The Gladiator

Chapter XII

An hour after the sun had risen, Spartacus came trotting up the path to the crater. There had been no sign of any Romans on the plain and he was content leaving the gladiators to gather the weapons and equipment together and pack it on to the mules. They could follow him up later. Crixus had mentioned taking the Roman camp as their own, but Spartacus had advised against it. ‘We’re far too few to defend the damn thing. Better to stay on the peak. It’s easier to hold, and the lookouts can spot anyone coming for miles.’ Bleary-eyed and weaving where he stood, Crixus had grumbled but protested no further. Castus and Gannicus seemed happy enough with the decision, so Spartacus waited no longer. Carrying the news to Ariadne was now the most important thing on his mind.

He found her asleep by the fire they’d shared. Seeing the knucklebones, he bit back the ‘Hello’ rising in his throat. She could have been up half the night, praying. Treading quietly to where she lay, he squatted down on his haunches. Strands of her dark hair lay across her cheek. She looked very peaceful. Beautiful too. Pride filled Spartacus that she was his wife. She was strong and fierce. And brave. Ariadne wouldn’t sleep with him, but he could bear the sexual frustration for the moment because she was such a good catch.

He shifted position, scuffing some gravel with one of his heels.

Ariadne’s eyelids fluttered and opened. A fleeting look of incomprehension flashed across her face, and then she was leaping up. Throwing her arms around him. ‘You’re alive! Oh, thank the gods!’

‘Yes, I’m here.’ He crushed her to him. Awkwardly, because they’d never been so close. ‘I’m covered in blood.’

‘I don’t care.’ Deliberately, she buried her face in his neck. ‘You’re here. You’re not dead.’

Spartacus was doubly glad that Getas had saved his life.

They stayed like that for a long time before Ariadne pulled away. ‘Tell me everything,’ she ordered.

Taking a deep breath, Spartacus began. Ariadne did not take her eyes off his face as he spoke. ‘Getas died that I might live,’ he concluded. ‘It was a great gift, and I must honour him for that.’

‘He was a fine warrior,’ said Ariadne sadly. Inside, she was rejoicing. Thank you, Dionysus, for taking Getas instead.

‘Oenomaus is gone too.’

Her hand rose to her mouth. ‘No!’

‘Yes. But he did not die in vain. The Germans have made me their leader.’ He threw her a fierce smile. ‘I now have more men than any of the Gauls. That is a strong position to be in.’

Jubilation filled Ariadne. Elements of her vision were making more sense. ‘The god visited me last night,’ she said.

He pinned her with his gaze. ‘What did you see?’

‘I saw you here, on the top of the mountain. A snake was wrapped around your neck. In your right hand you held a sica.’

‘Go on.’ I will accept whatever she has to say. Whatever the gods have sent for me.

‘The snake reared up in your face, but it did not bite you,’ she revealed, smiling. ‘Instead, it wound itself around your left arm. You turned to the east and raised your sword. You cried out, as if you were honouring someone. Then you vanished.’

‘What-’

She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. ‘I’m not finished.’

‘When I looked back at the crater, it was filled with tents.’ She gestured around her. ‘There were hundreds of men here. They were your followers.’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘I am saying that Dionysus has favoured you. It was his snake around your neck. You are surrounded by a great and fearful power. Men will see that. They will come to offer you their loyalty.’

‘You are sure of all this?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes.’ Ariadne’s voice rang with confidence. ‘As I am a priestess of Dionysus.’

‘I thought that perhaps this would happen to me in Thrace, if I succeeded in overthrowing Kotys,’ Spartacus said wonderingly. ‘But my path did not unfold in that way. Instead I am in Italy, in the heartland of our people’s worst enemy. So be it. It is Dionysus’ will that I should lead men against the Romans. Who am I to argue with a god?’

‘I will stand at your side.’

He smiled, and her stomach fluttered.

‘Good. That is where I would have you.’

‘It is where a wife should stand.’ Before she could stop herself, Ariadne forced her feet to move. She stepped up to Spartacus. Leaning in, she kissed him on the lips.

He responded with fierce enthusiasm.

For the first time in her life, Ariadne felt a rush of sexual desire. She did not fight it.

At length, Spartacus pulled away.

Panic immediately flared in Ariadne’s lower belly. He doesn’t like me. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing at all. Much as I’d love to stay here, there is too much to be done.’ He grinned. ‘We can take up things right where they left off later.’

Reassured, she gave him a last, shy kiss. ‘Good.’ Ariadne’s stomach twisted at the thought of lying with him, but she ignored it. ‘What are your plans?’

‘To get all the equipment we’ve seized up here. To arm every man properly. Then I’m going to explain to the other leaders that our victory last night was a one-off. The Romans won’t ever make that mistake again. If we’re not to be crushed by the next force sent against us, the gladiators have to start training. Like soldiers. The Thracians will do what I tell them. So will the Germans, but I need the Gauls too.’

‘They’ll listen to you now.’

‘They’d fucking well better. Fighting as a disciplined unit is our only hope,’ replied Spartacus grimly. ‘Can you take charge of the women? An inventory of the food and wine would be useful.’

‘Of course.’

‘My thanks.’ Despite his concerns over their future, Spartacus walked off with a spring in his step. Gods, but I can’t wait until tonight.

