The Gladiator

Chapter VI

With a loud creaking sound, the ludus’ main gate opened. This was enough to attract most gladiators’ attention. The trainers, Amarantus among them, were not immune either. A guard came stumping in, followed by a tall figure in a once fine tunic. The moment that they were both inside, the gate swung shut with a heavy clang.

‘Someone looking for fighters?’ wondered Getas.

‘No,’ answered Spartacus. ‘He’s only a boy. He can’t be more than eighteen.’

‘Look at the way he carries himself. He must be from a good family.’

‘His clothes are soaking wet,’ noted Spartacus. ‘That’s odd.’

The young man was led upstairs to Batiatus’ quarters. Rival theories about his reason for visiting the ludus rippled through the assembled gladiators.

‘Back to work,’ cried Amarantus. ‘Get a move on, you lazy scumbags. We haven’t got all day.’

‘Attention!’ Phortis’ voice cracked through the air like a whiplash.

Spartacus looked up to see the Capuan on the balcony beside the man who’d been escorted upstairs. The youth was sallow-skinned, with a thin, pockmarked face.

‘This young gentleman goes by the name of Carbo,’ announced Phortis. ‘He has asked Batiatus if he can enter the ludus as an auctoratus.’

‘He looks as if he’s still on his mother’s tit!’ bellowed a fighter.

‘The prick’s far too scrawny,’ cried another. ‘He’d snap in two if you hit him hard enough.’

A rumble of amusement rose from the yard, and Carbo flushed with anger.

‘Why is he here? Has he screwed his father’s mistress?’ asked Crixus.

A murmur of interest replaced the gladiator’s laughter. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a citizen to join their number as a paid contractee. Some joined for the thrill of it, the taste of danger that they might never experience otherwise. Most, however, entered the ludus under a cloud. Sometimes it was because they had broken the law in some way, but often it was the likes of gambling debts that drove them through the gate.

Above them, Phortis smirked. ‘It wasn’t that. Or so he says. I didn’t like to ask further.’

‘What was it then?’ cried Crixus. ‘Lost all your money on chariot racing?’

Carbo’s temper flared. ‘It’s none of your damn business.’

‘A sensitive issue, is it?’ retorted Crixus, glowering back.

‘Piss off,’ Carbo replied.

‘Come down here and say that again,’ yelled Crixus. Given Carbo’s request to enter the ludus, the huge difference in their status meant little, and he knew it.

Carbo cursed silently. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? I’ve just angered someone as big as Hercules. Even if by some miracle I win, he’ll want to kill me.

‘Before Batiatus agrees, he wishes to have Carbo’s ability with weapons judged,’ said Phortis loudly. ‘I need a volunteer to spar a round or two with him.’ He smiled at the animal sound of interest which met his words. ‘With wooden swords. I know what you lot are like. Otherwise, Carbo would spend his first month here in the infirmary. Who’s interested?’

At least half the men in the yard stepped forward with raised hands. Spartacus regarded them with faint amusement. Thrashing a nobleman, especially a damp, beaten-down one, was the last thing on his mind. To most, however, the prospect was clearly appealing, even if it was only with a blunt-edged practice weapon.

Phortis looked down in silence, studying the fighters.

Crixus was busy hissing at every Gaul within earshot. ‘Stand back! Lower your hands! This is my fight.’ With sullen glances, some of his countrymen obeyed. Wary of antagonising him, a number of other gladiators did the same. Plenty ignored Crixus, however.

‘It seems that some want to fight you more than others,’ said Phortis, casting a sardonic glance at Carbo.

‘Fine,’ snapped Carbo. ‘I don’t care.’ And he genuinely didn’t. He had run out of ideas, bar one: to pass the entrance test here.

‘In that case,’ said Phortis, his tone silky smooth, ‘you won’t mind if…’ His gaze fell on Crixus, before moving on. He pointed to Spartacus. ‘… a fellow newcomer, as yet untested in the arena, has the honour of welcoming you to the ludus?’

