The Gladiator

Chapter XVII

Waking long before dawn, Carbo had risen from his blankets full of excitement. The raid on Nola had been an unparalleled success, yielding huge amounts of grain and clothing. Nuceria had been similar. No doubt Forum Annii would be the same. Carbo had drunk some water, wolfed down some of yesterday’s bread smeared with honey, and looked to his weapons. By this stage, checking that his sword blade was sharp, his pilum heads securely attached and that the chinstrap of his bronze helmet was in place had become second nature. Navio, whose tent was beside Carbo’s, was doing the same.

Carbo felt the first tickle of unease when he overheard a group of former farm slaves bragging about who would kill the most citizens in Forum Annii. When he’d rebuked them, they had laughed in his face. Carbo had confided in Navio, whose answer had been a simple shrug. ‘Some of that will go on. It always does when a town is sacked. Doesn’t mean you have to be part of it, but there’s nothing to be done about it. These things happen in war.’

War, thought Carbo with a trace of unease. It seemed surreal, but that’s what Spartacus’ uprising felt like now. It’s inevitable that some innocent blood will be shed. He was doubly glad that Chloris was staying behind in the camp.

Carbo would have preferred to go in with Spartacus, but that wasn’t going to happen. During the march south, he and Navio had each been appointed to serve with one of the newly formed cohorts. Naturally enough, Navio was in charge of one, while Carbo served as second-in-command in another. His senior officer was Egbeo, a man who would obey Spartacus’ order not to allow widespread killing.

Naively, Carbo had assumed that the same command would have been given to everyone in the army. The farm slaves’ boasts had made it patently clear that this was not the case, and as he’d moved into place on the tree line above Forum Annii, he had heard plenty of similar threats being made. He struggled to accept the depth of hatred some of the slaves felt towards their former masters and all Romans in general. Had Paccius harboured such emotion? Surely not. What about the other domestic slaves that he’d grown up knowing? Carbo couldn’t believe that they had also felt such loathing. For all his father’s faults, he hadn’t been a cruel master. Chloris seemed equable about what had happened to her.

Yet if he were honest it wasn’t hard to realise why some slaves might feel bitter. Carbo thought of those who had belonged to his former friends in Capua. For them, life had been entirely different. Beatings were the daily norm. Rape was commonplace. If a slave was judged to have stolen, or committed other serious crimes, so too was torture. Carbo had seen the branded letter ‘F’ — for fugitivus — on more than one man’s forehead. This was the punishment meted out to those caught after they’d run away. While rare, execution was also not unknown.

If I had lived by such rules, how might I feel if the tables were turned?

Carbo’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He had only one answer, but he didn’t want to admit to it. For some, life as a slave was a living torment, and any opportunity for revenge would be seized with both hands. What would inevitably happen when they descended on the town was chilling. Carbo didn’t want to be part of it, but he had to be. He was Spartacus’ man for good or ill. Whether they were fighting against a legion, or about to sack a town.

‘Advance!’ called Spartacus in a low voice. ‘But stay together. I want a solid line as we approach.’

Carbo licked his dry lips. ‘You heard him,’ he hissed at the men to either side. ‘Forward, at the slow march.’

As the order spread, thousands of men emerged from the trees. They were armed with spears, swords and sharpened stakes. Spartacus could see the occasional scythe and mattock. One figure was even bearing a smith’s hammer. Was it Pulcher? He couldn’t be sure. The tatters of mist on the fields gave the slaves some cover as their leaders forced them into line. The discipline is holding for now. Let it continue to do so.

It was a faint hope.

They hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred paces before a bunch of Crixus’ Gauls broke free of the ranks. Raising their weapons, they charged towards Forum Annii like a pack of hunting wolves. Curse them, thought Spartacus. He lifted a hand, stalling his men. ‘Steady. Steady. Let the fools go.’

But already Crixus was pounding after his followers, laughing like a lunatic.

What happened next was as if a logjam of winter debris blocking a river had been freed. In a seething mass, virtually the entire army swarmed forward across the ploughed earth. Whoops and shrieks filled the air in a deafening and bloodcurdling cacophony. The men following Spartacus, Navio and Egbeo were the only ones to hold back.

Despite the fact that surprise was of little or no importance, Spartacus scowled at the men’s indiscipline. He didn’t want to miss out on the action, however. There could be large quantities of money in some houses. Perhaps even letters from Rome in the local politicians’ offices. ‘After them,’ he roared. ‘We don’t want to be last to the party.’

It was all the permission the rest of the slaves needed.

With a great, inarticulate roar, they charged.

By the time a quarter of an hour had passed, Carbo had given up trying to control his troops. It was like trying to call off a pack of dogs after they’d caught a hare. Only when the prey was dead would they listen. He’d lost count of the number of times he had screamed at a man not to chop the limb off a screaming greybeard, or to rip the clothes from a woman’s back before throwing her to the ground. When the deed was done, they finally seemed to hear his voice, turning to look at him with surprised, crazed faces. The moment he’d moved on, Carbo was sure it all began again.

Forum Annii had become how Carbo envisioned Hades. The streets were full of manically laughing, dead-eyed men with bloodied sword arms, mutilated corpses and screaming women and children. Here and there an occasional armed householder was being hacked to pieces. Some houses were on fire; the roof of one had already collapsed inwards. The air was laced with the thick, choking smell of their burning, as well as the harsh tang of blood and shit. Carbo didn’t know what to do. In frustration, he had even clubbed one of his men unconscious. While it had prevented the murder of a girl of no more than ten, the slave’s companions had turned on him, waving their weapons threateningly. Seeing his death at their hands, Carbo had simply dropped his shield and dragged the girl away. This was no time to try and assert his authority. If he could save a child’s life, that would at least be something.

By the time he’d gone fifty paces down the street, the slaves’ attention had turned elsewhere. Carbo turned to the girl, a dainty, blond-haired creature in a fine tunic. ‘Where is it safe to hide?’ he demanded.

She stared at him, her eyes black with terror.

Carbo forcibly softened his face. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’

‘M-M-Mother!’ She started to sob, and Carbo glanced over his shoulder. Twenty paces away, a woman was spread-eagled on the ground. Men were standing on her arms and her legs to hold her still as she was raped by a sweating gladiator. Slurping at a cracked amphora of wine and hooting encouragement, more than a dozen slaves waited their turn. Gods above! ‘Look away,’ Carbo ordered. ‘No one is going to hurt you like that. I swear it!’

