Spartacus: The Gladiator (22 page)

Feeling the weight of someone’s stare, he looked up.

‘Come here!’ Crassus beckoned.

His mere tone made Spartacus’ knuckles whiten on the hilt of his gladius. ‘Me?’

‘I’m hardly talking to him, am I?’ Crassus indicated the dead warrior. He glanced at Albinus and Batiatus, who both tittered dutifully.

Arrogant bastard
. Spartacus took a step forward.

Go on, thought Carbo. Kill the whoreson!

‘Archers!’ bellowed Phortis.

Spartacus froze. Without even turning his head, he could see four bows levelled at him from the balcony. There’d be at least another six to ten outside his range of vision. If Phortis said the word, they’d turn him into a practice target. The Capuan wanted him to keep walking, but Spartacus did not move. His had been a tiny act of rebellion, but it was over.

‘Drop the sword!’ ordered Phortis.

‘What, this?’ Spartacus raised the weapon. He was pleased to see Batiatus flinch slightly. Neither the Capuan nor Crassus reacted. He was surprised by the politician’s calm.

‘Just do it,’ snarled Phortis. ‘Unless you want to choke to death on a dozen barbed arrowheads!’

Spartacus opened his fingers and let the bloodied gladius fall to the sand. ‘Happy now?’

Phortis’ nostrils pinched. He glanced at Batiatus, who jerked his head meaningfully. The Capuan swallowed his rage. ‘Approach!’

Spartacus obeyed.

‘That’s close enough!’ shouted Phortis when he was ten steps away.

Gods damn them all! I’m being treated like a wild beast
. Now Spartacus couldn’t stop himself from glowering at Phortis, who smirked.

‘You fight well,’ said Crassus. ‘For a savage.’

‘Savage?’ retorted Spartacus.

‘Yes.’

‘Where I come from, we do not force men to slay each other for the amusement of …’ He laid special emphasis on the last words. ‘… important visitors.’

Batiatus leaped up from his seat. ‘How dare you?’ He waved his arm in furious summons. ‘Guards! I want this man tied to the palus and given fifty lashes.’

‘Stay your hand,’ said Crassus.

Shocked, Batiatus glanced at his guest. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard what I said. Let it go. The slave has a point, after all.’

With a confused look, Batiatus sat down again.

‘While Thracians may not stage gladiator fights, they are nonetheless barbarians. They are called brigands even by other brigands,’ declared Crassus smugly. ‘I’ve heard how every five years, the Getai nobility pick one of their number to serve as messenger to the gods. He’s sent on his way by tossing him in the air to land on his comrade’s spears.’ As Batiatus and Albinus tutted in horror, Crassus smiled. ‘And the Triballi regard it as normal for sons to sacrifice their fathers to the gods. Scarcely the acts of civilised people, eh?’

Spartacus scowled.

‘Am I not right?’

‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted reluctantly.

‘You’re surprised by how much I know of your race.’

He nodded.

‘You are a proud man,’ observed Crassus.

Spartacus did not answer.

‘It galls you to be a slave? A gladiator?’

‘Yes.’ He’d said it before he could stop himself. ‘Of course it does.’

Spartacus threw Phortis a filthy stare. The Capuan’s lip curled in response. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘That’s what every man says,’ interjected Batiatus.

Albinus and Phortis laughed.

Whoresons, thought Spartacus.

Crassus smiled politely at the joke, but his attention remained on Spartacus. ‘How did it happen?’

Spartacus blinked in surprise that the other should ask. ‘I returned to my village after fighting with the legions—’

‘You fought for Rome?’

‘Yes. For eight years. Upon reaching home, I discovered that the rightful heir to the throne had been murdered by the man who now calls himself King of the Maedi. So had my father. I immediately made plans to overthrow the usurper, but I was betrayed.’

‘By whom?’

‘A friend.’

‘It’s no surprise that you are bitter. And what would you have done if you had achieved your aim?’

Spartacus hesitated, holding Crassus’ gaze, and wondering if he should keep silent. But he was too angry to stop. ‘After putting Kotys and his henchmen to death, I would have made plans to lead my tribe against Rome again.’

Crassus arched an eyebrow. ‘And what would have been your aim?’

‘To drive the legions off our lands. Forever.’

‘Forever?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must know little of Rome and its history,’ said Crassus with an amused look. ‘Even if you had succeeded, our armies would have returned in vengeance. They always do.’

‘You have led legionaries into war?’ demanded Spartacus.

For the first time, Crassus’ self-assurance faltered. ‘Not abroad.’

‘Where then?’

‘Against my own people, in a civil war.’

It’s no surprise you did that, thought Carbo savagely. You have no mercy.

‘And I thought that I was the savage?’ asked Spartacus.

‘This is too much,’ protested Batiatus.

‘Be silent! I am still talking to this …’ Crassus hesitated. ‘… gladiator.’ He added in a hiss, ‘At least he doesn’t see the need to lick my arse.’

Batiatus flushed and looked away. Beside him, Albinus harrumphed in quiet indignation.

Encouraged by this tiny victory, Spartacus quickly continued, ‘I would have unified the tribes. What would Rome have made of that?’ He was pleased by the trace of fear in Albinus’ and Batiatus’ eyes. Phortis bristled, but did not dare speak while Crassus, his better, held the floor. A man who showed no apprehension at Spartacus’ words at all.
No career soldier then, but he’s not short of courage. I wonder if he could lead an army, as I could
.