Carbo eyed the Thracian. Despite Phortis’ deprecating comments, he was compactly built, and looked expert at handling himself. His guts churned. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

Spartacus could sense Crixus’ rage from twenty paces away. Anger surged through his own veins. Phortis had done this deliberately, not to see Carbo beaten, but to set the Gaul against him — as if he wasn’t already, after what had happened the previous night. He set his jaw. There was nothing to be done about it for now. ‘Where do I go?’

‘Follow me,’ directed Amarantus. He headed for the roped-off square in the centre of the courtyard. Already fighters were standing three and four deep around it. Spartacus and his comrades followed. So did the Scythian. They shoved their way through the throng, right up to the waist-high ropes which formed the area’s perimeter.

‘In you go,’ said Amarantus, lifting the rope.

As Spartacus entered the square, he felt a tickling thrill of anticipation. A fight was still a fight.

‘Who’ll back Carbo?’ shouted a voice. ‘The boy looks unremarkable, but he wouldn’t have walked in here if he couldn’t handle himself.’

Glancing around, Spartacus recognised Restio, who had seen him kill the Gaul. So he’s a betmaker too.

‘What odds?’ asked a German.

‘Twenty to one against.’

‘That’s well worth a gamble.’ The German’s grin was feral. ‘Put me down for five denarii.’

A clamour of voices rained down, placing even larger wagers on the newcomer. Restio’s business was only interrupted by the arrival of Phortis and Carbo in the square. The Capuan had two practice swords under one arm. Ordering Carbo to shed his tunic and sandals, he made the pair stand ten paces apart.

Spartacus stared hard at Carbo, who surprisingly held his gaze.

The onlookers were eyeing the Roman’s well-muscled chest and upper arms. ‘Sure you should have given me such long odds?’ asked the German.

‘Compared to Spartacus, he looks like a plucked chicken,’ retorted Restio with aplomb. ‘Just wait and see.’

Next, Phortis tossed each man a weapon: to Spartacus, a gladius, and to Carbo, a sica. Spartacus gripped his blade like a lover, and wishing that he’d been given the other sword. Unused to the wooden sica’s weight, Carbo hefted his to and fro. A damn shame that I didn’t have more lessons from Paccius.

‘Helmets and shields!’ Phortis bellowed.

There was a short delay before two slaves appeared. One carried a scutum, while the other bore a small, square shield and a distinctive Phrygian helmet. The first headed for Spartacus, and the other to Carbo. They handed over the items and scurried to safety.

Phortis looked up at the balcony, where Batiatus was now waiting. An expectant hush fell over the courtyard.

‘The bout will last until one man is either disarmed or acknowledges defeat,’ said the lanista. ‘Begin!’

Phortis scrambled out of the way, and Spartacus moved forward at a trot.

By now, Ariadne had heard what was going on. Using a bench to stand on, she peered out of the cell window. Let it be over quickly, she prayed. Keep Spartacus from harm.

Carbo had the sense not to meet Spartacus’ overwhelming attack head on. With nimble footwork, he dodged to one side. Instantly, the air filled with jeers. Spartacus spun around and went after him with deadly speed. He caught up within six strides. Clattering his shield off the other’s, he thrust his gladius straight at Carbo’s face. The Roman’s head jerked frantically to one side, and the wooden sword’s tip skittered off the side of his helmet.

Carbo’s lightning-fast response caught everyone off guard, Spartacus most of all. Even as Carbo reeled backwards, he thrust around the side of his shield, driving the point of his weapon into Spartacus’ bare midriff. The Thracian doubled over with pain. He had the wits to pull close his shield and shuffle backwards but even so, Carbo was on him like a dog on a rat. He rained down a flurry of blows, aiming for Spartacus’ head. Maybe I can win this!

‘No!’ whispered Ariadne in horror. It was easy to imagine that the bout was real.

A few men began cheering for Carbo. ‘What odds will you give me on the Roman now?’ demanded a Samnite.

Restio recovered his betmaker’s poise fast. ‘The rookie’s wasting his time. Everyone knows that Thracians’ skulls are incredibly thick. Spartacus probably doesn’t even know that Carbo’s hitting him.’ He smiled as the men around him roared with laughter.

