Spartacus: The Gladiator (20 page)

Carbo’s life, had definitely improved. He had won his first two fights, and with them, small sums of money which he carefully salted away. These steps encouraged him hugely. If the gods kept him safe from injury or death, he would save until he had a decent amount of cash to send to his father. Sometimes he dreamed of gaining retribution on Crassus. It was pure fantasy, but enjoyable nonetheless. Carbo found dealing with his attraction to Chloris more troubling. He couldn’t stop himself eyeing her up at every opportunity, and resenting Amatokos, her strapping lover. Yet it was common policy for the female slaves in the ludus to pair off with a gladiator. Without a guardian, they fell prey to every fighter who felt like sex. Unsurprisingly, Batiatus cared not a jot about such violations. If the women became pregnant, nine months later he would have either a boy child who could be reared as a gladiator, or a girl who could be sold in the slave market when she was old enough. Knowing this did not ease Carbo’s frustration. He’d tried talking to Chloris, but Amatokos kept a close eye on her, and he’d been lucky to avoid a beating from the Thracian on one occasion.

Carbo wasn’t sure, but there was something about the way that Chloris slyly returned his stares which told him not to give up all hope. While Amatokos was around, however, nothing much would happen. The warrior was tough, fast, and had won more than half a dozen fights in the arena, including one mortal bout. All Carbo could do in answer to that was to apply himself mercilessly to his training, and pray to the gods. Despite his frustrations, he found the martial life rewarding – more so, he was sure, than he’d have found training to be a lawyer. If he couldn’t be a soldier, then he’d be a gladiator. And a damn good one.

Late one night, a messenger came to see Batiatus. Albinus, one of the most senior politicians in Capua, was playing host to no less than Marcus Licinius Crassus, a praetor who was reportedly the richest man in Rome. Apparently, Crassus had expressed an interest in visiting Batiatus’ ludus. Keen to impress, Albinus had offered the lanista a huge sum of money to stage a special fight in the school during Crassus’ visit. The gossip went that it was to be a combat to the death. Naturally, both gladiators were to be picked from within their number. The next morning, every part of the yard was filled with huddles of anxious, muttering fighters. The same question fell from everyone’s lips. Who would the two men be?

Batiatus, Phortis and the senior trainers strolled through the yard as the gladiators ate their breakfast. Most men picked morosely at their porridge, while they cast furtive glances at the group. Spartacus, refusing to be intimidated, made it his business to eat every last scrap in his bowl, while conducting a loud conversation with Getas, Seuthes and Carbo. In between the casual glances he was taking over his shoulder, Spartacus eyed the young Roman sidelong. Under his protection, Carbo’s zest for life had returned. He was becoming a skilled fighter. He seemed to be loyal too.
How strange to have a Roman following me
.

‘Do you really think Crassus is coming here?’ asked Carbo.

‘Sounds like it,’ replied Spartacus.

Carbo swore. ‘I’d love to have a few moments alone with him.’

‘What do you care about the prick? Have you met him?’

‘No.’ Quickly, Carbo told his story.

‘I’m not surprised you’d want to give him a good seeing-to.’ Spartacus thought of Kotys.
What I’d do to you, you whoreson
…

Carbo sighed. ‘Not that I’ll ever get a chance for revenge.’

‘You won’t,’ Spartacus growled.
And nor shall I
. ‘Get used to it.’

Catching the sharp tone in the Thracian’s voice, Carbo fell silent.
I’d still love to thrash Crassus within a whisker of his life
.

Phortis began to call out names. He did not pick any rookies, Spartacus noted. This clash had to impress, and therefore experienced gladiators would fit the bill better. It wasn’t long before the Capuan had picked out five men – two Germans, a pair of Thracians and a Gaul. Spartacus also saw that the most successful fighters, individuals such as Oenomaus and Crixus, had not been selected. Batiatus wanted to put on a good show, but he wasn’t going to lose one of his best gladiators. Do I qualify as one of those yet? Spartacus wondered. He had nowhere near the stature of someone like Crixus, who had more than thirty victories to his name.