‘You risk much by revealing this. A single word from me, and you’ll be a dead man,’ said Crassus, ignoring Batiatus’ alarm.

Spartacus cursed himself silently for having let his anger speak first. He looked down at the sand.
Great Rider, I ask for your help once more
.

‘I won’t give the order, however.’ Crassus inclined his head at the lanista, who beamed in gratitude. ‘Why? Because there’s more chance of the heavens falling than you leading an army against Rome. Look at you! Reduced to fighting for our amusement.’ He smiled maliciously. ‘You’re little more than a performing animal, damned to perform the same primitive dance whenever we demand it.’

Spartacus dropped his gaze even lower, as if in subservience. Inside, however, he was incandescent with rage. ‘That’s all I am, yes,’ he said.
Or so you think. Give me half a chance, and I’d show you different
.

Crassus turned away, satisfied. ‘After all that bloodshed, I feel the need for some wine.’ At once Batiatus jumped in, promising fine vintages in the humble luxury of his quarters. ‘Good.’ Crassus added in an undertone, ‘If you have other fighters of similar quality, we can do business. I’ll want that Thracian, but I will need at least twenty more for my upcoming munus.’

Spartacus’ ears pricked, but Phortis had noticed him. ‘Piss off. Get that wound seen to.’

The last he heard was Batiatus asking, ‘All mortal bouts?’ and Crassus barking in reply, ‘Naturally. I need to impress.’

From his cell, Carbo hawked and spat in Crassus’ direction.
Great Jupiter, bring me face to face with him one day, please
.

Spartacus shuffled off towards the infirmary. His mind was racing. Crassus’ contempt had driven home further than ever before the triviality of his existence. If he was soon to be forced into another fight to the death, what was the point in carving out a following and a position of respect among the gladiators in the ludus? He was nothing but a child’s toy. A Roman plaything.

A seething fury took hold of him. Spartacus recognised and welcomed the volcanic emotion. It was how he’d felt when he was riding to war with the Maedi against Rome, a lifetime ago. How he’d felt when plotting to overthrow Kotys. This time, he only had thirty or so men who’d follow him, but that no longer mattered.

He saw the snake wrapped around his neck, but shoved the disturbing image away.

Something had to be done.

Somehow he had to be free.

Chapter VIII

AS SOON AS the cell doors had been unlocked, Ariadne hurried in search of Spartacus. Like faithful shadows, Getas and Seuthes followed her. They were as concerned as she. Ariadne found her husband in the sick bay, which was positioned beside the mortuary. She tried not to dwell on the significance of that proximity.
He won. He’s alive
. How long will his luck hold out, though? she wondered in the next heartbeat. What if his dream means that his death is imminent?

Ariadne managed to pull a smile on to her face as she entered the whitewashed room, which was furnished with several cots and an operating table covered in old bloodstains. Shelves lined one wall, stacked with a frightening variety of probes, hooks, spatulas and scalpels. Dark blue bottles of medicine stood in careful rows alongside the metal instruments.

The surgeon, a stoop-shouldered Greek of indeterminate age, was crouched over Spartacus, obscuring the view of the door. ‘Hold still,’ he ordered, pouring the contents of a little vial over the cut. ‘
Acetum
,’ he said with satisfaction as Spartacus hissed with pain. ‘It stings like a dozen wasps.’

‘More like twenty, I’d say,’ replied Spartacus sarcastically.

‘It’s excellent at preventing gangrene and blood poisoning, though,’ said the surgeon. ‘So the pain is well worth it.’

‘The pain is nothing,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘How bad is the wound?’

Ariadne stopped herself from calling out. A pulse hammered at the base of her throat. Dionysus, stay with him, she pleaded.

‘Let me see.’ Picking a probe from the tray beside him, the surgeon began to examine the gash. He poked and prodded, and Ariadne saw Spartacus’ free hand clenching into a fist. Her heart bled for him, but she said nothing. She was too worried.

‘It’s not deep,’ pronounced the surgeon a moment later. ‘The blade sliced through the skin and the subcutaneous tissue, but the muscle below hasn’t been damaged. You’re lucky. I’ll place a line of metal clamps along the wound. It should be healed within two weeks. You’ll be able to fight again in a month.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Spartacus drily. ‘Batiatus
will
be pleased.’

The surgeon reached over to the nearest shelf and in doing so, noticed Ariadne. ‘Ah! You have a visitor.’

Ariadne hurried forward. Close up, the blood from the shallow cut on his cheek looked horrifying. Without even realising, she reached out to touch his face. ‘You’re all right?’

He smiled. ‘I will be, yes.’

They stared at each other, and then Spartacus reached up to enclose her hand in his.

Ariadne bit her lip, but she didn’t move. She could feel a strange but pleasant warmth in the pit of her stomach. He was going to be fine.
Thank you, Dionysus
.

The surgeon came fussing in with a bowl of metal staples and the magic vanished, like a feather carried away on the wind. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. What he needs now is for that wound to be closed, before any foul airs get into it. Leave us in peace.’

Spartacus’ lips twitched. ‘You heard the man. I’ll see you in our cell in a short while.’

‘Yes.’ Reluctant to let Spartacus out of her sight, Ariadne backed away. She lingered by the door until the surgeon gestured irritably at her to get out. Feeling happier than she had in an age, Ariadne walked towards the baths. This was a good time of the day to have a wash. The gladiators mostly washed in the evening, when their day’s work was done. Getas and Seuthes would check that the area was empty, and then she could relax in peace. And think about Spartacus, she thought with a guilty stab of pleasure.