Spartacus: The Gladiator (19 page)

‘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 is 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.

Some time later, a sound woke him. He jerked upright, reaching for the piece of iron that served as his self-defence weapon. Instead of anyone threatening, however, he saw a young female slave clutching a bucket in the doorway. Her free hand rose to her mouth. ‘S-sorry. I was coming in to take out the slops. I didn’t know there was anyone here.’ Ducking her head, she made to leave.

‘Wait.’

She glanced around at him shyly. Surprise filled Carbo that she did not react to his scarred appearance. He studied her features with great interest. ‘Are you Greek?’

She nodded.

It was usual for Greek women to wear their hair up. This girl didn’t. Instead, her long black tresses fell around her face to her shoulders, concealing her from the world. She was very striking, possessing a delicately boned, round face. Her fearful brown eyes regarded him from under slightly arched eyebrows. Her typical Greek nose was not too straight, and he thought he could spot a dimple in her left cheek. Carbo’s groin throbbed as his gaze dropped lower, taking in the swell of her breasts beneath the coarse fabric of her dress. ‘I haven’t seen you before. Have you been here long?’

‘No. Only two days.’

‘That must be why I haven’t noticed you.’

Her eyes rose to his. ‘I know who you are.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’re Carbo, the auctoratus. One of Spartacus’ men.’

‘How do you know that?’

There was a careless shrug. ‘Everybody knows you.’

Carbo’s pride soared. He found her immensely attractive. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Chloris.’

‘Your Latin is good,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Yes. I had a private tutor …’ She hesitated, then added, ‘… before.’

‘Before you were enslaved?’

‘Yes. My father was a wealthy merchant in Athens. After my mother died, he began taking me on his voyages to buy goods.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He took me on one too many.’

‘Pirates?’

Chloris’ face twisted. ‘Yes. Father was killed in the initial attack and I was taken prisoner. Sold in Delphi to a Roman slave trader, who took me to Capua, where Phortis bought me.’

Carbo shook his head at life’s randomness. ‘In another life, we might have met socially, when you visited Italy.’

‘Chloris!’

She started at the summons. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Who’s calling you?’

‘Amatokos. He’s one of the Thracians.’

‘I know who he is.’
One of Spartacus’ best warriors
. ‘Is he your …’

‘Yes. I need someone to protect me in here.’

Carbo scowled as she left the cell. He’d lost all desire to rest.

Chapter VII

THE NIGHTMARE BECAME part of Spartacus’ life, recurring every week or so. For all that he did his best not to dwell on it, he was unable to dismiss it from his mind entirely. Frustration gnawed at him over its possible meanings, but he didn’t ask Ariadne about it again. He had come to the conclusion that it probably meant his death in the arena. Frustrated by his powerlessness to change that fate, he did his best to bury his concerns. Ariadne knew that Spartacus was still having the dream – he woke her up every time with his thrashing about. Things were complicated by the fact that he’d taken her reassuring touch one night for more than it was, and come on to her. Ariadne had leaped away from him as if he’d poured a pot of scalding water over her. Spartacus’ instant apology had produced nothing but a muttered curse. It had taken days for her frigid disapproval to thaw. He hadn’t tried it on with her again. His memories of rape from his time with the legions were too dark, too savage. Ariadne would consent to sex, or it wouldn’t happen at all. And yet the yoke of his unfulfilled lust was less troubling than his dream of the snake. Spartacus was damned if he would do anything about it again, however. If Ariadne came up with some explanation about it, she could approach him. Angered that both avenues seemed to be dead ends, Spartacus got on with his existence, such as it was. He trained hard. Bound his followers to him. Existed.

The flavour of his reality over the subsequent few months was unvarying. Nightmares. Training. Recruiting men to his cause. Fights. Pressed by Phortis, Amarantus began entering him into single combats in the local arena. He won his first bouts with ease, and the Gaul responded by putting him in against more skilled opponents, often from the
ludi
in Rome. Spartacus beat them too, learning with each to gain the crowd’s approval from the first moment he walked on to the circle of sand, the gladiator’s world. With each victory, his following within the ludus increased. His status was also augmented by Ariadne’s efforts. She had begun accepting offerings to Dionysus and making requests of the god on behalf of a good number of the school’s inmates.

Spartacus’ successes made it inevitable that he would eventually be forced into a contest to the death. His opponent was a strapping German who belonged to another lanista. The fight had been hard, but Spartacus had prevailed. Phortis’ hope that he died in the arena had been firmly set aside by Batiatus, who was delighted by his new fighter’s success, and the amount of money he’d won as a result. The sea change in Spartacus’ situation was made evident by the size of the purse he was thrown afterwards, and by Batiatus’ approving looks. Instead of feeling pleased, he felt increased resentment towards the lanista.
I’m no prize bull, to be paraded whenever you choose
. His anger was fuelled to new heights by his abiding memory of the whole episode, which was not burying his blade in his opponent’s throat, but the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd that had followed. While he knew intimately the adrenalin thrill of killing a man, and a primitive part of him took pleasure in the sensation, Spartacus loathed the way random people could pay to watch him commit the act and enjoy that feeling vicariously. Let the whoresons come down on to the sand and do it for themselves, he had thought savagely. I’ll wager that few could actually shove a sword into another’s flesh they way that I can. His eyes had drifted to the guards. The way that I could kill every one of you.

From that moment. Spartacus’ troubling vision of the snake had been interspersed with a regular dream about freedom. For all that it seemed impossible, the idea would not go away.