‘I have to,’ he muttered awkwardly. In an effort to reassure her, he said, ‘I’ll take a look into the house. See what’s going on. Make sure it’s safe for you.’ Safe?
She didn’t seem any happier, but Carbo didn’t know what else to say or do. Hefting his sword, he strode towards the small wooden door. Reaching it, he placed his head carefully against the timbers and listened. The voices he’d heard were still audible, but dim. Carbo waited for the count of fifty heartbeats, but the noise level remained the same. Good. There’s no one in the kitchen. He placed his thumb on the latch. With a metallic click, it lifted. He laid his ear on the door again. Nothing. Carbo’s stomach began to churn, but he pulled the door open and looked inside.
The kitchen had been thoroughly ransacked. Broken crockery lay everywhere. Doors had been ripped off cupboards. Bags of flour had been slashed open, strings of onions and bunches of herbs hacked down from the rafters. A yellow sludge of olive oil surrounded a smashed amphora. There was no sign of life, so Carbo took a step inside. Seeing the telltale crimson of blood on the tiled floor, he stiffened. He tiptoed further, finding an old man sprawled in the kitchen doorway. The slave – for that’s what he looked like – had been nearly decapitated. His head lay at a crazy, unnatural angle to his body. Carbo had never seen so much blood around one man. He must have bled out.
A woman’s scream transfixed him to the spot. It was followed by another shriek of distress, also female, and then a burst of loud, male laughter. ‘Let’s fuck them here in the courtyard,’ roared a voice.
‘Good idea,’ agreed another.
‘I’m first,’ said a third, commanding voice. ‘I’m not screwing either of these bitches after you filth. My cock would probably drop off with what I’d catch.’
There were a few nervous titters, but no one argued.
Crixus! What’s he doing here? Carbo crept back towards the door. He had nearly reached it when the first woman cried out again. ‘No! Please! No!’
Chloris? In all the gods’ names, how? Why? Carbo reeled with the shock of it. Her begging began again, and any doubt in his mind vanished. It was definitely her. Oh gods, what can I do? If I go out there, Crixus will kill me. He had to do something, however, or he’d never be able to live with the shame.
Gritting his teeth, he turned around. There was no way of getting around the old man without stepping in his blood. Carbo hesitated for a moment before dipping the fingers of his left hand in the sticky fluid, and smearing them all over his face. To have any chance of facing down Crixus, he needed to look as if he’d just slaughtered half the town on his own.
Clutching his sword with whitened knuckles, he stepped out into the courtyard. Like the garden, it was full of fruit trees, but a fountain, ornamental shrubs and Greek statues of the gods also served to decorate the space. It reminded Carbo of his family home. Through the vegetation, he spied Crixus and two other men with long hair about twenty paces away. At their feet, he could see the lower halves of two naked women. Chloris, and someone else. The heavily muscled trio were clad in mail shirts, and bloody swords dangled from their hands. They were all Gauls. Crixus would have his own countrymen with him. Carbo’s courage began ebbing away. He felt as Iolaus, Hercules’ nephew, might have felt if he’d been asked to tackle the Hydra on his own. How to play this? Threatening them won’t work. He was racking his brains for an idea when events took on a life of their own.
‘We’ve got company,’ one of the men shouted, dropping into a fighting crouch.
The others spun around, snarling with anger.
‘It’s all right. I’m one of you!’ Carbo did his best to swagger up to the trio.
‘Trying to distract me from my fuck?’ shouted Crixus. His heavy brows lowered, and then he sneered. ‘Well, well, well. It’s Spartacus’ little Roman arse wipe. You look to have killed someone at least. What are you doing sneaking around here?’
‘Looking for valuables, same as everyone,’ Carbo lied.
‘Well, you’ll find sod all here. The family savings are ours. They were under a flagstone in the atrium.’ Crixus jerked his head at the two women. ‘These two pretty bitches were hiding in a cupboard in one of the bedrooms. Finding them was a real bonus. The gods left the best for us until last, eh?’ He rubbed his crotch and his men sniggered.
Carbo took another step forward, as if to appreciate the women’s bodies. Is it really Chloris? His heart clenched with horror. It was. There was no mistaking her delicately boned face and the dimple on her left cheek, both now streaked with tears. Or her scars. Seeing Carbo’s blood-covered features, she screamed.
