The Gladiator

Chapter II

Ariadne’s mood was darkening. The usual ritual of burning incense and meditation had brought her nothing but a sequence of fractured, distressing images. Most of them featured Kotys, naked on a bed. Others also involved Polles, which revolted her. The more appealing — and dangerous — ones were those in which she defended herself against the king with a knife, or her snake. What use is there in killing him? she wondered hopelessly. I’d have to flee the settlement to avoid being killed by his bodyguards. Where would I go then? Kabyle? Ariadne could think of nowhere else, but she dismissed the notion out of hand. The priests in the city would not shelter a regicide. She was trapped. Alone, with no one to help her.

Cloaked by misery, she shut up the temple and headed for her hut. The sky was full of clouds threatening snow, and she wanted to gain the safety of her door before it started falling heavily. The settlement wasn’t dangerous for most, but Kotys could easily have set some of his warriors to lie in wait for her. As she hurried towards the alleyway that led home, Ariadne saw a man entering by the main gate. She’d never seen him before, but his slow, self-assured carriage attracted her attention. He was of average height, with short brown hair, and wearing a mail shirt and closely fitting red trousers. A Roman soldier’s belt circled his waist; from it hung a sheathed sica and dagger. The bronze helmet he was holding had a forward curving crest, and the lame white stallion following him was also clearly Thracian.

He called out a low greeting to a bunch of warriors who were standing nearby. Ariadne recognised three of them: Getas, Seuthes and Medokos. Hearing the other’s voice, Getas turned his head. He frowned, and then with delighted looks, he and his companions descended on the newcomer.

So that’s the traveller whom Berisades met, thought Ariadne. He must be well liked if they have not forgotten him in his absence. She kept walking. Reaching home was more important than staring at strangers. Perhaps Dionysus would visit her that night. Give her some hope. She consoled herself with that idea. A moment later, she heard a characteristic, braying laugh coming from inside the alleyway. Recognising Polles by the sound, Ariadne reacted without thinking. She quickly angled away from the alley’s entrance to approach it from the side. Poking her head around the corner, she saw the outline of at least three men a short distance inside. Their slouching posture was at direct odds with the naked weapons in their hands. Feeling very weary, Ariadne sagged against the house’s cold wattle and daub. Kotys was being true to his word. The bodyguards were there to abduct her. Curse him! Creeping around them to reach her hut by another route would merely delay the inevitable. In that instant, the helplessness that Ariadne had felt when her father was about to assault her sexually returned. It sat in her belly as if it had never been absent, an acid pool of nausea and self-loathing.

Her indecision seemed to last an eternity, but in reality was no more than a few heartbeats. Unsure of where to go, Ariadne stumbled across the central space. It was then that she saw a second party of warriors heading towards her from the temple. Ducking her head in a pathetic attempt not to be seen, she changed direction. There was only one way to go. To the main gate. It didn’t matter that it was bitterly cold, snowing, or that it was dangerous beyond the village walls. She had to get away from Kotys, and it didn’t matter how.

‘Priestess!’ a voice called behind her.

A sob escaped Ariadne’s lips, and she quickened her pace. All she had to do was reach the entrance. The guards outside wouldn’t dare to stop her and the impending snowstorm would swallow her up as surely as the underworld. What she was doing was madness, but in that exact moment, Ariadne didn’t care. Death was better than experiencing again what she’d endured as a child. She glanced over her shoulder and was pleased to see that the warriors were too far away to prevent her from escaping. With few other people about, this one tiny victory would not be denied her.

Totally absorbed, Ariadne wasn’t looking where she was going. With a thump, she collided with someone. It was only the other’s strong arm that prevented her from falling flat on her back. She looked up to find a pair of amused grey eyes regarding her. It was the man who’d just arrived with the lame stallion. Ariadne blinked. This close, he was quite handsome.

‘My apologies. I don’t usually make it my business to knock over attractive women.’

‘N-no, it was my fault,’ she faltered.

Noticing the tattoos and red cloak which marked her station, he released his grip. ‘I’m sorry, priestess, I meant no disrespect. Why the hurry?’

‘I-’ Ariadne glanced back. The warriors were less than twenty paces away. ‘I have to go. Leave the village.’

‘In this weather, priestess?’ He looked alarmed. ‘You’ll catch your death. If not, the wolves will have you.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ muttered Ariadne, ‘but I’m going nonetheless.’ She made to move past.

He threw out his arm, stopping her. ‘What have you done?’ he asked, nodding his head at the approaching group.

‘Done? Nothing!’ She laughed bitterly and tried again to walk on, but his arm was immovable, like a bar of iron. Ariadne didn’t have the strength — or will — to push against it.

‘Something tells me that lot aren’t coming to discuss the weather. Who are they?’

‘Kotys’ men,’ she replied flatly.

‘Kotys?’ I haven’t thought of the prick for years, but now his name is falling from everyone’s lips.

‘The king.’

His lip curled. ‘The king. You’ve crossed him, I take it?’

‘Does refusing to go to his bed count as crossing him?’ she spat back. ‘If it does, then yes, that’s what I’ve done. Now let me go.’

He lowered his arm. ‘So they’re coming to take you to Kotys, but you won’t have it?’

‘Yes. I’ll die before I let that bastard rape me.’ Ariadne stared into his eyes, and was surprised by what she saw. As well as anger, there was admiration. And hate — but not for her.

‘Don’t move.’ Dropping the horse’s lead rope, he stepped in front of her.

‘What are you doing?’ she stammered.

‘Men might act like that in war, but not in peacetime, in my fucking village,’ he barked. ‘I thought I’d left all that behind me.’ I thought I could come home without discovering that my father had been murdered by a man he once called friend.

Ariadne watched, petrified, as the warriors arrived, four well-armed warriors with hawkish expressions and a purposeful manner. ‘Well met,’ called the first. ‘We’re in your debt for stopping that woman.’

‘I didn’t stop her,’ he replied harshly. ‘We collided and I prevented her from falling.’

‘It’s of no matter how you did it.’ Revealing rows of rotten teeth, the warrior’s leer was more snarl than smile. ‘She’d have escaped but for you. We’re grateful. Now step aside.’

‘Why? What’s she done?’

