‘It’s true,’ said Getas gloomily.
‘Fifty Gauls would make a huge difference to our capabilities,’ admitted Seuthes. ‘But you’ve already failed to persuade Castus and Gannicus, and Crixus is unapproachable. What else can we do?’
Spartacus frowned. ‘There has to be some way around this obstacle.’
‘Would they follow you if you beat them individually in combat?’ asked Carbo suddenly.
‘Eh?’ Seuthes rounded on him. ‘You want Spartacus to take on three champion fighters, one after another? Why don’t you do it instead, fool?’
Flushing, Carbo buttoned his lip.
‘I think you’re on to something.’
Spartacus ignored Getas and Seuthes’ shocked expressions, and Carbo’s confused one. ‘Obviously, I don’t want to fight all three of them. Even if I succeeded, I’d probably end up in the infirmary for a month. Neither Castus nor Gannicus would necessarily join if the other did.’
‘Of course not. They hate one another’s guts,’ said Getas.
‘But if I were to beat Crixus and he joined us, they might change their minds.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ whispered Seuthes. ‘Your arm isn’t healed. And the man’s a beast.’
‘Just leave it,’ advised Getas. ‘We can do it without the Gauls.’
‘Can we?’ Spartacus inclined his head at the patrolling guards. ‘Think of the casualties that those whoresons could cause in the first few moments. We’ve all seen attacks broken by a volley of arrows before. The same could happen here.’
A grim silence descended, and Carbo wished he’d kept his mouth shut. They had all seen the guards practising in the yard. Most could feather a target with half a dozen shafts inside sixty heartbeats.
If there was ever a time to fight Crixus, it was now, thought Spartacus. Up till now, he’d avoided confrontation because it would have been pointless. Now, there was so much to gain. If virtually every man in the ludus was taking part, they had a much greater chance of success. His gut feeling was that he should do it, and if he admitted it, Spartacus knew it was also because he wanted to be seen as the man who had unified the gladiators. Regardless of what happened once they’d escaped, that would not be forgotten. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Crixus might break a few of my ribs,’ he joked.
Getas’ mouth opened in protest, and shut again. ‘When?’
‘In the morning,’ replied Spartacus. ‘After a good night’s sleep.’
‘But—’ said Carbo, worried now.
‘Leave it,’ warned Seuthes. ‘I’ve seen that look in his eyes many times before.’
‘You’re risking your life.’
‘And that’s my choice,’ grated Spartacus.
Carbo looked down. What if he fails? he thought in anguish. What if Crixus kills him? I’ll have no one to protect me. Guilt suffused him for being so selfish, but he couldn’t help it.
Chapter IX
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Spartacus did not bother with breakfast. Having an empty stomach might give him an advantage over Crixus. Even a tiny detail such as that could tip the balance between failure and success. Before leaving his cell, he’d warmed up and oiled his muscles. He sat with Getas, Seuthes, Carbo and six other Thracians, watching the Gaul and his cronies shovelling down porridge. Eat as much as your belly will hold, you pig.
Spartacus had been slightly surprised by Ariadne’s lack of protest at his decision. Whether it was because of her ordeal at Phortis’ hands, he did not know. Whatever the reason, it had been a relief. With thoughts of the escape occupying his every moment, Spartacus had been pleased not to have one more thing to consider. It was bad enough that his dream about the snake had recurred overnight. Unsettled, Spartacus shoved away an image of him being choked to death by Crixus, not the serpent.
‘Wish me good fortune,’ he said. The shock etched on all their faces rammed home to Spartacus that they all thought he might fail. His determination redoubled. ‘Come on,’ he said, leading the way.
There was a rush to join him. Everyone knew his job. They’d already discussed making sure that Crixus’ men did not intervene. Feeling the rush of adrenalin and the sweaty palms that accompanied an entrance into battle, Spartacus nodded grimly at Getas and Seuthes, who were to guard Ariadne. Then he swaggered over to where Crixus sat.
His followers jumped to their feet but Crixus did not budge from his seat. He glowered at Spartacus. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
Guide my way, Great Rider. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’
Crixus’ lip curled. ‘What makes you think I’d be interested?’