Conscious that most gladiators wanted to do nothing more than drink the Roman wine — copious amounts of which remained — Spartacus placed Atheas, Taxacis and half a dozen Thracians on guard over the majority of the amphorae. Chaffing the fighters about how much they could knock back that night, he made a big show of helping to load a train of mules with bundles of weapons and then slogging all the way up to the crater with it. When he got back, Spartacus did the same thing again. His tactic worked. While the men continued to grumble, they followed his orders. That was good enough. A certain amount of complaining is healthy anyway. It shows that they’re throwing off the slave mentality. He’d made the decision to say nothing about training until the following day. That issue was potentially far more contentious than denying the fighters wine, and it would be easier to propose when everyone had a hangover.

It took the whole day for the military paraphernalia and supplies to be transported to the camp. The respite between the departure of one column of mules and the arrival of another provided ample time for the freshly arrived cargo to be counted and arranged in piles. Arming a delighted Carbo with a stylus and parchment, Spartacus had him draw up the records. The stacks of pila — javelins — gladii and shields were soon taller than a man and more than twice his height in length and breadth. They had arms enough for thousands of men. This realisation darkened Spartacus’ good mood again. There are still less than one hundred of us.

He didn’t feel bad for long. Yes, and look what we managed to achieve.

Spartacus intentionally had the amphorae brought up last of all. Raucous cheering broke out as the mules and their precious load arrived at the lip of the crater. Without waiting until the column reached the tents, the most eager fighters ran over and unloaded one of the large clay vessels. Everyone watched as it was opened and then hoisted up on to a man’s shoulder. He held it in place while his comrades took it in turns to stand, mouths open, beneath the stream of ruby liquid that poured out. Applause and laughter filled the evening air as the soaked fighters raised their arms in triumph.

‘There it is, boys!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘More wine than you can drink!’

‘Do you want to make a wager on that?’ roared a broad-chested Gaul. ‘If I have anything to do with it, there won’t be a drop left by dawn.’

His comment was met by hoots and cackles of amusement.

Spartacus smiled. ‘It’s all yours. After last night, you’ve earned it.’

The gladiators bellowed their delight at him.

Spartacus waited until the drinking had been going on for a while before he approached Castus and Gannicus. United perhaps by their achievement, the two were sitting by a fire over which chunks of wild boar were cooking. There was no sign of Crixus and his men.

‘Look, the smell draws him in,’ teased Gannicus.

‘It’s good enough to wake the dead,’ said Spartacus.

‘Aye. There are few things more appealing than the aroma of roast pork.’ Castus waved genially at a stone beside him. ‘Take a seat. Wine?’

Spartacus accepted the silver cup with a grateful nod. ‘A fine vessel.’

‘They’re from Glaber’s own table,’ gloated Castus, raising his own. ‘He didn’t mind me taking them.’

Spartacus chuckled. ‘To a fine night’s work. To Getas, Oenomaus and the others who fell.’ He raised his wine high.

The two Gauls saluted him with their cups, and they all drank deeply.

They made small talk about what had happened during their attack. Although they must have known, neither Gaul mentioned Spartacus’ accession to power over the Germans. He wasn’t surprised. No doubt they were resentful of it. He tried to judge when would be the best moment to mention training the men. Too soon, and the pair might take offence, thinking that had been his only intention in talking to them. He wanted to leave it until the wine had dulled their senses, but not so late that they became argumentative or too drunk to understand his proposal.

A familiar, mocking voice cut across their conversation.

‘Well, well. What have we here? A gathering of the leaders that I wasn’t invited to?’

‘It’s nothing like that.’ Spartacus took in Crixus’ flushed cheeks. He must have sobered up somewhat to climb the mountain, but it didn’t look like much. Damn it. Why did he have to appear? He patted the ground beside him. ‘Join us.’

‘I will.’ With a sneer, Crixus threw himself down. ‘What’ve you been doing? Claiming how you each won the battle last night?’

‘No, we leave that to you,’ responded Castus sharply.

Crixus glowered as Gannicus roared with laughter. ‘Funny man, aren’t you?’

‘So some say.’ Castus’ words danced, but his eyes were as flat and cold as a snake’s.

‘A man knows when he’s not welcome. I’ll drink elsewhere,’ growled Crixus. He made to get up.

‘Wait,’ said Spartacus. I might as well tackle them all now. Maybe their antagonism against each other will stop them unifying against me. ‘I have something to say.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ needled Crixus.

Castus’ face took on its usual suspicious expression.

‘Spit it out then!’ said Gannicus.

At least one of them sounds genial, thought Spartacus. ‘What we achieved last night was astounding.’

‘Damn right!’ cried Crixus belligerently, as if it had been his idea all along.

He mentioned Ariadne’s interpretation of his dream, and the trio of Gauls roared with approval. ‘But we can’t just rely on that. The luck we had against Glaber won’t come our way so easily again.’

All three men’s eyes focused on him as hovering hawks do on a mouse.

‘Why not?’ demanded Castus.

‘Because plenty of legionaries escaped. They’ll tell of our surprise attack. The next commander that we face will have so many sentries on duty each night that they’ll be falling over themselves.’

‘And you’re sure that they will send another force?’ Gannicus registered his companions’ incredulous reactions and sighed. ‘All right. That’s wishful thinking.’