The girl started to cry.

He bent down to her level. ‘Try to stay calm,’ he said gently. ‘Where can I hide you? Where would be safe? Is there a temple nearby?’

She pointed down the street.

‘Which god?’

‘Jupiter.’

No good. Jupiter is the ultimate symbol of Rome. No slave will respect that. Inspiration struck him. ‘What about Dionysus? Do you know of any slaves who worship him?’

She looked at him with surprise, before nodding. ‘Father lets our slaves worship Bacchus. He says it gives them hope. A reason to live.’

‘He’s a wise man. Quickly, then. Take me there.’

Turning away from the degrading sight that was her mother’s end, the girl stumbled off up the street. With drawn sword, Carbo followed. He roared abuse at anyone who came near, threatening to cut their balls off and feed them to the pigs in the nearby sty. With so much in the way of easy pickings, those they encountered were content to snarl obscene comments about the girl and let them pass. She led him unerringly past the carcasses of two butchered horses, scatters of clothing, broken pottery and countless bodies, to a house right on the edge of town. Carbo felt a flood of relief as he scanned the area. There was no sign of any slaves or gladiators. In all likelihood, they had swept past this area and into the centre of Forum Annii.

‘Is this your home?’

‘Yes.’

Like many Roman dwellings, the building was rectangular in shape, with a high wall devoid of openings save for the occasional small glass window. The only entrance Carbo saw was a large pair of wooden doors in one side wall. These gave on to the street. Unusually, one hung wide open. Loud voices and laughter could be heard within.

Gods! The whoresons are still here. Raising a finger to his lips, he halted. ‘Did it get attacked? And your mother tried to get you away?’ he hissed.

Another tearful nod.

‘Your father?’

‘H-he stayed behind with my brother. So Mother and I could escape,’ she whispered without looking at him.

They’re dead for sure. She knows it too. And if we enter, the same will happen to us. Blood rushed in Carbo’s ears. Have faith in the god. Ariadne is his servant, and Spartacus has been anointed by him. No one will harm us in his presence. ‘Where is the shrine to Dionysus?’

‘It’s in the yard behind the house, which opens on to the fields.’

‘Can we get to it without going through the main entrance?’

‘Yes. There’s a little gate in the back wall of the garden. It’s never locked.’ Her face twisted with grief. ‘That’s how they got in.’

‘Don’t think about that,’ he urged. ‘Just take me there.’

Rubbing away her tears, she darted across the open gateway, towards the end of the street. Carbo followed her, taking the opportunity to shoot a glance within. He saw nothing but the blank walls of the entrance hall. The audible ribaldry meant that at least two slaves were inside, however. Cross that bridge when you come to it. Get the girl out of harm’s way first.

They rounded the corner of the house, coming off the paved street and on to the freshly tilled black earth of the fields. Carbo could see right up to the tree line where they’d hidden just a short time previously. A few figures moved up there, stragglers no doubt, but they were far enough away to make it unlikely that he and the girl would be seen. All the same, he felt a surge of relief when the door came into sight. It also lay ajar. The girl turned to him, her face white with terror again.

‘Don’t move. I’ll go in first.’ Carbo took a deep breath. He tiptoed to the door, and peered around its edge. There was no one in sight. What he saw instead was a large, but typical, Roman garden. Filling half the space were neat rows of vines, and lemon, fig and apple trees. The rest of the ground was given over to a combination of vegetables and herbs. A red-brick wall enclosed the space on three sides, with the back of the house taking up the fourth. Another small door in that wall provided access to the garden. Thankfully, it was closed.

Carbo’s eyes flickered from side to side. There was what looked like a tool shed, and a well, but no shrine. ‘Where is it?’

‘You can’t see it. It’s on this wall.’ The girl tapped the brickwork.

Understanding flooded through him, and he led the way inside. The area dedicated to Dionysus was immediately apparent. Two lines of pillars had been thrown out a dozen steps from the back garden wall. They supported a low wooden roof. It was nothing compared to even the most basic Roman temple, but it was undoubtedly a place of worship. The floor, which had been covered with crudely laid stone slabs, was covered with offerings. There were little oil lamps by the dozen, but also statuettes of Dionysus and his maenads, jugs of wine, piles of olives and small sheaves of wheat. Bronze coins were dotted here and there; there was even an occasional silver denarius.

It was only when Carbo drew level with the shrine’s entrance that he was able to appreciate the imagery beneath which the offerings had been placed. His eyes widened. Under the area covered by the roof, the garden wall had been plastered and then painted. Wreathed by lines of green ivy, one of Dionysus’ favoured emblems, were three large panels. On the left was a bucolic scene of the grape harvest. In the background, men laboured, placing the fruit they picked in baskets. Other workers carried loads of the purple fruit to a figure in the foreground, which was reclining on a couch and flanked by attendants holding vine branches. A beardless, nude youth, Dionysus lay holding a cantharus, or ritual drinking vessel. Carbo instinctively bowed his head. I ask for your protection, O Great One. For both of us.

The middle panel depicted Dionysus as a much older man, bearded and wearing a Greek chiton. Draped over his shoulders was the skin of a fawn. Around him clustered groups of women, some fawning in obeisance, others dancing in ecstatic frenzy, still more coupling with men on the floor. But it was the last image that Carbo didn’t like. Here was Dionysus, youthful once more, clad in an undergarment, descending into the underworld to hold hands with its god, Hades. Is that what you’re doing today? Making a pact with Hades? It certainly feels like it.

His chin firmed. Whatever Dionysus’ intentions, the girl should be safe here at least. He turned to find her regarding him.

‘I thought it was just slaves and women who prayed to Bacchus. Or foreigners.’

‘My leader’s wife is a priestess of Dionysus. I’ve learned to hold him in great reverence.’

‘You’re a Roman,’ she said accusingly. ‘What are you doing with murderous slaves?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Carbo snapped. He pointed. ‘That door. Can it be locked from this side?’

‘No. Only from inside the kitchen.’

Damn it! If he stayed, there’d be no chance of rescuing other children. ‘Stay under the shrine’s roof. No one will bother coming into the garden. Even if they do, you won’t be seen,’ he said bluffly.