Spartacus heard none of the exchange. He was concentrating on recovering the breath that had been driven from his lungs by Carbo’s first blow. The moment that the young Roman’s attack slowed, he’d strike like a snake. Fast and lethal. End this charade for once and for all.

Realising that his assault was having little effect, Carbo swung his right arm down. Trying to repeat his earlier success, he made a desperate thrust at Spartacus’ abdomen. This time, however, the Thracian was ready for him. With a powerful sideswipe of his shield, he smashed Carbo’s blade up and out of the way. In the same instant, Spartacus launched a massive swing at the other’s head. His gladius connected with a loud, metallic clang, and Carbo staggered away, his vision blurred, and with a huge dent in his bronze helmet.

Take that, you bastard, thought Spartacus.

Many of the gladiators cheered loudly. Ariadne joined in.

Carbo adjusted his helmet and shook his shoulders. What in Hades should I do now? There was no possible way that he could beat Spartacus. But I can still impress Batiatus.

‘Game over,’ announced Restio with satisfaction. ‘Why bother with swordsmanship when brute force will do?’

Spartacus sauntered towards his opponent. ‘Ready to surrender?’

Carbo raised his sword and shield determinedly. ‘No,’ he said, his voice muffled by his helmet. Jupiter, help me.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ growled Spartacus in a low voice.

‘Piss off.’ Carbo didn’t back away either, nor did he drop his weapon. Instead, he slid his bare feet across the sand, moving towards Spartacus with just as much intent as he’d shown earlier. He wasn’t aware quite how dangerous the Thracian was, however.

Powering forward, Spartacus swept away Carbo’s thrust as easily as he’d have swatted a fly. Dropping his right shoulder, he smashed his shield into the other’s, sending Carbo sprawling to the ground. Spartacus stooped and shoved the point of his sword right under the lower edge of Carbo’s helmet. ‘Yield!’

Carbo shook his head. Batiatus has to see that I’m no coward.

‘What’s he doing?’ hissed Restio. ‘Does the fool want to die?’

Spartacus suspected his reason for not giving in. His pride won’t let him. Sometimes, death is preferable to dishonour. ‘Yield!’ he repeated.

Again Carbo shook his head in refusal.

‘Finish the stupid bastard!’ roared Crixus.

‘ Iugula! Iugula! ’ shouted many of the gladiators. ‘Kill him!’

Spartacus glanced up at the balcony. There was no longer any sign of Batiatus. Phortis merely shrugged. He didn’t care whether Carbo lived or died.

The roar of ‘ Iugula ’ swelled until the very walls of the ludus rang with it.

Spartacus glanced around the square, and saw the fighters’ bloodlust. He felt it himself. The decision was down to him. His strength and the proximity of the strike meant that even with a wooden sword, Carbo ran a real risk of dying. He hardened his heart. Is that my fault? The fool had had two chances, and refused both. If he didn’t follow through now, the other gladiators would see him as weak. He’s only a fucking Roman after all. With a snarl, Spartacus pulled back his right arm.

Suddenly, Carbo realised that he might have pushed things too far. He clenched his teeth in bitter acceptance.

‘No,’ whispered Ariadne. ‘You can’t kill an unarmed man.’

‘ Iugula! Iugula! ’

Closing his left eye, Spartacus took aim at the small hollow at the base of Carbo’s throat. If he drove the wooden sword in hard enough there, it would kill the Roman. So be it.

‘Hold!’ bellowed Batiatus through the shouting.

Spartacus barely heard. He just managed to check himself. Confused, he squinted up at the lanista.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘He won’t give in,’ replied Spartacus. ‘And Phortis didn’t say not to.’

Batiatus rounded on the Capuan. ‘Idiot! I step away from the balcony for a moment, and this is what happens? Why didn’t you end the fight? Carbo fought well enough for a tiro. He might be inexperienced, but he’s no good to me as a damn corpse. Eh?’

