Spartacus Now

Chapter 1

He came to again slowly, roused by the agitated voices above him.

The first thing he became aware of past the voices was the deep ache pulsating from the back of his head. His tongue felt like a piece of parchment – yet he did not make a sound. Though as dry as his throat was, maybe he couldn't have. But even before he began to regain consciousness he knew that something was wrong.

Through the buzz in his head, words soon started to make sense again.

"… no fucking way. No fucking way! You gotta be smoking-"

"I'm telling you, he's the real thing!"

"Lookit the hair! An' that armor!"

Armor… right. His armor was gone. Not a good sign. Neither were the voices, because he could swear that he recognized the ones arguing to know him.

It was hot, unbearably so; superheated sand beneath him and the sun pressing in from all other directions. He may very well lose consciousness again and die while the men argued about who he was.

Tactic dictated he should not let possible enemies know that he was awake, but all his senses were screaming for water. Tactic is of no use if you die trying to enact it, he had to grudgingly face that fact.

No choice.

He groaned, the sound making it out of his throat like a harsh whisper.

"Hey, hey! He's awake."

The argument came to a halt.

"What do we do?"

"Keep him alive, idiot!"

There was a hard smack and a curse.

"Shut up!"

Somebody kept grumbling, but shadows moved against his eyelids and blocked out the searing red of the sun. Hands grabbed his arms, lifting him into a sitting position. Gloves.

While it was a relief to get away from the hot sand, the movement let him know that he could not move his arms. They were locked behind his back, rough material digging into his skin. Bad. Very bad.

He cracked his eyes open, trying to see anything. But there were only brown and blue colors melding into each other.

One of the blurs in a darker shade moved closer and a lukewarm, moist circle was pressed to his lips. Pride made a brief protest, but drowned in survival instincts – if he was a prisoner he still needed to live. Therefore he quickly swallowed what little water he was allowed before the flask was taken away. Only enough to keep him alive.

The voices started up again, closer now.

"I still don't think it's him."

"Keep your damn trap shut, you never went to Spargus anyway."

"Yeah, but-"

"So shut it! It's him. Hot damn."

He blinked, the water helping to clear his garbled senses a bit. His sight cleared somewhat, letting him see what was in front of him.

Rough leather and crude armor, spikes to make up for lack of proper protection and to look intimidating. Masks lifted, perched atop the wearers' heads now that protection wasn't needed. The battle was over.

Marauders.

He clenched his teeth even harder.

"Heh!" one of the ones arguing to know him snorted. "No wonder they fought like crazy."

His mind cleared a little more at the hint, enough to let him remember. Seem's plea for help with the metal heads that had invaded the temple. The battle in the halls. The journey back towards Spargus.

The attack.

"Get your hands off him!" somebody snarled in the background. A more familiar voice, snarling support.

Another voice shouted a demand for silence, followed by a thump and a growl of pain. Others cried out in defense, but so few of them. His heart sank, realizing how many must have been lost. But he did not let it show, glaring at his captors. They smirked down at him, empowered by the ropes that held him.

"What, you only let your men speak for you these days?" one of them taunted.

"I don't speak to sewer rats."

The butt of a sword instantly connected with his temple, sending dancing stars across his vision. He struggled not to fall over, but somebody grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him back.

"Says the guy who's trussed up and kneeling," one of them said, and they all laughed.

He would have spat, but his mouth was too dry. Maybe the intention was clear enough, for the sword hit him again. He heard the angry shouts in the background, but his world went black.

He woke up again in the back of one of their cars. Three marauders were practically sitting on him, one holding a sword to his neck to make sure he could not move. They seemed to have agreed on his name.

Not being able to do much he ignored them, staring up at the clear blue sky. Wisps of sand torn up by the other cars disturbed the azure and the sun blared too hotly behind him. After a little while he closed his eyes again, wondering if anyone had managed to set off their beacons. Not that it would, or even could matter much now. The amulets had surely been taken away and dropped in the sand.

At that thought he gritted his teeth, considering just how much that must have been taken.

The journey dragged on, but eventually the vehicles rolled into a cooler area. He looked up in an attempt to see, and a mountain range rose up just within sight to his right.

The sky's blue was tinted yellow now, by the sinking sun.

After a while the cars suddenly stopped. Shouts were heard further ahead, and eventually there was a rumbling sound, like a gate opening. They moved again, out of the evening glow and into the enclosing darkness of a cavern. For a few minutes the only sources of light were ahead, from the cars' headlights.

It all made sense then. A tunnel system to hide and protect the bandits against assaults and storms.

Finally the darkness parted in torchlight, and the walls spread out into a cave. There the cars stopped, and his guards stood up to drag him out of the vehicle.

"Hey, any game?" somebody further in called.

"Oh yeah, a big one!" one of the men holding his bound arms called back. "Check this out!"