‘You’re going to leave me?’ She began to cry again.

‘I have to,’ he muttered awkwardly. In an effort to reassure her, he said, ‘I’ll take a look into the house. See what’s going on. Make sure it’s safe for you.’ Safe?

She didn’t seem any happier, but Carbo didn’t know what else to say or do. Hefting his sword, he strode towards the small wooden door. Reaching it, he placed his head carefully against the timbers and listened. The voices he’d heard were still audible, but dim. Carbo waited for the count of fifty heartbeats, but the noise level remained the same. Good. There’s no one in the kitchen. He placed his thumb on the latch. With a metallic click, it lifted. He laid his ear on the door again. Nothing. Carbo’s stomach began to churn, but he pulled the door open and looked inside.

The kitchen had been thoroughly ransacked. Broken crockery lay everywhere. Doors had been ripped off cupboards. Bags of flour had been slashed open, strings of onions and bunches of herbs hacked down from the rafters. A yellow sludge of olive oil surrounded a smashed amphora. There was no sign of life, so Carbo took a step inside. Seeing the telltale crimson of blood on the tiled floor, he stiffened. He tiptoed further, finding an old man sprawled in the kitchen doorway. The slave — for that’s what he looked like — had been nearly decapitated. His head lay at a crazy, unnatural angle to his body. Carbo had never seen so much blood around one man. He must have bled out.

A woman’s scream transfixed him to the spot. It was followed by another shriek of distress, also female, and then a burst of loud, male laughter. ‘Let’s fuck them here in the courtyard,’ roared a voice.

‘Good idea,’ agreed another.

‘I’m first,’ said a third, commanding voice. ‘I’m not screwing either of these bitches after you filth. My cock would probably drop off with what I’d catch.’

There were a few nervous titters, but no one argued.

Crixus! What’s he doing here? Carbo crept back towards the door. He had nearly reached it when the first woman cried out again. ‘No! Please! No!’

Chloris? In all the gods’ names, how? Why? Carbo reeled with the shock of it. Her begging began again, and any doubt in his mind vanished. It was definitely her. Oh gods, what can I do? If I go out there, Crixus will kill me. He had to do something, however, or he’d never be able to live with the shame.

Gritting his teeth, he turned around. There was no way of getting around the old man without stepping in his blood. Carbo hesitated for a moment before dipping the fingers of his left hand in the sticky fluid, and smearing them all over his face. To have any chance of facing down Crixus, he needed to look as if he’d just slaughtered half the town on his own.

Clutching his sword with whitened knuckles, he stepped out into the courtyard. Like the garden, it was full of fruit trees, but a fountain, ornamental shrubs and Greek statues of the gods also served to decorate the space. It reminded Carbo of his family home. Through the vegetation, he spied Crixus and two other men with long hair about twenty paces away. At their feet, he could see the lower halves of two naked women. Chloris, and someone else. The heavily muscled trio were clad in mail shirts, and bloody swords dangled from their hands. They were all Gauls. Crixus would have his own countrymen with him. Carbo’s courage began ebbing away. He felt as Iolaus, Hercules’ nephew, might have felt if he’d been asked to tackle the Hydra on his own. How to play this? Threatening them won’t work. He was racking his brains for an idea when events took on a life of their own.

‘We’ve got company,’ one of the men shouted, dropping into a fighting crouch.

The others spun around, snarling with anger.

‘It’s all right. I’m one of you!’ Carbo did his best to swagger up to the trio.

‘Trying to distract me from my fuck?’ shouted Crixus. His heavy brows lowered, and then he sneered. ‘Well, well, well. It’s Spartacus’ little Roman arse wipe. You look to have killed someone at least. What are you doing sneaking around here?’

‘Looking for valuables, same as everyone,’ Carbo lied.

‘Well, you’ll find sod all here. The family savings are ours. They were under a flagstone in the atrium.’ Crixus jerked his head at the two women. ‘These two pretty bitches were hiding in a cupboard in one of the bedrooms. Finding them was a real bonus. The gods left the best for us until last, eh?’ He rubbed his crotch and his men sniggered.

Carbo took another step forward, as if to appreciate the women’s bodies. Is it really Chloris? His heart clenched with horror. It was. There was no mistaking her delicately boned face and the dimple on her left cheek, both now streaked with tears. Or her scars. Seeing Carbo’s blood-covered features, she screamed.

‘She doesn’t like you,’ said Crixus with a cruel chuckle. ‘Seeing as I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you have her anyway — after we’ve finished. How does that sound?’

‘Good, thank you.’ Carbo feigned sudden surprise. ‘Gods!’ He kicked Chloris with his sandal. ‘Chloris, is that you?’

She didn’t reply, so Carbo kicked her harder. ‘Answer me!’

‘Y-yes.’ There was still no trace of recognition in her terrified eyes.

‘Ha! I was right.’ He threw the Gauls a broad smile. ‘Imagine that.’

A sudden scowl creased Crixus’ face. ‘The useless whore was crying about being one of us. I thought she was lying.’

Carbo shoved the words out of his mouth before his fear made him swallow them down forever. ‘She wasn’t. Chloris is my woman.’ At the edge of his vision, he was aware of her reaching out an entreating hand. ‘The silly cow must have wandered into town after us. Let me take her. I’ll find you a replacement. Or two of them! Better-looking ones too.’

Crixus’ right fist bunched, and he jabbed his gladius at Carbo’s face, forcing him to take a step backwards. ‘Cheeky little bastard! Do you really think you can take a piece of cunny from me that easily? I don’t give a shit whether she’s yours or not.’

Carbo flushed deep red. ‘I-’

‘Piss off!’ Crixus glanced down at Chloris. ‘So you belong to this shitbag, eh? I must remember to cut your throat when we’re done.’

‘No!’ roared Carbo. He half drew his blade.

The point of Crixus’ sword swung back to prick him under the chin. ‘You’re testing my patience, Roman. Want to die right now?’

If I die, Chloris does too. ‘No.’

‘You have some brains then. I’m going to count to three. If you’re still here when I finish, I’m going to let my friends here carve you up. One-’

Carbo shot Chloris what he hoped was an encouraging look, before he turned and fled. As he ran, his ears rang with the Gauls’ mocking laughter. He expected Chloris to call out, begging him not to leave her, but she didn’t.