‘No, sir,’ muttered Phortis. He shot a vengeful look at Spartacus.

‘Step away from him,’ ordered Batiatus.

Spartacus did as he was told.

Ariadne felt a wave of relief. The Roman would live. She glanced at Spartacus again, feeling awe, and a little fear. Gods, but he is a tough bastard.

Slowly, the Roman sat up. Thank you, Jupiter.

‘I didn’t expect you to fight so well, Carbo. But your inexperience was also obvious. You have a lot to learn,’ said the lanista. ‘The first thing should be that if you go into a fight looking to die, you’ll probably succeed.’ He smiled at the guffaws this produced.

Carbo nodded wearily. With an effort, he took off his helmet.

‘Return tomorrow. You’ll be paid your joining fee, and you can start training at once. My lawyer will have drawn up the contract by then.’ Batiatus turned and was gone.

‘The entertainment is over. Back to your training!’ Phortis shouted. He threw another venomous stare at Spartacus, but the Thracian ignored him.

Carbo’s voice broke into his reverie. ‘You were going to kill me.’

‘Of course I was, idiot. What do you expect me to do when you wouldn’t give in — try to talk you out of it?’

Carbo flushed. ‘No.’ There’s no mercy in this world.

‘You were foolish not to yield when I knocked you over,’ said Spartacus harshly, feeling a trace of remorse. He’s only a boy.

‘I see that now. I was trying to…’ Carbo hesitated.

‘You want to die? There’s no need to come here. Why not fling yourself in front of a chariot at the races? Or off a bridge into a damn river?’

‘It’s not that. I wanted to prove to Batiatus that I was brave enough,’ muttered Carbo.

‘Eh?’ Spartacus barked. ‘Well, you did that. You showed real ability too.’

Carbo blinked in surprise. ‘Ability?’ he repeated.

‘That’s what I said. Why not put it to some use?’

Carbo met Spartacus’ unwavering gaze, and saw that he was not joking. His chin lifted. ‘All right. I will.’

‘Good.’ The Roman had humility as well as courage, thought Spartacus. Despite the fact that Crixus’ and Phortis’ animosity towards him had deepened, he was glad now that he hadn’t killed Carbo. ‘Keep your mouth shut. Listen to your trainer. Watch men like Crixus, the big Gaul. Learn how they fight. If you can do that, you might still be alive in six months’ time. That’s all any of us in here can expect.’

‘Thank you.’

Spartacus stalked back to where Getas and Seuthes were standing with Amarantus. From the corner of his eye, he was aware of other gladiators giving him approving nods. Excellent. In being prepared to kill Carbo, he’d done the right thing.

Unaware of the politics, Carbo looked around for Phortis. He needed to ask if he could stay immediately. There was little point returning to his garret, where his rent would run out again in a week. He could use some of his joining fee to pay it, but it would be a waste. His bed and board here came with his contract. It would be tough here, however. Already there were lascivious glances coming his way from a few fighters. Carbo squared his shoulders. Screw them. I’ll make a go of it.

Ariadne also noticed the favourable looks being thrown at Spartacus. She was surprised by the sudden pride that filled her. Her husband was making a name for himself. No doubt that had been his primary motive in being prepared to kill Carbo, she reflected. She knew enough of Spartacus now to know that he was not a cold-blooded killer. His new status would make life in the ludus safer for her too. Then Ariadne saw Phortis leering at her, and her fears resurged.

Safer from the gladiators, at least.

Over the following few days, two other gladiators picked quarrels with Spartacus. He’d gone for the kill in both fights, battering one of the men, a Nubian, until he was unconscious, and the other, a blocky German, until he’d begged for mercy. After that, it was if Spartacus had passed some kind of test. The fighters began to give him a wide berth. Soon after, he was approached by a number of Thracians. They came offering their allegiance. Their approach was most welcome. Spartacus had realised that survival and status in the ludus was all about being a member of a group. The oddments of the ludus, a disparate group of nationalities, were the only ones who were leaderless. Under Oenomaus, the Germans were well organised into one bloc. The Samnites were loyal to the charismatic but dangerous Gavius. Even the quarrelsome Gauls had Crixus, Castus and Gannicus. Three factions rather than one, but both were a damn sight stronger than the ten or more bunches of Thracians that had gradually evolved.

