Spartacus: The Gladiator

  Even as Seuthes rained a flurry of blows upon the man’s face and midriff, Spartacus was looking for the scarred Gaul and his other companion. To his utter relief, Getas was giving the second man short shrift, while his original attacker was still cursing and trying to clear his eyes of sand. Quickly, Spartacus scooped up the sharpened piece of iron, which was lying by his feet. A sideways glance at the archers told him that although they had noticed the fight, they were not going to intervene. Yet. No doubt this was a daily occurrence, he thought. ‘Don’t kill them, but make a decent racket,’ he hissed. ‘I’m going to the baths.’

  Without waiting for Getas or Seuthes to reply, Spartacus ran in behind the Gaul. Grabbing his right arm, he twisted it up behind his back. He touched the homemade dagger to the other’s throat. ‘Walk,’ he ordered. ‘Walk, or I’ll stick this in so far that it comes out the outer side of your fucking neck.’

  The Gaul did as he was told, walking stiff-legged in the direction he’d pointed a few heartbeats earlier. ‘What are you going to do?’ he growled.

  Spartacus jabbed the iron into the Gaul’s skin until blood ran down his neck. ‘Shut your trap.’ Behind him, he heard his comrades screaming abuse as they kicked and spat on the other two tribesmen. Spartacus grinned with satisfaction. The archers’ attention was now completely on that brawl. Just what he wanted. ‘Move it. Faster,’ he hissed.

  Seeing steam coming out of a pair of latticed windows, Spartacus aimed for the nearest doorway. He bundled the Gaul inside and out of sight of the guards. The warm room they’d entered was square, and tiled from ceiling to floor. Colourful depictions of fish, sea monsters and Neptune covered the walls. A low bench ran around the room; it was covered with bundles of clothing, left there by the gladiators who were in the baths through the door opposite. The air was laced with the thick, pungent smell of aromatic oils. The only other occupant of the room was a half-dressed, dark-skinned, short man with black hair. He goggled in surprise at the pair’s dramatic entrance.

  Good, thought Spartacus. I want a witness to spread the word. ‘So this is where you were going to take me, eh?’

  Tense with fear, the Gaul nodded.

  ‘To suck you off?’ He spat out the words.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That isn’t going to happen, is it?’ Spartacus wrenched the Gaul’s arm up under his shoulder blade, causing him to moan in pain.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sadly, I don’t have the time to make you suffer. This will have to do, you fucking shitbag.’ Pulling back the piece of iron, Spartacus plunged it into the Gaul’s neck with all his strength. There was a loud choking sound and blood spurted all over Spartacus’ hand. He jerked free the iron, and a tide of red followed it, jetting sideways on to the floor.

  Making a strangled attempt to speak, the Gaul tottered forward one or two steps before crashing to the tiles, face first. A lake of scarlet rapidly began to form around his twitching body.

  ‘Who are you?’ Still gripping the bloody weapon, Spartacus pinned the dark-skinned man with his stare.

  ‘R-Restio is my name. I’m from Iberia.’

  ‘I see. Well, I am Spartacus the Thracian. In case you hadn’t realised, I’ve just arrived. And this is my answer to anyone who wants to fuck with me.’ He pointed at the Gaul. ‘Make damn sure that you tell every man in the ludus what you’ve seen. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not a word to Phortis, or any of the guards, though. I wouldn’t want you to end up the same way as this idiot.’

  ‘My lips are s-sealed.’

  ‘We understand each other then.’ Wiping the iron clean on the Gaul’s tunic, Spartacus shoved it into the waistband of his undergarment and sauntered outside. Whistling a tuneless ditty, he glanced up at the balcony. The guards above were showing no real interest in what was going on. He could not see Phortis either. Good. That probably means I got away with it. Next, he looked for Getas and Seuthes. They were talking loudly to Ariadne. What they were really doing, of course, was protecting her until he got back. She started forward at the sight of him, but he signalled her to wait.

  ‘Where are the two Gauls?’

  ‘They crawled off into whatever shithole they call home,’ replied Seuthes with a savage grin.

  ‘One had a broken arm, and I added a few cracked ribs to the smashed nose you gave the other,’ interjected Getas. ‘What about the ugly one?’

  ‘He’ll be staying in the baths until someone drags him out of there.’

  Ariadne’s eyes filled with horror. ‘Is he …?’

  ‘Dead, yes,’ replied Spartacus harshly. ‘It was the only way. If I’d let him live, everyone in the damn place would regard me … us,’ and he indicated Getas and Seuthes, ‘as soft targets. This way, they know that we’re most definitely not.’

  Ariadne nodded. Killing the Gaul had more than one purpose. Spartacus wouldn’t be able to watch over her all the time. It was important that every gladiator knew that she was with someone not to be trifled with. The corpse lying in the baths would send a very clear message about that.

  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 l
ifted 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 s
urreptitiously 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.