‘No, Your Majesty. I want men who can fight in the arena, as …’ Phortis paused, searching for the right word before reverting to Latin. ‘… gladiators.’
Spartacus’ ears pricked. He had seen Roman prisoners of war forced to fight each other to the death for the amusement of thousands of cheering legionaries. The savagery of these combats had been mitigated by the fact that the victors were often allowed to go free. Spartacus doubted that that was the case in Italy. Shifting position on the rack, he shuddered as fresh waves of agony radiated from the raw flesh of his back. He closed his eyes again, breathing into the pain.
‘Gladiators?’ asked Kotys, frowning.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis in Thracian. ‘Skilled fighters of various classes who battle each other in front of a crowd until one is victorious. It makes for a first-class spectacle. The practice is very popular among my people.’
‘You use only slaves? How can they be entertaining?’ demanded Kotys contemptuously.
‘It’s not that simple, Your Majesty. Prisoners of war and criminals also provide large numbers of suitable candidates.’ Phortis jerked his head at his captives. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using slaves either, if you pick the right ones. Scythians are savage bastards, and Pontic tribesmen fight like cornered rats. But the pick of the lot are Thracians. Everyone knows that your people are the most warlike in the world. In Italy, we say that the Thracians are “worse than snow”, and that if every tribe were to join together, you would conquer every race in existence.’ He smiled at the growls of appreciation that rose up from those within earshot.
‘Honeyed words from a Roman,’ interrupted Kotys, snarling. ‘So you have come looking for slaves to buy?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis in a humble tone. ‘Prisoners that your warriors might have taken during raids on other tribes, and the like.’ His gaze moved to Spartacus and his companions and slithered away.
Kotys did not miss Phortis’ interest. ‘Do these gladiators live for long?’
Phortis’ eyes returned to Spartacus, appraising him. Then he glanced at Seuthes and Getas and gave a tiny snort of contempt. ‘No, Your Majesty. Only a fraction survive for more a year. The rest are soon defeated; wounded and humiliated in the arena, they are executed in front of a crowd baying for their blood. When it’s over, their bodies are dragged outside. Each corpse has its throat slit to make sure that none are playing dead, before being thrown on the communal refuse heap.’
Ariadne could not help herself. A tiny gasp of horror left her lips.
‘You don’t like the idea of that, eh?’ asked Kotys, rounding on her like a striking snake.
She said nothing, which told him everything he wanted to know.
‘Imagine Spartacus, and his friends,’ Kotys lingered over the words, ‘being in such an arena with thousands of Romans screaming for their deaths. Hundreds of miles from home, they would be totally alone. Abandoned to their fate. I cannot think of a worse death.’
Nor can I, thought Ariadne, listening to the screams of Seuthes’ and Getas’ wives rend the air. You evil whoreson.
Adrenalin coursed through Spartacus, and he opened his eyes. It might be fighting for the amusement of a mob of stinking Romans, but it sounds better than what Kotys has planned for me. He stole a glance at Seuthes and Getas and took heart. There wasn’t a trace of fear in their faces, just a cold, calculating rage.
‘How exactly are they executed?’ enquired Kotys lasciviously.
‘A variety of ways. In one of the most common, the loser has to kneel and lift up his chin to expose his throat. Then the winner of the fight stabs him like this.’ Phortis mimed the action of a sword entering the hollow at the base of his throat. ‘The blade slides down into the chest cavity, severing half a dozen major blood vessels. It kills instantaneously.’
A quick, honourable death, thought Spartacus.
The image described by Phortis and the blood in her mouth combined to make Ariadne feel faint. Swaying from side to side, she struggled to keep her balance.
Kotys was delighted by the intensity of her distress. ‘What will you give me for these creatures?’ he demanded of Phortis.
Dionysus, help Spartacus, Ariadne begged. A few angry shouts went up, but no one dared even to approach the king’s bodyguards. Her spirits fell into a deep abyss.
‘They don’t look up to much, Your Majesty,’ muttered Phortis, narrowing his eyes.
