stank of piss and shit. Because he had no money to buy fuel for the little brazier that sat in the corner, the room was freezing. Room? Carbo scowled. It could scarcely be called that.
The cheapest accommodation that he’d been able to find, it was located at the very top of a five-storey insula, or block of flats. There were no windows, and he rarely used his oil lamp, so the only light that came in was through the gaps in the roof tiles. Carbo glanced around the pathetic limits of his domain. It could be called a garret perhaps. Scarcely ten paces by six, it had an angled roof that made it impossible to stand upright. The door didn’t lock, and the walls were so thin that he could hear every sound made by his neighbour, a rheumy-eyed crone with a hacking cough.
The old witch was at it now, as she had been all through the night, choking and wheezing until Carbo thought she’d vomit. He wanted to go next door and throttle her. Instead, he shoved his head into the excuse for a pillow and placed a hand over his free ear. It made little difference. Gods above. I might as well get up and go out. Because of the coughing, Carbo had had little sleep. He’d hoped now that she was up, he might get some rest. Why fare abroad anyway? It was so damn cold outside. Of course those weren’t the only reasons that Carbo was huddled, fully dressed, under his blankets. He had no money, and no job. Nowhere to go. No prospects. Impotent fury filled him. Since he had run away, things had gone from bad to worse.
He’d kept his head low for several days, and then gone back to the family home. The only people he’d seen apart from a couple of the domestic slaves were an officious-looking man in a toga and several workmen. His attempt to speak with Crassus’ agent had been brushed off; so too had his request to meet with Paccius. Secure — and outraged — in the knowledge that his parents were gone, Carbo had begun looking for work. It hadn’t been long before the realisation sank home that his whole plan was a disastrous mistake. Most of the tradesmen he’d approached took one look at his well-made tunic and soft hands, and laughed in his face. Some had offered him work, but at such a low wage that Carbo had told them where to stick their miserable offers. Unfortunately, his savings had not lasted. The cost of living was much greater than he’d realised. His few remaining friends had helped where they could, giving him food and money, but even their goodwill had started to run dry.
Carbo ground his teeth with rage. What had he or his family done to anger the gods so? He had visited all the major temples, asking for guidance. He’d heard back nothing. Nothing. Even the old soothsayer to whom Carbo given his last coins the previous day had been useless, telling him that he’d soon be married to a wealthy merchant’s daughter. ‘Louse-ridden charlatan,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I should find him and take back my money.’ The idea of marriage brought his mother to mind. Gods, but she must be worrying about me. Father too. His pride wouldn’t allow him to write them a letter, however. I’ll let them know when things have improved. When I’m making money.
A new storm of coughing overtook the crone next door, and he gave up any pretence of trying to rest. Anything was better than this torture. Getting up, he fastened his cloak at one shoulder with the last valuable item he possessed, a silver brooch given him by his mother the year before, when he had taken the toga. Carbo ran his fingers over it, and silently asked Jupiter and Fortuna for help. Feeling a fraction better, he headed for the stairs. Perhaps his luck would change today. Perhaps the gods would help him at last. If not, maybe he could find a way to join the army. That at least would be better than returning in shame to his family in Rome. His belly grumbled, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten in three days. Carbo’s mind raced. Maybe he could steal a loaf from the bakery next door.
All eyes were upon the column from the moment they passed under the stone archway and into the large colonnaded courtyard beyond. They had to be. Phortis had led them straight into the middle of the circular training area, forcing the gladiators there to move out of the way. None looked unhappy at the interruption to their training. Far from it. The fighters crowded in around the new arrivals. Insults and catcalls in several tongues rained down; these turned rapidly to wolf whistles and lewd suggestions when Ariadne and the other women were seen. Doing his best to ignore the abuse, Spartacus picked out the loudest individuals and memorised their faces. A thickset Thracian with a long ponytail. A skinny Gaul who was missing his top teeth. A Nubian with one gold earring. I’ll sort out those fuckers.
Ariadne, who had worked her way into the midst of the women, kept her eyes firmly on the sandy ground. Until men knew that she was with Spartacus, the less attention she got, the better.
