All language subtitles for Spartacus S01E02 Sacramentum Gladiatorum.DVDRip.NonHI.en.STARZ

Sura.

When the Romans came

- I thought I'd never see you...
- Shh!

I will always be with you.

The gods themselves cannot
keep me from your side.

I would kill them
all for trying.

Have him taken to the baths,

but first attend to
all that fucking hair.

Dominus.

- The pool's dry.
- Yes, we need rain.

Money would also see it filled.

We need that too.

How fares your new pet?

- He breathes.
- His cost was enough

for us to fill the
pool for a month.

- You paid beyond the asking.
- I paid his worth, Lucretia.

Spartacus is a
corpse yet walking.

How long before he
takes his place in the grave,

- dragging your investment with him?
- Not before he serves his purpose.

From the legatus
Claudius Glaber.

- His intentions?
- Nudging towards my desires.

He comes here.

Two days hence.

Well, the reason
for his visit is absent.

In words, but the
meaning shines.

- He comes to thank me.
- For what?

For paying too much
for the Thracian?

Spartacus defied Glaber's attempt
at assassination in the arena.

The people demanded freedom...

An embarrassment
for the legatus.

I offered an alternative
by purchasing him.

At an inflated price.

If Spartacus survives
to swear the oath,

the arena will be his tomb
as first intended. If not...

Then his passing becomes
an early delight for the legatus.

- Desires well nudged.
- Mmm.

Ah.

There's yet more
stroking needed.

A simple gesture of gratitude
from the legatus falls short.

Patronage is the
reward we seek...

nothing less.

The legatus as patron...

His coins will fill our
pool to overflowing.

We need to prepare a feast...

A small one.

With wine

and water... lots of water.

Just enough to wet the tongue.

I'll sacrifice a bull to appease
the gods in our venture.

Well, perhaps something smaller.

- A ram then.
- To the gods.

May they bless us
with good fortune.

Crixus: Well, lick my hole,

the pigfucker's still alive.

Barca: This is the one,

the Spartacus everyone's
been pissing about.

Spartacus? My name is...

No one gives shit to
who you were, Thracian.

I give no shit to who he is.

What is this place?

The afterlife, friend,

or at least outside
its rusted gates.

You are now an
honored guest of Batiatus,

master of the greatest
ludus in Capua!

Ludus?

A school of training,

where men are forged into gods,

blood their ambrosia,

the arena their mountaintop.

Gladiators.

The truest of brotherhoods!

Barca: Live the next few days,

you and the other recruits

will count yourself among us

and bear our mark.

In the mean,

can we fetch you something?

Food? Water?

Maybe some scented
oils for your feet?

Water.

Oh, he's slow
this one, isn't he?

Barca: What do you
expect from a Thracian?

Smells like fresh shit.

Oh, they all do,
except for their women.

They smell like...

piss and shit.

What are you then?

I'm a Gaul, little man.

The greatest of my kind...

Crixus the Undefeated!

A Gaul?

That explains why you

smell like a woman.

Oh, you tend to your wounds.

Eat. Rest.

When you gain your strength,

we'll revisit that remark.

Weak. Weak!

A pile of shit. Not
a cock among them.

Well, then you should
join them, you little cunt.

What is beneath your feet?

Answer!

What is beneath your feet?

Sand.

Crixus, what is
beneath your feet?

Sacred ground, Doctore,

watered with the tears of blood.

Doctore: Your tears, your blood,

your pathetic lives forged
into something of worth.

Listen, learn

and perhaps live

as gladiators.

Now attend your master.

Batiatus: You have been blessed,

each and every one of you,

to find yourselves here

at the ludus of Quintus
Lentulus Batiatus,

purveyor of the finest
gladiators in all of the republic!

Batiatus: Prove yourselves
in the hard days to follow.

Prove yourselves more
than a common slave,

more than a man.

Fail and die,

either here where you stand

or sold off to the mines;

Succeed and stand
proud among my titans!

Men: Batiatus!
Batiatus! Batiatus!

A gladiator does not fear death.

He embraces it, caresses it,

fucks it.

Each time he enters the arena,

he slips his cock into
the mouth of the beast

and prays to thrust home

before the jaw snaps shut.

None of you stray dogs

would last a fleeting moment...

except one.

This sad, battered Thracian

stood against four in the arena,

condemned to die,

given nothing but a sword
to wager his life upon.

They came at him...

again and again and again.

He defied death, fate,

the gods themselves.

Spartacus! Spartacus!

Spartacus! Spartacus!

