As they neared the doors to the bathing area, he saw Carbo skulking in the shadows under the walkway. The young Roman was living in the ludus, but Spartacus hadn’t seen where. A quick glance told him that Carbo wasn’t faring well. He had a black eye, a cut to his lower lip, and his tunic had been ripped off his right shoulder. The flesh underneath was badly bruised. Poor bastard.
‘Come here.’
Carbo looked around in surprise. ‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Carbo limped out into the yard, in obvious pain. ‘What is it?’ He rubbed at the dark rings under his eyes with one hand. The other stayed inside his tunic.
‘Not getting much sleep? It’s tough here, eh?’
‘I’m not complaining,’ Carbo replied curtly.
‘I know you’re not. The fact is, though, that you’re being picked on by men who are bigger and tougher than you.’
Carbo’s eyes glittered, and he revealed the hand that had been residing in his tunic. In his fingers, he gripped a length of iron. ‘The next whoreson who comes near me will get this stuck in his chest.’
‘You’ll get yourself killed, boy.’ Spartacus stepped closer. ‘Why don’t you throw your lot in with me?’
Distrust twisted Carbo’s scarred features. ‘Why would you ask me that?’
‘Because we need good fighters.’ Leave the boy his pride. Spartacus grinned wryly and lifted his tunic to reveal the mark left by Carbo’s sword. ‘And you’re definitely one of those.’
Carbo felt his worries ease a fraction. This hard man had some respect for him after all. ‘I’d be pleased to join you.’
‘Good. Come into the baths, get yourself cleaned up. You can bunk in with Getas and Seuthes for the moment.’ He saw Carbo’s suspicion. ‘Neither of them will touch you. They’re not like that.’
A gusty sigh of relief left Carbo’s lips. He’d been sleeping — more accurately, dozing — in Restio’s cell. While the Iberian had not attempted any sexual assaults, as others had, Carbo didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t sure of Spartacus either, but this was a better offer than he’d had from anyone else. ‘Thanks.’
A tiny, secretive smile twitched across Spartacus’ lips as they entered the baths. Another one enters the fold.
‘Gods above, get off me!’ Spartacus muttered. Waking abruptly, he sat bolt upright. Ripping off his thick woollen tunic, he threw it to the floor. He saw nothing. With an oath, he leaped across to the furthest corner of the cell, where he checked the wicker basket. It was securely closed. Spartacus mouthed another savage curse.
‘What are you doing?’
He didn’t answer.
Ariadne opened one eye, and then the other. Gods, but he looks good naked. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep,’ he muttered, returning to his mattress.
The tension in his voice alarmed her. ‘Spartacus?’
He wouldn’t look at her.
‘Was it a dream?’
The slightest of nods.
‘A nightmare?’ she asked intuitively.
‘I suppose. It’s probably nothing.’
‘Tell me. Maybe I can make some sense of it.’
Silence.
Ariadne waited.
Finally, turning his head, Spartacus met her gaze.
‘You’re worried.’
‘Yes. It was awful.’
Her eyebrows arched into a silent question.
‘You won’t leave it alone until you find out, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’m starting to know what you’re like.’
‘Is that so?’ Ariadne’s smile faded as she glanced at the basket. ‘You dreamed of a serpent.’
He gave her a startled look. ‘Yes.’
‘What was it doing?’
Spartacus’ hands rose to his neck and lower jaw, encircling them. ‘The damn thing was coiled up here. It was looking me in the eyes!’
‘And you thought that it was my snake?’
‘Have you forgotten the other night?’ he asked testily. ‘I only wish it had escaped this time as well.’ He made an obscene gesture at the basket.
‘You hate the creature,’ said Ariadne calmly. ‘Why on earth would you want it wrapped around your throat?’
‘Because then my dream wouldn’t have meant a thing. Now… the whole thing feels like a bad omen. A message from the gods. Not one I’d welcome either.’ Spartacus made the sign against evil.
‘What else can you remember?’ Ariadne kept her voice calm, but inside her heart had begun to race. This doesn’t sound good.
‘Eh?’ His grey eyes came back into focus. ‘I was in a desolate place, with little but rocks all around. It may have been the top of a mountain.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I could see nothing but sky around me, and the air was thin, as it is at altitude.’
‘Was I with you? Or Getas and Seuthes?’
He frowned, concentrating. ‘No. I was alone.’
‘Anything else?’
There was a short pause. ‘I was carrying a sword.’
‘What type?’
The fingers of Spartacus’ right hand clenched and opened again. ‘It was a sica.’
‘You’re sure?’ demanded Ariadne.
He nodded.
This vision can only have been sent by the gods. Ariadne rose from the mattress without a word. She drew on her robe. Moving to where her figurines of Dionysus sat, she knelt. Her lips began to move in silent entreaty. I place myself at your command as always, O Great One. I ask you for an explanation of my husband’s dream. There was no immediate response, which did not surprise, or worry, Ariadne. She began to breathe deeply, preparing herself to go into the trance-like state which often aided her understanding of all things arcane.
Spartacus eyed her with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. She had placed their single oil light before two tiny carvings. Both depicted Dionysus. One showed him as a half-clad, beardless youth surrounded by ecstatic maenads, his women followers; they reached their hands up to him in offering. The second statuette was of two figures, the first a mature, bearded deity, clad in a long tunic and with a fawn skin cloaking his shoulders. Ivy wreathed his entire body. Dionysus’ right hand gripped that of the other figure, a majestic, elderly man whose left hand bore a sceptre. Hades.
Spartacus shivered. He’d have been happier without a representation of the god of the underworld in his living quarters. He could take the maenads presenting Dionysus with raw animal flesh to eat, but seeing Hades always made him feel uneasy. Yet he had to respect with Ariadne’s ways. Her habits. It was part of who she was. As ever, Spartacus prayed not to Dionysus, but to his favourite deity, the Rider. Finishing his own request, Spartacus watched her in respectful silence.
Time dragged by.
Spartacus knew better than to interrupt Ariadne. He fell deep into thought, worrying about what the dream might mean. In the background, he was vaguely aware of Phortis unlocking the door and throwing in his usual taunts. Eventually — Spartacus was not sure how long — he felt Ariadne’s eyes upon him. ‘Did you see aught that might explain what I saw?’
She shook her head sorrowfully. I can’t think of anything positive to say either.
‘I see.’ The horror Spartacus had experienced as the snake coiled around his neck surged back. A moment before, his belly had been grumbling. Now it felt like a pool of burning acid. So I will end my days here, as a