That hurt far more.

Carbo hurdled the corpse in the kitchen doorway with a single leap. Throwing open the door, he sprinted into the garden. He was vaguely aware of the girl emerging from the shrine, her mouth opening in a question. ‘Get back under there!’ he hissed. ‘The bastards have no reason to come outside.’

‘Where are you going?’ she wailed.

‘To get help.’ Trying not to think about how he was leaving a defenceless child, Carbo ran for the back gate.

Spartacus. He had to find Spartacus.

If he didn’t succeed, and fast, Chloris would be dead.

The period that followed was the longest of Carbo’s entire life. Never had he had a task more urgent, and never had he been so foiled at every turn. On every street, he found nothing but death, destruction and the men who delivered it. There was no sign of Spartacus anywhere. Carbo struggled even to recognise many of the armed men he came across. Fortunately for him, the opposite did not apply, and he received little in the way of open aggression. They even answered his demands for their leader. Carbo didn’t know why, but the killing seemed to have eased, and with it the blood lust. Now the slaves and gladiators were in search of wine, food and women — not necessarily in that order.

Men sat on huge amphorae, bending to guzzle the wine that poured unchecked on to the stony ground. They passed around joints of meat, tearing off chunks with their teeth. Lumps were sliced from round wheels of cheese with knives still covered in blood. By some soldiers’ feet, Carbo saw open-necked leather bags full of coins. All that he expected. What surprised him, and nearly unnerved him, were the women’s screams. They shredded the air in a dreadful chorus of terror and pain. Everywhere he looked, Carbo saw women being raped. Usually it was by men, lots of them, but sometimes the violations were even worse. How anyone could shove a spear or a sword blade inside a living person, Carbo had no idea. It wasn’t long before the remains of his meagre breakfast came up. Mesmerised, dazed by the violence, he wandered from house to temple, shop to stable in search of Spartacus.

When he found him, it was by complete chance. Glancing around, he found one of the Scythians glowering at him from the doorway of a nondescript house. ‘Have you seen Spartacus?’

‘He’s inside,’ came the growled reply. ‘Why?’

Carbo was already shoving past, his desperation greater than his fear of Atheas. ‘Where is he?’

‘In office… off courtyard.’

Carbo broke into a trot. He skidded across the tablinum, catching sight of several imperious death masks of the owners’ ancestors before he plunged into the spacious central square. Spartacus was slouched on a stone bench, surrounded by piles of rolled parchment. Taxacis was sitting on the ground nearby, drinking wine from a delicate glass flute. Both men looked up as Carbo pounded over. Taxacis scowled. ‘By the Rider, what happened to you?’ asked Spartacus.

Carbo rubbed absently at the blood caking his face. ‘It’s not mine.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Spartacus cocked his head, his eyes as inquisitive as a bird’s. ‘You look scared. What is it?’

Carbo told his tale in a gabble of words, scarcely stopping to breathe.

Spartacus leaped to his feet, silently cursing this bad fortune. To avoid trouble with Crixus, he could have — should have — refused to do a thing. After all Carbo’s loyalty, however, that would seem the ultimate betrayal. Crixus was in the wrong, plain and simple. The damn hothead won’t see it that way of course. Would it do any harm to intervene? Spartacus grimaced. We shall soon see. ‘Let’s hurry, or it will be too late.’

Carbo felt as if a massive ball of lead had just filled his belly. It probably is already.

‘Taxacis! Atheas!’ Spartacus turned to Carbo. ‘Which way?’

Numbly, he headed for the door. The three men followed.

Let her be alive still, Dionysus. Please. Her companion and the girl too.

It didn’t take them long to reach the house. Carbo made to enter, but Spartacus pulled him back. ‘Let us go first.’

Resentfully, Carbo stood aside.

‘Where are they?’

‘In the courtyard.’

‘And there are three of them?’

‘That’s all I saw.’

Spartacus’ sica came thrumming out of its scabbard. The long, curved blade was covered in telltale, dark red stains. Whatever many others have done, I have killed no women today. He glanced at the Scythians, who were fingering their weapons. ‘I want no bloodshed unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

They grinned evilly at him.

‘Come on.’ Spartacus took a careful step into the atrium, then another. The Scythians went next, cat-soft on their feet. Carbo was last. He crossed the threshold, seeing for the first time an image of a snarling black dog on the mosaic floor. It was most lifelike. A chain round its neck was all that held it back from springing up at Carbo. Under it were the words ‘ Cave Canem ’. Beware of the dog, he thought warily. I didn’t hear it when I was in the courtyard. Why not?

The reason became clear half a dozen paces further on. The body of a large black dog filled the hallway. A snarl still twisted its lips, but its eyes had the glassy look that only death can bring. Its body was covered in hack wounds, and purple strings of intestine had slithered out of its belly. They lay in the creature’s blood like fresh sausages in a red wine stew. ‘It wasn’t much of a match for Crixus,’ whispered Spartacus. ‘Not much is.’

New fear clawed at Carbo. He couldn’t hear a sound. Had they come too late?

The low moan — a woman’s — that reached his ears a moment later had never been more welcome. The sound was accompanied by a man’s loud grunting. Let Chloris be alive.

Spartacus made a quick gesture. At once, one Scythian went to stand at his left shoulder, the other to his right. Sweating profusely, Carbo took up the rear. Another signal, and they sped into the tablinum. Moving around the impluvium, the pool that collected rainwater from the roof overhead, they came to the doors that opened on to the courtyard.

Dreading what he would see, Carbo peered over Spartacus’ shoulder. Only one Gaul was on his feet. He was idly picking his nails with a dagger and watching Crixus and the third man pound away at the two women. Carbo wiped away the tears of fury that sprang to his eyes. This was no time for weakness.

Spartacus’ lips framed the word ‘Perfect’ at each of them. Then his left hand chopped forward in a clear command to move. He and the Scythians darted forward like arrows released from hunters’ bows. Carbo scrambled to keep up.

They silently covered the twenty strides in perhaps four heartbeats. By the time the Gaul who was standing realised anything was wrong, he had Atheas’ sword tickling his neck. He dropped his dagger with a soft clunk into a flower bed. Spartacus lifted a finger to his lips, and the frightened warrior nodded. Crixus and his companion were oblivious, still thrusting into their victims with wild abandon. Unsurprisingly, the women had their eyes closed. Chloris had a fist in her mouth, and was biting down on it.

