The Gladiator

Chapter V

It didn’t take long for the Gaul’s body to be discovered. A pair of Germans were next to enter the bathing area. They emerged, shouting at the tops of their voices. Footsteps clattered on the stairs as a group of guards descended in response. Crowds of fighters gathered to watch the limp Gaul being dragged outside. A broad trail of blood marked the ground all the way back into the baths. Spartacus watched the proceedings from the door of the cell he’d taken for himself and Ariadne. He was pleased to see that none of the guards looked especially surprised by what they’d found. Restio was doing his job too. Already he was getting plenty of looks from fighters in the yard. Most were respectful, but some were angry or challenging. Spartacus ignored them all. Without doubt, fewer men would now want to take him on than before. He wondered how Phortis would react. Unless Restio played him false, there would be no witnesses’ accounts for the Capuan to go on. All he’d have was the gossip floating around the ludus. Would that be enough for the Capuan to act on? Spartacus wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so. Murders in the baths or toilets had to be regular occurrences. Such things kept a natural order in the ludus.

And so it proved. The evil stares that Phortis was soon throwing at Spartacus clearly showed that he’d heard of his involvement, but the Capuan did nothing. Half an hour passed, and the gladiators’ training finished for the day. A short time later, the dinner gong sounded. Spartacus marched boldly into the yard with Ariadne, as if he were going out to eat. Getas and Seuthes walked two steps behind them. They headed for the dining area, which consisted of sets of benches and tables on either side of the kitchen doors. A queue of men led through the portals; through the steamy air within Spartacus could see a large cauldron perched on a table with stacked bowls and piles of wooden spoons. Behind it stood a slave, ladle in hand, and Phortis, watching everything like a beady-eyed crow. Four beefy guards were present too, security against any trouble.

They joined the back of the line. The fighters immediately in front looked around. One or two nodded a greeting at Spartacus, which he returned. No one spoke to him or his companions, which suited him fine. The first day and night in the ludus were all about establishing his independence, his lack of need for friendship with others. He’d told Getas and Seuthes as much. In silence, they shuffled into the kitchen.

‘Here he is! The new latro.’ Phortis’ voice was mocking. ‘Watch out, or you might get stabbed in the back.’

At this, plenty of the gladiators stared. A few guffawed. None said anything.

‘I’m no bandit,’ replied Spartacus loudly.

‘Is that so?’ sneered Phortis.

‘It is.’

‘So you’d know nothing about the body in the baths, then? The ugly bastard who died of a hole in his neck?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

Spartacus lifted his shoulders into an expressive shrug. ‘Believe what you will. Men like to gossip. Nearly all of it is horseshit. Have you got any proof?’

‘I don’t need proof to dispense justice, you halfwit,’ barked Phortis. ‘Let’s just say that any man who can best that brute of a Gaul must be a good fighter. I’ll expect great things from you in the arena.’

Curse him! Spartacus hadn’t considered the eventuality that the Capuan would do nothing even if he knew.

Phortis wasn’t finished with him. ‘How did a scumbag latro like you end up with such a high-class piece of ass, eh?’

Men’s heads turned again. Lustful mutters passed between them as they drank in Ariadne’s exotic looks.

‘I am a warrior of the Maedi tribe, and Ariadne is my wife,’ said Spartacus with a calm smile. Inside, though, he was now raging. He wanted to leap on the Capuan and smash his teeth down his throat. But he kept his peace. He’d kill Phortis, of that there was little doubt, but the four guards would slay him in turn. A stupid way to die.

‘Your king had a different story. He said that you’re a lying, cheating whoreson who was plotting to overthrow him.’

Spartacus could feel the muscles in his jaw working. ‘No surprise there,’ he snapped. Kotys always was a cowardly scumbag.

‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you.’

‘Kotys would say that,’ cried Spartacus. ‘He was a weak leader. My mere existence made me a threat to his authority. Selling me into slavery was a perfect solution.’