‘She doesn’t like you,’ said Crixus with a cruel chuckle. ‘Seeing as I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you have her anyway – after we’ve finished. How does that sound?’
‘Good, thank you.’ Carbo feigned sudden surprise. ‘Gods!’ He kicked Chloris with his sandal. ‘Chloris, is that you?’
She didn’t reply, so Carbo kicked her harder. ‘Answer me!’
‘Y-yes.’ There was still no trace of recognition in her terrified eyes.
‘Ha! I was right.’ He threw the Gauls a broad smile. ‘Imagine that.’
A sudden scowl creased Crixus’ face. ‘The useless whore was crying about being one of us. I thought she was lying.’
Carbo shoved the words out of his mouth before his fear made him swallow them down forever. ‘She wasn’t. Chloris is my woman.’ At the edge of his vision, he was aware of her reaching out an entreating hand. ‘The silly cow must have wandered into town after us. Let me take her. I’ll find you a replacement. Or two of them! Better-looking ones too.’
Crixus’ right fist bunched, and he jabbed his gladius at Carbo’s face, forcing him to take a step backwards. ‘Cheeky little bastard! Do you really think you can take a piece of cunny from me that easily? I don’t give a shit whether she’s yours or not.’
Carbo flushed deep red. ‘I—’
‘Piss off!’ Crixus glanced down at Chloris. ‘So you belong to this shitbag, eh? I must remember to cut your throat when we’re done.’
‘No!’ roared Carbo. He half drew his blade.
The point of Crixus’ sword swung back to prick him under the chin. ‘You’re testing my patience, Roman. Want to die right now?’
If I die, Chloris does too. ‘No.’
‘You have some brains then. I’m going to count to three. If you’re still here when I finish, I’m going to let my friends here carve you up. One—’
Carbo shot Chloris what he hoped was an encouraging look, before he turned and fled. As he ran, his ears rang with the Gauls’ mocking laughter. He expected Chloris to call out, begging him not to leave her, but she didn’t.
That hurt far more.
Carbo hurdled the corpse in the kitchen doorway with a single leap. Throwing open the door, he sprinted into the garden. He was vaguely aware of the girl emerging from the shrine, her mouth opening in a question. ‘Get back under there!’ he hissed. ‘The bastards have no reason to come outside.’
‘Where are you going?’ she wailed.
‘To get help.’ Trying not to think about how he was leaving a defenceless child, Carbo ran for the back gate.
Spartacus. He had to find Spartacus.
If he didn’t succeed, and fast, Chloris would be dead.
The period that followed was the longest of Carbo’s entire life. Never had he had a task more urgent, and never had he been so foiled at every turn. On every street, he found nothing but death, destruction and the men who delivered it. There was no sign of Spartacus anywhere. Carbo struggled even to recognise many of the armed men he came across. Fortunately for him, the opposite did not apply, and he received little in the way of open aggression. They even answered his demands for their leader. Carbo didn’t know why, but the killing seemed to have eased, and with it the blood lust. Now the slaves and gladiators were in search of wine, food and women – not necessarily in that order.
Men sat on huge amphorae, bending to guzzle the wine th
at poured unchecked on to the stony ground. They passed around joints of meat, tearing off chunks with their teeth. Lumps were sliced from round wheels of cheese with knives still covered in blood. By some soldiers’ feet, Carbo saw open-necked leather bags full of coins. All that he expected. What surprised him, and nearly unnerved him, were the women’s screams. They shredded the air in a dreadful chorus of terror and pain. Everywhere he looked, Carbo saw women being raped. Usually it was by men, lots of them, but sometimes the violations were even worse. How anyone could shove a spear or a sword blade inside a living person, Carbo had no idea. It wasn’t long before the remains of his meagre breakfast came up. Mesmerised, dazed by the violence, he wandered from house to temple, shop to stable in search of Spartacus.
When he found him, it was by complete chance. Glancing around, he found one of the Scythians glowering at him from the doorway of a nondescript house. ‘Have you seen Spartacus?’
‘He’s inside,’ came the growled reply. ‘Why?’
Carbo was already shoving past, his desperation greater than his fear of Atheas. ‘Where is he?’