‘Because you only have to agree to it if I beat you in single combat, with no weapons.’
Crixus’ grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘Spit it out.’
Raising his hands peacefully, Spartacus moved closer. ‘Many of us are planning to escape from the ludus,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I want you to join us.’
A mixture of emotions flitted Crixus’ face. Disbelief. Shock. Jealousy. Anger. ‘What, with you as leader?’
‘No. Each fighter follows the man he’s loyal to.’
‘Who else is taking part?’
‘Oenomaus, Gavius and nearly all the Thracians. About a hundred and twenty men.’
‘Castus? Gannicus?’
Spartacus shook his head.
‘Understandable really,’ sneered Crixus. ‘Who’d want to join with a pack of savages?’
His men snickered with amusement.
‘That’s what I thought you’d say,’ replied Spartacus equably. ‘Would your answer change if I best you in a fight?’
‘If that happens, I’d follow you into a sewer.’ Crixus’ laugh came from deep in his belly.
‘I won’t ask you to do that. We fight until one man submits, eh?’
‘Sounds good to me. I’ve been looking forward to this for an age,’ snarled Crixus, standing. He waved his arms. ‘Get out of the damn way!’
As the nearby Gauls scrambled to obey, Spartacus ran straight at at Crixus. He’d covered the distance between them in two heartbeats. Before Crixus could even react, Spartacus’ head smashed into his belly. There was an audible whoosh as all the air left Crixus’ lungs. They fell to the sand in a tangle of limbs, with Spartacus on top. He scrabbled to get up. Winded or not, Crixus was very dangerous. He was already trying to enfold him in the circle of his great arms. If that happened, the fight would be over.
Shoving away Crixus’ forearms, Spartacus began to roll away. He had the time to plant a fist in the Gaul’s groin before he stood. A loud groan told him that he’d hit the spot. He crouched, wondering if he could get in a kick to the head, but Crixus was already sitting up. Utter fury twisted his handsome face. ‘You dirty Thracian bastard! The fight hadn’t started!’
‘There’s no summa rudis here. No rules either,’ taunted Spartacus. He wanted to really rile Crixus. An angry man was more likely to make mistakes.
Getas and Seuthes whooped in encouragement.
‘That’s how it is, eh? I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out,’ shouted Crixus. ‘You’ll submit quick enough then.’
His men roared their approval.
‘You think? Come and try!’
Furious, Crixus charged forward like a rampaging wild boar and they clinched together like two lovers. At once Spartacus was grateful for the wrestling holds taught to him by a Greek mercenary with whom he’d served in Bithynia. Crixus was far stronger than he. Spartacus’ skill – and the slippery oil that coated his skin – was all that saved him from defeat in the moments that followed. They grappled to and fro, arms locked, with their faces locked in savage grimaces. Bent on revenge, Crixus aimed a knee at Spartacus’ crotch, but Spartacus was able to block it with a hastily raised thigh.
‘Your balls hurting still?’ jibed Spartacus.
‘Not half as much as yours will when I get to them!’ With a great heave, Crixus threw Spartacus to one side. Caught off balance, he stumbled and went down. Cri
xus was on him like a raging beast, throwing body punches that sent waves of searing agony through Spartacus’ every fibre. Trying to ignore the pain, he swiftly planted a leg against Crixus’ muscular belly. Gripping the Gaul by the shoulders of his tunic, Spartacus threw him to one side.
Incredibly, Crixus got up quicker than Spartacus could. Spartacus was on his knees still when the Gaul came barrelling in and struck him in the face with one of his enormous fists. Spartacus felt his nose split like an overripe plum, heard the crunch as the tissue within broke. Driven back on to the sand by the force of the blow, he bellowed with the pain of it. Pausing only to kick Spartacus a few times, Crixus leaped on top of him again. His fingers clawed towards Spartacus’ face. ‘I’m going to tear your fucking eyes out of your head!’
Spartacus was half blinded by blood and in complete agony. He also knew that if Crixus locked his thumbs into his eye sockets, the game was up. There had been occasions when he’d used the tactic himself, and it was brutally effective. Spartacus wondered if Crixus would stop once he’d ripped out his eyeballs? Probably not. The thought of living out his life as a blinded cripple, or dying right now, filled him with utter desperation.