Spartacus was therefore content to accept the warriors’ fealty. The knowledge that they regarded him as their leader gave him a warm feeling in his belly, like the times he’d recruited war bands in Thrace. It was only a start, but a start nonetheless. Certainly it felt better than just waiting to be killed in the arena. While word had got out that Ariadne was a priestess, making men look at her with more reverence than they had, it didn’t mean that she was safe. His increased number of followers meant that he could ensure she was watched over far more closely. It also meant that Crixus, who was still clearly spoiling for a fight, kept his distance. Spartacus knew that this was putting off the inevitable, but when the time came to take on the huge Gaul, he wanted it to be on his terms. ‘More often than not, the general who chooses the battlefield wins the fight,’ his father had often said. To this end, Spartacus drove himself to new lengths with his training, continuing to run around the courtyard and lift weights long after Amarantus had finished with him for the day. While Getas and Seuthes moaned bitterly, they too stuck to his regime.

One evening, Spartacus was actually glad to call an end to his exercise. Thanks to the dark, threatening clouds filling the sky, it was growing dark earlier than normal. A bitter autumn wind was whipping down into the yard, penetrating his tunic with ease. The sweat that coated his body was being cooled even as it formed. Spartacus didn’t want to catch a chill for the sake of a few extra laps. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he said.

‘Thank the Rider,’ said Getas, purple-faced. ‘I thought you’d never say that.’

‘To the baths?’ asked Seuthes.

‘Where else?’ Spartacus led the way.

As they neared the doors to the bathing area, he saw Carbo skulking in the shadows under the walkway. The young Roman was living in the ludus, but Spartacus hadn’t seen where. A quick glance told him that Carbo wasn’t faring well. He had a black eye, a cut to his lower lip, and his tunic had been ripped off his right shoulder. The flesh underneath was badly bruised. Poor bastard.

‘Come here.’

Carbo looked around in surprise. ‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

Carbo limped out into the yard, in obvious pain. ‘What is it?’ He rubbed at the dark rings under his eyes with one hand. The other stayed inside his tunic.

‘Not getting much sleep? It’s tough here, eh?’

‘I’m not complaining,’ Carbo replied curtly.

‘I know you’re not. The fact is, though, that you’re being picked on by men who are bigger and tougher than you.’

Carbo’s eyes glittered, and he revealed the hand that had been residing in his tunic. In his fingers, he gripped a length of iron. ‘The next whoreson who comes near me will get this stuck in his chest.’

‘You’ll get yourself killed, boy.’ Spartacus stepped closer. ‘Why don’t you throw your lot in with me?’

Distrust twisted Carbo’s scarred features. ‘Why would you ask me that?’

‘Because we need good fighters.’ Leave the boy his pride. Spartacus grinned wryly and lifted his tunic to reveal the mark left by Carbo’s sword. ‘And you’re definitely one of those.’

Carbo felt his worries ease a fraction. This hard man had some respect for him after all. ‘I’d be pleased to join you.’

‘Good. Come into the baths, get yourself cleaned up. You can bunk in with Getas and Seuthes for the moment.’ He saw Carbo’s suspicion. ‘Neither of them will touch you. They’re not like that.’

A gusty sigh of relief left Carbo’s lips. He’d been sleeping — more accurately, dozing — in Restio’s cell. While the Iberian had not attempted any sexual assaults, as others had, Carbo didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t sure of Spartacus either, but this was a better offer than he’d had from anyone else. ‘Thanks.’

A tiny, secretive smile twitched across Spartacus’ lips as they entered the baths. Another one enters the fold.

‘Gods above, get off me!’ Spartacus muttered. Waking abruptly, he sat bolt upright. Ripping off his thick woollen tunic, he threw it to the floor. He saw nothing. With an oath, he leaped across to the furthest corner of the cell, where he checked the wicker basket. It was securely closed. Spartacus mouthed another savage curse.