‘That’s right. It is,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘And there will be more than three thousand of the bastards too. Count on it.’

‘This wine is sour,’ Castus snapped, pouring the contents of his cup on the ground. He poured himself a generous measure from the jug and tasted it again. His face screwed up.

Spartacus raised an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t taste so sweet now, eh?’

Castus grunted irritably.

Gannicus leaned forward. ‘What are your thoughts?’

‘If we are to have any chance of surviving’ — Spartacus let the words hang for a moment — ‘then we have to learn to fight as the Romans do. As disciplined infantry.’

‘Oh, it’s back to this, is it?’ mocked Crixus. ‘You want the men to train.’

The fool. Can’t he see it? Spartacus’ temper began to rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. ‘Yes, I do. Every day, with shield and sword, until they can stand in a line like legionaries and respond to orders instead of charging in like maniacs.’ Like Gauls, he wanted to add.

Crixus’ eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘I can tell you now that mine won’t do it.’

‘My lads won’t be too keen either,’ added Castus, sounding regretful to be agreeing with Crixus.

Spartacus turned his head.

‘I don’t know…’ said Gannicus.

‘By the Rider, can you not see what will happen otherwise? On an open field of battle, the legions are invincible! Without proper training, we will be crushed like beetles underfoot.’ He glared at each of them.

‘What’s the point? We’ll be annihilated sometime no matter what,’ muttered Crixus. ‘We may as well live like lords until that day.’

‘Who’s to say that we’ll be wiped out?’ challenged Spartacus. ‘We’re far more mobile than the Romans. Ambush and move on, that’s what I have in mind. Stay in the mountains when at all possible. If we do that, it will take far more than a force of mere infantry to even find us.’ He wasn’t happy with the skulking image that conjured up, but their position was a damn sight better than it had been just a short time before. It would do for the moment. Spartacus stared around at them, waiting.

Crixus curled his lip.

You’d cut off your nose to spite your face. Shame I didn’t do it for you. ‘Castus?’

Castus’ eyes flickered uneasily, but he did not answer.

Gannicus cleared his throat, and then spoke. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the idea of training, I suppose. Some routine might stop the lads from doing nothing. Keep them fit.’

‘Good.’ Encouraged, Spartacus turned back to Castus.

‘Don’t listen to him, Castus!’ Crixus advised. ‘The fucker is power mad. Can’t you see it?’

‘That’s not what it’s about,’ snapped Spartacus.

‘Isn’t it?’ Crixus threw back.

‘Would you like to lead us all?’ asked Castus.

‘Spartacus.’

Recognising Aventianus’ voice, he turned his head. ‘What is it?’

‘There’s something you should see.’ Aventianus pointed to the point where the path from below met the lip of the crater.

Spartacus stood up. Spotlit by the rays of the setting sun, he made out the figures of men emerging into view. Dozens of others were already milling about the edge of the camp. ‘Who the hell are they?’

‘Slaves,’ said Aventianus simply. ‘Herdsmen, shepherds and agricultural labourers for the most part. They heard what you did to Glaber and his men, and they’ve come to join you.’

What I did. Fierce pride coursed through Spartacus’ veins. ‘How many are there?’

‘The sentries have lost count.’

‘Excellent!’ Spartacus turned to the Gauls. ‘We’ve got the food and the weapons to equip an army. All those men need is training, and we can give them that. Can’t we?’

‘That sounds good,’ declared Gannicus.

Castus hesitated for a heartbeat and then he nodded. ‘So be it.’

‘Will you join us, Crixus?’ asked Spartacus in a friendly way.

‘I suppose.’ It was said grudgingly. ‘Someone will need to take charge of those fools or they’ll run the first time they even see a legionary.’

‘You’d be excellent at knocking them into shape.’

For the first time, Crixus grinned. ‘Fine.’

‘We can start tomorrow. I’ll begin the gladiators’ instruction.’ Now their glances were more enquiring than rebellious. Thank you, Great Rider. ‘I spent years fighting with the Romans, so I have a good idea of how they’re trained to fight.’

No one argued, and again Spartacus gave silent thanks. For the moment at least, the others would follow his lead.

‘Thank you for the wine.’ Draining his cup, he set it down beside Castus. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Castus. ‘There’s a whole night of drinking to come.’

‘For you, maybe. I’m going to talk to the new arrivals.’ And Ariadne is waiting for me. Ignoring their protests, Spartacus walked away. He was glad that none of the Gauls followed him. If they were more interested in getting drunk than making a good first impression on the slaves who’d fled their masters to come here, that was their loss.

The four sentries were relieved to see him. Although they’d been trying to keep the slaves from spreading out, theirs was an impossible task. It was like trying to stem the tide, thought Spartacus, looking at the ill-dressed, nervous-looking rabble before him. Even a rough headcount took him to a hundred, and more men were spilling over the crater’s lip with every heartbeat. Here and there, he spotted a woman too.

‘Welcome!’ he shouted in Latin.

At once he became the focus of attention. ‘Who are you?’ The question came from a strapping man with old, healed burns all over his arms.

A blacksmith. Just the type we need. ‘I am Spartacus.’

‘You’re Spartacus?’ The man’s face was incredulous.

‘That’s right.’

‘But-’

‘What?’