Drawing up his arms inside those of Crixus, Spartacus whipped them sideways with all the strength in his body. Unprepared for such a move, Crixus toppled down on top of him. Spartacus sank his teeth into the first part of the Gaul’s flesh that met his lips. It happened to be his nose. Spartacus bit down as hard as he could, worrying it as a dog does a rat. He was dimly aware of Crixus screaming and raining weakened punches on his unprotected abdomen, but he did not release his grip. Take that, you bastard!
Somehow, cold reason penetrated the red mist that coated Spartacus’ consciousness. If I bite off half his nose, the prick will never join us. He unclamped his jaws, and Crixus reared back, showering him in gore. Spartacus heaved over on to his side, and struggled free from the other’s grip. There was no resistance. Scrambling up, he wiped the blood from his eyes. Three steps away, Crixus was climbing to his feet, clutching his ruined nose with one hand. ‘I’ll kill you!’ he snarled.
This was his best chance. For all his noise, Crixus was hurting badly. Spartacus twisted and danced, aiming punches at the Gaul’s belly. Crixus blocked them and threw a couple of immense blows with his free hand. Spartacus let one land, grunting with the shock of it. Another one quickly followed, striking his wounded arm. The pain was overwhelming, and Spartacus’ vision blurred for a moment. Come on! Shaking his head, he stayed where he was. The punishment had to be endured. Managing to stoop under Crixus’ swinging fists a moment later, he enveloped the Gaul with both his arms. Taking all of the other’s weight on his right hip, and ignoring the agony radiating from his wound, Spartacus flung him bodily to the sand.
Crixus landed face first, and it was Spartacus’ turn to jump on top. Sitting on the Gaul’s back, he shoved his right arm around the other’s neck. Grasping his right hand with his left, he took Crixus in a chokehold. As his grip tightened, his arm formed a ‘V’ shape around the Gaul’s windpipe, blocking it entirely. A horrible rattling sound left Crixus’ lips, and his arms flailed about, trying to reach Spartacus. His attempts were futile, and it didn’t take more than a dozen heartbeats before his great strength began to leave him. The flesh on the back of his neck turned dark red.
Spartacus could only imagine what Crixus’ face looked like.
Still the Gaul didn’t give in.
You stupid, stupid bastard, thought Spartacus. He glanced quickly to either side. The faces of the watching Gauls were aghast, stricken with horror, while those of his men were filled with triumph. Killing the big ox won’t help our cause! Gods above, but he hadn’t considered this option. I can’t let him live, though. He’ll try to kill me the first moment he can. Expertly, Spartacus tightened his hold even further. Choose your own death then. I’ll have to convince Castus and Gannicus some other way.
Then Crixus’ left hand rose weakly into the air. The forefinger extended upward, in the appeal for mercy. Spartacus didn’t quite believe his eyes, didn’t trust Crixus even now. ‘Do you yield?’ he roared.
The finger rose a fraction higher, before the whole arm flopped back on to the sand.
‘Let him go!’ roared a Gaul.
‘You’ve killed him!’ yelled another.
With great care, Spartacus released his grip around Crixus’ neck. The Gaul slumped down and did not move. Great Rider, keep him alive! Climbing off, Spartacus rolled his opponent over on to his back. He was shocked by Crixus’ appearance. The Gaul’s face was a shocking purple colour. A steady stream of blood ran from the dreadful wound on his nose, which was covered in sand. His eyes were glassy and the whites had turned scarlet. His engorged tongue protruded from fat, sausage-like lips, and there was a reddened ring around his neck, marking where Spartacus’ hold had been.
‘Get some water!’ shouted Spartacus. He slapped Crixus across the cheeks.
There was no initial response, but a moment later, the Gaul coughed weakly.
Spartacus could have cheered.
Someone – Spartacus was vaguely surprised that it was Restio, the betmaker, because he hadn’t been present initially – handed him a leather water bag, and he emptied it over Crixus’ head.
The Gaul’s eyes came back into focus. He coughed again and rubbed at his neck.
