‘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 p
rotest, 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.