‘I thought…’

‘That I’d be seven feet tall and breathe fire? Is that it?’

There was a burst of laughter and the blacksmith coloured beneath his tan.

Moving closer, Spartacus fixed the man with his piercing gaze. ‘I am Spartacus the Thracian, who fought as a gladiator in the ludus at Capua. Last night, I led eighty men into a camp where more than three thousand legionaries were sleeping. We killed hundreds of the whoresons, and sent the rest screaming for their mothers. If you think I’m lying, perhaps you’d like to take me on. Bare hands or with weapons. It’s your choice.’

The blacksmith looked into Spartacus’ eyes and saw his death there. His confidence vanished like morning mist. ‘I meant no offence.’

‘None taken,’ Spartacus replied amiably. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’ve come to join you. If you’ll have me,’ the blacksmith added quickly.

‘You’re a smith?’

‘Yes. Been doing it since I was a lad.’

‘Do you want to fight the Romans? Kill them?’

‘Yes!’

‘And the rest of you?’ asked Spartacus. ‘Is that what you’ve come for? To become fighters?’

The baying roar that answered him filled the crater with a wall of sound.

Spartacus waited until it had died down. ‘Good. I will feed you and give you tents to sleep in. I will arm you and train you. And I will lead you against the Romans.’ He drew his sica and stabbed it into the air. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘YES!’ they roared.

Spartacus smiled. Ariadne’s words were already coming true.

From the smallest seed, a great oak can grow.

It was a start.

Ariadne had kept herself busy all day, but that hadn’t stopped her mind from racing. As she counted bags of wheat, slabs of dried pork, containers of salt, spices and other foodstuffs, all she could think of was the kiss that she had shared with Spartacus. And what would inevitably happen when they went to bed that night. The thought of that filled her with anticipation, and terror. I could still say ‘No’. Ariadne dismissed the idea at once. She hadn’t come through all that she had with Spartacus, helped him, developed feelings for him, just to give up at the final hour. Deep down, Ariadne knew that if she didn’t have sex with Spartacus soon, she would never do so with anyone. Willingly, at least.

Having made her mind up, Ariadne was annoyed to feel nervous still. She was a grown woman, was she not? Without meaning to, she visited some of her irritation on Chloris and the other women, snapping unnecessarily when they miscounted something, or didn’t move fast enough to the next job. They were already wary of her — a priestess of Dionysus — and so rather than answer her back, they scuttled about, trying to avoid her gaze and making even more mistakes.

I’m acting like a bully. This realisation made Ariadne gentle her tone. Instead of criticising the women when each task was completed, she started praising them. The atmosphere lightened, and their work rate improved. By the time the sun had dropped to the crater’s edge, virtually all the food had been checked over and had its details recorded.

‘It looks as if you’ve been busy.’

Ariadne jumped at the sound of Spartacus’ voice. Suddenly conscious of the sweat marks on her dress and her straggly hair, she turned. ‘We’ve hardly stopped all day.’

‘Neither have I. It didn’t stop me thinking about you, however.’

She blushed. ‘I’ve been doing the same.’

He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Hundreds of slaves have been coming in, wanting to join us.’

‘As in my dream?’

Giving her a pleased look, he nodded.

‘Dionysus be praised. That’s great news!’

‘It is. And don’t ask me how, but I got the Gauls to agree to training for the men. It’s to start in the morning.’

She was already moving. ‘The new arrivals will need food and drink.’

Bemused, Spartacus watched her as she ordered the other women to ready themselves for an influx of hungry men.

She reappeared by his side. ‘That will do for now.’

‘I suspect that they’ll be happy enough with all the wine that’s on offer.’

‘It will help,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m forgetting myself. Are you hungry?’

‘Not for food. Are you?’

‘N-no,’ Ariadne said, aware that her voice had gone husky.

‘Shall we go back to the tent?’

In answer, she took Spartacus’ hand and led him away.

Ariadne lay on her side, gazing at Spartacus’ sleeping form. In the grey light of predawn, it was hard to make out his features in detail. Taking great care to move slowly, she shifted position on the blanket until she was lying right next to him. Here she was, in bed with a man she had chosen to couple with. It felt good, just as last night had. Ariadne had been surprised by that. She’d been willing, even eager, to engage in the physical act with Spartacus, certain that it would bring them closer, cement the bond between them. But she hadn’t expected to enjoy it.

Spartacus had been gentle yet sure, and so attentive. Several times, feeling her tense, he had paused. He’d looked at her enquiringly, and on each occasion, Ariadne had nodded fiercely to indicate that he should continue. Gradually, her lust had risen, if not to match his, then to lift her for the first time above the hurt that had blighted her for so long. The whole experience had felt, in no small way, healing. A tiny, self-conscious smile twitched across Ariadne’s lips. By the end, she’d felt quite wanton.

‘You’re watching me. Eyeing me up, in fact.’

Ariadne was startled from her reverie. ‘Maybe I am,’ she flashed back. ‘A woman is allowed to admire her man, isn’t she?’

‘Of course. As long as I’m allowed to do the same to you,’ he murmured, reaching out for her.

She wriggled into the circle of his arms. ‘I expect nothing less.’ Surprising herself again by her own daring, Ariadne moved her right hand to his waist — and below.

‘I need to get up,’ he protested weakly.

