cared if he lived or died. Where the crone would keep him awake all night with her coughing. It wasn’t even as if he could wash before climbing into his bed. The insula had no running water, so he’d have to lie in his own filth until the morning, when it was safe to go out and the public baths were open. Carbo wished for the pair who had attacked him to appear before him. I’d cut them both to pieces.
Of course nothing happened. He kept walking.
Then, in the flickering light cast by his oil lamp, something caught his eye. He stopped and peered at the plastered wall to his left. On it, someone had scratched a series of crude drawings. Carbo leaned closer, making out a pair of small, almost childlike figures fighting each other and, on either side, sets of cursive characters. He read the gladiators’ names and the boasts about them. ‘Hilarus the Thracian, never defeated, victor in fifteen fights, and Attilius the Samnite, strongest of his tribe, and killer of four men.’ Hope, and a little excitement, stirred deep in Carbo’s heart. Here was one path left for him to follow. It might be that taken by the lowest of the low, by criminals, prisoners of war and slaves, yet occasionally it was taken by a citizen. He could become an auctoratus, a contracted gladiator. If he succeeded, the financial rewards could be very great indeed.
The thought made Carbo’s lips twitch. Despite all that had happened that day, this seemed like a sign from the gods.
Spartacus was woken before dawn by the cold. His blanket had slipped off in the night. Pulling it up to his chin, he trained his ear to the early-morning sounds entering from outside. The strident crowing of a cock in the ludus’ vegetable garden, which he’d seen outside the thick walls. The rattle of a sword tip along the window bars of the gladiators’ cells. Phortis’ nasal tone rousing them from sleep. The slap of men’s feet on bare concrete floors. Throats being cleared. The distinctive noise of spitting. And from beyond the ludus, where Capua’s market sprawled, the hum of normal life: the rival cries of bakers, butchers and other tradesmen. From the nearby Via Appia came the shouted greetings of travellers, the creak of cartwheels mixed with the lowing of oxen, and the ill- tempered braying of mules. It was very ordinary, and very similar to Thrace. Spartacus hated it. Loathed it. Freedom was so near, he thought bitterly, and so far. A world away. Who’d have imagined that after years of service to the Romans, he’d end up as the lowest of the low? A fucking gladiator. He thought of Kotys and grimaced. At least I’m alive.
Clack, clack, clack. Right on cue, Phortis’ weapon dragged along the bars of the cell’s window. The metallic sound of a key unlocking the door followed. ‘Stop ploughing your woman, latro! Get out here while the porridge is nice and hot.’
‘Filthy Roman bastard.’ Spartacus’ whisper was reflex.
‘Do you hear me, latro?’
‘I hear you.’ He sat up.
‘Good. Today we’ll see what kind of fighter you are to become.’ Phortis moved on.
Spartacus scowled.
‘About last night…’ Ariadne began.
He glanced at her, and saw the desire for reconciliation in her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you,’ he said. ‘Although I’d caught the creature, I was still feeling jumpy.’
‘I’m the one who should be apologising. It’s my snake, and my responsibility to make sure that it stays in the basket.’ She paused, looking awkward. ‘So I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s forget about it, and move on.’
‘Fine.’ Feeling better, she smiled.
‘You look much better like that than with a frown on your face.’
He likes me! Delighted but also embarrassed, Ariadne floundered about for what to say. ‘What type of fighter do you think they’ll pick you for?’ she blurted.
‘Thracian, I’d assume,’ replied Spartacus, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll soon find out. What will you do with the day?’
‘The first thing will be to clean this room properly. Only the gods know when that last happened,’ Ariadne said disapprovingly. ‘Then I want to find something that will serve as an altar for my statues. If I have a chance, I’ll also sound out the women who already live in the ludus. Learn about how life works here.’
‘Stay safe. Keep away from the toilets and baths unless you’re with plenty of other women,’ he warned.
‘Don’t worry.’ She pointed to the basket. ‘That’s going everywhere with me.’
‘Good.’
She nodded. ‘Be careful.’
Her sudden thaw made him grin. ‘I will.’ Pushing open the door, he was gone.
Discomfited, Ariadne was grateful that he hadn’t seen the rising blush in her cheeks.
The new arrivals had barely finished their porridge when, accompanied by Phortis, the trainers who supervised the different classes of fighters came looking for them. The three middle-aged, hard-faced men were each armed with a club, a whip, or both. All were former gladiators who’d earned their freedom the hard way, by winning the rudis.
Forced out into the yard, to a chorus of jeers from the other inmates, the fifteen men were lined up side by side. Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes found themselves at the far end, away from Phortis, who began at once. He threw a barrage of questions at the first man, one of the Pontic warriors, demanding to know his age, his former occupation and his combat experience. The trainers listened carefully to the stumbling answers in poor Latin. Before long, the tribesman was ordered to stand by the man who would school him as a Thracian. The next captive was chosen to fight as a Gaul, and the one after that, as a Samnite. Gradually, Phortis worked his way down the line. The other Thracians grinned as they were selected to appear in the arena representing their own kind. Hearing this, Spartacus’ expectations grew. There’d be some pride to be had fighting as he had in real life.
‘Ah. The latro,’ drawled Phortis. He smiled as Spartacus’ face tightened. ‘This one’s a Thracian too,’ he explained to the trainers. ‘Age?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Occupation?’
‘I’ve been a warrior since the age of sixteen. That’s when I slew my first man,’ Spartacus growled. ‘He looked a bit like you.’
‘Ha! You’re a real killer, eh?’ Phortis’ eyebrows rose mockingly. ‘You have some military experience too?’
‘I’ve fought in every campaigning season since I reached manhood. In eight of those, I served with the Roman auxiliaries as a cavalryman. I’ve been in more fights and skirmishes than I can remember, and at least six full-scale battles.’
‘Killed many men?’ asked one of the trainers.
Spartacus stared him in the eyes. ‘I lost count after twenty. At least half of them were Romans.’
The trainer grunted noncommittally.
‘I don’t believe you,’ challenged Phortis.
‘It’s true. How many have you killed?’ retorted Spartacus. He was pleased as Phortis waved a fist in his face. Nor did he miss the smile that twitched across two of the trainers’ lips. Good. I got under your skin, you miserable goat-fucker.
‘I’ve slain plenty, damn your insolence! Harder men than you, too.’
Really? I doubt it.
‘He’ll do best as a Thracian. I’ll take him,’ said a short trainer with a well-trimmed beard. His companions murmured in agreement.
‘No, you fucking well won’t,’ snapped Phortis. ‘He’s not to fight as a Thracian.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Batiatus says so,’ replied Phortis with smug satisfaction. ‘The dog is too arrogant. It’ll give him ideas above his station. The same applies to his two friends.’
‘I’ll take him on then. The others too,’ said the third trainer, who had the look of a Gaul.
Phortis shrugged. ‘Fine.’
Hearing no further protest, the trainer jerked his head at Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes. ‘Get over here.’
Spartacus couldn’t help himself. ‘But-’
In the blink of an eye, Phortis had pulled the short club from his belt. With an almighty heave, he brought it down across Spartacus’ head. ‘Do as you’re told!’
Half-blinded by pain, Spartacus still managed to leap forward. He was prevented from getting to Phortis,