‘In office … off courtyard.’
Carbo broke into a trot. He skidded across the tablinum, catching sight of several imperious death masks of the owners’ ancestors before he plunged into the spacious central square. Spartacus was slouched on a stone bench, surrounded by piles of rolled parchment. Taxacis was sitting on the ground nearby, drinking wine from a delicate glass flute. Both men looked up as Carbo pounded over. Taxacis scowled. ‘By the Rider, what happened to you?’ asked Spartacus.
Carbo rubbed absently at the blood caking his face. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Spartacus cocked his head, his eyes as inquisitive as a bird’s. ‘You look scared. What is it?’
Carbo told his tale in a gabble of words, scarcely stopping to breathe.
Spartacus leaped to his feet, silently cursing this bad fortune. To avoid trouble with Crixus, he could have – should have – refused to do a thing. After all Carbo’s loyalty, however, that would seem the ultimate betrayal. Crixus was in the wrong, plain and simple. The damn hothead won’t see it that way of course. Would it do any harm to intervene? Spartacus grimaced. We shall soon see. ‘Let’s hurry, or it will be too late.’
Carbo felt as if a massive ball of lead had just filled his belly. It probably is already.
‘Taxacis! Atheas!’ Spartacus turned to Carbo. ‘Which way?’
Numbly, he headed for the door. The three men followed.
Let her be alive still, Dionysus. Please. Her companion and the girl too.
It didn’t take them long to reach the house. Carbo made to enter, but Spartacus pulled him back. ‘Let us go first.’
Resentfully, Carbo stood aside.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the courtyard.’
‘And there are three of them?’
‘That’s all I saw.’
Spartacus’ sica came thrumming out of its scabbard. The long, curved blade was covered in telltale, dark red stains. Whatever many others have done, I have killed no women today. He glanced at the Scythians, who were fingering their weapons. ‘I want no bloodshed unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
They grinned evilly at him.
‘Come on.’ Spartacus took a careful step into the atrium, then another. The Scythians went next, cat-soft on their feet. Carbo was last. He crossed the threshold, seeing for the first time an image of a snarling black dog on the mosaic floor. It was most lifelike. A chain round its neck was all that held it back from springing up at Carbo. Under it were the words ‘Cave Canem’. Beware of the dog, he thought warily. I didn’t hear it when I was in the courtyard. Why not?
The reason became clear half a dozen paces further on. The body of a large black dog filled the hallway. A snarl still twisted its lips, but its eyes had the glassy look that only death can bring. Its body was covered in hack wounds, and purple strings of intestine had slithered out of its belly. They lay in the creature’s blood like fresh sausages in a red wine stew. ‘It wasn’t much of a match for Crixus,’ whispered Spartacus. ‘Not much is.’
New fear clawed at Carbo. He couldn’t hear a sound. Had they come too late?
The low moan – a woman’s – that reached his ears a moment later had never been more welcome. The sound was accompanied by a man’s loud grunting. Let Chloris be alive.
Spartacus made a quick gesture. At once, one Scythian went to stand at his left shoulder, the other to his right. Sweating profusely, Carbo took up the rear. Another signal, and they sped into the tablinum. Moving around the impluvium, the pool that collected rainwater from the roof overhead, they came to the doors that opened on to the courtyard.
Dreading what he would see, Carbo peered over Spartacus’ shoulder. Only one Gaul was on his feet. He was idly picking his nails with a dagger and watching Crixus and the third man pound away at the two women. Carbo wiped away the tears of fury that sprang to his eyes. This was no time for weakness.
Spartacus’ lips framed the word ‘Perfect’ at each of them. Then his left hand chopped forward in a clear command to move. He and the Scythians darted forward like arrows released from hunters’ bows. Carbo scrambled to keep up.
They silently covered the twenty strides in perhaps four heartbeats. By the time the Gaul who was standing realised anything was wrong, he had Atheas’ sword tickling his neck. He dropped his dagger with a soft clunk into a flower bed. Spartacus lifted a finger to his lips, and the frightened warrior nodded. Crixus and his companion were oblivious, still thrusting into their victims with wild abandon. Unsurprisingly, the women had their eyes closed. Chloris had a fist in her mouth, and was biting down on it.
