Polles glanced at his men. ‘Shall I tell him, or let him stew in his juices for a while?’
‘Leave it until he sees who it is,’ suggested one warrior cruelly. ‘I’d like to see the expression on his face when he realises.’
‘Good idea,’ purred Polles.
‘Fuck you all,’ whispered Spartacus. Now he remembered the delay before Olynthus had replied to his question. Olynthus. He was the traitor for sure.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked Getas’ wife in a trembling voice.
‘What do you think?’ Polles sneered. ‘These two and the other prick who is responsible will be tied up in front of the whole tribe and tortured. When Kotys is happy that all the conspirators have been identified, he’ll have their throats cut. The remainder will simply be executed.’
Screaming with rage, she threw herself at Polles, but the warrior guarding her stuck out his foot. Getas’ wife tripped and went sprawling to the floor, coming to rest beside Spartacus. She did not try to get up, even when the children began to wail. Silent sobs racked her thin frame.
Impotent fury filled Spartacus. ‘Ariadne?’
‘So it was you who stood up for her by the gate. I thought it might have been,’ snarled Polles. ‘Once the day’s proceedings have finished, Kotys is throwing a celebratory feast. He’ll bed her after that. She’s to be his new wife.’
Spartacus’ face contorted with fury, and he tried to get up. A heavy blow from a club knocked him back to the floor. He was barely aware of being picked up and carried outside. Outside, a crowd had gathered. Their faces were unhappy, but none dared intervene. They’ll have attacked Seuthes and Medokos’ huts at the same time, thought Spartacus bitterly.
Then the blackness took him.
When Ariadne awoke, she looked straight at the spot where Spartacus had sat. Disappointment at his absence and guilt for feeling like that filled her. Sharp realisation sank home a moment later as she stared at the daylight streaming in through the chinks in the roof. It was nearly full day. She had overslept. Cursing, she jumped up and padded to the door. Why had the fighting not woken her? She was a light sleeper at the best of times. Maybe there was no fighting. Could they have been betrayed? The thought made Ariadne feel sick to the pit of her stomach. Please, no.
Throwing her cloak around her shoulders and picking up the basket that contained her snake, she unlocked the door and stepped outside. Unusually, the alleyway was deserted, but Ariadne could hear the swelling noise of a crowd from the central meeting area. Cold sweat ran down her back as she walked slowly towards the sound. Her feet felt as heavy as lead. Something had gone wrong. Spartacus had failed. She knew it in her bones.
Rallying her courage, she emerged from the alley. Practically everyone in the settlement looked to be present. They weren’t happy either. The angry mutters rising from the onlookers made it clear that whatever was going on in the centre was unpopular. Ariadne’s dread grew as she heard Spartacus’ name being shouted periodically. Other names were also being cried out, although she didn’t catch them. Ariadne began pushing her way through the throng. People soon gave way when they saw who wanted to pass by, and it wasn’t long before she had reached the front of the crowd. Her knees nearly buckled at what she saw. The king’s entire force of bodyguards stood in a rough square around three wooden frames upon each of which a man had been tied, face down. Polles waited behind them, holding a whip. Kotys stood alongside him, a thin smile playing across his lips. To their rear, perhaps three score warriors were kneeling in the dirt, ropes tied around their necks. Their bloodied and battered appearance told its own story.
‘Who are they?’ Ariadne whispered to a woman beside her.
‘Spartacus, Sitalkes’ son. Getas and Seuthes, his friends, and the men who had sworn them loyalty.’
Where are the rest? Ariadne wanted to scream. Where are Olynthus and Medokos? But she had no time to linger on the horror of that implication, that Spartacus had been betrayed by two of his so-called comrades, because Kotys stepped forward, smirking. ‘Priestess. You honour us with your presence. I’m glad that you will witness this.’
Ariadne turned her face away in disgust. It was the only way she could resist. Dionysus, help us please, she begged silently. I’ll do anything. Anything.