Steps approached, but he hardly spared a glare nor listened to the new round of "no way!". Glancing around he tried to make out the other prisoners in the poor light, lips stiffening further when he saw the handful of survivors stagger under their wounds, roughly shoved about by their capturers. While grateful that some still lived, there was little relief in seeing in the spoils in this situation, all their fates at the whims of men who hated them.

They snarled and struggled with their guards even while bound and hurt – but meeting his gaze they glanced the other way. Ashamed to be alive, to be imprisoned when they should have given their lives rather than let this happen.

He could give them no encouragement, for the shame was his as well.

Then suddenly a rope was laid around his neck and he recoiled with a snarl, wondering for a moment if they intended to hang him. Behind him curses from the other prisoners were struck down by kicks and punches, but he still felt grateful for their support.

One of the guards shoved him forwards and the rope stretched, forcing him to continue.

He stumbled at first but found his footing, straightening up and following the steps of the marauder who forced him forwards. Not even until he could find a way to fight back would he allow them to think him weak, neither for his warriors nor for his own sake. So he walked with his head high even in such a disgraceful situation, glaring cold annoyance at the smug marauders surrounding him.

His silent refusal to show defeat annoyed them, earning him the occasional punch and smack with the flat side of a blade. He bore it with as much silence as he could, and then returned to the same stiff expression.

In the back the other prisoners continued to struggle, letting him know that they were still with him. That they recognized his attempts to give them hope. From an outside perspective it was probably a pathetic exchange, but it meant a lot to those involved.

They left the garage cavern behind, starting down a tunnel tilting downwards. The smoke of torches hung thick in the air, scratching at his dry throat and eyes. He struggled not to let the discomfort show. He wouldn't give them an inch.

The tunnel soon widened, taking off into forks and paths through the wall. The further in they came, the more people appeared around them, many of them stopping to stare. There were mostly marauders with their spikes and lifted masks, but every now and then something else came into view.

A shocked look from a familiar face, a gasp, a growl. On occasion, a clink of chains.

People thought lost and dead, instead enslaved. He met their gazes, a crack in his own indifferent mask. But they straightened up under his gaze, despite bruises and chains – wearing the proof of their continued rebellion with new pride. This of course earned them punches, but they bore it with the silence he presented.

Finally the sound of laughter and loud talking grew from some point further down the tunnel, and the underground path widened into a chaotic cavern. Chaotic because it was a mess; people sitting on the floor or around the huge stone tables spread about, eating and drinking whatever got into reach. Slaves ran around with baskets and jugs, replacing shattered clay plates and goblets the best they could.

The talking began to still when the prisoners were brought in. The people on the floor stood to see, and slowly a murmur spread across the room, building up to a growl. A slave dropped a basket of dried meat as she caught sight of the prisoners, spilling the contents over the floor. Nobody cared.

Suddenly a goblet flew through the air and hit his head, the clay shattering on the floor a second later. He staggered and a roar of laughter rose up, mingled with the other prisoners and several slaves crying out in rage.

For a moment it looked like a trend had been started, but a shout from deeper inside halted the hands reaching for things to throw.

He was still blinking to get his bearings straight when he was dragged forwards again. At least it seemed to only be water running down his face.

By the head of the largest table sat a marauder dressed in slightly finer leather – that wasn't saying much, of course – and a look of annoyance on his face. His crude armor was a bit more elaborate, bits of precursor metal fitted in here and there. They seemed to have been taking great pains to ensure proof of leadership.

The annoyance dissipated when the silent prisoner was brought close enough to recognize – a spark of recognition showing in the bound man's eyes as well. It seemed the leader at least would not need convincing about whom had been caught. If so, he must have been amnesiac.

The name slipped the prisoner's mind, but he did recall the face as one twisted in fury, shouting profanities when the gate of Spargus closed in front of him forever. To have him thrown out had apparently not been a misguided choice, if he had made it to the head of the marauders.

The rope dragging the prisoner onwards slackened, he was allowed to stop. The men glared at each other. In the end, the marauder got to his feet. He stood taller, but even when forced to look up the prisoner showed nothing but disdain.

By now the entire hall was silent, apart from the crackle of torches. Breaths held, waiting for either of the leading characters to speak.

Finally it was the marauder who started, when it became apparent that the prisoner certainly wouldn't.

"Pardon me for not knowing the proper conduct of diplomacy," he said, "but I would have thought it appropriate to send an emissary if you intended to establish contact."

The elaborate language and high strung tone elicited amused chuckles from the other bandits. The main prisoner did not grant as much as an eye roll for the parody. Even so, the leader's amusement was too great to be halted by this.

"But since you are gracing us with your own grand presence, I assume it is my duty to welcome you to the marauder haven."

He crossed his arms, scarred face a horrendous mask in the flickering light and shadows as the yellowing teeth showed in a grin.

"I hope our accommodations are not below your dignity, lord Damas."