The Parthian glanced up as he held the needle and lamb's-gut thread poised over the wound. A sword cut had laid open the gladiator's thigh. Fortunately the wound was shallow and clean and had bled nicely to keep it clear of dirt and grit. The muscle was superficially torn and would mend without causing any handicap.
The gladiator was standing in front of him, stripped down to a loincloth. His torso bore several scars, some of which looked like they might have killed or crippled a lesser man. Although he had been strong and fit before he had be come a slave, two years of hard training had left him with a superb physique. The Parthian had never seen the like in all his days tending the warriors of his master's bodyguard.
It had been a good life, he reflected briefly, before the border skirmish that had led to his capture and then being sold on as a surgeon to the family of a wealthy Greek merchant. Since then, it had been an endless succession of slaves with boils, sprained ankles and wrists, and venereal diseases amongst the girls of a brothel the merchant owned in Athens. The Parthian had been travelling with his master when the earthquake had struck Crete. He had been outside the inn where the Greek and his retinue had been staying when the earth roared and rumbled beneath him, throwing him to the ground.
When the earthquake had passed and he stood up, there was nothing left of the inn, and not a sound came from beneath the heap of rubble.
The Parthian had taken the chance to flee into the hills, where he wandered for two days, growing steadily hungrier, until he came across the gladiator and his band of slaves. At first he was content to accept the scraps of food that were freely given to him, and resolved to travel to the coast and find a ship heading east on which he could stow away. But then he had come to know the gladiator. There was something about him that reminded the Parthian of his master back home. An inextinguishable aura of authority and determination that would brook no obstacle. Once the gladiator had learned of his medical expertise, the Parthian was asked to remain with the slaves and tend to their needs. For the first time in his life he had been offered a choice, and as he pondered the novelty of deciding his own fate, he saw the gladiator watching steadily, waiting for his reply. At that moment he knew that his choice had been made.
In the days that had followed, the gladiator's band of followers had swelled as more slaves flocked to his side, begging to be given the chance to take up arms against their former masters. The gladiator had taken them all, selecting those who were fit to be part of his growing war band. The rest were sent to the large, flat-topped hill that served as their base. Already the approaches to the summit had been protected by earthworks and palisades, and thousands of slaves lived on the hill in a variety of crude shelters, or even in the open air. Despite the hardships and the ever-present fear of Roman soldiers and recapture, they were happy and savoured every day that they remained at liberty.
The Parthian leaned closer to the wound and examined it briefly.
Three stitches would suffice to reattach the severed muscle. Another nine or ten stitches would be enough to close the wound, the Parthian decided. He glanced up.
'This is going to hurt. Are you ready, Ajax?'
'Do it now '
As the gladiator stood still, the surgeon leaned forward and probed into the wound, drawing the two ends of the muscle together. Then he pierced the tissue, pressed the needle through and sewed his stitches, before cutting off the spare thread and knotting it securely.
He glanced up. 'All right?'
Ajax nodded, keeping his steely gaze on the vista below him. He stood on the cliff above the defile, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. The sun had risen an hour earlier, and the first shafts of light had shone down the length of the defile, illuminating the corpses of Roman soldiers sprawled and heaped along the narrow path. In amongst them were the bodies of horses and hundreds of the slaves who had closed in to finish off the Romans caught in the ambush. It had been a bloody fight, Ajax recalled vividly. The desperate courage of his men against the training, armour and weapons of the Romans. The last of the enemy had been hunted down and killed just before dawn. Now his men were picking the bodies clean of anything that would serve the needs of his growing army. Before, they had a miscellany of swords, knives, scythes, spears, pitchforks and clubs. Now they had proper kit, and Ajax knew how to use it. Several of his followers had once been gladiators themselves, and had already started to train the best of the slaves in the ways of combat. Soon, they in turn would train other slaves, and before the month was out, Ajax would have thousands of men under arms, and nothing would stand in the way of his revolt.
He winced as the surgeon pinched the open mouth of the wound together and pushed the needle through his skin, deftly pulling the thread tight before returning the needle back through the flesh in the opposite direction. The pain was hot and made every nerve in his leg shriek with agony, but he kept his jaw clamped shut and fought down the temptation to show that he was suffering. Pain was pro of of life, his first trainer had told him at the gladiator school outside Brindisium. The bearing of pain was also the measure of a man, the trainer had continued as he had walked down the line of new recruits, striking every man in the face as he passed in each direction.
Those that flinched or whimpered he struck again and again, until they collapsed on the ground, bloodied and broken. The next day he repeated the exercise, and the next, and by the end of the first ten days, they could all stand and take his blows without any expression crossing their faces.
So Ajax stood steady as a rock as the Parthian surgeon worked unhurriedly on his wound and he did not look down until at length he heard the Parthian ease himself back and stand, bloodied fingers holding the needle in one hand as he reached for a cloth from his bag with the other.
'There, it is done. I will check the wound again tonight. Try not to exert the leg too much today, or the stitches may tear.'
The gladiator offered one of his rare smiles. 'There is no need for exertion today, Kharim. The slaves have won their victory; now let us celebrate. Once we have tended to our wounded and buried our dead, we return to camp. We'll slaughter and roast a herd of goats, break open the wine and have a banquet worthy of the gods.'
'Which gods? Mine or yours?'
Ajax laughed and clapped his hand on the Parthian's shoulder.
'Neither, or both. What does it matter? As long as we are free men, who cares which gods we worship? Life is good, made sweeter still by the defeat of those bastard Romans.'
'Yes.' Kharim nodded as he wiped his hands clean on the rag and peered down at the bodies below. He was silent for a moment. 'It was a shame about the boy'
Ajax's smile faded as he recalled the youth who had led the Romans into the trap.' He knew what his fate would be. Pollio was as brave as they come.' Ajax slowly balled his hand into a fist.' He will not be forgotten. He bought us this victory with his life. I shall honour Pollio by killing more Romans.'
The Parthian glanced at him uneasily. 'Why do you hate the Romans so much?'
'Simple. They made a slave of me.'
'They are no worse than other slave owners. Yet you do not hate others as you hate Rome.'
'You are right.' Ajax smiled faintly. 'In truth, I have my own reasons for hating the empire, and a handful of Romans in particular.
But it does not matter. As long as my hatred feeds my desire for freedom, yours and that of all the slaves who follow me, then let me indulge it, eh?'
They shared a smile, and then Ajax frowned as he caught sight of a small party of escorted prisoners being led along the top of the cliff towards him. The leader of the escorts was a young man, tall and broad, and grinning as he approached his commander. Ajax main -