Spartacus

Spartacus!

You charge without thought.

A weakness an opponent could turn to advantage.

A difficult feat from his backside.

You speak without thought as well.

Another weakness.

Thracians.

Always on their backs, with their legs spread.

Where they belong.

Forget everything you learned outside these walls.

For that is the world of men.

We are more!

We are gladiators!

Study.

Train.

Bleed.

And one day your name will be legend,

spoken in hushed whispers of fear and awe.

As the city speaks of Crixus, the Champion of Capua!

But his legend was not birthed in the arena.

It was given life here.

In this ludus.

Under the sting of my whip!

Attack!

Attend!

The Vulcanalia is announced!

Vulcanalia?

A festival to ward off wildfires.

Dominus Batiatus has seen fit to fight twenty

at this year's Vulcanalia.

His gift to the people of Capua!

Our lowest shall fight at dawn.

Eight pairs to follow.

After which your master will present his Primus.

Two of our finest, to meet in the arena!

Crixus, then?

Crixus certainly.

And his opponent?

Against the Champion of Capua?

What would it matter?

Twenty men,

I pledge twenty men to fill the ranks of the Vulcanalia,

my own coin to see each victor paid,

what thanks do I get from the magistrate?

He fears he will be unable to attend our reception

on the eve of the games due to "pressing concerns"!

Of what sort?

I hear rumor he dines with Solonius instead.

Solonius?

But he offers not one man for the Vulcanalia.

Yet his tongue still manages to find his way

to the magistrate's asshole.

Is that new?

For the reception, yes.

The rising cost of this thing raises concern.

It raises opportunity.

I question not its import.

I question its scale.

This drought has stretched our resources thin

and now without the attendance of the magistrate...

Darling, you must spend coins to receive coins.

My husband taught me that.

A wise man.

He has his moments.

And this will be one of them.

You'll delight and astound,

securing business for the year to come.

And perhaps even tempt Glaber's wife

to take up the cause of patronage.

Ilithyia?

I thought she was still in Rome

with that ungrateful husband of hers.

She returns absent him for the games.

She's acquiring quite a taste for them.

One which I shall nourish to advantage.

This new color suites you.

Oh, shall I dye the rest to match?

The bird would be better served in my bowl.

Odds the meal would be your last.

Barca?

He stands but tall.

He stands a legend.

After Carthage suffered defeat by the romans,

they forced hundreds of his people

to fight against each other in the arena.

Half a day passed, and only two remained...

Barca.

And the chief of his people,

the noble Mago.

Skill and the testament of years were his allies.

Strength and youth Barca's.

Mago fell to his knees...

And Barca became the Beast of Carthage.

He sent an old man on his way.

Mago was a warrior fierce renown.

A chief upon a throne of blood.

He was also Barca's father, as the story tells.

Is it true?

In the world of the gladiator,

a man's fame and glory constructs its own truth.

Fame and glory.

I seek neither.

Coin, then. Like me...

Open the gates.

Have the guard ready.

A moment Dominus.

Ten paces.

Is there any news of my wife?

She was indeed sold to a syrian merchant.

You found her?

I have cause to believe she sails upon the orontes.

To Damascus, then?

Or perhaps Antioch?

Do I appear a fucking arrow, my nose pointing towards

your wife's dripping thighs!?!

You press beyond position!

Dominus.

The search continues, that's all you need to know

until then, fight, win.

The price of her freedom requires

substantial sums on your part.

Show me something of note.

A moment. I have just the thing.

My finest piece.

A flawless gem imported at great cost

from the mines of Scythia.

Price? Thirty denarii.

Thirty?

This piece.

Is it something that Ilithyia would favor?

It's the only piece I'd show her.

She has very refined tastes.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-nine.

Twenty-eight and I'll resist pitching you off the balcony.

Twenty-eight, then.

Um.

Come along then.

Form two! Ready!

One.

Form one, ready!

One...

Two..

Form two.

Ready!

One..

Two.

Form three!

Stand.

Spartacus!

Do you dream of the mines?

My focus is on blood and battle, Doctore.

Yet your training proves you worthy of neither.

I am a thracian.

It is in my blood.

Thrace.

A swamp of piss.

Kneel.

The lands from which you hail matters no longer.

The only thing that does is the sound of my voice...

And the sand beneath your feet.

You will learn to worship it.

Back to training.

The sand smells like Thrace.

Perhaps I should shit to complete the aroma.

You. You are summoned.

This drought seems never to end.

How do you fare?

Domina provides for me.

That's good.

Good.

How long have you served Domina?

All my life.

I was born in this ludus.

And recently come to blossom.

I barely noticed till I, I saw you at the games with Domina

three moons past, I fought Arnoch of Tarquinii.

Did you enjoy my victory?

I was pleased. When it ended.

It's no easy task to sever a man's head.

You must find the right angle.

I do not favor the games.

Well that is an odd bent,

for a slave,

at a gladiator school.

One not to be straightened.

I did not mean to insult.

Domina awaits.

You walk too slowly to my chambers.

I do not want to arouse the suspicions

of my men as to my purpose.

And what might that be, oh, Champion of Capua?

Whatever Domina desires.

I brought this necklace for the reception...

Do you think its too much?

My blood rises.

But to give the necklace credit would be false.

And what quickens your pulse?

The touch of your lips.

Your breasts...