‘So if you weren’t standing here, you would have seized power over the Maedi?’ Phortis glanced at the slave who was doling out the barley porridge, who sniggered dutifully. ‘Do you hear that? We have a king in our midst!’

A number of the gladiators laughed. One, the massive, arrogant-looking Gaul whom Spartacus had noticed earlier, stepped out of line and faced them. Blond-haired, moustached, and wearing only a pair of patterned trousers, he was the epitome of a Gaulish warrior. Half a dozen fighters moved to join him. The Gaul performed an extravagant bow. ‘Come and take my place, Your Majesty. If you can.’

Phortis smirked.

Gods above. A fight with him and his cronies is the last thing I — we — need right now. ‘You were here first, friend,’ Spartacus replied, meeting the big man’s gaze evenly. ‘So was everyone else in front of me. I’ll take my turn.’

‘Scared of a fight?’

‘No. But I won’t take you on this evening. Not when Phortis is trying to set it up,’ said Spartacus, praying that the Gaul was as sharp as he was strong.

‘Go on, Crixus! Dance to the puppet master’s tune,’ shouted a voice.

There was a rumble of amusement from the rest of the gladiators, and Phortis scowled.

Crixus didn’t miss the barbed comment, or the Capuan’s expression. ‘Another time then,’ he growled. Throwing a filthy look at Phortis, he grabbed a bowl from the pile on the table and held it out. ‘Fill it up. To the brim!’

The kitchen slave hurriedly obeyed.

Grabbing a flat loaf, Crixus stamped off, and the next of his followers took his place.

Getas let out a long hiss of relief. ‘Thank the Rider! That bastard is as big as Hercules.’

‘Even Hercules had his weaknesses,’ said Spartacus. ‘That Gaulish prick’s not popular either. Most of the fighters seemed happy enough to laugh at him. I’d wager that the six who stood by him are his only supporters.’

‘That’s still four more than us,’ warned Seuthes.

‘True. We need to avoid picking a fight with them for now,’ said Spartacus, thinking of the big German with the broken nose. How many men were loyal to him? Would he be as combative as Crixus? Would the Samnites? Spartacus hoped not. He wouldn’t be able to engineer every fight the way he had the one with the ugly Gaul.

There was plenty to think about as they ate.

Spartacus was still in pensive mood when he and the others returned to their cells. Most of his chamber, which measured little more than ten paces by ten, was filled by two straw mattresses that lay close together. There was no furniture. In fact, the only other objects visible were Ariadne’s possessions: a pair of little statues of Dionysus and the wicker basket containing her snake. The concrete walls were covered in lewd or boastful graffiti, the work of previous occupants. Patches of mould grew in the corners, giving the room an unpleasant, musty smell.

‘This is it. Home,’ said Ariadne brightly. ‘At least it will be when I’ve sorted it out.’

Spartacus grunted by way of reply. Glancing idly at the basket, his heart nearly stopped. The lid was no longer properly in place. ‘Look!’ Flipping off the lid with his foot, he peered warily within. ‘Gods above! It’s gone.’ He took a step into the centre of the room.

‘Steady,’ soothed Ariadne. ‘It won’t have gone far. Unless…’ and her gaze moved to the gap under the door’s bottom edge. ‘Dionysus, do not let it have gone outside,’ she whispered. I need it to protect me!

Spartacus wasn’t listening. He peeled off his tunic and dangled it from his left fist. Lifting the first mattress with great care, he peered underneath. Nothing. He pulled the straw-filled sack to the far side of the room, where he leaned it against the wall. Returning, he raised the corner of the second mattress.

‘There it is!’ cried Ariadne, pointing at a lithe, coiled shape. ‘Let me get it.’

But Spartacus was there before her. Heaving the mattress out of the way, he tossed his tunic over the serpent and leaped over to grasp it behind its head. ‘Got you,’ he hissed.