Carbo’s rage began to consume him utterly. It was no longer just about rescuing Chloris. He wanted to kill the Gauls too. That’s why Spartacus put me at the back, he realised. He knew how I’d react.

‘Crixus!’ shouted Spartacus.

The big Gaul’s head turned. Shock twisted his features. Cursing, he pulled out of Chloris’ companion and clambered to his feet. His friend hurried to do the same. Both men had left their mail shirts on, but they were naked from the waist down. Carbo could see blood on their pricks, and now his fury boiled over. ‘You fucking animals!’ he screamed. He tried to shove past Spartacus, but the Thracian’s iron-hard arm blocked his way.

‘I thought you’d go running to your master. Damn coward,’ growled Crixus at Carbo. He eyeballed Spartacus. Unlike his comrades, there was no fear in his face. He had the sense not to reach for a weapon, however. ‘What business have you here?’

‘Carbo asked me to come,’ said Spartacus. ‘One of these is his woman.’

‘I doubt he’ll want her any longer,’ said Crixus, leering. ‘She’s got my seed and Lugurix’s in her already. Segomaros was giving her a good pounding too.’ The man beside him smiled, and Carbo strained furiously, uselessly, at Spartacus’ arm.

‘That’s as maybe,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘But it ends here. The girl is coming with us. So is the other one.’

‘I am one of the leaders of this whole damn rebellion,’ Crixus thundered, the veins on his neck bulging. ‘I can do what I like.’

‘Not here, you can’t. Chloris has been Carbo’s woman since Amatokos was killed. You know that.’

Crixus took a step towards Spartacus. ‘What are you going to do — kill me if I try to stop you?’

‘If I have to, yes,’ came the calm reply. Spartacus’ sica hung by his side, but Carbo knew that if Crixus so much as moved towards his sword, which lay five paces away, he’d be a dead man. The others would meet the same fate at the Scythians’ hands.

The Gauls realised the same thing.

Crixus stared at Spartacus with obvious loathing for a moment before grunting, ‘As you wish. I wouldn’t want to blunt my blade on the bitches anyway.’ He looked to his men. ‘After all that rutting, I have a raging thirst on me. Let’s find some wine, if it hasn’t all been drunk by now.’ Chuckling, he reached for his licium.

With an effort, Chloris sat up. Wanting to help her, Carbo pushed against Spartacus’ arm. ‘Wait,’ the Thracian hissed. ‘Let them leave first.’

Grudgingly, Carbo obeyed. He marked the faces of Crixus’ companions. Gods help me, I’ll kill you both if I ever get a chance. Crixus too.

No one could have predicted what happened next.

Swaying, Chloris got to her feet.

Carbo’s heart ached to see what had happened to her. Even with cuts to her face and with blood running down her thighs, she was still beautiful.

Chloris staggered forward a step, and her fingers grazed the plants that decorated the bed beside her. Then, suddenly, she was gripping a dagger. Segomaros, who was nearest to her, was busy shoving a leg into his undergarment. He didn’t see Chloris rush forward. Too late, he felt the blade ramming through his mail and into the flesh of his back. An unearthly scream tore free of his lips, and he staggered with the force of her blow. Snarling like a dog, Chloris stabbed him several more times, punching through his armour with ease. With a loud groan, Segomaros sank to his knees. ‘The bitch has killed me, Crixus,’ he said in surprise, before falling on to his face. He kicked once or twice and was still.

A heartbeat later, Chloris toppled on top of him in a dead faint.

‘You whore!’ roared Crixus, scooping up his sword. ‘I’ll kill you!’

‘With me, Taxacis!’ Spartacus sprang forward, sica at the ready.

The Scythian bounded to his side. So did Carbo. Together, they stood between Crixus and Chloris. Off to one side, Atheas threatened Lugurix.

‘Get out of my fucking way!’ shouted Crixus.

‘Leave now,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘You’re not having her.’

Crixus’ face went purple with fury. ‘The life of a stinking slave is worth more than one of my warriors?’

‘On this occasion, yes.’

‘Can the bitch fight, as Segomaros could?’

‘No.’

‘What damn use is she then? I demand her life! It’s no less than she deserves for stabbing a man in the back.’

‘A man who had just raped her,’ said Spartacus acidly.

‘I want her dead regardless.’

‘Carbo wishes her to live.’

‘Who cares about him? He’s a filthy Roman! This is about what I want,’ bellowed Crixus.

‘Carbo is one of my men. He’s loyal too, which is far more than I can say for you.’

‘So that’s how it is.’ Crixus’ slit eyes were like two piss holes in the snow.

‘That’s right,’ said Spartacus coldly. It had to come out sooner or later.

Crixus hawked and spat at Spartacus’ feet. ‘We’re not wanted here, Lugurix,’ he growled. ‘Let’s go.’

Silence reigned as Crixus and Lugurix withdrew to the doors of the tablinum.

‘This isn’t over by a long shot, Spartacus! I won’t forget whom you favour over me,’ the huge Gaul shouted. ‘That whore should watch her back from now on. Your catamite better be on his guard too.’

It was only when Crixus was gone that Carbo realised he’d been holding his breath. Dropping his sword, he ran to where Chloris lay. He rolled her over gently. ‘Chloris? You’re safe now. Can you hear me? It’s me, Carbo.’

She moaned, and her eyelids fluttered. ‘You came back. Thank you.’

‘Of course I did.’

‘I’m very tired. I think I’ll sleep now.’ Her eyes closed.

‘I’ll find you a bed,’ said Carbo with new determination. His gaze scanned the rooms that surrounded the courtyard. Then he remembered Spartacus. Red-faced with embarrassment, he spun around. ‘I cannot thank you enough. You saved her life.’

‘I’m glad we came in time. Do you understand why I wouldn’t let you kill Crixus?’

‘Because he leads too many men. You need him still.’

‘That’s right. For the moment, I need him, the same way I need Castus and Gannicus and their men.’ A wry smile crooked his lips. ‘Those two are a trifle easier to keep in line, however.’

‘They are.’ Curse Crixus to Hades and beyond, thought Carbo.