‘Shut it, you curs!’ shouted Phortis. He looked up at the archers on the first-floor balcony, which ran all the way around the courtyard. ‘You there! Tell Batiatus that I’m back. Quickly!’ As one of the guards scurried off, he turned back to his fifteen captives. ‘In a line! In a line! Face that way,’ he ordered. ‘Batiatus will want to see what kind of men I’ve brought back for him.’
Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes had been near the head of the column, so they found themselves on the left of the line. While they waited for Batiatus, the thronging gladiators took their opportunity, jeering and throwing mocking comments at all and sundry.
‘Hey, new boy!’
Instead of reacting, Spartacus scanned the dozens of hard faces arrayed before him: they were Gauls, Thracians and Germans for the most part, but there was also a smattering of Greeks, Egyptians and Nubians. There were three basic types of gladiator that he could see. Thracians, like himself, dressed in little more than a loincloth and wide leather belt, with a typical crested helmet to protect their heads. Lucky ones among them wore greaves. All carried wooden versions of the sica. Mixed among his countrymen were dozens of shaggy-haired, bare-chested Gauls in belted trousers. Clutching wooden spears or long swords, they looked every bit as fierce as he’d heard. There were men he didn’t recognise too, in triple-crested helmets and with simple metal plates protecting their chests.
‘New boy! I’m talking to you!’
Spartacus felt Getas nudge him. ‘It’s that big fucker on the left, with the scar right through his mouth.’ Spartacus’ eyes flickered sideways, taking in a blocky Gaul with long blond hair. His face had been ruined by a sword cut that would have killed most men. The result was an ugly purple cicatrice that ran from just under his right eye to the left side of his chin. Miraculously passing his nose, it had split his lips in two. Someone had stitched them back together, but, thought Spartacus, they hadn’t done a very good job. When the brute talked, one half of his face moved independently to the other.
‘Are you talking to me?’ snapped Spartacus.
‘That’s right,’ growled the Gaul. He licked his ruined lips. ‘I’ll see you in the baths later. You can suck me off.’
There was a burst of ribald laughter, and Phortis smiled.
Spartacus waited until the noise had died down a little. ‘Suck off an ugly son of a bitch like you? You should be so lucky.’ He laughed. ‘Because we’ve just met, I’ll be nice. Next time you even look at me, though, I’ll send you to fucking Hades. Understand?’
Stung by the roars of laughter that met Spartacus’ riposte, the Gaul took a step forward. ‘You dirty Thracian bastard,’ he hissed.
Phortis moved into his path, whip raised high. ‘Get back!’ he bawled. As the Gaul sullenly obeyed, he rounded on Spartacus. ‘Unless you’re asked to speak, keep your stinking mouth shut!’ Flecks of his spittle flew to land on Spartacus’ cheeks, who had the sense not to wipe them off.
‘Phortis. You have returned.’ The voice was not loud, but its authority cut through the noise. ‘Welcome.’
Phortis’ evil expression vanished as he turned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He bowed to the short, portly man who had appeared on the balcony above.
‘Having a little trouble with the new “recruits”?’ Batiatus’ eyes were already dancing along the captives, appraising them. Spartacus deliberately didn’t meet the lanista’s gaze. Instinctively, his comrades copied him. No point attracting Batiatus’ attentions this early.
‘Not at all, sir. Just a few of the usual wisecracks. You know what it’s like.’
‘Indeed.’ Reaching the end of the line, Batiatus regarded the Capuan. ‘Your journey was successful?’
‘I think so, sir, yes. I didn’t have to pay the moon and stars for any of these scumbags, but they’re all tough men who look able to handle themselves. I’m optimistic that you’ll agree with my choices.’
‘Tell me about them.’
Spartacus scanned the watching gladiators sidelong as Phortis began exalting each of his purchases. Where were the leaders, the men he’d come up against sooner rather than later? Not far from the scarred man who’d shouted at him, he spotted another Gaul, an immense figure with bulging muscles and an arrogant look smeared across his broad, handsome face. That bastard’s one. I hope he’s not as skilful as he’s big. Spartacus slid his gaze
