Tony Bradman - Spartacus: The Story of the Rebellious Thracian Gladiator

The story of the rebellious Thracian gladiator

TONY BRADMAN

with Tom Bradman

The boy stood with the warriors of his tribe, watching the Romans march up the hill towards them. Sunlight glittered off the Roman helmets and shields and weapons, and the tramping of Roman feet made the ground shake.

The ground of Thrace, the boy thought. His homeland, the only place he had ever known.

Steady, lads, said the chief, the boys father. Wait till I give the word.

Around the boy were his brothers, and beyond them in the line of warriors he could see his uncles and cousins and friends and neighbours, all holding shields and swords or spears. They were young and old and every age in between, but each face was grim, whether it was smooth or bearded. Behind them in the valleys were their homes, and the wives and families they were protecting.

The invaders had come in the spring, and the tribe had fought them. So the Romans had burnt villages and slaughtered men, women and children, the red crests of their helmets like a tide of fire and blood.

Of course, raiders often came to kill and burn the Thracian tribes fought each other regularly. But the Romans were different they wanted to take away the peoples freedom and rule them as part of their empire.

The boys tribe had gathered to make a final stand, to drive the Romans back over the mountains and sea or die trying.

Theyve stopped! somebody hissed.

The boy looked down the hillside and saw it was true. The Romans had halted and locked their shields, making a wall of wood and iron, the tips of their spears pointing up above. Commands were being shouted behind it in the Latin tongue, which sounded strange to the boys ears.

Hear me, men of Thrace, the chief yelled suddenly, his voice echoing off the surrounding hills. I have been told what it means to be a slave of the Romans. To be bought and sold like animals. To be treated as if you were a beast of burden. That is why I fight them to keep my life my own, and that is why I swore to keep my people free. Are you with me in this? Shall we turn them back here, together, and show them just what Thracian warriors are made of?

The warriors clashed their weapons on their shields and roared their approval, their defiance of Rome and its soldiers and its empire.

The chief nodded, a smile on his face. Then he yelled, With me, lads NOW! and charged forward, his sword held high, the bright sunlight flashing off his helmet.

His warriors ran after him, screaming their war cries, their feet pounding on the dry ground.

The boy charged, too, whooping and yelling like all the rest.

The Romans threw their spears and many of the warriors fell, their war cries changing to screams of fear and pain. Those still on their feet kept running, crashing at last into the Roman shields, and the boy found himself in a struggling mass of bodies, men pushing and shoving, blades slashing and hacking and stabbing.

But the Roman shield wall held, and before long it started to move again, forcing the warriors backwards, men dying with every step. The boy gave ground slowly, banging his sword into the Roman shields until he tripped on a body and fell. The Romans trampled over him with their iron-shod sandals.

Spartacus! he heard somebody scream, for that was his name, and he turned just in time to see his father trying to hack a way through to him, cutting down legionaries with his long sword. But the Thracian chiefs path also led him towards the Roman general sitting on his horse, calmly giving orders, directing his men.

The boys father never had a chance. The generals bodyguards quickly surrounded him in a ring of steel. Blades flashed and the chief fell, blood pouring from a dozen wounds, any one of which would have been enough to kill him.

Then the edge of a Roman shield slammed into the boys head, and the shouting and the clanging of weapons faded into silence and darkness

When Spartacus woke, he was lying on his side and his hands were tied behind him with rough twine. He struggled into a sitting position and saw that he was in a group of twenty or so warriors of his tribe, the only survivors of the battle, none of whom were related to him. Their hands were tied as well, and Roman soldiers stood guard over them. More Roman soldiers were stacking captured swords and spears in heaps, or dragging the bodies of the dead over to a huge fire.

Spartacus closed his eyes, hoping the nightmare would go away But it didnt. Then he heard a couple of the warriors whispering to each other.

I just wish theyd get a move on if theyre going to kill us, hissed one.

Huh, no such luck, grunted the second man. They have something far worse in mind. I bet were all going to Rome to be sold as slaves.

The voices whispered on, but Spartacus had stopped listening. He said a silent prayer to the Gods of his tribe, and made a vow. The Romans might think they could force him to live as a slave, but whatever happened, wherever they took him and whatever they made him do, he promised himself something he would die a free man

The journey from Thrace was long and hard. Spartacus and the other captives were chained together and marched over the mountains, the Romans whipping anyone who showed defiance, then they were loaded onto a big ship with hundreds of prisoners. Dozens died on the voyage, but the Romans didnt seem to care.

Plenty more where this one came from! laughed a Roman soldier as he helped to throw the limp, dead body of a captive over the side.

I think this one fancies a swim, said another legionary, kicking Spartacus. If hes lucky, the pirates will fish him out and sell him back to us!

Spartacus said nothing and looked away. He had soon realised he couldnt escape, and had decided to wait until he had a better chance. Meanwhile, he kept his head down and avoided getting into any trouble. All the same, he found it hard to stomach the way the Romans treated their captives. Were they really so rich in slaves that it didnt matter how many died on voyages like this?

That question was answered when the ship arrived and the captives were marched into the great city. Spartacus had never seen anything like it. The huts in his village had been made of wood and thatch, but the streets of Rome were lined with gigantic buildings made of red bricks, and there were white temples with tall columns. Compared to these places, even his fathers great hall, the building that held everyone in the village on feast days, would have looked tiny. But there was barely time to take it all in before the captives came to a large open space, and were shoved into enormous cages packed with chained-up people.

There were men and women and children, and most of them spoke tongues Spartacus couldnt understand. And more kept coming. Every so often, the cage doors would be opened, and another group of terrified captives would be shoved inside. Now Spartacus could see what the Roman soldier on the ship had meant. There were plenty more slaves where the dead man had come from. It seemed the Romans were determined to make everyone in the world their slaves

People didnt stay in the cages long. The guards constantly took groups of captives out, and after a while it was the turn of the Thracians. The cage doors were opened, and men with whips and spears pushed and shoved them across the open space to a kind of wooden platform surrounded by a large, noisy crowd.