Kotys made a gesture at Polles.
‘Before you are three traitors who planned to depose the king. Know that one of their number is not here. He was killed when my men went to arrest him.’
Spartacus had just come to. I honour your passing, Medokos, he thought. At least you died well.
‘Together these pieces of filth persuaded more than sixty warriors’ — Polles waved contemptuously at the tied-up figures to his rear — ‘to join their hopeless cause. Thank the Rider, Kotys was alerted to the danger. He owes his thanks to the loyalty of a warrior whom Spartacus, the fool, trusted implicitly.’
The bodyguards roared with laughter.
Balefully, Spartacus lifted his head from the frame. He caught Getas and Seuthes doing the same.
‘Step forward, Medokos,’ ordered Polles triumphantly.
Utter disbelief filled Spartacus as Medokos emerged from the crowd to a chorus of jeers. So Olynthus is dead. Forgive me, brother, for misjudging you.
‘How could you?’ roared Getas. ‘You fucking shitbag!’
‘Curse you to hell!’ cried Seuthes.
Spartacus stared at Medokos with utter hatred.
His former friend flinched, but walked out to stand by Kotys, who patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your loyalty will not be forgotten.’
Ariadne began calling down silent curses on Medokos’ head. May he go blind. May disease waste the flesh from his bones. May lightning strike him down, or a horse throw him to his death. She knew that if there was ever a time to flee, it was now, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. At the very least, Spartacus and his comrades deserved someone to stand witness to their terrible fate.
‘Continue, Polles,’ directed the king.
‘The traitors are to be whipped first. Forty lashes for each man.’ He indicated the tools on the table beside him with an evil smile. ‘Then the real torture will begin. When we’re done, I will slit their throats and move on to the other scumbags.’ He glanced at Kotys.
‘Luckily for you miserable goat-turds,’ the king thundered, ‘the tribe cannot afford to lose so many warriors. I have therefore decided that one in six of you will die. Ten men, drawn by lot. The rest of you will swear undying allegiance to me, and will provide a hostage as surety of this newfound allegiance.’
The crowd’s unhappiness soared, and they pressed forward at the bodyguards, who used their javelin butts to restore control. Ariadne’s rage knew no bounds. She had to stop herself from leaping out at the king and trying to kill him. Dionysus, help me, please.
‘Start with Spartacus,’ commanded Kotys.
Ariadne could not watch, but she nor could she block her ears to the horror. There was a sibilant whisper as the whip hissed through the air. Next came the crack as it connected with Spartacus’ flesh. Last — and worst of all — came his stifled groan. Within a couple of heartbeats, Polles brought the whip down again. And again. And again. It was unbearable. To stop herself from crying out, Ariadne bit the inside of her lip. It wasn’t long before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but rather than release her grip, she clamped her teeth even tighter. Somehow, the agonising pain filling her head made it easier to listen to Spartacus’ ordeal.
By the time that Spartacus had counted twenty lashes, he could feel his strength slipping away. He was angered, but unsurprised. During his time with the legions, he had seen soldiers whipped on plenty of occasions. By forty lashes, he’d be semi-conscious, the flesh of his back in tatters. If Polles was ordered to continue beyond that, he would know nothing after sixty strokes. From that point, he could easily die from his injuries. That thought brought a fleeting, sour smile to Spartacus’ lips. Kotys wouldn’t want him to die under the lash. It would end at fifty strokes. Only then would the true pain begin. He’d seen the table covered in the tools of the trade: the pliers, probes and serrated blades, the glowing brazier alongside. Still his experience didn’t seem real. It felt like a complete aberration. Beaten and tortured to death in my own village. How… ironic.
Spartacus didn’t hear the challenge of the sentry at the gate.
Kotys, Polles, Ariadne and those watching the gory spectacle were also oblivious.
It was when the column of men filed inside the walls that people began to notice. Heads began to turn. Men