Carbo’s rage began to consume him utterly. It was no longer just about rescuing Chloris. He wanted to kill the Gauls too. That’s why Spartacus put me at the back, he realised. He knew how I’d react.
‘Crixus!’ shouted Spartacus.
The big Gaul’s head turned. Shock twisted his features. Cursing, he pulled out of Chloris’ companion and clambered to his feet. His friend hurried to do the same. Both men had left their mail shirts on, but they were naked from the waist down. Carbo could see blood on their pricks, and now his fury boiled over. ‘You fucking animals!’ he screamed. He tried to shove past Spartacus, but the Thracian’s iron-hard arm blocked his way.
‘I thought you’d go running to your master. Damn coward,’ growled Crixus at Carbo. He eyeballed Spartacus. Unlike his comrades, there was no fear in his face. He had the sense not to reach for a weapon, however. ‘What business have you here?’
‘Carbo asked me to come,’ said Spartacus. ‘One of these is his woman.’
‘I doubt he’ll want her any longer,’ said Crixus, leering. ‘She’s got my seed and Lugurix’s in her already. Segomaros was giving her a good pounding too.’ The man beside him smiled, and Carbo strained furiously, uselessly, at Spartacus’ arm.
‘That’s as maybe,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘But it ends here. The girl is coming with us. So is the other one.’
‘I am one of the leaders of this whole damn rebellion,’ Crixus thundered, the veins on his neck bulging. ‘I can do what I like.’
‘Not here, you can’t. Chloris has been Carbo’s woman since Amatokos was killed. You know that.’
Crixus took a step towards Spartacus. ‘What are you going to do – kill me if I try to stop you?’
‘If I have to, yes,’ came the calm reply. Spartacus’ sica hung by his side, but Carbo knew that if Crixus so much as moved towards his sword, which lay five paces away, he’d be a dead man. The others would meet the same fate at the Scythians’ hands.
The Gauls realised the same thing.
Crixus stared at Spartacus with obvious loathing for a moment before grunting, ‘As you wish. I wouldn’t want to blunt my blade on the bitches anyway.’ He looked to his men. ‘After all that rutting, I have a raging thirst on me. Let’s find some wine, if it hasn’t all been drunk by now.??
? Chuckling, he reached for his licium.
With an effort, Chloris sat up. Wanting to help her, Carbo pushed against Spartacus’ arm. ‘Wait,’ the Thracian hissed. ‘Let them leave first.’
Grudgingly, Carbo obeyed. He marked the faces of Crixus’ companions. Gods help me, I’ll kill you both if I ever get a chance. Crixus too.
No one could have predicted what happened next.
Swaying, Chloris got to her feet.
Carbo’s heart ached to see what had happened to her. Even with cuts to her face and with blood running down her thighs, she was still beautiful.
Chloris staggered forward a step, and her fingers grazed the plants that decorated the bed beside her. Then, suddenly, she was gripping a dagger. Segomaros, who was nearest to her, was busy shoving a leg into his undergarment. He didn’t see Chloris rush forward. Too late, he felt the blade ramming through his mail and into the flesh of his back. An unearthly scream tore free of his lips, and he staggered with the force of her blow. Snarling like a dog, Chloris stabbed him several more times, punching through his armour with ease. With a loud groan, Segomaros sank to his knees. ‘The bitch has killed me, Crixus,’ he said in surprise, before falling on to his face. He kicked once or twice and was still.
A heartbeat later, Chloris toppled on top of him in a dead faint.
‘You whore!’ roared Crixus, scooping up his sword. ‘I’ll kill you!’
‘With me, Taxacis!’ Spartacus sprang forward, sica at the ready.
The Scythian bounded to his side. So did Carbo. Together, they stood between Crixus and Chloris. Off to one side, Atheas threatened Lugurix.
‘Get out of my fucking way!’ shouted Crixus.
‘Leave now,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘You’re not having her.’
Crixus’ face went purple with fury. ‘The life of a stinking slave is worth more than one of my warriors?’
‘On this occasion, yes.’
‘Can the bitch fight, as Segomaros could?’
‘No.’
‘What damn use is she then? I demand her life! It’s no less than she deserves for stabbing a man in the back.’