‘What are you doing? You hate the thing!’ Ariadne lifted the basket so that he could drop the snake inside.

Spartacus waited until she’d secured the lid again. ‘I do. But there’s nothing like confronting your fear. If you think the devil’s behind you, turn around and face him, as they say.’ He wiped his brow and grinned.

‘You could have been bitten. Let me pick it up next time,’ Ariadne snapped, irritated that he’d had the temerity to touch her most sacred possession. She was also scared of what might have happened.

‘Next time? If you’d secured the basket properly in the first place, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,’ he needled back.

‘Leave me alone!’ Ariadne retorted, flushing with anger and embarrassment.

Seeing her mood, Spartacus chose to ignore her.

The bad feeling between them lingered in the air like a bad smell, and they retired in silence. Spartacus blew out the oil light, and lay down beside Ariadne. They were close enough to touch, but neither did so. Neither spoke either. After a few moments, Spartacus turned over and inadvertently brushed his leg against hers. She turned on him before he could say a word of apology. ‘This marriage is a convenient pretence, you understand? Don’t get any ideas.’

She saw his lips twitch in the half-light. ‘I touched you by mistake. And I never thought our “marriage” would be otherwise.’

Ariadne was furious to feel cheated that he hadn’t put up more of an argument. I’m acting like a child, she thought. But she couldn’t bring herself to apologise. The last man to touch her had been her father. Damn him to hell. A wave of hatred towards all men swelled in her heart. You profess to want a husband, when in reality you’ll never let anyone close. She was too frightened to do so. Stop it. There are decent men in the world, men who do not act as my father did. Spartacus is one of them. If he wasn’t, she reflected with a guilty thrill, why did she want him to touch her?

Spartacus stared at the outline of her shape, watched her chest go up and down with each breath. Why is the bloody woman so prickly? Suddenly, he grinned. She’s still damn attractive. Maybe she’ll come around in the end. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he closed his eyes and fell straight to sleep.

Once he began to snore gently, Ariadne relaxed. The moon came out from behind the clouds that had masked it previously, and the cell filled with a gentle yellow light. Spartacus did not stir, and Ariadne was shocked to find herself surreptitiously studying him. Guilty pleasure filled her at what she saw. There were little laughter lines at the corners of his eyes that she’d not noticed before, and a few hairs that shone white among the others on his head. The scar on his nose and cheek had tiny dots on either side of it, marking where the sutures had sat. His face, neck and arms were a darker colour than the skin that normally lay beneath his tunic. Everything about Spartacus, from his firm chin to his wiry muscles, spoke of strength. Ariadne found it most reassuring, and when an image of Phortis inevitably came to mind, she was able to shove it away with ease.

To her surprise, sleep was not long coming.

For the second time, she dreamed of being in Spartacus’ arms.

Carbo slurped down the dregs of his wine and stared into the bottom of his cup, hoping for inspiration. He found none. Glancing around the clammy, packed tavern, he scowled. He wouldn’t be finding any in here either. The place was full of lowlifes: scrawny, ill-fed men with, if Carbo were to make a bet on it, a nasty tendency towards the criminal. The only women present were a couple of gap-toothed, straggle-haired waitresses and three diseased-looking whores. The inn’s sole attraction was its wine, which was the cheapest Carbo had found. It didn’t taste that bad, considering its likely provenance. After a few its flavour had even started to grow on him.

‘Another one?’

Carbo turned his head to find the innkeeper standing over him. He looked at the four bronze coins on the bar top by his left hand. They were all he had left of the two denarii that Paccius had given him. He let rip with a morose belch. At least he’d had the sense to pay his rent arrears first. ‘Why not?’

In the blink of an eye, his crudely worked clay cup had been filled; one of the coins also vanished.

