asked questions of each other. Some even broke away to go and speak with the newcomers. Ariadne craned her head, but the throng prevented her from seeing anything. Eventually, even the king became aware that something was going on and ordered Polles to cease.
With a disappointed look, the champion obeyed.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Spartacus sagged against the wooden frame. He had no idea why Polles had stopped. The short delay was welcome, however. It would give him the chance to recover some of his strength. Allow him to endure more of the pain when it resumed. He caught Ariadne looking at him, and the agonised expression on her face tore at his conscience. He tried to smile in reassurance, but succeeded only in grimacing. Great Rider, protect her at least.
‘Let them approach,’ shouted Kotys.
There was a short delay as his bodyguards manhandled people out of the way to create a path leading towards the gate. Curious, Spartacus squinted to see who, or what, had halted his punishment.
The first person to come striding into sight was a shaven-headed, blocky man wearing a faded green cloak. From the belt around his waist hung a sheathed gladius. The newcomer looked as if he knew how to use it too. He resembled a Roman soldier, thought Spartacus. So did the eight similarly armed figures following him. Hard-faced, their limbs laced with scars, they had to be veteran legionaries. The men in ragged clothes who stumbled along behind, and who were chained to each other’s necks, were a different matter. Even the smallest child could see that they were slaves. They were of different nationalities: some were Thracian, but others seemed to be Pontic or even Scythian. Two men took up the rear, leading a trio of mules.
Slave-trader scum, thought Spartacus savagely. Men like these — human vultures — had followed in the wake of every army he had ever served in. They usually bought prisoners captured by the legionaries, but they weren’t above abducting anyone weak or foolish enough to come within their grasp. Men, women, children — they took them all. In recent decades, Rome’s appetite for slaves had become insatiable. This individual was not an average slave trader, however. He only had males, which meant that his prospective clients owned farms or mines. Spartacus closed his eyes and tried to rest. This was nothing to do with him.
‘That’s close enough,’ shouted Polles when the newcomer was a dozen steps from Kotys. ‘Bow to the king.’
Immediately, the other obeyed. ‘My name is Phortis. I am a trader,’ he said in poor Thracian. ‘I come in peace.’
‘It’s as well,’ said Kotys acidly. ‘Nine of you wouldn’t make much impression against my bodyguards.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’ Phortis smile’ was rueful.
‘Why are you here?’
‘My master in Italy has sent me in search of slaves, Your Majesty.’
‘I can see that. Agricultural slaves and the like, eh?’
‘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