‘I need you more,’ Ariadne retorted. ‘I’ve waited so long for moments like this. Half an hour won’t make any difference to the men’s training.’

He smiled and pulled her to him. ‘True.’

Two days later, in Rome…

When Saenius had ushered the last bowing client from his simple yet elegant courtyard, Crassus clicked his fingers at the body slave standing behind his chair. ‘Take away that mule piss,’ he ordered, indicating the wine on the sturdy table before him. ‘Bring me a decent vintage. Remember to water it down.’

‘Yes, master.’ The slave was used to Crassus’ routine. Those who came seeking his favour were given plenty of refreshment, but not of the expensive kind. Once the morning’s business was dispensed with, his master liked to relax with a glass of quality wine.

‘Bread and cheese too.’

‘Yes, master.’ The slave was careful to hide his half-smile. He would have brought those items anyway. In many respects, Crassus was as predictable as the tide. In order that his slaves knew his likes and dislikes, he trained them all himself.

Saenius came padding back through the tablinum, past the death masks of Crassus’ ancestors, and the lararium, the shrine to the house gods. He found Crassus trailing a hand in the brick channel that carried water to the lemon trees and vines filling the courtyard. ‘That last one was quaking with fear as he left,’ he observed.

‘All I did was remind him that his debt was due in a month,’ said Crassus mildly.

‘That’s enough.’ Saenius’ smile was acid. ‘He knows that you’re a bull with hay on his horns.’

Crassus gave a pleased nod. He never tired of hearing the popular expression being used about him. Every Roman worth his salt knew that only dangerous bulls had their horns covered in this way. Such a beast was to be avoided if at all possible. It was a good — no, an excellent — reputation to have, he reflected.

The domestic slave returned with a bronze tray upon which sat a jug, two blue glasses and a platter of bread and cheese. He set it down carefully, before pouring wine for his master.

‘Care to join me, Saenius?’ asked Crassus.

‘Yes, thank you.’

As was their custom, master and servant drank together in companionable silence. Above them, the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Despite the shade offered by the plants and trees, the temperature in the courtyard was climbing steadily. Crassus felt the first beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. ‘Thank the gods that there’s no session in the Senate today. I don’t want to go out, even in a litter.’

Saenius murmured in agreement. Walking through Rome at midday in the height of summer was akin to sitting in a caldarium for too long: hot, sweaty and uncomfortable.

Crassus closed his eyes, luxuriating as a light breeze trickled across his face. An instant later, his nose wrinkled. The rising heat exacerbated the omnipresent reek of human waste. While he — naturally — had the comforts of piped sanitation, most of Rome’s residents did not. The public toilets weren’t nearly numerous enough to cope either. The maze of alleyways lacing the city were therefore home to vast, steaming dungheaps, the ammonia-laden odour of which now filled Crassus’ nostrils. He frowned. He could order that some olibanum be burned, but it would only mask the stench and leave a cloying, unpleasant taste at the back of his throat. ‘Maybe it’s time for a break,’ he mused. ‘A month at the coast would be very pleasant.’

‘Your villa there is always ready,’ said Saenius, clearly pleased at the idea of quitting the capital. ‘And the sea breezes make the heat easier to bear.’

Crassus was about to agree when a totally different scent reached him. Smoke. His head turned, seeking the direction from which it came. ‘Do you smell that?’

Saenius leaned forward, sniffing. ‘Ah yes.’ He concealed his disappointment well, thought Crassus with amusement. ‘Something’s burning,’ he said.

‘It’s certainly the right weather for it,’ replied Saenius. ‘The city hasn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, and some fools will always leave a brazier untended.’

Crassus threw back the last of his wine and stood. ‘The coast can wait. Let’s go and have a look around.’

Saenius knew better than to argue. ‘I’ll gather the slaves.’ Calling for those who made up Crassus’ entourage, he vanished into the depths of the house.

Crassus took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the harsh tang of burning wood. It was most effective at concealing the stink of shit, he thought wryly.

Anticipation filled him next. The powerful odour meant that somewhere not too far away, there was money to be made.

The source of the fire wasn’t hard to track down. Crassus’ large but plain house was situated on the lower slopes of the Palatine Hill. By simply walking to the nearest crossroads, he could gain a partial view over the centre of Rome. That told him that the conflagration was on the Aventine Hill. The score of slaves trailing Crassus — a mixture of bodyguards, labourers and architects — spied the billowing smoke at once too. Faint cries were also audible above the hum of ordinary life. Debate broke out among the men about the size of the blaze, what had started it and how many people would die before it was put out.

Crassus ignored their chatter. All would become clear when they got there. He strode down the street, indicating that his slaves should follow. ‘It’s bad luck to live on the Aventine,’ he said softly, repeating the old saying.

His bodyguards quickly moved in front of him. Armed with cudgels and knives, they bellowed and used their fists to clear a path through the teeming, narrow streets. ‘Make way for Marcus Licinius Crassus, praetor and the most generous man in Rome!’ they shouted. ‘Scion of one of the Republic’s oldest families, son and grandson of a consul, he regularly donates a tenth of all he owns to Hercules.’

Crassus smiled benevolently.

‘So fucking what? Crassus is so damn rich that he could afford five times that amount and still not notice the loss!’ a voice suddenly yelled from the throng.