Carbo nodded his thanks before taking a deep swallow. He considered his day for the umpteenth time. What had gone wrong? His plan of hanging around his former home had initially seemed a good one. An excellent one, in fact. He’d wanted to see Paccius, to have a word with the only person in the world who still had time for him. It had worked, too. The Samnite had emerged not long before noon, heading out on an errand. Carbo had caught up with him on the next street, and they had walked all the way to Capua’s forum together.

Naturally, Paccius hadn’t had any news of his parents, but he’d been able to tell Carbo all about what was going on. How their new master, Crassus’ agent, did not seem too bad — for the moment. Carbo had been glad for the Samnite, and the other domestic slaves, whom he liked well enough. He’d been mortified when Paccius had pressed the two silver coins on him, however. ‘You need these more than I do,’ he had said. To Carbo’s undying shame, he’d taken the coins. Saying goodbye to Paccius had been even more poignant than the first time, when he’d crept out before his parents woke. I took money from one of my own slaves. His attempt to join the army had also been a disaster. The centurion he’d approached had demanded proof that he was seventeen. Carbo had stuttered that his birthday was not far off. The officer had told him in a kindly tone to come back with the relevant paperwork when the time was right. Of course he wouldn’t be able to comply, because his father had all the family records. It’s all fucking Crassus’ fault. He drained his cup and thumped it savagely on to the wooden top.

Hearing the impact, the innkeeper materialised once more. ‘Want a refill?’

‘Why not?’ snarled Carbo. ‘I’ve nothing else to be doing.’

An instant later, he had another full cup of wine, and only two coins. Soon after, it was one coin, and then none. Carbo was destitute once more. Before he had time to dwell on that miserable detail, one of the prostitutes sidled over and tried to sit on his knee. Carbo waved her away irritably. ‘Even if I wanted to, I can’t afford it.’

‘You’ve got this,’ she purred, poking at the brooch on his cloak with a cracked, dirty fingernail. ‘I’ll screw you every night for a week for it. Maybe even two weeks, if you’re man enough.’ She cackled at her own joke.

‘That piece is worth more than your life, you diseased bitch,’ Carbo growled. ‘Leave me alone.’

Her expression soured. ‘Who said I’d fuck you anyway? Those scars would put anyone off.’

Carbo raised the back of his hand to her, and she stepped back, curling her lip. But it was a pyrrhic victory. The moment that the whore had reached her friends, she began jeering and pointing at him. ‘Shame you’re not a man or I’d give you a damn good hiding,’ he growled, making an obscene gesture. They hissed with fury. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Carbo made for the door. When would his luck change? he wondered bitterly. Making any kind of money seemed impossible. Pulling open the door, he stumbled outside. The blast of cold air that hit him restored some of his senses. I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Trying to keep that thought uppermost, Carbo wove off into the narrow, unpaved alley. Despite the near complete darkness, he knew his way back to the insula atop which his garret perched. It wasn’t far.

A moment later, the prostitute whom Carbo had rejected came hurrying out of the inn. She was accompanied by an unsavoury-looking man. Both came skulking after him.

The first thing Carbo knew about it was when a heavy blow struck the back of his head. The explosion of light that burst across his eyes was accompanied by a tidal wave of pain, and he dropped like a sack of grain. Landing face first in the muck, Carbo was all too aware of its foul stench, and taste, but he was too weak to do anything about it, or about the fingers that were already rifling under his tunic for a purse. Bastards!

‘Don’t waste your time,’ said a shrill female voice. ‘He’s got no money, just the brooch I told you about.’

‘It’s still worth checking,’ growled the man. ‘You never know what you might find.’

Carbo felt himself being rolled over, and a hand pawing at his left shoulder. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled as the fabric ripped. His reward for speaking was a blow across the face that smacked his head back down into the reeking blend of mud and human waste. Light-headed, half stunned, Carbo’s strength deserted him.

‘Shall I cut his throat?’

‘You might as well,’ answered the woman. ‘In case he saw us coming after him.’