‘What are you doing?’

He didn’t answer.

Ariadne opened one eye, and then the other. Gods, but he looks good naked. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. Go back to sleep,’ he muttered, returning to his mattress.

The tension in his voice alarmed her. ‘Spartacus?’

He wouldn’t look at her.

‘Was it a dream?’

The slightest of nods.

‘A nightmare?’ she asked intuitively.

‘I suppose. It’s probably nothing.’

‘Tell me. Maybe I can make some sense of it.’

Silence.

Ariadne waited.

Finally, turning his head, Spartacus met her gaze.

‘You’re worried.’

‘Yes. It was awful.’

Her eyebrows arched into a silent question.

‘You won’t leave it alone until you find out, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’m starting to know what you’re like.’

‘Is that so?’ Ariadne’s smile faded as she glanced at the basket. ‘You dreamed of a serpent.’

He gave her a startled look. ‘Yes.’

‘What was it doing?’

Spartacus’ hands rose to his neck and lower jaw, encircling them. ‘The damn thing was coiled up here. It was looking me in the eyes!’

‘And you thought that it was my snake?’

‘Have you forgotten the other night?’ he asked testily. ‘I only wish it had escaped this time as well.’ He made an obscene gesture at the basket.

‘You hate the creature,’ said Ariadne calmly. ‘Why on earth would you want it wrapped around your throat?’

‘Because then my dream wouldn’t have meant a thing. Now… the whole thing feels like a bad omen. A message from the gods. Not one I’d welcome either.’ Spartacus made the sign against evil.

‘What else can you remember?’ Ariadne kept her voice calm, but inside her heart had begun to race. This doesn’t sound good.

‘Eh?’ His grey eyes came back into focus. ‘I was in a desolate place, with little but rocks all around. It may have been the top of a mountain.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I could see nothing but sky around me, and the air was thin, as it is at altitude.’

‘Was I with you? Or Getas and Seuthes?’

He frowned, concentrating. ‘No. I was alone.’

‘Anything else?’

There was a short pause. ‘I was carrying a sword.’

‘What type?’

The fingers of Spartacus’ right hand clenched and opened again. ‘It was a sica.’

‘You’re sure?’ demanded Ariadne.

He nodded.

This vision can only have been sent by the gods. Ariadne rose from the mattress without a word. She drew on her robe. Moving to where her figurines of Dionysus sat, she knelt. Her lips began to move in silent entreaty. I place myself at your command as always, O Great One. I ask you for an explanation of my husband’s dream. There was no immediate response, which did not surprise, or worry, Ariadne. She began to breathe deeply, preparing herself to go into the trance-like state which often aided her understanding of all things arcane.

Spartacus eyed her with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. She had placed their single oil light before two tiny carvings. Both depicted Dionysus. One showed him as a half-clad, beardless youth surrounded by ecstatic maenads, his women followers; they reached their hands up to him in offering. The second statuette was of two figures, the first a mature, bearded deity, clad in a long tunic and with a fawn skin cloaking his shoulders. Ivy wreathed his entire body. Dionysus’ right hand gripped that of the other figure, a majestic, elderly man whose left hand bore a sceptre. Hades.

Spartacus shivered. He’d have been happier without a representation of the god of the underworld in his living quarters. He could take the maenads presenting Dionysus with raw animal flesh to eat, but seeing Hades always made him feel uneasy. Yet he had to respect with Ariadne’s ways. Her habits. It was part of who she was. As ever, Spartacus prayed not to Dionysus, but to his favourite deity, the Rider. Finishing his own request, Spartacus watched her in respectful silence.

Time dragged by.

Spartacus knew better than to interrupt Ariadne. He fell deep into thought, worrying about what the dream might mean. In the background, he was vaguely aware of Phortis unlocking the door and throwing in his usual taunts. Eventually — Spartacus was not sure how long — he felt Ariadne’s eyes upon him. ‘Did you see aught that might explain what I saw?’