‘None of your damn business,’ growled the warrior.

‘She’s a priestess. Hardly a common criminal. Not the type of person to manhandle either, unless you want to anger a god. Don’t you agree?’ His voice was low but menacing.

The warrior blinked in surprise. ‘Look, friend, we’re just following orders. The king wants to see her. So do us a favour and piss off, eh?’

He looked back at Ariadne. ‘Do you want to go with these men?’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ she whispered, not quite believing her eyes and ears.

He didn’t acknowledge what she’d said. ‘Yes or no?’

Ariadne looked at the quartet of bodyguards and shuddered.

‘Well?’

‘No,’ she heard herself say. Instantly, guilt tore at her. Why have you involved him too?

He shrugged carelessly. ‘You heard. She’s not going.’

‘What’s your name, fool?’ hissed the lead warrior, raising his spear. ‘I like to know the name of a man before I kill him.’

He ignored the demand. Drawing his sword, he pointed it straight at the man’s face. ‘Ready to die? Because that’s what is going to happen next.’

Even in the poor light, it was possible to see the warrior turn pale. He glanced at his companions, who also looked far from happy.

‘Shall we get this over with?’ he snarled, taking a step towards them.

Ariadne couldn’t believe her eyes. The bodyguard’s confidence shrank like a bladder pricked with a knife. ‘We’ve got no quarrel with you,’ he mumbled.

‘Nor I with you, but I’m not about to see you seize a priestess without good explanation,’ he snapped, continuing to advance. ‘It was my understanding that we held such people in great veneration. That we didn’t treat them like runaway slaves.’

Lifting his spear point into the air, the warrior backed away. His companions did the same. ‘This isn’t going to end here,’ muttered the first man.

‘I’d be disappointed if it was.’ He watched as they vanished into the gloom.

‘I wish you hadn’t done that. You’ve as good as signed your own death warrant,’ Ariadne said coldly, disregarding the amazement she felt at the warriors’ about-turn.

‘A simple thank you would suffice,’ he replied in a mild voice.

‘I don’t want another’s death on my conscience!’ she said, colouring.

‘My fate is mine to decide, not yours,’ he growled. ‘What kind of a man would I be if I just let a group of thugs carry off a priestess?’ It was a rash move, all the time. Thank the Rider that none of them recognised me.

‘A wise one,’ she snapped.

‘Got quite the temper, haven’t you? Seeing as you don’t want my help, I’ll leave you to it. The gate’s still open.’ He picked up the lead rope and clicked his tongue at his horse. ‘Come on. Let’s get you stabling and some food. And better company, if we can find it.’

‘Wait,’ said Ariadne, hating her fear, which had resurged at the prospect of him leaving.

He raised an eyebrow, which made him even more attractive.

‘It was noble of you to intervene. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Was there anything else?’ He made to move off again.

‘The king’s men won’t leave it at that, you know. They act as they please.’

‘I can tell. But they’ll have to find me first. The settlement is a big place to search for one man.’ He nodded in farewell.

‘Stay for a moment,’ asked Ariadne. Walking out into the night now seemed utterly terrifying. So too did waiting for Kotys’ warriors, alone.

‘I was going to until you decided to be rude.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, her voice catching. ‘I didn’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.’

‘Your concern is endearing,’ he said in a gentler tone, ‘but let me worry about things like that.’

‘Very well.’ Ariadne felt embarrassed, but she continued regardless. ‘Please accompany me home. I have a small shed where you could stable your horse.’

‘Is it far?’ He gestured at the stallion. ‘As you’ve probably seen, he’s lame.’

‘It’s no more than a couple of hundred paces. Follow me.’ With her heart thumping in her chest, Ariadne led the way. By now, it was completely dark and the alleys had emptied of people. Only the occasional dog skittered by, giving them a wide berth. She caught him checking every shadow, and was relieved when he eventually relaxed a little.

Ariadne was also pleased to see no lurking shapes near her house. Polles and his men were still in the alleyway or, more likely, had returned with their cheated comrades to the king. Filling a bucket of water from the nearby well, she left him settling the horse in the lean-to. She hurried inside, noticing as she lit an oil lamp that her hands were shaking. Trying to regain her composure, she sat down on the three-legged stool. Had her situation improved in any way? In reality, she had just exchanged one set of dangers for another. He might be a fearsome warrior, but he couldn’t fight all of Kotys’ men and expect to win. Despite her pessimism, Ariadne could not deny the spark of pleasure that glowed in her heart. He had been under no obligation to step in. Most sane men would have turned the other way when they’d seen the king’s bodyguards. Instead, at the risk of his own life, he had saved her. Weirdly, Ariadne felt a trace of hope. He had to know the odds that they faced, yet he remained calm, even unperturbed. That meant he must have a plan.

She smiled as he entered, barring the door behind him. ‘Is your horse fed and watered?’

‘He is,’ he replied, looking satisfied.

‘You care for him greatly.’

‘I do. He’s been under me, or by my side, through more than five years of constant war.’

‘That’s a long time to be fighting.’

‘It is. That’s why I came home. To hang up my sword and settle down for a while. Instead, I’ve done the complete opposite.’ His lips twisted wryly. ‘To be honest, I’m not that surprised. The Rider has a habit of doing this to me. And he knows best.’

‘Nonetheless, I’m sorry,’ said Ariadne, feeling even worse.

‘We’ve covered this ground already,’ he said in a reproving voice. ‘It was my decision to intervene.’ My decision to enter the village, even when I was recognised.

‘It was,’ she acknowledged. Then, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Nor I yours,’ he replied, smiling.

‘Ariadne.’ She couldn’t stop her cheeks from burning as she spoke.

‘It’s an honour to meet you. I am Spartacus.’

She frowned. The name rang a bell in her head, but she didn’t know why. ‘How long have you been away exactly?’

‘Eight years, give or take. You’ve not been here that long.’

‘No. Six months.’

‘When did Kotys start bothering you?’

‘Practically from the first moment I got here. I’ve managed to fend him off thus far, but today, for whatever reason, he had had enough. Ostensibly, I was to dine with him, but it was just a facade. For him to-’

‘I can imagine,’ he interjected. ‘I knew that the whoreson was a murderer, but a rapist too? The world will be a better place when he’s gone.’ And if the Rider wills it, my blade will end his stinking life.