Gaze at this man, study him

and realize...

he is nothing...

a coward, a deserter
from the auxiliary,

his victory in the arena
as hollow as his courage.

He fought against
the ill-trained men

of Solonius, your
master's rival.

Had Spartacus entered the
arena with any gladiator here,

his head would've left
well in advance of his body.

Doctore: The Thracian disagrees.

A demonstration perhaps?

Crixus! Practice swords.

Prove us wrong, Spartacus.

Pick it up.

Spartacus!

That is not my name.

Your name, your life

is what we decide.

Perhaps the coward
requires advantage

to still his trembling knees.

Gladius.

Pick it up!

I can do nothing with this one.

Send him to the mines.

Feeling rested are we?

An attack must be
grounded in proper footing.

He attempts to press
before regaining balance.

- Crixus!
- Crixus!

Allow advantage to your
back and you are dead.

Become entangled with a
more powerful opponent,

and you are dead.

Doctore: Hurl your
sword in the arena

and you are dead again.

Your foolishness
has cost a life,

but yours may yet be redeemed.

Two fingers, a
sign of surrender.

A plea of mercy to
the editor of the games.

Beg for your
life, little rabbit.

Bash his skull in.

Batiatus: Crixus!

- Dominus.
- Continue training.

He tries to kill your best
man and yet you let him live.

Glaber visits tomorrow.

His intention toward the
Thracian may include blood.

Until his patronage is secured, I
intend to keep it warm and flowing.

God, the heat...

Enough to boil the
tongue from the head.

Eat it.

Shitfucking slaves and
criminals, the lot of them.

Are we the better?

You survived your own execution,

twice if you mark the Gaul over there
not introducing your brains to the sand.

You are of a
difference, Thracian,

above this
unfortunate collection.

And you?

Varro.

The worst of the lot...

A free man consigned
by his own hand.

Why would a man willingly
condemn himself to this?

A small matter of
debt grown large.

The repaying of
it proves difficult.

If the concern was only to me...

A family?

Wife and child...

A boy.

Two years in the arena and
my winnings will keep them fed.

Winnings?

Fight well and you
are rewarded with coin,

enough even to balance what
I owe, the gods be fortunate.

The gods?

You are a fool.

And in good company,
by the judging.

They're the best I
could do at the moment.

One or two show
promise, but the rest?

My own mother would
have them in the arena.

You have no mother. You were
belched from the cunt of the underworld.

- That's why I favor you.
- Were there no better offerings?

Better? Yes. Within
reach of my purse? No.

You stand questioning and complaining
instead of setting yourself to the task.

I press to honor you,
Batiatus, and this ludus.

Legatus Glaber visits tomorrow,

with him hope of
renewed fortunes.

Till then, these men
are all the straw afforded.

Bake them to brick or
crumble them to the mines.

Your will, my hands.

Ovidius, apologies
for the delay.

Accepted if made with coin.

- Huh.
- Three months of grain,

the payment standing past due.

- Three is it?
- To the day.

The games of the vulcanalia approach.
If I could carry the debt until them...

Principal plus 30%.

- 30?
- Or settle the debt

- as it stands.
- Batiatus: Huh.

Principal plus 30
after the vulcanalia.

The day after.

I could've taken him.

Crixus? Pfft!

Shit would be
running down your leg.

I wouldn't have ended up
in the dirt, fucked like a dog.

Without training, the Gaul
would've bested any of us, Kerza.

Speaking otherwise
is bloated air.

Man: I pray not to face
Crixus in the final test.

Nothing to worry. You'll
never make it that far, cockhole.

All can make it to the test...

and beyond.

- Freedom.
- Varro: One day, if you fight well.

Freedom. It's piss without
the money to keep it, Varro.

Win the hearts of
the crowd in the arena

and you'll be blessed with both.

You fought the gladiators there.

What do you think
of our chances?

You're all gonna die.

Up!

You will sleep when you
prove yourselves men.

- Ah!
- Doctore: Keep pace!

It's late.

It is.

Return to your dreams.

In a minute.

- We need better wine.
- We need many things.

We'll have them again.

The arrangements are set?

I've taken care of everything.

I cannot fall short tomorrow.

- If I can secure Glaber's patronage...
- You will.

How are you certain?

We've done everything we can.
It's in the hands of the gods now.

Huh.

Come to bed.

And bring that awful wine.

I beg you...

Do not fuck me.

Halt!

The day's training
will begin shortly.

Eat.

Oh, Jupiter's cock!

