the school’s eastern flank.
They entered a large ground floor room and were handed two clay bowls; one for drinking, the other for food. Two attendants situated at the entrance dispensed fresh water and a large portion of barley porridge to each of them. They were then directed to low benches set around a heavy wooden table that ran the length of the room.
Not knowing when his next meal would come, Guntram wolfishly shovelled the porridge into his mouth. His Gaulish travelling companions and the grinning Spaniard were seated opposite him, and attacked the gruel with equal relish. The food was good, the best he’d had since leaving his village. He recalled his home, his mother, and the food she’d cooked him. Food, he realized bitterly, that he’d never taste again.
Meal consumed, they were quickly assembled on the training area, the palaestra, watched by the ever present armed guards. There were twelve of them, and Guntram’s group was separated and herded to a section of the palaestra where a line of six foot posts waited, set permanently into the hard surface. Each man was positioned in front of a postand issued with a heavy, wooden sword.
Guntram felt his hackles rise as Scar appeared, accompanied by his two companions of the previous night. Scar, equipped with a wooden sword, demonstrated two sword attacks, striking out at one of the posts. Firstly, an underhand thrust to the mid-section, the disembowelling strike, and secondly, an overhand downward thrust at an opponent’s upper chest and throat. Then, without preamble, the tiros were directed to practice these strokes by repeatedly attacking their wooden quarries.
An hour passed and sweat streaked Guntram’s face, and his arm and shoulder burned from the continuous assault on his post. He clenched his teeth, forcing the pain aside. His three companions had earlier briefly halted their practice, appearing exhausted. A barrage of vicious strokes from Scar’s stick had galvanised them into renewed action and left them sporting a brace of painful wheals across the backs of their legs.
The Spaniard spoke to him between rasping gulps of air, and Guntram recognised his new name...Cae...Caetes. He bridled at its sound. He glared back in return, spitting on the ground at his feet, before turning his attention back to the training post. Each blow was struck with venom, as if driven deep into Scar’s flesh.
Then Scar’s voice rang out, bringing all talk to an end.
The sun was on its way up into a flawless blue, when Guntram noted the advent of a new group onto the palaestra. He watched with interest as they practised with an array of metal weapons, noticing that although these gladiators practised vigorously, they spoke to one another and with their trainers, laughing easily and exchanging shouts of encouragement, as well as taking intermittent breaks from their practice. Their air of camaraderie contrasted markedly with his own grinding practice.
The drill continued unabated until mid-day, with the trainers signalling a break in the practice and a return to the refectory. After prising the wooden practice sword from the raw flesh of his palm, Guntram followed his fellows into the welcome shade of the dining area once more. The meal comprised of a stew filled with vegetables and chunks of dark meat, a wedge of coarse brownish bread and plenty of water. Guntram ate it all.
Fed, the company was shepherded out onto the training field, although the trainers were now noticeable by their absence. The mid-day heat rendered vigorous training impractical, and the men were permitted to rest awhile in the shade of the school’s porticoes, being able to recuperate from the rigours of the morning.
Guntram sat in the shade of the colonnade, his back against the cool stone. His attention was drawn to the lofty mountain that loomed majestically in the near distance. Clouds escaped its peak to blot out the sun’s rays. Like a giant of legend it towered over the bay. A fly
They entered a large ground floor room and were handed two clay bowls; one for drinking, the other for food. Two attendants situated at the entrance dispensed fresh water and a large portion of barley porridge to each of them. They were then directed to low benches set around a heavy wooden table that ran the length of the room.
Not knowing when his next meal would come, Guntram wolfishly shovelled the porridge into his mouth. His Gaulish travelling companions and the grinning Spaniard were seated opposite him, and attacked the gruel with equal relish. The food was good, the best he’d had since leaving his village. He recalled his home, his mother, and the food she’d cooked him. Food, he realized bitterly, that he’d never taste again.
Meal consumed, they were quickly assembled on the training area, the palaestra, watched by the ever present armed guards. There were twelve of them, and Guntram’s group was separated and herded to a section of the palaestra where a line of six foot posts waited, set permanently into the hard surface. Each man was positioned in front of a postand issued with a heavy, wooden sword.
Guntram felt his hackles rise as Scar appeared, accompanied by his two companions of the previous night. Scar, equipped with a wooden sword, demonstrated two sword attacks, striking out at one of the posts. Firstly, an underhand thrust to the mid-section, the disembowelling strike, and secondly, an overhand downward thrust at an opponent’s upper chest and throat. Then, without preamble, the tiros were directed to practice these strokes by repeatedly attacking their wooden quarries.
An hour passed and sweat streaked Guntram’s face, and his arm and shoulder burned from the continuous assault on his post. He clenched his teeth, forcing the pain aside. His three companions had earlier briefly halted their practice, appearing exhausted. A barrage of vicious strokes from Scar’s stick had galvanised them into renewed action and left them sporting a brace of painful wheals across the backs of their legs.
The Spaniard spoke to him between rasping gulps of air, and Guntram recognised his new name...Cae...Caetes. He bridled at its sound. He glared back in return, spitting on the ground at his feet, before turning his attention back to the training post. Each blow was struck with venom, as if driven deep into Scar’s flesh.
Then Scar’s voice rang out, bringing all talk to an end.
The sun was on its way up into a flawless blue, when Guntram noted the advent of a new group onto the palaestra. He watched with interest as they practised with an array of metal weapons, noticing that although these gladiators practised vigorously, they spoke to one another and with their trainers, laughing easily and exchanging shouts of encouragement, as well as taking intermittent breaks from their practice. Their air of camaraderie contrasted markedly with his own grinding practice.
The drill continued unabated until mid-day, with the trainers signalling a break in the practice and a return to the refectory. After prising the wooden practice sword from the raw flesh of his palm, Guntram followed his fellows into the welcome shade of the dining area once more. The meal comprised of a stew filled with vegetables and chunks of dark meat, a wedge of coarse brownish bread and plenty of water. Guntram ate it all.
Fed, the company was shepherded out onto the training field, although the trainers were now noticeable by their absence. The mid-day heat rendered vigorous training impractical, and the men were permitted to rest awhile in the shade of the school’s porticoes, being able to recuperate from the rigours of the morning.
Guntram sat in the shade of the colonnade, his back against the cool stone. His attention was drawn to the lofty mountain that loomed majestically in the near distance. Clouds escaped its peak to blot out the sun’s rays. Like a giant of legend it towered over the bay. A fly
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