‘So the rumours are true then?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied bitterly. ‘When Rhesus, the last king died, Kotys had his son and heir slain. Sitalkes, my father, must have tried to intervene, because he was killed too.’

‘Your father, murdered?’ Ariadne’s heart went out to him. ‘How did you find this out?’

‘I met a boy tending stock not half a mile from the front gate. It was easy enough to persuade him to talk. I wasn’t sure whether to believe it all, but one of the guards was an old comrade of my father’s. He confirmed the story. So did the friends I spoke to briefly.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She reached out to touch his arm, but suddenly self-conscious, stopped herself.

His scowl deepened. ‘Not half as sorry as Kotys and Polles, whoever the fuck he is, will be soon.’

Ariadne’s breath caught in her chest. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m told that Kotys is very unpopular. That the majority of warriors hate his guts and only his bodyguards are truly loyal. There are what, a hundred of them or so?’

Still not believing what she was hearing, Ariadne nodded.

‘If I can persuade sixty or seventy men to follow me, we’ll take them.’

She saw the self-belief in his grey eyes, and her heart filled. Thank you, Dionysus! ‘This is what I’ve been praying for.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘You’ve also been plotting to overthrow a king?’

‘What of it?’ she retorted. ‘He’s nothing but a tyrant.’

‘Feisty, aren’t you?’ He gave her an approving look, and her stomach fluttered. ‘So you will help?’

‘In whatever way I can. I will consult the god, but I have no doubt that he would wish Kotys removed from power.’

‘Good. With your permission, I’ll tell the warriors exactly that.’

She started up in alarm. ‘You’re going?’

‘Not yet. I’ll stay until midnight or so. If Polles and his men haven’t appeared by then, they’re not going to before the morning. I’ll rest until then. It’s been a long day.’

Ariadne caught him looking at the cupboard where she kept her provisions. ‘I’m sorry. You must be hungry after your journey.’

‘I could eat.’

‘Let me fetch you something.’ Conscious of his eyes on her the whole time, Ariadne prepared a plate of bread and goats’ cheese. She added a spoonful of cold barley porridge from a blackened iron pot. ‘Apart from water, that’s all I have.’

‘It’s plenty,’ he said, reaching out with eager hands.

Ariadne crept to the door while he demolished the food. Placing her ear against the timbers in a number of places, she listened. Nothing, apart from the usual chorus of dogs barking. It was some relief. Not knowing what else to do, she found a spare blanket and tossed it to him. She saw his eyes move to her bed. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas. You can rest on the floor.’

‘Of course.’ He looked amused. ‘I expected no less.’

Discomfited by his confidence — was it smugness? — she lay down on her bed without undressing and pulled up the covers.

‘Sleep well.’ He moved around the room, blowing out all but one of the oil lamps. Laying the mantle by the door, he drew his sword and placed it alongside. Then, sitting with his back against the wall, he pulled his cloak tightly around himself and closed his eyes.

Almost at once, Ariadne found herself staring at him. The flickering of the lamp’s flame threw Spartacus’ regular features half into shadow, giving him a mysterious appearance. His hair was cut close to the scalp in the Roman military fashion. A faint scar ran off his straight nose on to his left cheek. A heavy growth of stubble covered his square, determined jaw. It was an attractive face, as she had noticed before. Hard, too, she thought, but she could see no cruelty there, no similarity to the likes of Polles or Kotys.

Was it possible that he had been sent by Dionysus? she wondered. It was tempting to think so. If he hadn’t appeared, she would currently be dying of exposure, or of injuries sustained from falling off one of the precipices that lined the road away from the village. She offered a prayer of thanks to her god. That done, Ariadne relaxed on to her bed. It was time to get what rest she could. Tomorrow was another day.

Ten steps away, Spartacus was silently communing with his own favourite deity, the Thracian rider god. He who shall not be named. I ask you to keep your shield and sword over us both. Let the warriors listen to me as I go among them. It was a heartfelt plea. For years, Spartacus’ life had been about nothing more than fighting, killing and learning Roman battle tactics. In the last two hours, things had changed more than he could have thought possible. His hopes of a warm homecoming had vanished. He was now seeking vengeance for his father’s murder. He was a potential regicide. Spartacus let out a long breath. Such was the way of the gods. Over the years, he’d learned to take the knocks that life delivered him, but this one was harder than most. As always, I bow to your will, Great Rider. He took a surreptitious look at Ariadne, and his fierce expression softened. Not everything that had happened since his return was to be regretted.

Ariadne woke from an arousing dream in which Spartacus had enveloped her in his arms. Shocked, she sat up, clutching her blanket to her chest. He was by the door, sheathing his sword. ‘Good sleep?’

‘I–I think so,’ she muttered, hating her crimson cheeks and racing pulse.

‘You’re beautiful.’

Startled, she glanced at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard. The best-looking woman I’ve ever seen in this village, if I may say so.’

‘You made a habit of comparing them, then?’ she asked, using sarcasm to cover her embarrassment.

‘Of course,’ he said, grinning. ‘Every man does.’

Disarmed by his honesty, and more pleased than she’d ever let on, Ariadne pointed at the door. ‘Did you hear something?’

‘No, nothing. It’s time for me to go.’

Reality came crashing back, and her stomach clenched into a painful knot. ‘I see. How will I know what has happened?’

‘You’ll hear the fighting. It will soon be obvious who won.’

Terror constricted Ariadne’s throat. She wanted to ask Spartacus not to leave, but she knew that would be futile. Everything about him now oozed grim determination. She let herself take strength from that. ‘The gods keep you safe.’

‘The Rider has been good to me all these years. I trust that he will continue to do so.’ He fixed her with his grey eyes, and smiled. ‘Afterwards, I would like to get to know you better.’

For a moment, Ariadne’s tongue wouldn’t move. ‘I–I would like that too,’ she managed.

‘If things go against me-’

‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered. Images of Kotys filled her head.

‘Nothing is certain,’ he warned. ‘If it comes to it, take my horse and go. Even though he’s lame, you’re light enough for him to carry. With all that will be going on, nobody will notice that you’re gone for a day at least. You’ll be able to reach the next village, and seek sanctuary there.’