The bodyguards’ heads spun angrily, looking for the culprit.

‘Leave it. There’s no time to waste,’ ordered Crassus. Besides, it’s true enough. Similar comments were made everywhere he went. Like the lewd political and sexual graffiti that decorated the walls of houses throughout the city, it was a nuisance that had to be borne, as a dog suffered its fleas. He pulled a heavy purse from inside his tunic and handed it to Saenius. ‘Offer that to the crowd,’ he said loudly.

A wave of excitement rippled through those within earshot. Scores of hungry, dirty faces turned towards them.

‘All of it?’ cried Saenius, acting out the ritual they’d played countless times before.

‘Why not? The worthy citizens of Rome deserve no less,’ replied Crassus. He added in an undertone, ‘I’ll recoup it a thousand times over where we’re heading.’

Saenius’ answering grin was wolf-like. Filling his fist with coins, he fell out of step long enough to fill the air with showers of bronze asses, silver sestertii and denarii. Crassus glanced back at the mob, which had gone wild. Excellent. To add to the spice, he’d added an occasional gold aureus to the change in his purse. One of those was but a drop in the ocean to him, but to the average impoverished resident of Rome, the rare piece of currency represented food for weeks, if not months.

It took perhaps a quarter of an hour to work their way to the Aventine. The multi-storey buildings pressed in on either side, creating a gloomy, claustrophobic world and preventing a view of the fire’s exact location. The problem was easily solved, however. Hordes of frantic, wild-eyed people were fleeing the quarter. All Crassus had to do was order his bodyguards to drive against the crowd’s flow. Drawing their cudgels from their belts, three of them formed a wedge and shoved forward. From then on, anyone who got in their way was simply smashed over the head. Magically, the centre of the street opened up. Set on a new course, the rabble streamed by on either side of Crassus.

Some citizens carried their belongings, wrapped in sheets, on their backs. Others had nothing but the clothes they wore. Children who had been separated from their parents screamed. Husbands cursed under the weight of what their wives had made them carry. Upset by the din, babies added their mewling cries to the general mayhem. Crassus ignored the fear-stricken masses, focusing instead on the shopkeepers’ faces framed in the entrances of the establishments that lined both sides of the street. Their precious stock, whether it be meat, pottery, metalwork or amphorae of wine, meant that each of them stood to lose far more than the average person if the fire spread. It also meant that the traders did not panic unnecessarily. The expressions of the men he saw here were not that concerned. Yet. ‘Press on,’ Crassus ordered his bodyguards. ‘The blaze is a good way off still.’

They found it a dozen streets further up the hill.

Thick brown smoke filled the air all around them now, and the temperature rose sharply. The area was already almost empty of people, and the only ones visible were scuttling in the opposite direction. Crassus wasn’t surprised. Other than the owners of affected buildings, there was no one to fight fires in Rome. The ground floors of most structures were constructed using bricks, but above many towered the dizzying wooden heights of the insulae, three, four and even five storeys of tiny, miserable flats. This was where most people lived. Existed would be a more accurate description, thought Crassus, feeling grateful for his station in life. Built with little regard to safety or architectural design, the insulae were death-traps waiting to collapse or burn down. Fire was the more common of the two disasters. And once a blaze had a foothold in a building, it was virtually impossible to put out. Thanks to the fact that everything was constructed either directly adjoining or actually touching the structures around it, it was the norm for the flames to spread lethally fast. Anyone who stayed in the vicinity risked being incinerated. Conflagrations in which entire neighbourhoods were destroyed, killing hundreds, were commonplace during the summer months.

He caught sight of two anguished figures ahead: a middle-aged man wearing a grubby shopkeeper’s apron and an attractive woman of similar age. Crassus smiled. This would be the owner and his wife. Those whose livelihoods were in peril could never bring themselves to leave until the very last moment.

Now the crackling of flames could be heard. Looking up through the swirling eddies of smoke, Crassus saw bright orange-yellow tongues licking hungrily at the third floor of a wood-faced block of flats. ‘It started in a cenacula. It’s out of control already.’

‘Is it ever any other way?’ asked Saenius.

‘Rarely,’ admitted Crassus dryly. He pushed aside the bodyguards. ‘Greetings, friend!’

The man he’d spied didn’t hear his salutation. Ignoring his wife’s warnings, he darted into the open-fronted shop that formed the structure’s base. He emerged a moment later, carrying a large ceramic pot. Setting it down beside half a dozen others, he prepared to run inside again.

‘You risk much, friend,’ said Crassus loudly. ‘Many’s the man who’s been buried alive when a building collapsed.’

The shopkeeper regarded him with a dazed expression. ‘I have no choice,’ he said in a monotone. ‘My life savings went into constructing this block of flats. I’m ruined, I know, but without any stock, we’ll starve.’ He turned away, distracted by his wife’s sobs.

‘That need not happen,’ declared Crassus. ‘Believe it or not, the gods are looking down on you today.’

‘Are you mad?’ cried the man. ‘If they are, they’re laughing.’

‘I’ll buy your building and everything in it from you, friend.’

‘Eh?’

‘You heard me.’

The shopkeeper’s face twisted as the bitter truth struck him. ‘You must be Marcus Licinius Crassus,’ he said in a cracked voice.