She shook her head sorrowfully. I can’t think of anything positive to say either.

‘I see.’ The horror Spartacus had experienced as the snake coiled around his neck surged back. A moment before, his belly had been grumbling. Now it felt like a pool of burning acid. So I will end my days here, as a plaything for the Romans. Sighing, he shrugged on his undergarment, tunic and over them, a densely woven brown cloak. ‘Coming?’ he asked without looking at her.

‘Spartacus.’

He dragged his eyes up to Ariadne’s.

‘Try not to worry. It might be revealed later.’ Great Dionysus, do not fail me. I beg you.

‘Or it might not,’ he retorted sourly. ‘I could be killed at any time.’

She recoiled as if stung. Do not let his dream be about that. His life cannot be nearly over yet. Can it?

‘I’m sorry,’ said Spartacus, feeling instant remorse. There was no need to remind her of the dangers he faced.

‘So am I.’ He moved towards Ariadne, but as ever, was stopped by her raised hand. ‘Leave me. I must try to reach the god a second time.’

‘So soon?’ Spartacus protested. ‘Is it not too exhausting?’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Her retort was far sterner than Ariadne had meant it to be, but she needed it to retain control. I have to discover something positive to lift his spirits.

Spartacus bowed his head, hiding his concern. Leave her to it. I am not her master. Think of the hours ahead, he thought. Convincing himself that his bad dream would be forgotten by sunset, Spartacus headed for the door. Like every day since his capture, this was just another one to be endured.

Ariadne’s expression, however, remained troubled long after he had shut it behind him.

Spartacus hadn’t forgotten the snake by the day’s end, but he’d managed not to dwell on it too much. Amarantus had largely been responsible for that, running him and the three others ragged. The Gaul had stopped treating them as rookies. Instead, he concentrated on increasing their fitness to even higher levels. By the time the sun sank in the sky, Amarantus had finished with exercise. He had begun talking about gladiatorial tricks, things mostly alien to a soldier. ‘When you’re about to fight, get to the weapons rack first. The best blades go fast. Once in the arena, keep the sun at your back so that it doesn’t blind you. Ignore any insults that are thrown at you from the crowd, but acknowledge any praise or encouragements. Try to get the spectators to support you. Make flashy moves during your bout if you can. Lightly wounding your opponent goes down a treat.’

It rankled Spartacus to hear this, but he listened closely. Amarantus hadn’t got to where he was by being stupid.

Getas was much unhappier, though. ‘Why should I try to entertain the whoresons?’ he demanded. ‘They’ll have come to watch me fight and die, nothing less.’

Amarantus’ smile was world-weary. ‘Remember that your survival might depend not just on the goodwill of the editor,’ he warned. ‘The men who organise these things are always out to please the audience. If you’ve pissed them off, and then you’re unlucky enough to lose, don’t be disappointed when they call for you to die. Iugula! ’ Miming the gesture that meant death to the defeated gladiator, he jabbed a rigid thumb at his throat. Spartacus blinked, imagining the pain of a snake striking him there. ‘Whereas if they like you, they’ll do the opposite.’ Pulling up the corner of his tunic, Amarantus waved it at the balcony, as if to catch Batiatus’ attention. ‘ Mitte! Let him go!’

‘Bastard Romans,’ muttered Getas, glowering.

‘Listen or not, it’s your choice,’ said Amarantus with a shrug.

‘That’s how life is now. If you want to survive, pay attention,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘Think how stupid it would be to die because you refused to take in one piece of advice. It’d be like not thinking out your tactics before fighting a battle.’

Getas gave him a tight, angry nod.

Amarantus’ lesson came to an end soon after, and he dismissed them. Other trainers were doing the same. All over the yard, men were tugging off their sweat-drenched helmets, drinking from water skins, and doing stretches to loosen their weary muscles. Idle banter, boasts and fabricated stories filled the air. A mobile food vendor who’d been allowed in worked his way around the gladiators, hawking spiced sausages, roasted cuts of meat and small, round loaves of fresh bread. Already there was a queue for the baths. It was the quietest time of the day, when Phortis was either absent or closeted with Batiatus, talking business. Even the guards were more relaxed, talking in twos and threes on the balcony.