I know who you are, and I’ll kill you if I get half a chance, Carbo wanted to say, but his attempt came out as an unintelligible mumble. As his chin was shoved back, he tensed in expectation of the blade. What a god-awful way to die.

There was a creaking sound from above as a window opened. An instant later, a torrent of urine and faeces landed on all three of them. The woman screamed. ‘Hades take your soul!’ roared the man. ‘What whoreson did that?’

‘It was I, Ambrosius the veteran,’ bellowed a loud voice. ‘And now I’m coming outside with three of my slaves. We’re all armed with swords and spears.’

Carbo felt the weight on his chest ease as the thug scrambled up. ‘That’s it. I’m not dying just to finish off this fool.’

‘Leave him,’ muttered the woman. ‘Hopefully, he’ll die anyway.’

Dimly, Carbo heard their footsteps retreating. He tried to move but his limbs didn’t seem his own. He heard a door creak open and then the orange glow of an oil lamp penetrated the darkness.

A ruddy, concerned face bent over him. ‘Are you alive?’

‘I think so. My head hurts like a bastard.’

‘I’d say it does,’ replied Ambrosius with a scowl. ‘I heard the crack of the blow from my bedroom.’ Carbo tried to sit up, but Ambrosius pressed him back down again. ‘Wait.’ He probed with his fingers around the sides and back of Carbo’s head. ‘I can’t feel a break. You’ll probably live,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Grab my hand.’

Carbo obeyed, and felt himself being pulled upright. The mud made a wet, sucking sound as it released him, and his nostrils were again filled with the rank odour of everything that made it into such a glutinous morass. He didn’t care. ‘They took my brooch. It was the only valuable I had.’ He made to move after the thieves. ‘I have to get it back.’

Ambrosius’ strong arm blocked his way. ‘I wouldn’t. Be grateful that you don’t have a gaping smile around the base of your neck.’

His slave nodded in mute agreement.

Reality crashed back down on Carbo. Better to be covered in shit and breathing than to be dead. ‘Very well. Thank you for your help.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Ambrosius wrinkled his nose and stepped back a little. ‘Gods, but you stink. You’ve got baths at home?’

Carbo’s pride rallied. ‘Yes, yes,’ he lied.

‘Good. You’ll understand if I don’t accompany you,’ said Ambrosius. ‘And as for my slave, well, I only have the one…’ Looking shamefaced, he fell silent.

‘It’s all right. You did more than most people would ever do, coming out on to the street in the middle of the night. I can find my own way back.’ To what? he thought furiously.

‘Here.’ Ambrosius shoved forward the oil lamp and his rusty gladius. ‘You’ll have more chance of making it with these.’

‘But-’

‘I insist. If you wish, return them to me in the morning. My door is the one by the butcher’s. As you know, Ambrosius is my name.’

‘Thank you,’ said Carbo simply, accepting both lamp and sword. ‘I will come back tomorrow.’

‘Excellent! My wife won’t have any reason to complain if I bring you in for a cup of wine then.’

Leaving Ambrosius and his slave to return indoors, Carbo trudged off. The end of his all too brief contact with a decent person fuelled the flames of his anger to new heights. Now he had to return to his garret, where no one cared if he lived or died. Where the crone would keep him awake all night with her coughing. It wasn’t even as if he could wash before climbing into his bed. The insula had no running water, so he’d have to lie in his own filth until the morning, when it was safe to go out and the public baths were open. Carbo wished for the pair who had attacked him to appear before him. I’d cut them both to pieces.

Of course nothing happened. He kept walking.

Then, in the flickering light cast by his oil lamp, something caught his eye. He stopped and peered at the plastered wall to his left. On it, someone had scratched a series of crude drawings. Carbo leaned closer, making out a pair of small, almost childlike figures fighting each other and, on either side, sets of cursive characters. He read the gladiators’ names and the boasts about them. ‘Hilarus the Thracian, never defeated, victor in fifteen fights, and Attilius the Samnite, strongest of his tribe, and killer of four men.’ Hope, and a little excitement, stirred deep in Carbo’s heart. Here was one path left for him to follow. It might be that taken by the lowest of the low, by criminals, prisoners of war and slaves, yet occasionally it was taken by a citizen. He could become an auctoratus, a contracted gladiator. If he succeeded, the financial rewards could be very great indeed.

