his chin.
'You're mine now.' Crisscrossed with old scars, Memor's face was uncomfortably close. The smell of cheap wine was overpowering. 'In the Ludus Magnus, men learn to be killed. Till the end of your life, the fighters here will be your new familia. You eat. You train. You sleep. You shit with them. Clear?'
'Yes.'
'Do what I say quickly and there 'll be no beating, like that fat bastard suggested.' Memor's jaw hardened. 'Don't do what I say and, by Hercules, you'll regret it. I know ways of hurting most cannot even imagine.'
Romulus did not let his gaze waver.
'Before everyone present, take the oath of the gladiator!'
Memor's bellow had stopped every fighter in the yard. This was a ritual they had all been through.