‘Fortunately, the big bastard needs me too. It suits him to stay.’ Spartacus glanced around the courtyard. ‘You can manage now? I’ll leave Atheas to help.’ And to protect you, was the unspoken meaning. ‘Ariadne will come as soon as I can find her.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ It was a dangerous game that Spartacus had played, Carbo realised, watching him leave. Gratitude filled him that the Thracian should go so far for him. While Atheas made the house secure, Carbo went in search of the girl. She could show him where the best bedroom and the baths were. He hoped too that Ariadne would arrive quickly. Chloris needed all the care that he could get for her.

Spartacus’ mood as he walked away from the house was a good deal darker than Carbo’s. For all his menaces, Crixus had not threatened to leave. Yet.

But the cocksucker will. I’d wager my life on it.

What he somehow had to do, thought Spartacus grimly, was bind Castus and Gannicus to him. So that when the split came, they would stay with him.

Carbo was careful to cover up the dead bodies of the girl’s father and brother before she saw them. He was relieved that giving her things to do seemed to take her mind off what had happened. She hurried to and fro, fetching water from the well, tearing strips of cloth into bandages and helping the second woman to a bedroom. The same could not be said of Chloris. She smiled vacantly at Carbo as he carried her into another room but the moment he laid her down on the bed, she began to sob again. ‘It hurts. It hurts so much.’

Carbo glanced down and had to bite back a curse. There were fresh scarlet stains below the waist of her dress. She was still bleeding. Feeling totally helpless, he sat on the edge of the bed, stroking back the strands of hair that had fallen over her face. ‘Hold on. Ariadne will be here soon. She’ll give you something for the pain.’ She’ll know what to do.

Her lips twitched, but instead of a smile, she grimaced.

Aesculapius, please help her, Carbo begged silently. He didn’t normally pray to the god of health, but this was no ordinary occasion.

He tried to get Chloris to drink some wine, but she wouldn’t. Even persuading her to swallow a mouthful of water was an effort. Much of the time, she seemed unaware of his presence. He was grateful, therefore, that when he stopped caressing her head, her eyelids opened. ‘That’s nice. Please continue.’

‘Of course.’ His throat closed with emotion as he obeyed her request. ‘What were you doing here, Chloris?’

Shame crept across her face.

He waited.

‘I was looking for money. We both were.’

‘Why? I’d give you money if you wanted it.’

Silence.

The realisation hit Carbo a moment later, making him feel numb. ‘It was so you could run away, wasn’t it? Chloris?’

Without opening her eyes, she nodded.

‘You could have said,’ he muttered. ‘I’d have just given it to you.’

‘Really? I wanted to return to Greece.’

‘I wouldn’t have stopped you.’

‘I’m sorry. I misjudged you.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Tell me some stories, please. It will help me to forget the pain.’

Swallowing his grief, and his shock at her revelation, Carbo began. Wanting to lift Chloris’ spirits, he related every humorous episode he could think of. How he’d once fallen into a dungheap on the family farm. The time he had raided a beehive for honey and been pursued by the angry bees for a quarter of a mile, to the river. To save himself from being repeatedly, he’d had to drop his stolen prize and jump into the water. He even told her about when he’d been caught by Paccius spying on the female slaves as they dressed in the morning.

She smiled at that. ‘Boys will be boys. It’s not much to be ashamed of, especially after you’ve saved my life.’

‘I didn’t save you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Spartacus did.’

‘What were you going to do — take on three warriors? They’d have chopped you into little pieces. Where would I be if that had happened?’

Carbo didn’t answer. His heart swelled with a mixture of emotions as he stared down at her. Impulsively, he bent forward and planted a soft kiss on her waxen forehead. There was another little smile. He resumed stroking her hair, and studying her face. The face that he’d learned to treasure. He cared for her still, even if she’d wanted to leave him.

Carbo was in the same position when Ariadne arrived. Startled out of his reverie, Carbo stood up. ‘You came.’

‘Of course. As soon as Spartacus found me.’ Ariadne’s gaze moved down, taking in the huge red stain on Chloris’ dress. There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Gods above. She was raped, I presume?’

‘Yes. By Crixus and two of his men,’ he hissed.

‘The filthy dogs. How long since?’

‘I–I don’t know.’

‘Did she lose much blood at the time?’ Ariadne placed the fingers of one hand on Chloris’ left wrist. Her lips moved silently as she counted the thready pulse.

Catching Ariadne’s tone of urgency, Carbo threw his mind back to the courtyard. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Frowning, Ariadne began peeling the sodden fabric of Chloris’ dress upwards.

Carbo averted his gaze. His eyes shot back, however, when Ariadne gave a tiny gasp. ‘What is it?’

‘This.’ Ariadne pointed.

Carbo forced himself to look. Between Chloris’ thighs, there was a black-red gelatinous clot. It was as big as his two fists placed together. The bedding underneath her was also saturated in blood. Dread filled him. ‘What does it mean?’

Ariadne’s face was full of sorrow. ‘She’s lost too much blood,’ she murmured. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘She’s going to die?’

‘She is very near death already,’ said Ariadne quietly, pulling down Chloris’ clothing.

Carbo regarded Chloris’ features, which were even paler than before. ‘No,’ he whispered, placing a finger under her nostril. It was several moments before he felt the faintest movement of air. A sick feeling filled his belly and he knew that Ariadne was right. Who could lose that much blood and survive? Waves of bitterness bathed his heart. ‘How can the gods be so cruel?’

‘It is very hard, I know.’

Carbo’s shoulders hunched. ‘How long does she have?’

Ariadne placed her lips against his ear. ‘She’ll probably have slipped away by sunset. I’m sorry.’

Carbo thanked Ariadne, who nodded and withdrew. The instant that he was alone again with Chloris, he was seized by a savage, black despair. During the previous few months, she had become increasingly important to him. In the blink of an eye, all his happiness had been turned to ash. An image of Crixus and his grinning cronies filled Carbo’s mind. He shoved it away. Fuck them. What time I have left with Chloris is too precious.

He began stroking her hair again. Not knowing what else to do, he spoke of their time together, and of the magic that he’d felt being with her. How he would treasure the memories forever. Then he began to speak of Athens, mentioning every little detail that she’d ever told him. The rich, tree-lined quarter, within view of the magnificent Parthenon, where she’d grown up. The noise each dawn of the priests at their prayers. Chloris playing with Alexander, her younger brother. The regular trips she’d made into the city, to help the kitchen slaves buy provisions, and with her mother to visit their relations. Watching the oiled athletes in the nearby gymnasium wrestling, sprinting and throwing the discus.

