Days after being thrashed by Crixus, an unexpected order arrived. Batiatus was to attend the games at the Capua arena. Several gladiators, including the new recruits, would accompany him. Not to fight, but to "learn."
Thomas, his bruises still aching, was dragged along with Varro and the others. As they entered the arena gates, the sheer scale of the place hit him. This was no squalid training yard. This was a colossal stone edifice built for bloodshed. Thousands of spectators roared, their voices merging into a deafening clamor. The air was thick with the scent of hot sand, cheap wine, and the faint, dry aroma of old blood.
From their position near the fighters' entrance, Thomas could see across to the seats of honor. He recognized Batiatus, Lucretia, and several noble faces, including Gaius Claudius Glaber and his wife, Ilithyia.
"By the gods," Varro whispered, his eyes fixed on the crowd. "I've never seen so many people."
An announcer declared the next event: the public execution of Thracian traitors.
Four gladiators from the ludus strode onto the sand with arrogance. Thomas recognized them as low-tier fighters, conceited and expecting an easy slaughter. Then, a group of emaciated, filthy Thracian men were dragged in, chained. They seemed resigned, all but one. His eyes were not empty, but burning.
The fight began. One of Batiatus's gladiators approached a trembling Thracian, raising his sword for a final, contemptuous swing.
Suddenly, the man with the burning gaze roared. With a desperate, mad strength, he yanked his arm. The chain on his manacle snapped with a screech. He was free.
Before anyone could react, he lunged, snatching the sword from the unsuspecting gladiator. A brutal slash to the neck, and blood spurted. The arena went silent for a moment, then erupted in confusion.
The three remaining gladiators rushed him simultaneously. But the Thracian man moved with unexpected savagery. Thomas's mind worked quickly. This man wasn't fighting like a gladiator. He had no technique, no stance. He kicked sand, used an opponent's shield as a stepping stone; he fought to kill by any means necessary. It was ugly, chaotic, and incredibly effective.
One by one, the overconfident gladiators fell. The crowd, initially jeering, now roared in awe.
Finally, only the Thracian man stood, panting amidst four corpses. His eyes stared intently at Glaber with pure hatred.
Thomas followed his gaze. Glaber was pale with rage. But Batiatus... Batiatus leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with greed. He saw a pile of gold coins.
"A name worthy of such courage!" Batiatus's voice boomed. "The name of a mighty Thracian king! I name him... Spartacus!"
Batiatus quickly intervened, claiming the man as his property, saving him from instant death at Glaber's hands. Thomas stood transfixed. This man, this wild force, was coming home with them.
The journey back to the ludus was tense. Crixus was silent, his face as hard as stone. He didn't feel physically threatened, but his status as the sole champion had been sullied by his men being slaughtered.
"He fights not like a gladiator, but like... a demon," Varro whispered.
"He fights not to die," Thomas replied quietly. His mind saw further. Batiatus had just thrown a hungry wolf into an already crowded dog kennel.
When they arrived back, Doctore was waiting. Batiatus strode to the center of the courtyard with a theatrical smile. "My sons! Today, the gods have smiled upon our House!"
At his signal, guards dragged Spartacus to the center. Wounded and weary, but standing tall, his eyes defiant.
"Welcome the newest member of our brotherhood! Welcome... Spartacus!"
No one cheered. Crixus stepped forward, a sneer on his face. "This man?" he said, his voice dripping with venom. "He killed four of our unprepared men. Here, under Doctore's discipline, he is nothing."
"Oh, I beg to differ, my champion," Batiatus retorted slyly. "I see limitless potential. A little polish from Doctore, and his savagery will become an unmatched weapon."
Spartacus turned towards Crixus. He said nothing. Only a cold stare that promised future combat.
"Enough!" Doctore's voice cut through the tension. "In this yard, there is only one voice that matters, and that is mine. Take him. Clean him and throw him into a cell with the other worms."
As Spartacus was dragged past the line of recruits, his eyes briefly met Thomas's for a split second. Just the gaze of two strangers, equally stranded in hell.