What good will that do? Ariadne wanted to scream. All she did, however, was to shake her head in silent assent.

He lifted the beam that barred the door. ‘Replace this after I’ve gone.’

‘I will.’

‘Get some more rest if you can.’

Her chin firmed. ‘No.’

He was halfway through the doorway, but he turned. ‘Eh?’

‘I will pray to Dionysus for your success. And Kotys’ death,’ she added.

His eyes glinted. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped out without another word.

Gods, but she’s fiery. Attractive too. Putting thoughts of Ariadne aside, he let his vision adjust to the darkness. Using all his senses, he scanned the alleyway. After a few moments, he relaxed. No one was stirring. Even the dogs had gone to sleep. Keeping a hand to his sword, he stole off through the gloom. Eight years of absence didn’t stop him from unerringly making his way to Getas’ house. He’d grown up here and knew every alley and path in the settlement like the back of his hand. The yellow glow of lamplight through chinks in the wall drew him past the palisade, and he rapped lightly on the portal. ‘Getas?’

The muffled conversation within died away. He heard footsteps approaching. ‘Who is it?’

‘Spartacus.’

There was a scraping noise as the locking bar was lifted, and then the door eased open, revealing a skinny man with a mass of tangled red hair. He grinned. ‘Come in, come in.’

Spartacus stooped and crossed the threshold. The inside of the rectangular hut was similar to most in the village. A large fire burned in a fireplace set into the back wall. Bunches of herbs hung from the roof beams. Tools were stacked untidily in one corner; bowls, pots and pans in another. A weapons rack stood proudly by the entrance, weighed down with javelins, spears and swords. To the left of the fireplace, two small children were curled up together under a blanket, like puppies. A dark-haired woman lay alongside them, her eyes watching his every move. Getas urged Spartacus to the bench in front of the blaze, where three warriors clad in long-sleeved, belted tunics were sitting. They all rose, smiling, as he approached.

‘Spartacus! It’s been too long!’ exclaimed a tall man with a shaven forehead. ‘Thank the gods you have returned.’

‘Seuthes!’ Spartacus returned the embrace before greeting the two others in the same way. ‘Medokos. Olynthus. I’ve missed your company.’

‘And we yours,’ replied Medokos, a barrel-chested figure with a wiry beard. Olynthus, who was older than all of them, murmured in loud agreement.

‘Sit,’ said Getas, waving a clay jug. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

When they all had a cup in hand, he poured the wine. Raising his right arm, he toasted them all. ‘To the Rider, for bringing Spartacus home in one piece.’

‘To the Rider!’ They all drank deeply.

‘To the end of Kotys’ tyranny,’ said Seuthes. ‘May he be rotting in hell very soon.’

‘Polles too,’ added Getas.

‘And plenty of the other scumbags who follow at their heels,’ snarled Medokos.

They threw back the wine. Getas poured everyone refills.

‘Let’s be clear,’ warned Spartacus. ‘What we’re talking about places all of our lives in great danger.’ His eyes flashed to the woman and the children. ‘You understand me?’

‘We know the dangers, Spartacus,’ said Getas fiercely. ‘And we still want to be part of it.’

‘Good. I need to talk to every warrior that you three regard as trustworthy. How many do you think that is?’ He scanned their faces intently. Everything hinged on the rough poll he’d asked them to conduct earlier. Let there be enough, Great Rider, or we’re all dead men.

‘I had nineteen men say “Yes”,’ said Getas.

‘Sixteen,’ added Seuthes.

‘Twelve.’ Medokos looked annoyed. ‘One of them delayed me for at least an hour. He insisted on drinking in your honour.’

Spartacus smiled. ‘You did well.’ He glanced at Olynthus, who had always been slightly aloof. It was probably because of the hunting injury that had left him with a permanent limp in his right leg. Aware that Olynthus’ peer group often poked fun at him, Spartacus had always made him welcome, including him in all their boyhood exploits. Nonetheless, he knew Olynthus less well than the others.

‘Twenty.’

Delighted, Spartacus punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Sixty-seven warriors. Including us, I make it seventy-two. That’s good enough odds for me.’ He clenched his fists, which were hidden in his lap. ‘How about the rest of you?’

‘When do you think we should do it?’ asked Getas by way of answer.

Spartacus grinned. ‘Always the hasty one, Getas!’ He eyed the others.

‘I’m with you,’ said Seuthes.

‘Me too,’ muttered Medokos.

‘Aye.’ Olynthus’ answer was a heartbeat slower than that of the others, but the adrenalin was pumping so hard through Spartacus’ veins that he barely noticed.

‘Excellent. Have you told the men to gather so that I can talk to them?’

‘Yes, in three houses,’ replied Seuthes. ‘We’ll take you to them, one by one.’

Getas was like a dog with a bone. ‘How soon do we attack the king?’

‘We need to do it tomorrow.’

Medokos’ eyebrows rose. ‘So soon?’

‘Yes. You know what people are like with idle gossip, let alone something like this. Best strike while the iron is hot.’ He ignored the awe in their eyes. ‘We can do it!’

‘Gods, but it’s good to have you back. Sitalkes would be proud,’ said Getas, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Let dawn arrive soon!’

The tension eased as they all chuckled at his enthusiasm.

Spartacus let them enjoy the feeling for a moment. Then, ‘We’d better get a move on. There are a lot of men who need to hear what I’ve got to say.’

‘True enough,’ said Getas. ‘May the Rider watch over us.’

During the course of the next few hours, Spartacus moved tirelessly through the village with his four friends. He was greatly heartened by the warm reception he received everywhere. The level of discontent with Kotys’ rule proved to be huge, and his words fell on fertile ground. Men fondly remembered his father and brother, and lamented both their deaths, especially that of Sitalkes, who had been poisoned at a feast held by Kotys. They apologised for not avenging Sitalkes’ death, and were happy to swear undying loyalty to Spartacus. Every single one promised to send the king, Polles and the rest of his followers to oblivion in a variety of unpleasant ways. To a man, the warriors seemed to love Spartacus’ plan of storming the royal compound at dawn, when most of the bodyguards would be asleep. ‘The simple plans are the best,’ he promised them all. ‘There’s nothing that can go wrong.’