Carbo talked and talked, filling the air with tender words. Finally, when his throat was so dry that he could no longer continue, he fell silent. He studied Chloris’ face. It had relaxed, and he realised that he hadn’t seen her breathe for a long time. She’s dead, he thought calmly. In a way, he was relieved. At least her end had been peaceful. Carbo gave her a last kiss on the lips, and then, lifting a clean sheet from the floor, he covered her body.

A cold fury consumed him. All he wanted to do now was murder Crixus and Lugurix. It was a Herculean task to set himself. Even if he managed to slay Lugurix, the big Gaulish leader was an entirely different proposition. Carbo knew that, in reality, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He didn’t care. Death was preferable to the pain he was currently in. Of course it wasn’t that simple. Few people would care if Lugurix died but the entire rebellion would be jeopardised if, by some crazy intervention of the gods, he did succeed in killing Crixus. Could he do that to Spartacus?

Carbo wasn’t sure.

Spartacus would have preferred to have slept in their camp, but the still-fluid situation in Forum Annii had persuaded him to spend the night in the town. By being present, he could prevent the worst atrocities from happening. At least, that was the theory. In reality, he couldn’t be everywhere at once, but his presence in the central forum, where thousands of the slaves had gathered to celebrate, would be a moderating one. And that, he thought, surveying the general mayhem, could only be a good thing.

Huge fires burned all around him, fuelled by an endless supply of furniture from the surrounding houses. Dozens of sheep and cattle had been dragged from their pens and slaughtered on the spot, hacked into pieces of meat that could be skewered on lengths of wood and roasted over the flames. A number of musicians — men who had been freed during the attack? — played drums and lyres, reminding Spartacus of Thrace. The pounding rhythm had crowds of enthusiastic gladiators and slaves on their feet, dancing, swaying, stumbling from side to side. Guzzling down wine, they bellowed out songs at the tops of their voices. The differing tunes clashed to provide a jarring cacophony of sound, but they couldn’t conceal the animal noises of lust and pain coming through the darkness from every direction. Spartacus took a small swallow of wine. Much as he would have liked to blank out the dreadful sounds by drinking himself senseless, he would not do so. I need to stay alert. Rape is part of war, and war is what I am engaged in. I could not stop it all, even if I tried.

‘There you are,’ cried a voice.

‘Gannicus.’ Spartacus smiled as the moon-faced Gaul wove towards him. In one hand, he gripped a small amphora; in the other, a half-eaten hunk of meat. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.

‘Yes, by Belenus! This is far better than freezing my arse off in a tent in the middle of nowhere.’ Gannicus belched. ‘You?’

‘It’s good to sit by a fire and drink some wine,’ replied Spartacus evasively.

Gannicus didn’t notice. He slumped down beside Spartacus with a great sigh. ‘The men needed this. Too much marching in the mountains with no damn food and they’d have started deserting, eh?’

‘True enough,’ admitted Spartacus ruefully.

Gannicus gave him a hard nudge. ‘But now even more will come flocking to join us!’

‘Which means we have to keep moving. More men means that more provisions will be needed.’

‘Where to? South again?’

‘Yes. The coastline along the Ionian Sea is said to be incredibly fertile. It has plentiful small towns for us to attack. The area was good enough for Hannibal for a decade or more, so it should be fine for us.’

‘Sounds excellent.’ Tearing off a piece of meat, Gannicus sat chewing contentedly.

‘I thought I’d find you two together,’ boomed Castus’ voice from the shadows. He emerged into the light, adjusting his belt.

Dirty bastard. I know what you’ve been doing. ‘Welcome!’ said Spartacus.

Wordlessly, Gannicus held out his amphora. Castus held it up to his mouth, letting the ruby liquid within pour down his throat. Much of it spilled over his face and neck, but he didn’t stop until he’d downed a good amount. ‘Gods, that’s tasty,’he declared, wiping droplets from his moustache. ‘I have a thirst on me tonight like I’ve never known.’

‘Find your own then,’ growled Gannicus, reaching out a meaty hand. ‘You’re not finishing mine.’

With a filthy look, Castus passed it back.

‘Here.’ Spartacus handed over his vessel.

Castus took it with a grin.

‘Where do you think Varinius is?’ asked Gannicus out of the blue.

Castus’ face soured. ‘Who cares? He’s nowhere near here.’

‘He’ll be looking for us. Be sure of that,’ said Spartacus.

The Gauls sucked on the bitter marrow of that, pleasing Spartacus. They need to know that the Romans won’t ever forget about us.

‘Another secret meeting without me? This is becoming a habit,’ sneered Crixus, swaggering in from a side street.

Castus and Gannicus bellowed with laughter. ‘Come and have a drink.’

Grumbling, and throwing sour looks at Spartacus, Crixus approached. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you preferred to meet without me.’

Spartacus wanted to smash his amphora over the big Gaul’s head, but he held his peace.

‘Shut up!’ cried Castus. ‘You’re the one who avoids our company.’

‘Aye,’ growled Crixus. ‘Well, you know the reason for that.’

‘Peace,’ said Gannicus, but Crixus was having none of it.

‘Not only does he tell us what to do all the time, but he interferes in business that isn’t his. Isn’t that right, Thracian?’

Spartacus felt a throbbing anger in his chest. He noted that Crixus’ tone was more belligerent than ever. The prick hasn’t forgotten what happened earlier. This is no time to be sitting. He stood carefully, pretending to smooth his tunic down. ‘We all agree on our tactics, and where we march. Don’t we?’ Gannicus nodded, Castus grimaced, and Crixus spat with contempt. As I expected. ‘You talk of business that isn’t mine. Care to explain?’

‘You know exactly what I mean!’

‘But the others don’t.’

Crixus grunted angrily. ‘Me and a pair of my lads were searching a house earlier, and we chanced upon two fine bits of stuff. Both slave girls. We were just starting to have fun with them when that little sewer rat arrived — what’s his name?’

‘You know what he’s called,’ said Spartacus icily.