And now we train all day?

Still believe every man
will live to see the test?

Mostly.

Yet the fool then.

Batiatus paid for these men?

Varro: Very little
by the look of them.

Spartacus: The Roman
way... lives for coins.

Varro: Some deserving
more than others.

I've heard a certain
Thracian was quite the price.

Spartacus: I would see
the cost rise higher still.

Barca: I recall the hardship of
the march when I was a recruit.

You must be mad with hunger.

Fill your bellies.

Varro: Shit.

Wake me when
it's time to die again.

Apologies for the porridge.

Barca finds the jest amusing.

At least he didn't
piss in it this time.

It adds an unpleasant bite.

The days will be hard.

Without food...

- more so.
- You would give me your bread?

Mine? No.

I move things
from here to there,

this hand to that, even
from outside these walls.

Whatever your
needs, Ashur provides.

I owe no man.

Ah.

I ask nothing in return.

My only concern is your strength
and well being in the coming day.

Come to plain words.

Simply stated then.

In addition to other
services, I offer odds.

Will this man
live? That one die?

How fast? How slow?
On what day or hour?

Games to pass the
time and the coin.

And how am I fixed?

12 to the one
favoring the mines;

higher towards your death.

Crixus stands to lose a sum
if you defy the numbering.

I would see it so.

Ah.

Do not think me friend.

The thought is well removed.

How did you manage this?

By playing the odds.

I fear they're about to worsen.

- Glaber.
- You'll address me by title of Legatus.

Yet the animal,

the mark of your kind.

- Where is she?
- Who?

Oh, that little wife of yours.

- Where?!
- Wherever I please!

She has served you no grievance.

No.

None.

But you...

You have grieved me

by stirring the auxiliary into desertion,
calling my command into question,

imperiling my standing
with the Senate!

And then in the arena

you grieve me again by
not knowing when to die!

My life then,

in exchange for hers.

But your life is no
longer yours to bargain.

If I wish it ceased, I
have but to whisper

and good Batiatus
will command it.

Then tongue the
words in his ear.

You mistake me, Thracian.

True, I once sought death
in repayment for your slights.

But I see the error of that now,

wishing for an end... too quick.

No, my desires
have turned to blood,

spilled by the drop over time

until you are drained.

I told you Rome's
shadow was vast

and you would yet die
under it, sliver by sliver,

to the roar of the crowd.

Oh.

A parting kindness

to bind us.

I took it from her thigh

to preserve the scent...

before my men
stained it with their own.

No!

She was a savage amusement.

And when the fight
finally left her eyes,

I sold her to an unpleasant
Syrian for half a coin.

You see? The Thracian finally
learns his place before me...

On his knees.

Your visit with the Thracian
was satisfying then?

The man is of no
more concern to me.

Ah, none whatsoever. We have
prepared a feast in your honor.

- I leave for Rome.
- Rome? Now?

Something for your trip then?

You really shouldn't have
gone to the trouble, Lucretia.

These common dishes
leave my stomach unsettled.

Some wine perhaps while
we wait for your husband?

- Sestian?
- No, but something of equal taste.

Water then.

The heat and the dust...

Will it ever rain again?

We can only pray.

Can't place foot
on street in Capua

without hearing someone pleading
to the heavens for a sprinkle.

And the gods yet ignore us.

Perhaps we've done
something to offend them.

I try to do a little
something every day.

So you're the cause, Ilithyia.

I'd stand a bit away.

Jupiter could hurl a
bolt at any moment.

He'd have to choose
between targets.

And I thought I was in the
presence of a proper Roman woman.

Proper is a word forged by men

who would seek
to enslave us with it.

Doctore: Kerza, ground yourself!

Have you ever
been inside a ludus?

No. I've always wanted to,

but father would never allow it.

- And you obey his commands?
- Not all of them.

Or my husband's.

How do you live with
the noise and the smell,

surrounded by these... animals?

Yes, they are wild and
savage, aren't they?

Something out of a fever
dream. Isn't it a worry?

What if they went insane all
at once, clamoring for blood?

This ludus has been in my
husband's family for generations,

and yet it stands.

And what about your children?

Do you let them play with them?

Mmm. I'm without children.

Oh. Apologies.

- I just thought a woman of your age...
- Mmm.

Come. We leave for Rome.

- So soon?
- Well, can't we stay awhile?

I want to watch the gladiators.

Another time. Come.

Huh.

Kurza.

Pair with Spartacus.

Yes, Doctore.

Doctore: Recruits, attend!