When he was done, Spartacus considered returning to Ariadne’s house to sleep. The idea appealed, but he put it aside. There was no point endangering her even more than he done already. By telling so many warriors of his plan, he had opened himself up to betrayal. Yet there was no other way of doing it. If he did nothing, Kotys would hear of his presence in the village by the next day. There was no way that the king would not act. Spartacus steeled his resolve. All will go well. It has to. By sunset tomorrow, I will be the new ruler of the Maedi. It scarcely seemed possible. Although the idea had crossed his mind during his time away, it hadn’t ever been something that he had thought would come to pass. Rhesus, the previous king, and Andriscus, his son, had been popular and courageous men. He scowled. They’re gone now, like Father. Kotys must pay for that with his life. If achieving that end brings me the kingship, so be it. I’ll make a better leader than the dog who currently sits on the throne. I will be able to lead the tribe against Rome all the sooner. Another pleasing thought crossed his mind. What of Ariadne? A smile spread across his face. We shall see.

He walked quietly back to Getas’ house, bidding farewell to the others one by one. Safely indoors, his friend handed him a spare blanket. Spartacus nodded his thanks. He lay down without undressing, making sure that his sword was to hand.

Getas crept under the covers with his wife, who was now mercifully asleep.

Spartacus closed his eyes. So much had happened that day that he expected to lie awake until the appointed hour, which was when Getas’ cockerel started to crow. Apparently, it was annoyingly reliable, beginning its morning chorus an hour before sunrise each day. Spartacus was more weary than he’d realised, however. Lying back, he sank into a dreamless slumber.

He woke to the sound of splintering wood. Long years of combat experience sent him leaping up, tugging at his sword. Too little sleep, and the fact that he stumbled as he rose, meant that Spartacus had no time to draw his blade successfully. Half a dozen men came charging through the remains of the door, clubs in hand. They closed in on him and Getas, who had grabbed a cooking spit from the fire, like wolves cornering a deer. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Getas mumbled. ‘What do you want?’

Spartacus knew in the pit of his belly what this meant. Someone has betrayed us. One of the men smashed him across the head with his club. The stars that burst across his vision were accompanied by a tidal wave of agony. He dropped to the floor like a bag of rocks. As more blows rained down, he was dimly aware of Getas’ wife and children screaming in the background. Rage battered the edges of his consciousness, yet Spartacus could only curl into the foetal position in a vain attempt to escape more punishment.

‘Stop,’ shouted a voice at last. ‘You’ll kill him.’

Reluctantly, the warriors stood back.

It took every shred of Spartacus’ strength to move, but he managed to uncurl himself and look up. ‘Getas?’ he croaked.

‘I’m all right.’

He eyed the handsome warrior who looked to be in charge. ‘Motherless cur! You must be Polles.’

There was a mocking bow. ‘At your service.’

‘If you lay a hand on the woman or the babes, I’ll-’

‘Do what?’ interrupted Polles with a cruel laugh. His men smirked.

‘Cut your balls off and force you to eat them,’ growled Spartacus. ‘That’s before I kill you.’

‘I’d like to see you try.’ Polles stepped over and kicked Spartacus in the belly, causing him to retch uncontrollably. ‘Fortunately for you, the king doesn’t want them harmed. At least, not yet.’ He sniggered.

Spartacus reached out weakly, trying to grab Polles by the ankle, but the champion just moved beyond his reach. ‘Everyone thought you were dead.’

‘Clearly, I’m not.’

‘You will be soon. Plot to murder the king, would you?’

‘You’d know all about murdering,’ replied Spartacus. ‘You whoreson.’

Polles chuckled. ‘Heard about your father, then?’

Spartacus threw him a hate-filled glare by way of reply. ‘Who’s the rat? Who told you?’

Polles glanced at his men. ‘Shall I tell him, or let him stew in his juices for a while?’

‘Leave it until he sees who it is,’ suggested one warrior cruelly. ‘I’d like to see the expression on his face when he realises.’

‘Good idea,’ purred Polles.

‘Fuck you all,’ whispered Spartacus. Now he remembered the delay before Olynthus had replied to his question. Olynthus. He was the traitor for sure.

‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked Getas’ wife in a trembling voice.

‘What do you think?’ Polles sneered. ‘These two and the other prick who is responsible will be tied up in front of the whole tribe and tortured. When Kotys is happy that all the conspirators have been identified, he’ll have their throats cut. The remainder will simply be executed.’

Screaming with rage, she threw herself at Polles, but the warrior guarding her stuck out his foot. Getas’ wife tripped and went sprawling to the floor, coming to rest beside Spartacus. She did not try to get up, even when the children began to wail. Silent sobs racked her thin frame.

Impotent fury filled Spartacus. ‘Ariadne?’

‘So it was you who stood up for her by the gate. I thought it might have been,’ snarled Polles. ‘Once the day’s proceedings have finished, Kotys is throwing a celebratory feast. He’ll bed her after that. She’s to be his new wife.’

Spartacus’ face contorted with fury, and he tried to get up. A heavy blow from a club knocked him back to the floor. He was barely aware of being picked up and carried outside. Outside, a crowd had gathered. Their faces were unhappy, but none dared intervene. They’ll have attacked Seuthes and Medokos’ huts at the same time, thought Spartacus bitterly.

Then the blackness took him.

When Ariadne awoke, she looked straight at the spot where Spartacus had sat. Disappointment at his absence and guilt for feeling like that filled her. Sharp realisation sank home a moment later as she stared at the daylight streaming in through the chinks in the roof. It was nearly full day. She had overslept. Cursing, she jumped up and padded to the door. Why had the fighting not woken her? She was a light sleeper at the best of times. Maybe there was no fighting. Could they have been betrayed? The thought made Ariadne feel sick to the pit of her stomach. Please, no.

Throwing her cloak around her shoulders and picking up the basket that contained her snake, she unlocked the door and stepped outside. Unusually, the alleyway was deserted, but Ariadne could hear the swelling noise of a crowd from the central meeting area. Cold sweat ran down her back as she walked slowly towards the sound. Her feet felt as heavy as lead. Something had gone wrong. Spartacus had failed. She knew it in her bones.