‘That’s correct.’ He glanced at Saenius. ‘My fame goes before me.’

‘As it always does.’

‘I don’t want your money,’ snarled the trader. ‘You come skulking here with your henchmen, to watch as my whole life goes up in flames!’ He made a dash for his shop just as a deafening, cracking sound shredded the air. Cursing, he skidded to a halt by the entrance.

Crassus watched with some satisfaction as the shop’s ceiling collapsed, burying everything within in a mass of burning timbers. ‘You’ll have to make do with those few pieces,’ he said mildly, pointing at the pathetic pile of crockery. ‘They won’t sell for much, I don’t think.’

The shopkeeper’s fists bunched with rage. He took an impulsive step towards Crassus, whose bodyguards grinned evilly at each other.

‘No!’ screamed the man’s wife. ‘I can’t lose you as well.’

The man’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘How much?’ His voice was barely audible above the crackle and snap of burning wood.

‘I was going to be generous,’ said Crassus coolly, ‘but your aggression has changed my mind. Five hundred denarii for the lot.’

‘It cost twenty times that to build,’ said the shopkeeper in disbelief. ‘And my stock, it-’

‘That’s my first and last offer,’ snapped Crassus. ‘Take it — or leave it.’

The man stared at his wife, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug.

‘I won’t wait around,’ warned Crassus. He turned as if to go.

‘I accept! I accept…’ The man’s voice trailed off, and a choked sob left his mouth.

‘A wise decision. You’ll sign over ownership by nightfall, and be paid tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s work to be done,’ and Crassus turned to his men. ‘Get to it! You’d better move fast, or the blaze might spread to the buildings on either side.’

‘That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?’ asked Saenius.

Crassus’ wagging finger was belied by his smile of agreement.

‘Best get out of the way,’ Saenius advised, ushering the shopkeeper and his wife some way up the street. ‘Once the structure begins to fall, it can become very dangerous.’

Crassus followed at a leisurely pace. ‘Is anyone inside still?’

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ replied the shopkeeper.

‘Good.’ Crassus made a chopping gesture with his arm. His slaves had been waiting for his command. Moving with the ease granted by long experience, they began tearing at the first storey of the burning building with specially designed, long iron hooks. The structure was flimsy, and it didn’t take long for gaping holes to appear in the wood. Crassus’ men redoubled their efforts, eventually ripping the entire front off the first storey and pulling the debris down to the street. At once the building’s timbers began to emit load, groaning noises.

It was then that the screaming began. ‘Help me! Please!’

Crassus looked up into the billowing smoke. For a few moments he saw nothing, but his eyes finally settled on a pale, terrified face peering from a window opening on the top floor. ‘Gods above!’ wailed the shopkeeper’s wife. ‘I think it’s Octavia’s daughter. She’s only eight. Her mother works in another part of the city; she often leaves the child at home. The poor mite must have been asleep.’

Saenius made a poor show of looking sympathetic.

Crassus didn’t overly care either, but it paid to keep up appearances. ‘Check the staircase!’ he ordered.

Saenius sprinted to the wooden stairs that ran up the side of the building. On each floor, a door gave access to the cenaculae within. He returned, shaking his head in false sorrow. ‘It’s burning.’

‘What can we do?’ cried the woman, tears streaming down her face.

He’d made a token gesture. Anything more would be hazardous in the extreme. Crassus wasn’t prepared to risk any of his men’s lives for an eight-year-old gutter rat. He shrugged. ‘Pray that she has an easy passage to the other side.’

The woman began to scream, and her husband pulled her close. ‘Shhh. There’s nothing we can do.’

Crassus didn’t want to listen to the screeching of either the doomed child or the distraught woman, so he walked further up the street. He scanned the shops on either side with a practised eye. Surprise, and then pleasure, filled him. They were not the usual shabby run-of-the-mill enterprises, selling offcuts of meat, shoddy tools or badly woven clothing. Instead there was a silversmith’s, a moneylender’s and a Greek surgeon’s premises. This was a quarter with a good future, he reflected. It would be a profitable place to rebuild.

His smile grew broader. Despite the heat, this had been a good day.

Crassus’ good mood did not last. When he arrived home, tired and reeking of smoke, he was looking forward to a cold, refreshing bath and a change of clothes. He was greatly put out, therefore, to discover a messenger from the Senate waiting for him in the courtyard. One who would not wait to be seen.

Crassus glared at the man down his long nose. ‘What in Jupiter’s name do you want?’

‘An emergency meeting of the Senate is to be convened this afternoon, sir.’

‘For what bloody reason?’

The messenger twisted beneath his gaze. ‘Caius Claudius Glaber has returned.’

Crassus’ mind was still on his new acquisition on the Aventine, and a bath. ‘Who?’

‘The praetor who was sent to Capua.’

‘Oh yes. His job was to seek out and kill the runaway gladiators. He had three thousand men, if I recall. It was but a simple matter. March down there, mop things up, come back to Rome.’ Crassus took in the other’s scared look. His eyebrows made a neat arch. ‘Clearly that’s not what you have come to tell me.’

‘No, sir. The gladiators attacked Glaber’s camp at night. They killed the sentries and fell upon the legionaries as they slept…’ The messenger hesitated.

‘Go on,’ ordered Crassus in disbelief.