Show the Thracian what
we've learned in his absence.

Form one. Attack!

Form two. Attack!

Spartacus!

Spartacus!

Well, the gods haven't pissed
on me enough for one day?

Legatus fucking Glaber
spurns me like a common slave.

But no, let's add shit to the
piss. Let's pour it into his mouth.

If word gets out that Batiatus
can't control his own men...

- I warned you of their quality.
- You warned me of nothing.

You counsel and make
promises to the air.

"My hands, your will."

The legatus barely
beyond my fucking gates!

- Doctore: The Thracian is unpredictable.
- Then school him to our standards.

Rod and lash fall unnoticed. He is
an animal best unleashed in the mines.

No. The rest to the gods...
They were of little cost...

But Spartacus is
more highly valued,

his worth well exceeding
their entire sum.

I will have return...

If not from the legatus,
then from the man himself.

Even though he is unpredictable?

He is but passionate, and
he stirs the same in others.

A boon to the crowds if we can but
divine the instrument of his taming.

He struggled to
retain this bit of fabric

even as the guards beat him.

It may bring you some service.

I noted this in the hand of
the legatus upon his arrival.

Bring him to my chamber.

I will press to discovery.

Why are you here? In this place?

Under my hospitality?
Do you know why?

Because I trusted in
the honor of a Roman.

You are here because
of my grandfather.

He built this ludus.

He believed that no
man was without worth,

that even the most vile among
us could rise to honor and glory.

He instilled these
beliefs in my father

who in turn passed
them on to me.

I am a lanista, like
my forefathers...

A trainer of gladiators.

I see things in men that
they themselves have lost...

A small spark, an ember.

I give it breath, tinder,

until it ignites in the arena.

I burn for no cause but my own.

And what might that be? Money?

You've cost me
enough on that front.

No, not so base a
cause for this one.

Position, then? Power?

Love?

You have a woman, Thracian?

- I have a wife.
- And do you love her?

Of course you do. I
can see it in the eye,

the tensing of the jaw.

What might be the name
of this delicate flower?

- Sura.
- Where is she?

He took her when he came for me.

Legatus Glaber? He has her?

He sold her to a Syrian.

Well, then how do
you know she still lives?

How do you know the heart
beats beneath your chest?

Most days I don't.

I'm just a simple Roman,

trying to make his way
against the whim of the gods,

the politicians,
the miscreants...

Though often you can't
tell one from the other.

But you...

You are the most
dangerous of animals,

a beast born of the heart.

What would you do to
hold your wife again?

To feel the warmth of her skin?

To taste her lips?
Would you kill?

Whoever stood between us.

How many men? 100? 1,000?

- I would kill them all.
- Then do it in the arena.

Fight for me and the
honor of my forefathers.

Prove yourself. Climb to the
pinnacle. Gain your freedom

and that of the
woman you've lost.

I did not lose her.

She was taken from me.

A man must accept his fate

or be destroyed by it.

Why would I place my fate

in the hands of another Roman?

Because of what they hold.

Your wife's?

Pass the final test tonight
with honor and servitude,

call me dominus

and I will help to reunite you.

The choice is yours.

Batiatus: Cease!

Varro has stood to a draw.

The test is passed.

Barca. Marcus.

Positions.

Barca. Barca. Barca.

Barca. Barca.

Barca. Barca. Barca.

Barca. Barca.

Barca. Barca. Barca.

Doctore: Begin.

That's disappointing.

Not every venture
ends in climax.

A fact known well
to every woman.

Crixus.

Spartacus.

Positions.

Crixus. Crixus. Crixus.

Crixus. Crixus.

Crixus. Crixus. Crixus.

Crixus. Crixus.

Crixus. Crixus. Crixus.

Crixus. Crixus. Crixus.

One final lesson before I
send you to the afterlife.

Begin.

Fuck.

Expensive and
worthless, all in a measure.

Fight, you Thracian bitch.

Tears?

The rabbit is fixed
to piss himself.

Skin the rabbit!

Finish him!

Thracians.

The lesson is well learned.

Batiatus: Spartacus!

Cease!

You have passed the test.

Dominus.

Batiatus: Your life
now promises meaning.

Swear it to me.

Recite the sacramentum
gladiatorum.

Spartacus: I commit my flesh,

my mind, my will

- to the glory of this ludus...
- Mmm.

And the commands
of my master, Batiatus.

I swear to be burned, chained,

beaten or die by the sword

in pursuit of
honor in the arena.

Welcome to the brotherhood.