Rallying her courage, she emerged from the alley. Practically everyone in the settlement looked to be present. They weren’t happy either. The angry mutters rising from the onlookers made it clear that whatever was going on in the centre was unpopular. Ariadne’s dread grew as she heard Spartacus’ name being shouted periodically. Other names were also being cried out, although she didn’t catch them. Ariadne began pushing her way through the throng. People soon gave way when they saw who wanted to pass by, and it wasn’t long before she had reached the front of the crowd. Her knees nearly buckled at what she saw. The king’s entire force of bodyguards stood in a rough square around three wooden frames upon each of which a man had been tied, face down. Polles waited behind them, holding a whip. Kotys stood alongside him, a thin smile playing across his lips. To their rear, perhaps three score warriors were kneeling in the dirt, ropes tied around their necks. Their bloodied and battered appearance told its own story.

‘Who are they?’ Ariadne whispered to a woman beside her.

‘Spartacus, Sitalkes’ son. Getas and Seuthes, his friends, and the men who had sworn them loyalty.’

Where are the rest? Ariadne wanted to scream. Where are Olynthus and Medokos? But she had no time to linger on the horror of that implication, that Spartacus had been betrayed by two of his so-called comrades, because Kotys stepped forward, smirking. ‘Priestess. You honour us with your presence. I’m glad that you will witness this.’

Ariadne turned her face away in disgust. It was the only way she could resist. Dionysus, help us please, she begged silently. I’ll do anything. Anything.

Kotys made a gesture at Polles.

‘Before you are three traitors who planned to depose the king. Know that one of their number is not here. He was killed when my men went to arrest him.’

Spartacus had just come to. I honour your passing, Medokos, he thought. At least you died well.

‘Together these pieces of filth persuaded more than sixty warriors’ — Polles waved contemptuously at the tied-up figures to his rear — ‘to join their hopeless cause. Thank the Rider, Kotys was alerted to the danger. He owes his thanks to the loyalty of a warrior whom Spartacus, the fool, trusted implicitly.’

The bodyguards roared with laughter.

Balefully, Spartacus lifted his head from the frame. He caught Getas and Seuthes doing the same.

‘Step forward, Medokos,’ ordered Polles triumphantly.

Utter disbelief filled Spartacus as Medokos emerged from the crowd to a chorus of jeers. So Olynthus is dead. Forgive me, brother, for misjudging you.

‘How could you?’ roared Getas. ‘You fucking shitbag!’

‘Curse you to hell!’ cried Seuthes.

Spartacus stared at Medokos with utter hatred.

His former friend flinched, but walked out to stand by Kotys, who patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your loyalty will not be forgotten.’

Ariadne began calling down silent curses on Medokos’ head. May he go blind. May disease waste the flesh from his bones. May lightning strike him down, or a horse throw him to his death. She knew that if there was ever a time to flee, it was now, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. At the very least, Spartacus and his comrades deserved someone to stand witness to their terrible fate.

‘Continue, Polles,’ directed the king.

‘The traitors are to be whipped first. Forty lashes for each man.’ He indicated the tools on the table beside him with an evil smile. ‘Then the real torture will begin. When we’re done, I will slit their throats and move on to the other scumbags.’ He glanced at Kotys.

‘Luckily for you miserable goat-turds,’ the king thundered, ‘the tribe cannot afford to lose so many warriors. I have therefore decided that one in six of you will die. Ten men, drawn by lot. The rest of you will swear undying allegiance to me, and will provide a hostage as surety of this newfound allegiance.’

The crowd’s unhappiness soared, and they pressed forward at the bodyguards, who used their javelin butts to restore control. Ariadne’s rage knew no bounds. She had to stop herself from leaping out at the king and trying to kill him. Dionysus, help me, please.

‘Start with Spartacus,’ commanded Kotys.

Ariadne could not watch, but she nor could she block her ears to the horror. There was a sibilant whisper as the whip hissed through the air. Next came the crack as it connected with Spartacus’ flesh. Last — and worst of all — came his stifled groan. Within a couple of heartbeats, Polles brought the whip down again. And again. And again. It was unbearable. To stop herself from crying out, Ariadne bit the inside of her lip. It wasn’t long before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but rather than release her grip, she clamped her teeth even tighter. Somehow, the agonising pain filling her head made it easier to listen to Spartacus’ ordeal.

By the time that Spartacus had counted twenty lashes, he could feel his strength slipping away. He was angered, but unsurprised. During his time with the legions, he had seen soldiers whipped on plenty of occasions. By forty lashes, he’d be semi-conscious, the flesh of his back in tatters. If Polles was ordered to continue beyond that, he would know nothing after sixty strokes. From that point, he could easily die from his injuries. That thought brought a fleeting, sour smile to Spartacus’ lips. Kotys wouldn’t want him to die under the lash. It would end at fifty strokes. Only then would the true pain begin. He’d seen the table covered in the tools of the trade: the pliers, probes and serrated blades, the glowing brazier alongside. Still his experience didn’t seem real. It felt like a complete aberration. Beaten and tortured to death in my own village. How… ironic.

Spartacus didn’t hear the challenge of the sentry at the gate.

Kotys, Polles, Ariadne and those watching the gory spectacle were also oblivious.

It was when the column of men filed inside the walls that people began to notice. Heads began to turn. Men asked questions of each other. Some even broke away to go and speak with the newcomers. Ariadne craned her head, but the throng prevented her from seeing anything. Eventually, even the king became aware that something was going on and ordered Polles to cease.

With a disappointed look, the champion obeyed.

Sucking in a ragged breath, Spartacus sagged against the wooden frame. He had no idea why Polles had stopped. The short delay was welcome, however. It would give him the chance to recover some of his strength. Allow him to endure more of the pain when it resumed. He caught Ariadne looking at him, and the agonised expression on her face tore at his conscience. He tried to smile in reassurance, but succeeded only in grimacing. Great Rider, protect her at least.

‘Let them approach,’ shouted Kotys.

There was a short delay as his bodyguards manhandled people out of the way to create a path leading towards the gate. Curious, Spartacus squinted to see who, or what, had halted his punishment.