‘ Carbo. Carbo burst in, telling some bullshit story about how one of the whores was his woman. I told him to piss off, so he scuttled off and came back with his master. Spartacus. With his two hunting dogs, the Scythians, in tow. They caught us hard at it, with our trousers down, and forced us to back off the women.’ Crixus glared as Castus chuckled. ‘Next thing, Carbo’s bitch somehow picked up Segomaros’ knife. She stabbed him to death with it! I wanted vengeance, but Spartacus was having none of it. This, when I’m one of the fucking leaders of the whole damn army!’

Castus’ and Gannicus’ expressions soured. ‘Is this true?’ demanded Castus.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Spartacus calmly. ‘Except Carbo wasn’t telling lies. One of the girls was his woman. Chloris, her name was. She used to be Amatokos’ lover, before he was killed. Since then, she’d been with Carbo. Which meant, after Carbo asked for help, that it was very much my business.’ He eyed them all. Crixus was the only one to look defiant. Prick.

Gannicus frowned. ‘Her name was Chloris?’

‘Yes. She’s dead. The poor creature bled to death after what they’d done to her.’

Crixus laughed, and Spartacus felt his anger go white-hot.

Gannicus blinked. ‘Well, that’s an end to it, surely? The bitch who killed your man is dead. Stop thinking about it. Have another drink,’ he said bluffly, offering Crixus his amphora.

The big Gaul dashed it out of his hand. ‘So what if the whore did belong to Carbo? I had every right to fuck her if I wanted to! Carbo is nothing. A speck of shit on the sole of my sandal!’

‘Carbo is my man, and he’s loyal.’

‘Which is more than you can say for me,’ hissed Crixus.

‘That’s right,’ said Spartacus.

‘Screw you!’ roared Crixus, tugging his sword from its scabbard.

Discarding his wine, Spartacus drew his sica. And so it comes to this, he thought. Fine. The whoreson has it coming to him. He’s going to split from the army anyway.

The two others scrambled out of the way. ‘There’s no need for this,’ cried Gannicus.

‘Piss off!’ shouted Crixus, thrusting his blade at Spartacus.

Spartacus parried the blow. The Gaul spun around, carried by the force of his swing and Spartacus brought his sword back down. His intent was to slice open the back of Crixus’ sword arm, but the sica met only thin air.

‘Think you can hit me with something that simple?’ Crixus danced away, out of range. Instantly, he was on the offensive again, his gladius probing back and forth like the tongue of a metal snake. They traded several massive blows, and Spartacus grew wary. The Gaul’s iron blade was thicker than his weapon, and if he wasn’t careful, the sica could shatter. If that happened, he’d be dead meat. He slid his feet backwards, forcing Crixus to pursue him.

‘Scared?’

‘Of you?’ retorted Spartacus contemptuously.

His needling worked. Crixus snarled with fury and darted forward, swinging his gladius overhead like a Gaulish longsword. If he’d had a shield to take the impact of Crixus’ attack, Spartacus would have risked it and tried to run him through the armpit, but without protection, he risked losing his head. He shuffled back a few more steps and Crixus followed, grinning with delight. ‘Ready to die?’

Spartacus’ answer was to pick up his amphora and hurl it underhand at Crixus. As the Gaul ducked, he was charging forward, hacking sideways with his sica. He grinned with satisfaction as the blade sliced open Crixus’ upper left arm.

‘Bastard!’ Dodging out of range, Crixus eyed the flesh wound with contempt. ‘Think that’s going to stop me?’

‘It’s just a start,’ Spartacus replied coldly.

‘Yes? Well, how about this?’ Moving surprisingly fast for a man of his size, Crixus thundered forward. Spartacus thrust his sica at him, and the Gaul smashed it out of the way. Rather than withdrawing, Crixus ploughed on, crashing into Spartacus and delivering an almighty headbutt. Only Spartacus’ lightning-fast reaction — turning his head — saved his nose from being split in two like a ripe plum. As it was, Crixus’ forehead smacked into his cheekbone, sending him reeling backwards. Then Crixus punched him in the side of the head, making his ears ring. The Gaul leered in triumph and raised his gladius. Great Rider, help me, thought Spartacus. The next blow won’t be from a fist, but a blade.

Blind inspiration struck him. He dragged the strings of spittle in his mouth together and spat the lot into Crixus’ face with all his might. ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted.

Shock and utter outrage twisted the Gaul’s features, and Spartacus thrust his sica at him, forcing him to parry rather than attack. Regaining the initiative, Spartacus launched a savage offensive. It was time to kill the bastard. My blade won’t break. The Rider won’t let it.

‘One. Two. Three!’ roared Gannicus. Together, he and Castus hurled the contents of two amphorae over Spartacus and Crixus.

Spluttering with indignation, the pair separated. ‘What in the name of Hades is that for?’ roared Crixus.

Both Gauls advanced, their swords at the ready. ‘This has gone on long enough,’ said Gannicus. ‘You’re going to kill each other.’

‘I’m going to fucking kill him, you mean!’ snarled Crixus.

Spartacus barked a scornful laugh. ‘In your dreams.’

‘Stop this bullshit!’ shouted Castus. ‘If you start again, we’ll stab both of you in the back.’

Cold reason overtook Spartacus, for which he was grateful. The Rider is at work here. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Because you’re both too damn valuable to lose,’ said Gannicus. ‘The army needs you. Not one slain, and the other so badly injured he can’t fight. And that’s what would probably happen if we left you to it.’

Crixus’ eyes narrowed.

Gannicus is right, thought Spartacus. And only the gods know which of us would be the one lying dead on the ground by the end of it.

‘Have a drink, and forget about it!’ Castus produced another amphora and tossed it at Crixus. The big Gaul caught it one-handed. He looked at it for a moment, and Spartacus prepared to duck. Instead of throwing it, however, Crixus laughed. He eyed Spartacus balefully. ‘We can do this another time, eh?’ Throwing back several mouthfuls, he proffered the amphora.

Castus and Gannicus gave each other a relieved look.

Gauls! They’re fucking crazy. Without dropping his guard, Spartacus took the vessel and drank. ‘To finding Varinius, and wiping him off the face of the earth!’ he cried.

Remarkably, even Crixus joined in the roar of approval that followed.

Yet everyone who had witnessed the confrontation knew that the matter had not been settled.

Merely postponed.