Thomas slowly exhaled. The entire dynamic of the ludus had just shifted. The conflict between Spartacus and Crixus would become the focal point, a storm that would draw everyone's energy.
And in the midst of a storm, a clever observer can often find a place to shelter. With all eyes on the two new giants, the shadows in the ludus grew longer and deeper. Perfect for someone who wished to grow undetected.
The first dawn with Spartacus's presence in the ludus felt different. A new energy crackled in the air; a mixture of fear, anticipation, and unconcealed hostility. The recruits whispered, while the senior gladiators stared at the newcomer with calculating gazes. Spartacus himself was silent. His face was a mask of cold composure, but his wild eyes constantly moved, scanning every corner of his new prison.
In the training yard, Doctore wasted no time. He seemed determined to break the Thracian's spirit from day one.
"Here," Doctore said, standing before Spartacus, his voice sharper than usual. "We do not fight like wild dogs. We fight with discipline. Show me your stance."
Spartacus adopted the low stance of a warrior, ready to face multiple opponents.
"Wrong," Doctore said flatly. "That's a stance to die in the arena. Too open. Correct it." Doctore demonstrated a more upright gladiator stance.
Spartacus looked at the stance, then returned to his position. "This is what kept me alive," he rasped.
Crixus, watching from the sidelines, scoffed. "Hear that? This beast is trying to teach Doctore how to fight."
Doctore picked up a wooden sword. "If you will not learn with words, you will learn with pain."
Without warning, Doctore attacked with perfect speed and technique. Spartacus, with his extraordinary reflexes, parried with difficulty. Doctore's attacks forced him to constantly retreat. In a few seconds, with a clever sweeping motion, Doctore disarmed Spartacus and pressed the tip of his sword to the Thracian's neck.
"On the battlefield, you may be a lion," Doctore said, his breath even. "In my sand, you are a student. And you will learn." He threw the sword back to Spartacus. "Again."
As the drama between Doctore and Spartacus became the center of attention, Thomas saw an opening. All eyes were on them. No one was paying attention to him.
With a movement disguised as a desire to get water, Thomas moved towards the back of the kitchen. He saw a young slave woman alone, scrubbing a large cauldron. He approached quickly and silently. The woman gasped in surprise.
"What do you want?" she whispered, terrified.
Thomas didn't answer, simply pressed his body against hers from behind, one hand gently covering her mouth. His other hand moved quickly to lift her coarse skirt. The woman struggled for a moment, then her body stiffened in resignation. Thomas felt a wave of self-disgust, but he pushed it down deep. This was resource gathering.
He pushed his hardened penis into her vagina from behind. His movements were quick and efficient. His mind was cold and focused. A few moments later, he climaxed, withdrew, and straightened his clothes. The woman remained frozen, her shoulders trembling. Thomas didn't wait. He turned and walked away, rejoining the crowd on the edge of the yard as if nothing had happened.
That night, in the darkness of his cell, the blue panel appeared.
{Intimacy completed. Target: Slave.}
{Points gained: +0.01}
Finally, a slightly more significant number. He immediately opened his system menu.
{Allocate 0.005 Points to Strength.}
{Allocate 0.005 Points to Agility.}
A faint warmth flowed through his body. He stared into the darkness. Let the giants clash. He would grow in their shadows.
A few days later, one afternoon after training, Varro approached Thomas with a papyrus scroll in his hand. His face was beaming. "A letter," he said, trembling. "From my wife. Will you read it to me?"
Thomas took the papyrus, a sign of deep trust. He read the letter softly; words of love from a wife and news of their son who had just begun to walk. Varro listened, his eyes welling up.
"She's doing well," Varro whispered. "Thank you, my friend. I owe you."
The moment felt real. A flicker of humanity amidst the hell. For a moment, Thomas felt like his old self. However, as he returned to the silence of his cell that night, his cold brain went back to work.
He thought of Naevia. He thought of the warning she had given him. He thought of Crixus's jealous gaze. Then he thought of the reward: +0.02 Points. He weighed the risks and benefits. Earning the wrath of the second strongest man in the ludus for a reward equivalent to two sessions with a prostitute was foolish. A bad calculation.