Those chosen stood miserably near Batiatus and Phortis.

‘Are these sufficient, master?’

Batiatus rubbed his jaw. ‘No. I want one more.’

Spartacus tensed. He could feel Phortis’ eyes boring into the side of his head.

‘Spartacus!’

He locked eyes with Getas, and then Seuthes. Both their mouths opened and closed, like fishes out of water. Carbo also looked stricken.

‘Spartacus! Get out here!’

He strode out to stand with the five other fighters. He looked at none of them.

Batiatus approached, Phortis at his right shoulder, and the trainers a few steps behind.

‘Tell me about each one.’

The trainers filled the lanista in. Phortis threw in a comment here and there. The rest of the fighters watched from their benches, Crixus prominent among them.

‘This one won’t fight well. He’s not confident enough,’ said Batiatus, dismissing the Gaul.

Looking relieved, the man hurried back to the safety of his comrades.

Two others were also allowed to go, leaving a strapping German, a black-haired Thracian and Spartacus, the last candidate. The tension raised several notches, and the three gave each other wary looks. The muscles in Spartacus’ jaw bunched. The man was a tough proposition. Spartacus had seen him training, and heard about his last fight, when he’d defeated a far more experienced Gaul from another ludus.

Batiatus paced up and down, studying the trio. ‘Give me their details again,’ he ordered.

The trainers obeyed.

Spartacus stared rigidly in front of him. Is this what my dream is about? he wondered. Breathe. Keep breathing.

‘One Gaul, but two Thracians,’ mused Batiatus. ‘Why am I not surprised by that?’

Phortis chuckled. ‘Because they’re quarrelsome whoresons, master?’

‘Probably,’ replied Batiatus with a smile. He stared at the black-haired warrior. ‘Should I pick you?’

‘No, master,’ muttered the Thracian in heavily accented Latin. ‘I … new recruit. Not good enough … fighter.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ said Batiatus, turning to one of the trainers, who gave a vigorous nod. ‘Apparently, you’re one of the best
tirones
that we’ve had in years. Plus I hear that your tribe is on poor terms with the Maedi, his people.’ He jerked his head at Spartacus. ‘I think that you’d make an excellent candidate for this fight.’ The Thracian said nothing, and Batiatus smirked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

There was still no reply, and Batiatus glanced at Spartacus. ‘What about you? Should you take part?’

‘No,’ replied Spartacus firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be a complete waste of my abilities, master.’

Batiatus’ eyebrows rose. ‘How so?’

‘If I kill the other man quickly – and there’s a very good likelihood of that – you’ll have lost in either of these an excellent gladiator. If by some small chance, however, I am slain, you will never have the opportunity to see what kind of fighter I can be.’

‘Proud words. Confident words,’ Batiatus proclaimed. ‘Yet how can you expect me to believe that you can defeat either of these two men? They’re both courageous, skilled fighters.’

‘What you believe is up to you, master,’ Spartacus answered, steely-eyed. ‘But in my previous fights for the ludus, I’ve barely even been tested.’ Behind Batiatus, he caught Phortis scoffing. Spartacus stared at him with complete hatred.
Gods willing, I’ll nail you one day, you bastard
.

Batiatus heard the Capuan’s snigger. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘The dog’s lying, master! He’s a capable enough gladiator, but nowhere near Crixus’ class, for example.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because of the way he fights,’ Phortis exclaimed. ‘He’s won all his bouts, but not in a champion’s manner.’

‘It’s easy to be economical. I’ve just done what it took to get by,’ said Spartacus truthfully. He gave the Capuan a scornful glance.
Why would I bother stretching myself for a miserable cocksucker like you?

The veins in Phortis’ neck bulged. ‘You fucking—’

‘Enough,’ said Batiatus. His gaze grew calculating. ‘He could be lying, but then again he might not be. Why be surprised that a man in his situation only did the bare minimum? It’s probably what a lot of them do.’