The thought made Carbo’s lips twitch. Despite all that had happened that day, this seemed like a sign from the gods.

Spartacus was woken before dawn by the cold. His blanket had slipped off in the night. Pulling it up to his chin, he trained his ear to the early-morning sounds entering from outside. The strident crowing of a cock in the ludus’ vegetable garden, which he’d seen outside the thick walls. The rattle of a sword tip along the window bars of the gladiators’ cells. Phortis’ nasal tone rousing them from sleep. The slap of men’s feet on bare concrete floors. Throats being cleared. The distinctive noise of spitting. And from beyond the ludus, where Capua’s market sprawled, the hum of normal life: the rival cries of bakers, butchers and other tradesmen. From the nearby Via Appia came the shouted greetings of travellers, the creak of cartwheels mixed with the lowing of oxen, and the ill-tempered braying of mules. It was very ordinary, and very similar to Thrace. Spartacus hated it. Loathed it. Freedom was so near, he thought bitterly, and so far. A world away. Who’d have imagined that after years of service to the Romans, he’d end up as the lowest of the low? A fucking gladiator. He thought of Kotys and grimaced. At least I’m alive.

Clack, clack, clack. Right on cue, Phortis’ weapon dragged along the bars of the cell’s window. The metallic sound of a key unlocking the door followed. ‘Stop ploughing your woman, latro! Get out here while the porridge is nice and hot.’

‘Filthy Roman bastard.’ Spartacus’ whisper was reflex.

‘Do you hear me, latro?’

‘I hear you.’ He sat up.

‘Good. Today we’ll see what kind of fighter you are to become.’ Phortis moved on.

Spartacus scowled.

‘About last night…’ Ariadne began.

He glanced at her, and saw the desire for reconciliation in her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you,’ he said. ‘Although I’d caught the creature, I was still feeling jumpy.’

‘I’m the one who should be apologising. It’s my snake, and my responsibility to make sure that it stays in the basket.’ She paused, looking awkward. ‘So I’m sorry.’

‘Let’s forget about it, and move on.’

‘Fine.’ Feeling better, she smiled.

‘You look much better like that than with a frown on your face.’

He likes me! Delighted but also embarrassed, Ariadne floundered about for what to say. ‘What type of fighter do you think they’ll pick you for?’ she blurted.

‘Thracian, I’d assume,’ replied Spartacus, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll soon find out. What will you do with the day?’

‘The first thing will be to clean this room properly. Only the gods know when that last happened,’ Ariadne said disapprovingly. ‘Then I want to find something that will serve as an altar for my statues. If I have a chance, I’ll also sound out the women who already live in the ludus. Learn about how life works here.’

‘Stay safe. Keep away from the toilets and baths unless you’re with plenty of other women,’ he warned.

‘Don’t worry.’ She pointed to the basket. ‘That’s going everywhere with me.’

‘Good.’

She nodded. ‘Be careful.’

Her sudden thaw made him grin. ‘I will.’ Pushing open the door, he was gone.

Discomfited, Ariadne was grateful that he hadn’t seen the rising blush in her cheeks.

The new arrivals had barely finished their porridge when, accompanied by Phortis, the trainers who supervised the different classes of fighters came looking for them. The three middle-aged, hard-faced men were each armed with a club, a whip, or both. All were former gladiators who’d earned their freedom the hard way, by winning the rudis.