During this period, another group of Thracians approached Spartacus. He and his companions immediately prepared for a fight. Instead of wanting to quarrel, however, the warriors asked to join with him. Pleased, Spartacus accepted. Now he could call on nearly thirty men. It wasn’t nearly as many fighters as Oenomaus commanded, but it was approaching the size of the other factions in the ludus. Spartacus glanced around the yard, catching several other gladiators glowering at him, clearly unhappy that his position had grown stronger. Crixus in particular looked most unhappy. I can’t let down my guard even a fraction, Spartacus thought. Despite his newfound followers, it wouldn’t be that hard to kill him.

Irritated that his good mood had not lasted, Spartacus headed for his cell. Ariadne’s guarded expression jumped out at him as he entered. ‘I’ve tried all day. I could see nothing,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’ Blinking away images of the snake around his neck, Spartacus nodded.

‘Thank you for trying.’ Stay with me, Great Rider.

One afternoon, after training had finished, Carbo headed for the quarters he shared with Getas and Seuthes. The exercises that day had been particularly savage, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down for a while. The two Thracians were busy talking to Spartacus, but Carbo wasn’t worried about entering the cell. Every fighter in the ludus now knew which faction he was in, and they left him alone. To pick a fight with him meant taking on every man who followed Spartacus. He was immensely grateful for this security, without which he would surely have already been raped several times. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he flopped down on the straw padding that was his bed. Previously, Carbo would have scorned such scratchy bedding, but now it felt like the height of luxury. He closed his eyes, and soon dozed off.

Some time later, a sound woke him. He jerked upright, reaching for the piece of iron that served as his self-defence weapon. Instead of anyone threatening, however, he saw a young female slave clutching a bucket in the doorway. Her free hand rose to her mouth. ‘S-sorry. I was coming in to take out the slops. I didn’t know there was anyone here.’ Ducking her head, she made to leave.

‘Wait.’

She glanced around at him shyly. Surprise filled Carbo that she did not react to his scarred appearance. He studied her features with great interest. ‘Are you Greek?’

She nodded.

It was usual for Greek women to wear their hair up. This girl didn’t. Instead, her long black tresses fell around her face to her shoulders, concealing her from the world. She was very striking, possessing a delicately boned, round face. Her fearful brown eyes regarded him from under slightly arched eyebrows. Her typical Greek nose was not too straight, and he thought he could spot a dimple in her left cheek. Carbo’s groin throbbed as his gaze dropped lower, taking in the swell of her breasts beneath the coarse fabric of her dress. ‘I haven’t seen you before. Have you been here long?’

‘No. Only two days.’

‘That must be why I haven’t noticed you.’

Her eyes rose to his. ‘I know who you are.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’re Carbo, the auctoratus. One of Spartacus’ men.’

‘How do you know that?’

There was a careless shrug. ‘Everybody knows you.’

Carbo’s pride soared. He found her immensely attractive. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Chloris.’

‘Your Latin is good,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Yes. I had a private tutor…’ She hesitated, then added, ‘… before.’

‘Before you were enslaved?’

‘Yes. My father was a wealthy merchant in Athens. After my mother died, he began taking me on his voyages to buy goods.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He took me on one too many.’

‘Pirates?’

Chloris’ face twisted. ‘Yes. Father was killed in the initial attack and I was taken prisoner. Sold in Delphi to a Roman slave trader, who took me to Capua, where Phortis bought me.’

Carbo shook his head at life’s randomness. ‘In another life, we might have met socially, when you visited Italy.’

‘Chloris!’

She started at the summons. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Who’s calling you?’

‘Amatokos. He’s one of the Thracians.’

‘I know who he is.’ One of Spartacus’ best warriors. ‘Is he your …’

‘Yes. I need someone to protect me in here.’

Carbo scowled as she left the cell. He’d lost all desire to rest.