Spartacus: The Gladiator

  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 i
s 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.