Forced out into the yard, to a chorus of jeers from the other inmates, the fifteen men were lined up side by side. Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes found themselves at the far end, away from Phortis, who began at once. He threw a barrage of questions at the first man, one of the Pontic warriors, demanding to know his age, his former occupation and his combat experience. The trainers listened carefully to the stumbling answers in poor Latin. Before long, the tribesman was ordered to stand by the man who would school him as a Thracian. The next captive was chosen to fight as a Gaul, and the one after that, as a Samnite. Gradually, Phortis worked his way down the line. The other Thracians grinned as they were selected to appear in the arena representing their own kind. Hearing this, Spartacus’ expectations grew. There’d be some pride to be had fighting as he had in real life.

‘Ah. The latro,’ drawled Phortis. He smiled as Spartacus’ face tightened. ‘This one’s a Thracian too,’ he explained to the trainers. ‘Age?’

‘Thirty.’

‘Occupation?’

‘I’ve been a warrior since the age of sixteen. That’s when I slew my first man,’ Spartacus growled. ‘He looked a bit like you.’

‘Ha! You’re a real killer, eh?’ Phortis’ eyebrows rose mockingly. ‘You have some military experience too?’

‘I’ve fought in every campaigning season since I reached manhood. In eight of those, I served with the Roman auxiliaries as a cavalryman. I’ve been in more fights and skirmishes than I can remember, and at least six full-scale battles.’

‘Killed many men?’ asked one of the trainers.

Spartacus stared him in the eyes. ‘I lost count after twenty. At least half of them were Romans.’

The trainer grunted noncommittally.

‘I don’t believe you,’ challenged Phortis.

‘It’s true. How many have you killed?’ retorted Spartacus. He was pleased as Phortis waved a fist in his face. Nor did he miss the smile that twitched across two of the trainers’ lips. Good. I got under your skin, you miserable goat-fucker.

‘I’ve slain plenty, damn your insolence! Harder men than you, too.’

Really? I doubt it.

‘He’ll do best as a Thracian. I’ll take him,’ said a short trainer with a well-trimmed beard. His companions murmured in agreement.

‘No, you fucking well won’t,’ snapped Phortis. ‘He’s not to fight as a Thracian.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Batiatus says so,’ replied Phortis with smug satisfaction. ‘The dog is too arrogant. It’ll give him ideas above his station. The same applies to his two friends.’

‘I’ll take him on then. The others too,’ said the third trainer, who had the look of a Gaul.

Phortis shrugged. ‘Fine.’

Hearing no further protest, the trainer jerked his head at Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes. ‘Get over here.’

Spartacus couldn’t help himself. ‘But-’

In the blink of an eye, Phortis had pulled the short club from his belt. With an almighty heave, he brought it down across Spartacus’ head. ‘Do as you’re told!’

Half-blinded by pain, Spartacus still managed to leap forward. He was prevented from getting to Phortis, however, by Getas and Seuthes. They grabbed him roughly by the arms. ‘Leave it,’ hissed Getas. ‘He’ll kill you.’

Phortis watched expectantly.

Attacking him just gives the dog what he wants. Spartacus took in a deep breath and relaxed in their grip. ‘All right. I’ll fight as a Gaul.’

‘You listen to your friends. That’s good.’ Phortis couldn’t quite hide his disappointment, however. ‘Keep doing that, and you might survive.’ He glanced at the trainers. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ve plenty to teach these whoresons.’

Amarantus, Spartacus’ instructor, was a Gaul of perhaps forty summers. Although a freeborn warrior, Amarantus told them how he’d elected to stay on as a trainer after earning his rudis. His first order was for the four men he’d chosen to take each other on with heavy shields and wooden swords. He set Spartacus against one of the Scythians, and Getas and Seuthes upon one another. ‘Fight until one man has been disarmed, or received a “mortal” wound,’ he shouted. Spartacus’ opponent was strong and fierce, but his skill did not compare. Within the space of a hundred heartbeats, Spartacus had knocked the Scythian’s sword from his hand and touched the tip of his own blade to the other’s throat. Amarantus nodded in satisfaction, and allowed them to rest as Spartacus’ two friends went at it like men possessed. Seuthes prevailed, tripping Getas and ‘finishing’ him with a thrust to the chest.