Phortis lapsed into a spluttering silence, giving Spartacus the briefest twinge of satisfaction. The feeling vanished when Batiatus looked from him to the Gaul to the black-haired Thracian – and back again. Spartacus didn’t drop his gaze. Despite the gods’ apparent capriciousness, he would face his fate like a man. At the same time, it was hard not to feel that this was what his dream about the snake had portended.

Batiatus walked to stand in front of the German, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, wouldn’t meet his gaze. That was enough for the lanista. ‘Piss off,’ he barked. ‘Coward.’ As the German obeyed, Batiatus’ attention shot back to the black-haired Thracian. ‘You’ll do,’ he pronounced. ‘In fact, I think you will be a worthy adversary for Spartacus.’

The man nodded jerkily.

Spartacus waited to be dismissed. Just because the snake was around my neck doesn’t mean that I couldn’t kill it, he told himself. Yes, I would need the Rider’s help, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

‘Go on, then! Get yourself ready,’ snarled Phortis at the black-haired Thracian. ‘The fight starts at midday.’

As the warrior sloped away, Batiatus’ cold eyes returned to Spartacus. ‘If you survive this bout, you had best impress me from now on. If I’m not happy, I’ll set up a fight with Crixus. To the death. I don’t give a damn about how much money you’ve made me so far. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ Somehow, Spartacus knew that the mocking laugh he could hear was that of Crixus.

‘Insolent arse wipe! Yes,
master
,’ growled Phortis.

Spartacus gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, master.’

‘Good. Now piss off, before you test Batiatus’ goodwill even more.’

His goodwill? thought Spartacus sourly. He kept his mouth shut, however. Backchat could earn him a flogging, and that was the last thing he needed. He’d have to be on top form to defeat the black-haired warrior.

Shortly before Albinus was to arrive with his prestigious guest, the fighters were forced to return to their quarters. While it didn’t come as a surprise to Carbo – why give nearly two hundred dangerous men access to nobility? – the order infuriated him. Once he was in his cell, there was no possible way he could harm Crassus. The gladiators were also angered by the move, but Phortis had been expecting their response. Deploying all the guards, armed with bows, he ordered everyone into their quarters. The more reluctant individuals were encouraged with strokes of his whip. A torrent of abuse rained down on the Capuan as he locked door after door. Objects – coins, cups and oil lamps – were hurled from the cell windows. The insults and missile-throwing made no difference. Within a quarter of an hour, the courtyard had been emptied.

The semicircular seating area which filled one end of the yard now looked immense. It could comfortably hold five hundred people. Being the only people to occupy it would reinforce the extravagance of Albinus’ gesture to his guest, thought Carbo. Batiatus knew how to throw a grand spectacle. Yet Capua’s arena was even more impressive. The huge circular edifice was constructed from great slabs of stone, decorated with statues of the gods and towered over the neighbouring residential buildings. Carbo didn’t know how many citizens packed in to see the gladiator contests, but it must be several thousand. During the frequent visits he’d made there, Carbo had never imagined that one day he would actually fight on the circle of sand within. But that day was fast approaching. His training was nearly over. Carbo was looking forward to it. His time as a wet-behind-the-ears tiro was nearly over.

Soon Spartacus and the black-haired Thracian appeared. Carbo studied them both closely. Nervously. Spartacus’ had only a single greave against the other’s two, but that was of little consequence, for his mail shirt and scutum offered a great deal more protection than his opponent’s helmet,
manica
and small, square shield. The pair threw each other wary glances while their trainers muttered in their ears. Phortis stood in the background, observing. There was no sign of Batiatus. He wouldn’t emerge until the important visitors arrived.

Carbo’s stomach twisted with tension. Since Spartacus had taken him under his wing, he’d spent plenty of time watching him train. He was good. Damn good. But so was the other Thracian. Carbo felt guilty that his concern stemmed only partly from his regard for Spartacus. If the black-haired warrior proved victorious, Carbo stood every chance of losing the protection he’d enjoyed in the previous few months. If that happened, life would become just as dangerous as it was in the arena. Carbo had no desire to return to the life he’d endured during the dark days after he’d first entered the ludus. Spartacus had to win.