‘Looks often deceive,’ retorted Kotys. ‘Spartacus, the first one, has just returned from years of service with your legions, so he must have some skill. In his youth, he was one of the tribe’s best warriors. The others are tough men too, veterans of many campaigns.’
‘Really, Your Majesty?’ said Phortis in a disinterested voice.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’ Kotys’ face was purple with rage. ‘Remember that you and your men are only here by my grace. One click of my fingers and my warriors will carve new arseholes for you all.’ He glanced at the nearest bodyguards, who grinned and fingered their weapons.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis quickly. ‘I meant no offence.’
Kotys’ scowl eased a fraction. ‘Spartacus is the perfect type of material you’re after. So are his two friends.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ agreed Phortis. He cast a sly look at the king. ‘And the rest?’
‘They’re not for sale. Just these three.’
To Ariadne’s surprise, a tiny ray of hope shone down into the pit of her despair. Could some good could be wrenched from this situation?
‘May I ask why?’
‘They were plotting to overthrow me.’
Phortis didn’t look surprised. ‘What will you take for them, Your Majesty? A thousand pieces of silver?’
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that! Do you really think that I’d give these lumps of dogshit away free?’
‘Of course not, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis smoothly. ‘How does fifteen hundred sound?’
‘It’s two and a half thousand, or nothing. I know as well as you that Thracian slaves are worth double the price of every other race.’
Phortis didn’t even blink. He gestured at Spartacus and the others. ‘May I …?’
‘Be my guest. Fortunately for you, only the first one has been beaten. He’s escaped lightly too. My champion was just getting warmed up when you arrived.’
Spartacus lifted his head from the wooden frame and gave Phortis a baleful stare as he approached. The trader ignored him, instead studying his back. ‘Your Majesty is correct. There’s no lasting damage.’ He moved on to examine the two others, prodding their muscles and examining their teeth as he would a horse. He made an approving noise at Seuthes’ shaved forehead. ‘So your enemy can’t grab you by the hair at close-quarters, eh?’ Seuthes glowered but did not reply.
Phortis glanced at the king. ‘It’s a fair price, Your Majesty,’ he admitted.
As Kotys smiled with triumph, Phortis barked an order, and one of his men hurried back to the mules. He returned bearing two heavy purses. ‘There should be more than enough here,’ said Phortis.
Kotys motioned Polles forward. Without ceremony, the champion upended the leather bags on to the ground and with the help of another warrior, began counting the silver coins that tumbled out. ‘It’s all there,’ Polles growled eventually.
‘Good, said Kotys. ‘Then we have a deal. Release them.’ He directed a triumphant, malevolent glance at Ariadne. He had no idea that her heart was racing with anticipation. She had a plan at last, born of her utter desperation. Or was it Dionysus finally intervening? Ariadne could no longer tell. Her tactic might not work either, but it felt better than doing nothing.
At least I am not to die today. Spartacus summoned the reserves of his strength. When the last of his bonds were cut away, he was able to stand, knees locked, rather than simply fall to the ground. What about Ariadne? His eyes wandered to where she stood. He took heart. Inexplicably, her expression was no longer distraught, but determi
ned. She will survive somehow.
‘Get over here,’ barked Phortis. ‘You’re mine now.’
Spartacus and his friends shuffled towards him and allowed the trader’s men to fasten iron collars around their necks. These would be attached to the other slaves by a chain. Their indignity was completed by the fetters placed around their ankles. They left no chance of escaping. This leads to the arena. At least there I’ll have a fighting chance of survival, Spartacus told himself. That fate was infinitely preferable to the one on offer from Kotys. His heart wrenched again with guilt. What would happen to Ariadne? Determination would only carry her so far.
‘Have you any other men like these, Your Majesty?’ asked Phortis.
‘It’s the wrong time of year for prisoners,’ Kotys snapped. ‘It’s best to come in the summer, when we’re raiding other tribes.’
‘I told my master that, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to avoid snow on the mountain passes that lead back to Illyria. With your permission?’