‘According to Glaber, all was confusion and chaos. His men panicked, and fled.’

‘Three thousand men ran from seventy-odd scumbag gladiators?’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘Were many of Glaber’s soldiers killed?’

‘Four or five hundred, sir. The rest escaped safely.’

‘Escaped? It’s not as if they were even defeated in a battle! Fucking cowards,’ thundered Crassus. ‘And this fiasco is what Glaber has come back to tell us about?’

‘Yes, sir,’ whispered the messenger. Terror filled his eyes. It wasn’t uncommon for those who bore bad news to be punished, or even killed.

Crassus chewed his lip in concentration. Spartacus is not just a skilful fighter. He is clearly a man of some ability. A tactician. His Roman pride lashed out at once. ‘So what if he can marshal a few men together to make a craven attack at night?’ he said to himself. ‘This humiliation cannot be tolerated. Will not be tolerated! The next force that is sent will be twice the size.’ Even that prospect did not ease Crassus’ anger, and he paced up and down, musing about how he would deal with such a situation.

The messenger waited, trembling, for his sentence to fall.

After a moment, Crassus finally noticed him again. ‘What are you still doing here? Piss off. Tell whoever sent you that I will attend the debate in the Senate.’

‘Yes, sir, t-thank you, sir,’ stammered the messenger, backing away.

Crassus headed for the bathing complex, which lay off the courtyard. He could think about this as he relaxed in the cool of the frigidarium.

One thing was certain, however.

Glaber had to pay for his mistake.

Later, Ariadne would look back on the days and weeks that followed as a halcyon time. Spring moved into summer, and she allowed herself to forget her troubled childhood, Kotys, their journey to Italy and the ludus. She even expelled Phortis from her mind. She did not consider the future or the idea of travelling back to Thrace. What was the point? She was happier than she’d ever been. And it was all down to one man. Spartacus. She couldn’t get enough of his company. She wanted to know everything about him, and he seemed to feel the same way about her. Truly, the gods must have united them, Ariadne thought. Here she was, free as a bird, living at the top of Vesuvius with her man, and his ever-growing band of followers.

Within a month, it had become clear that there would be no immediate reprisal for the humiliation inflicted upon Glaber and his soldiers. Firstly, there were no troops in the area. Secondly, as Spartacus said, choosing a new commander and the best plan of attack would take the Senate time. So would raising a new force of legionaries. Unless there was great need, Rome kept no legions on its home territory. Thirdly, there could be no surprise assault on the gladiators. Their camp’s lofty position granted stupendous views on all sides, and on every estate for fifty miles there were now slaves who would burst their lungs to carry to Spartacus the news of a Roman column.

Spartacus drove himself hard. This period of respite had to be used wisely. It was a time to train the gladiators mercilessly, honing them into infantry. To forge the many hundreds of raw recruits — most of who had never even held a weapon before — into soldiers. To organise hunting parties, and bands that could range far from Vesuvius, raiding for newly harvested grain and stocks of iron and bronze. Often led by Crixus or Castus, who used the opportunities to avoid training, the marauders spread the word that any man used to working in the fields or tending livestock would be welcome at Vesuvius. Domestic slaves were not wanted. They needed men who were used to rough, outdoor lives. Men who could fight.

But for Ariadne, it was a time of pure, unadulterated joy. Although the threat of reprisal was ever present, it was easy enough in the warm days to forget all about Rome and its legions. To exult in the fact that, for the first time in her life, she was in love.

Unsurprisingly, her daylight hours were filled with toil. Organising the womenfolk, of whom there were now more than two hundred, came naturally to her. So did acting as the camp’s quartermaster. She also revelled in being the rebels’ talisman. From the start, Ariadne had made sure that Spartacus spoke about his dream often, and of her interpretation of it. The gladiators and slaves lapped it up. They had found not just freedom by running away from their masters, and a charismatic leader, but a mouthpiece of their most revered deity, one unsuccessfully banned by Rome more than a century before. In their eyes, Ariadne was a priestess of Dionysus, and Spartacus was his appointed one. They regarded both with awe, and news of the couple spread far and wide.

Spartacus’ time was also taken up with drilling the gladiators and new recruits, or consulting with Pulcher, the blacksmith who had challenged him. Pulcher was now one of his trusted men, and the rebels’ de facto armourer. Along with several other smiths, it was his job to melt down slave chains and fashion arrowheads and swords. To bake sharpened stakes until their fire-hardened tips would skewer a man with ease. To hammer out sheets of bronze into plain, serviceable helmets. A motley group of slaves worked alongside Pulcher, making shields.

Periodically, Spartacus would lead a raiding party out to gather information, but for the most part, he stayed at the camp. Every dusk, sunburned and covered in sweat, he would saunter towards their tent. His smile lit up Ariadne’s heart. So did the words he murmured in her ear as they sat side by side looking out over the Campanian plain, and the way he made her feel when they retired to their blankets. Falling to sleep in his arms under a canopy of glittering stars felt like all she’d ever wanted.

It was no surprise that Ariadne looked forward to each evening with a fierce hunger. She clutched the hours to her as if they were the last she’d ever see. The dawn became her enemy, because its arrival meant the end of her time with Spartacus. Until the next sunset.

She wished that the summer — the fantasy — would last forever.

But of course it didn’t.