The first person to come striding into sight was a shaven-headed, blocky man wearing a faded green cloak. From the belt around his waist hung a sheathed gladius. The newcomer looked as if he knew how to use it too. He resembled a Roman soldier, thought Spartacus. So did the eight similarly armed figures following him. Hard-faced, their limbs laced with scars, they had to be veteran legionaries. The men in ragged clothes who stumbled along behind, and who were chained to each other’s necks, were a different matter. Even the smallest child could see that they were slaves. They were of different nationalities: some were Thracian, but others seemed to be Pontic or even Scythian. Two men took up the rear, leading a trio of mules.

Slave-trader scum, thought Spartacus savagely. Men like these — human vultures — had followed in the wake of every army he had ever served in. They usually bought prisoners captured by the legionaries, but they weren’t above abducting anyone weak or foolish enough to come within their grasp. Men, women, children — they took them all. In recent decades, Rome’s appetite for slaves had become insatiable. This individual was not an average slave trader, however. He only had males, which meant that his prospective clients owned farms or mines. Spartacus closed his eyes and tried to rest. This was nothing to do with him.

‘That’s close enough,’ shouted Polles when the newcomer was a dozen steps from Kotys. ‘Bow to the king.’

Immediately, the other obeyed. ‘My name is Phortis. I am a trader,’ he said in poor Thracian. ‘I come in peace.’

‘It’s as well,’ said Kotys acidly. ‘Nine of you wouldn’t make much impression against my bodyguards.’

‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’ Phortis smile’ was rueful.

‘Why are you here?’

‘My master in Italy has sent me in search of slaves, Your Majesty.’

‘I can see that. Agricultural slaves and the like, eh?’

‘No, Your Majesty. I want men who can fight in the arena, as…’ Phortis paused, searching for the right word before reverting to Latin. ‘… gladiators.’

Spartacus’ ears pricked. He had seen Roman prisoners of war forced to fight each other to the death for the amusement of thousands of cheering legionaries. The savagery of these combats had been mitigated by the fact that the victors were often allowed to go free. Spartacus doubted that that was the case in Italy. Shifting position on the rack, he shuddered as fresh waves of agony radiated from the raw flesh of his back. He closed his eyes again, breathing into the pain.

‘Gladiators?’ asked Kotys, frowning.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis in Thracian. ‘Skilled fighters of various classes who battle each other in front of a crowd until one is victorious. It makes for a first-class spectacle. The practice is very popular among my people.’

‘You use only slaves? How can they be entertaining?’ demanded Kotys contemptuously.

‘It’s not that simple, Your Majesty. Prisoners of war and criminals also provide large numbers of suitable candidates.’ Phortis jerked his head at his captives. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using slaves either, if you pick the right ones. Scythians are savage bastards, and Pontic tribesmen fight like cornered rats. But the pick of the lot are Thracians. Everyone knows that your people are the most warlike in the world. In Italy, we say that the Thracians are “worse than snow”, and that if every tribe were to join together, you would conquer every race in existence.’ He smiled at the growls of appreciation that rose up from those within earshot.

‘Honeyed words from a Roman,’ interrupted Kotys, snarling. ‘So you have come looking for slaves to buy?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis in a humble tone. ‘Prisoners that your warriors might have taken during raids on other tribes, and the like.’ His gaze moved to Spartacus and his companions and slithered away.

Kotys did not miss Phortis’ interest. ‘Do these gladiators live for long?’

Phortis’ eyes returned to Spartacus, appraising him. Then he glanced at Seuthes and Getas and gave a tiny snort of contempt. ‘No, Your Majesty. Only a fraction survive for more a year. The rest are soon defeated; wounded and humiliated in the arena, they are executed in front of a crowd baying for their blood. When it’s over, their bodies are dragged outside. Each corpse has its throat slit to make sure that none are playing dead, before being thrown on the communal refuse heap.’

Ariadne could not help herself. A tiny gasp of horror left her lips.

‘You don’t like the idea of that, eh?’ asked Kotys, rounding on her like a striking snake.

She said nothing, which told him everything he wanted to know.

‘Imagine Spartacus, and his friends,’ Kotys lingered over the words, ‘being in such an arena with thousands of Romans screaming for their deaths. Hundreds of miles from home, they would be totally alone. Abandoned to their fate. I cannot think of a worse death.’

Nor can I, thought Ariadne, listening to the screams of Seuthes’ and Getas’ wives rend the air. You evil whoreson.

Adrenalin coursed through Spartacus, and he opened his eyes. It might be fighting for the amusement of a mob of stinking Romans, but it sounds better than what Kotys has planned for me. He stole a glance at Seuthes and Getas and took heart. There wasn’t a trace of fear in their faces, just a cold, calculating rage.

‘How exactly are they executed?’ enquired Kotys lasciviously.

‘A variety of ways. In one of the most common, the loser has to kneel and lift up his chin to expose his throat. Then the winner of the fight stabs him like this.’ Phortis mimed the action of a sword entering the hollow at the base of his throat. ‘The blade slides down into the chest cavity, severing half a dozen major blood vessels. It kills instantaneously.’

A quick, honourable death, thought Spartacus.

The image described by Phortis and the blood in her mouth combined to make Ariadne feel faint. Swaying from side to side, she struggled to keep her balance.

Kotys was delighted by the intensity of her distress. ‘What will you give me for these creatures?’ he demanded of Phortis.

Dionysus, help Spartacus, Ariadne begged. A few angry shouts went up, but no one dared even to approach the king’s bodyguards. Her spirits fell into a deep abyss.

‘They don’t look up to much, Your Majesty,’ muttered Phortis, narrowing his eyes.

‘Looks often deceive,’ retorted Kotys. ‘Spartacus, the first one, has just returned from years of service with your legions, so he must have some skill. In his youth, he was one of the tribe’s best warriors. The others are tough men too, veterans of many campaigns.’

‘Really, Your Majesty?’ said Phortis in a disinterested voice.

‘Don’t fuck with me!’ Kotys’ face was purple with rage. ‘Remember that you and your men are only here by my grace. One click of my fingers and my warriors will carve new arseholes for you all.’ He glanced at the nearest bodyguards, who grinned and fingered their weapons.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis quickly. ‘I meant no offence.’

Kotys’ scowl eased a fraction. ‘Spartacus is the perfect type of material you’re after. So are his two friends.’

‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ agreed Phortis. He cast a sly look at the king. ‘And the rest?’

‘They’re not for sale. Just these three.’

To Ariadne’s surprise, a tiny ray of hope shone down into the pit of her despair. Could some good could be wrenched from this situation?

‘May I ask why?’

‘They were plotting to overthrow me.’

Phortis didn’t look surprised. ‘What will you take for them, Your Majesty? A thousand pieces of silver?’

‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that! Do you really think that I’d give these lumps of dogshit away free?’

‘Of course not, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis smoothly. ‘How does fifteen hundred sound?’

‘It’s two and a half thousand, or nothing. I know as well as you that Thracian slaves are worth double the price of every other race.’

Phortis didn’t even blink. He gestured at Spartacus and the others. ‘May I…?’

‘Be my guest. Fortunately for you, only the first one has been beaten. He’s escaped lightly too. My champion was just getting warmed up when you arrived.’

Spartacus lifted his head from the wooden frame and gave Phortis a baleful stare as he approached. The trader ignored him, instead studying his back. ‘Your Majesty is correct. There’s no lasting damage.’ He moved on to examine the two others, prodding their muscles and examining their teeth as he would a horse. He made an approving noise at Seuthes’ shaved forehead. ‘So your enemy can’t grab you by the hair at close-quarters, eh?’ Seuthes glowered but did not reply.

Phortis glanced at the king. ‘It’s a fair price, Your Majesty,’ he admitted.

As Kotys smiled with triumph, Phortis barked an order, and one of his men hurried back to the mules. He returned bearing two heavy purses. ‘There should be more than enough here,’ said Phortis.

Kotys motioned Polles forward. Without ceremony, the champion upended the leather bags on to the ground and with the help of another warrior, began counting the silver coins that tumbled out. ‘It’s all there,’ Polles growled eventually.

‘Good, said Kotys. ‘Then we have a deal. Release them.’ He directed a triumphant, malevolent glance at Ariadne. He had no idea that her heart was racing with anticipation. She had a plan at last, born of her utter desperation. Or was it Dionysus finally intervening? Ariadne could no longer tell. Her tactic might not work either, but it felt better than doing nothing.

At least I am not to die today. Spartacus summoned the reserves of his strength. When the last of his bonds were cut away, he was able to stand, knees locked, rather than simply fall to the ground. What about Ariadne? His eyes wandered to where she stood. He took heart. Inexplicably, her expression was no longer distraught, but determined. She will survive somehow.

‘Get over here,’ barked Phortis. ‘You’re mine now.’

Spartacus and his friends shuffled towards him and allowed the trader’s men to fasten iron collars around their necks. These would be attached to the other slaves by a chain. Their indignity was completed by the fetters placed around their ankles. They left no chance of escaping. This leads to the arena. At least there I’ll have a fighting chance of survival, Spartacus told himself. That fate was infinitely preferable to the one on offer from Kotys. His heart wrenched again with guilt. What would happen to Ariadne? Determination would only carry her so far.

‘Have you any other men like these, Your Majesty?’ asked Phortis.

‘It’s the wrong time of year for prisoners,’ Kotys snapped. ‘It’s best to come in the summer, when we’re raiding other tribes.’

‘I told my master that, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to avoid snow on the mountain passes that lead back to Illyria. With your permission?’

‘You may go,’ Kotys grunted. He was already turning towards Ariadne.

Spartacus clenched his fists, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life.

She was utterly terrified, but Ariadne knew that she had to act now. Rolling the blood clots to the side of her mouth, she began to speak in her harshest voice. ‘As his faithful priestess, I call upon Dionysus, the powerful Almighty, the god of intoxication and mania, to witness my curse upon the king of the Maedi.’

A hushed silence fell over the watching villagers. Polles and the other bodyguards gave each other nervous looks. Even Phortis and his men stopped what they were doing. Kotys’ face went white, but he dared not stop her.

‘No one loves a tyrant or a murderer, Kotys. I curse you to an early, violent death. I curse you to die slowly and painfully, with an enemy’s blade buried deep in your guts.’ Ariadne paused, relishing her power. Dionysus had returned to her! ‘Your final moments will be filled with agony, and when your miserable soul leaves your body, the gates of the warrior’s paradise will be closed to you. Instead, Dionysus’ maenads will carry you below, to the underworld. There, for all eternity, they will rip off pieces of your flesh and present them to the god.’ Delighting in Kotys’ shocked expression, she spat the gobbets of blood in his face. ‘Finally, I mark you as one of Dionysus’ chosen ones.’

There were loud, reverential gasps from the onlookers. Most people looked petrified, as if they had seen a divine apparition. The king’s eyes were filled with living horror. He stood mutely, with trails of scarlet running down his cheeks, as Ariadne walked towards Spartacus. ‘I am this man’s wife. I am following him into captivity,’ she announced in a loud, authoritative voice.

‘His wife?’ roared Polles, moving to block her way.

‘That’s right. We exchanged our vows last night,’ lied Ariadne. She gripped the fabric of her cloak until her fists hurt. Let me pass!

‘We also consummated the marriage,’ croaked Spartacus. ‘After so many years on campaign, I couldn’t wait any longer.’

Ariadne’s cheeks flamed as the bystanders roared with laughter.

Kotys glared, humiliated anew, and Ariadne dared to feel a scintilla of hope. No king would want a woman who had given her virginity to another. ‘It is Dionysus’ wish that I should go with Spartacus into exile,’ she shouted.

‘Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!’ The villagers’ thunderous roar of agreement drowned out all other sound.

Visibly furious, Polles stood aside. Ariadne hurried to stand with Spartacus.

Phortis shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue with the mouthpiece of a god or hundreds of angry Thracians. ‘One more mouth to feed shouldn’t matter.’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Spartacus in an undertone.

‘Look at my alternative.’ With a tiny jerk of her head, Ariadne indicated Kotys.

‘I understand.’

‘We will travel to Italy, and see what fate awaits us there,’ she intoned, trying to ignore the new fears that clutched at her. Part of Ariadne was pleased, however. I can stay with him — for now at least.

Spartacus was glad too. ‘This way, you won’t be left alone.’