‘You may go,’ Kotys grunted. He was already turning towards Ariadne.
Spartacus clenched his fists, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life.
She was utterly terrified, but Ariadne knew that she had to act now. Rolling the blood clots to the side of her mouth, she began to speak in her harshest voice. ‘As his faithful priestess, I call upon Dionysus, the powerful Almighty, the god of intoxication and mania, to witness my curse upon the king of the Maedi.’
A hushed silence fell over the watching villagers. Polles and the other bodyguards gave each other nervous looks. Even Phortis and his men stopped what they were doing. Kotys’ face went white, but he dared not stop her.
‘No one loves a tyrant or a murderer, Kotys. I curse you to an early, violent death. I curse you to die slowly and painfully, with an enemy’s blade buried deep in your guts.’ Ariadne paused, relishing her power. Dionysus had returned to her! ‘Your final moments will be filled with agony, and when your miserable soul leaves your body, the gates of the warrior’s paradise will be closed to you. Instead, Dionysus’ maenads will carry you below, to the underworld. There, for all eternity, they will rip off pieces of your flesh and present them to the god.’ Delighting in Kotys’ shocked expression, she spat the gobbets of blood in his face. ‘Finally, I mark you as one of Dionysus’ chosen ones.’
There were loud, reverential gasps from the onlookers. Most people looked petrified, as if they had seen a divine apparition. The king’s eyes were filled with living horror. He stood mutely, with trails of scarlet running down his cheeks, as Ariadne walked towards Spartacus. ‘I am this man’s wife. I am following him into captivity,’ she announced in a loud, authoritative voice.
‘His wife?’ roared Polles, moving to block her way.
‘That’s right. We exchanged our vows last night,’ lied Ariadne. She gripped the fabric of her cloak until her fists hurt. Let me pass!
‘We also consummated the marriage,’ croaked Spartacus. ‘After so many years on campaign, I couldn’t wait any longer.’
Ariadne’s cheeks flamed as the bystanders roared with laughter.
Kotys glared, humiliated anew, and Ariadne dared to feel a scintilla of hope. No king would want a woman who had given her virginity to another. ‘It is Dionysus’ wish that I should go with Spartacus into exile,’ she shouted.
‘Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!’ The villagers’ thunderous roar of agreement drowned out all other sound.
Visibly furious, Polles stood aside. Ariadne hurried to stand with Spartacus.
Phortis shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue with the mouthpiece of a god or hundreds of angry Thracians. ‘One more mouth to feed shouldn’t matter.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Spartacus in an undertone.
‘Look at my alternative.’ With a tiny jerk of her head, Ariadne indicated Kotys.
‘I understand.’
‘We will travel to Italy, and see what fate awaits us there,’ she intoned, trying to ignore the new fears that clutched at her. Part of Ariadne was pleased, however. I can stay with him – for now at least.
Spartacus was glad too. ‘This way, you won’t be left alone.’
Chapter III
Capua, Italy
‘SHOW ME AGAIN, Paccius,’ ordered Carbo, offering the gladius.
Refusing to accept it, the doorman – a big Samnite with a mass of curly black hair – looked uneasily over his shoulder, towards the open doors of the tablinum, the main reception area. ‘We should stop, young master. It was one thing play fighting with wooden swords when you were a boy, but you’re sixteen now, and nearly a man. I’m not supposed to use a real blade unless your father orders me to. If he catches me showing you how to use one of his own weapons—’
‘He won’t,’ declared Carbo briskly. ‘He will be gone all day. Mother won’t be back for hours either, and the only other people about are the kitchen slaves. I’ve given them a coin each to keep their mouths shut. Stop worrying. Our secret is safe.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Paccius unhappily.
‘I am,’ Carbo snapped.
Paccius didn’t know the reason for Carbo’s father’s absence. Jovian’s financial situation was desperate. Carbo had learned that things had recently come to a head when Jovian hadn’t been able to pay the previous quarter’s arrears on his loan. They were now at risk of losing their farm, their home here in Capua, and all of their property, slaves included. Carbo only knew of the drama facing the family because he’d eavesdropped on part of his parents’ worried conversation the night before. Jovian was pinning all his hopes on securing a stay of execution today. Furious at his own powerlessness, Carbo shoved the sword forward again, hilt first. ‘Take it!’