‘Damn sore, I’d say,’ said Spartacus, noticing for the first time that the wound on the back of his right arm was bleeding. ‘You should have given in sooner. You’re as stubborn as a mule.’
‘I’ve never lost a fight,’ said Crixus in wonderment. His voice had a new, gravelly timbre to it.
‘There’s always a first time,’ replied Spartacus, still trying to gauge what the Gaul’s response would be. ‘I’m not quite sure how I did it.’
‘By being the dirtiest bastard in Italy,’ retorted Crixus, gingerly touching his nose.
‘That was the hardest fight I’ve ever had,’ said Spartacus. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but that wasn’t what was important. Getting Crixus to honour his word was. ‘You’re like Hercules himself.’
‘Hercules didn’t lose,’ Crixus grunted irritably.
Spartacus’ heart beat a little faster, and he leaned closer. ‘About my proposition,’ he said in a low voice.
Restio nudged the Gaul beside him. ‘What’s he talking about?’
He was ignored.
‘I’m a man of honour. I lost the fight, so me and my lot will join you,’ growled Crixus.
‘Good.’ I can’t trust him one iota, thought Spartacus. But at least the bastard has agreed to come on board. Sensing the silence, he scanned the yard. Unsurprisingly, all eyes – even those of the guards – were on them. Phortis was only twenty steps or so away. ‘We’re being watched. Act as I do,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘That will teach you to insult my people!’ he yelled. ‘Watch your mouth in future. D’you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ muttered Crixus furiously. He appeared entirely convincing, and Spartacus jerked his head at his men. ‘Let’s go.’
He was pleased to notice Phortis, looking furious, turn away and resume his conversation with one of the trainers. With luck, the Capuan would regard the fight as nothing more than a brawl between two of the best gladiators.
Now all he had to do was persuade the other Gauls to take part.
Preoccupied, Spartacus did not notice Restio scurry away from the crowd.
Rather than go to the surgeon to have his injury tended, Spartacus headed straight for the baths. He’d seen Castus and Gannicus heading in there with a bunch of their men. ‘Carbo, come with me,’ he ordered when they’d reached the door. ‘The rest of you, stay here.’
Carbo was thrilled to be picked, but his stomach twisted with tension. This could get very nasty.
‘Once we’re out, where’s the best place for us to head?’ Spartacus’ attention was already focused on the men within the changing room. They moved out of his way, and he smiled, aware that
with the blood covering much of his face, he must look outlandish. There was no sign of the Gaulish leaders, which meant that they’d already progressed into the tiled bathing area.
I can be useful to him! I know the whole region. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Somewhere secure. Hard to reach. Easily defendable. A mountain, or perhaps a forest.’ Once we’re there we can decide what to do.
‘Vesuvius.’
Spartacus looked at him blankly.
‘The flat-topped peak that’s visible to the south of here. The lower slopes are farmed, but not many people visit the summit. It’s supposed to be one of Vulcan’s resting places.’
A memory tugged at Spartacus, but, feeling impatient, he took no notice. ‘It sounds perfect. What about the surrounding countryside?’
‘It’s mostly full of latifundia.’ He saw Spartacus’ interest. ‘They’d be easy pickings.’
‘Good.’ Spartacus beckoned him closer. ‘Castus and Gannicus need to be persuaded that joining us would be a good idea. It’s your job to sell Vesuvius to them. Think you can do it?’
‘Yes,’ said Carbo confidently. This was no time to appear indecisive.
Spartacus clapped him on the arm. ‘Follow me.’
Ignoring the curious looks of the others present, the pair went into the frigidarium. The cold room was empty, so they moved on to the caldarium, which was packed. Ribald banter and gossip filled the muggy air. Men lounged about on the tiles or in the warm water, luxuriating in the heat. This was one of the few indulgences in the gladiators’ lives. Castus, a short man with bright red hair, was at one end of the pool with a number of his followers while Gannicus, moon-faced and jovial, occupied the opposite end with a gaggle of his. Both were studiously ignoring the other.
Spartacus strode to the midpoint of the pool so that the two leaders could see him.
All conversation ceased.
Spartacus leered. Blood had run from his nose down into his mouth, staining his teeth red. He’s like some kind of crazed demon, thought Carbo with a thrill of fear.