‘That’s told me how good, or not, you are with weapons,’ Amarantus declared. ‘Now we shall see if you’re any way fit, or just the bloated wineskins you look like.’ He waved his arm around the courtyard’s perimeter. ‘Twenty laps of that, at a run. The man who stops before that gets ten lashes. If he stops a second time, I’ll give him twenty. A third time, thirty. Clear?’

As Spartacus ran, he studied the gladiators who were also at their training. The yard was packed with men running as they were, or boxing and wrestling. Others lifted weights. Still more sparred against each other with wooden spears and swords, or attacked thick timber posts buried in the ground. One unfortunate was being lashed by his irate trainer, while his companions watched.

Spartacus was grateful that the journey from Thrace had not taken too much out of him. Although the food hadn’t been the best quality, he’d lost little weight or condition. Twenty laps was well within his capability, and that of Getas and Seuthes too. As it turned out, the Scythian was fit as well. Amarantus gave a satisfied grunt as they rejoined him, their faces dripping with sweat.

Carbo had reached his insula without further problems. He’d had a fleeting sensation of sweet revenge when his tread on the creaking floorboards had woken the crone. It had soon vanished during the coughing that followed, but Carbo had been too tired, and his head had hurt too much, to curse his neighbour. Uncaring of the layer of semi-liquid filth that coated his hair, back and legs, he’d eased on to his mattress and pulled up the ragged blanket. A few heartbeats later, he’d fallen asleep. Mercifully, he had had no dreams.

Waking to the chill of another grey dawn, Carbo had lain with a throbbing headache, wondering if becoming a gladiator was the wisest choice. He’d wrestled with the option for an age, worried that he would not be tough enough for the brutal world of the ludus. But Carbo could think of no other path to follow. Eventually, the bad smell coating every part of him had prompted him into action. At the public baths two streets over, he’d managed to cadge the entrance price from a kindly old man. Carbo had never enjoyed washing himself so much, or felt so grateful that he had grown up with the luxury of running water in his house. Once he was clean, the problem of his soiled tunic and undergarment — licium — became far more pressing. Wearing the drying cloth furnished by the baths attendant, Carbo had ventured on to the street, where he washed his clothes in the public fountain that sat alongside the bathing house. Donning his soaking wet garments, he had glowered at the passersby’s laughter. Next, he’d gone to Ambrosius’ door where he had returned the lamp and gladius to the same slave who had helped save him the previous night. Refusing the invitation to go in and meet the veteran, Carbo had headed straight for the city’s ludus, which lay outside the walls to the north.

Now that he’d reached its gates, his courage was threatening to desert him. Carbo stood mutely, staring at the thick metal strips that criss-crossed the timber doors, and the tall ramparts above. The ludus looked, and felt, like a prison. From within, he could hear shouts and the dull clash of weapons. It was quite daunting.

‘What do you want?’

Carbo focused on the guard, a swarthy man carrying a spear and shield. A battered helmet concealed much of his face, making the demand even more intimidating. ‘I’ve come to offer my services as an auctoratus.’

‘You? An auctoratus?’ The three words conveyed endless contempt.

Carbo held his stare. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you use a sword or spear?’

‘A sword, yes.’

‘Is that right?’ sneered the guard.

‘Yes, it damn well is, you cheeky bastard,’ snapped Carbo. For all his failures, he was far above this creature on the social ladder. ‘I demand to see the lanista.’

The guard blinked at his determination. ‘What do I care if you want to get yourself killed?’ He rapped on the timbers with his knuckles. ‘Open up!’

With a loud creaking noise, one of the gates began to open.

Carbo’s stomach twisted, but he stood his ground. Stay with me, Jupiter, Greatest and Best.