Unable to protest further, Paccius took a firm hold of the bone handgrip. ‘Grasp it so. Remember, it takes real force to stick it in a man’s belly. Like this.’ He thrust his right arm forward in a powerful, calculated manner and pulled it back to his side. He repeated the move several times. ‘Clear?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Let me see you do it,’ said Paccius, handing the gladius back.
With grim concentration, Carbo held the sword close to his right side. With a grunt, he copied Paccius’ move, imagining that he was sinking the iron blade into the guts of a Pontic warrior or a Cilician pirate. Along with the former Marian leader Sertorius in Iberia, these were Rome’s main enemies. Better still, he imagined, would be to bury it in the flesh of his father’s largest creditor, whoever he was. ‘Like that?’
Paccius pursed his lips in approval. ‘That’s better. Do it again.’
Carbo obeyed eagerly, plunging the weapon back and forth in a flurry of blows.
‘Slow it down. Conserve your energy. Striking your opponent in the belly once should be enough to put him down. There are few men who’ll stay standing after half their guts have been sliced apart.’ Contorting his face in mock agony, Paccius clutched at his abdomen and mimed falling to the ground. ‘That’s the beauty of this weapon,’ he went on. ‘When used with a bloody great shield like the scutum, by a line of soldiers who stick close together, it’s damn near invincible.’
‘That’s how your people were defeated.’
Paccius grimaced. ‘It’s one of the reasons, yes.’
Carbo had spent his childhood listening to Paccius’ tales of the Social War, when the last of the fiercely independent Samnites had been crushed by Rome. He knew how the defeat still rankled. Once Paccius had been a high-ranking warrior among his people. Now he was but a slave. When they’d lived on the family’s farm, a dozen miles from Capua, he’d been the foreman. After the move to the city, he’d assumed the role of doorman and guard. Paccius was also the person to whom Carbo went with his problems, and he cursed himself for bringing up old, painful history. ‘I want to learn how to use a shield too,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Go and fetch one.’
Paccius started to argue a
gain, but thought better of it. Muttering under his breath, he disappeared into the tablinum again.
Carbo dipped a hand into the fountain that graced the centre of the small courtyard. He patted his face with water several times, refreshing himself. Inadvertently touching the myriad of pockmarks that covered his cheeks, he scowled. Much of his good humour fell away. Why couldn’t the scars be on my chest or back? It was easy to tell himself that he was lucky to be alive – after all, more than a third of those who developed the pox died, while others were left blind – but quite another thing to enter adulthood looking like a freak. The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that most of those he’d regarded as friends didn’t want to know him now. And what woman would ever want him? Carbo’s mother kept telling him not to worry about it, that an arrangement would be made with a suitable family, but it did little to ease his self-loathing. While some of his peers were already sleeping with willing girls – merchants’ daughters and the like – Carbo found it hard even to skulk into a brothel and choose a prostitute.
Apart from using his hand, his only other form of sexual release had been to bed his father’s female slaves. Two or three of them were passably good-looking. In their lowly position, they could not refuse Carbo when he’d ordered them to his bed. During the months since his recovery from the pox, he’d used this power a number of times. The sex had been a real release, but he had found it hard to ignore their poorly concealed revulsion at his appearance. What Carbo really wanted was for someone to accept him as he was. He blinked. Stop thinking about yourself. Father’s problems are far more important.
‘There you are!’ he cried, glad to be distracted from concerns over his father. The Samnite was carrying a scutum that Jovian had used during his military service years before. Carbo reached out an eager hand.
Paccius didn’t give it to him. ‘Steady,’ he warned. ‘Knowing everything about your arms and equipment is just as important as learning how to use them.’
He knows best. Carbo nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well.’
Paccius tapped the metal rim that covered both ends of the shield. ‘What’s this for?’