Roman slave trader, who took me to Capua, where Phortis bought me.’
Carbo shook his head at life’s randomness. ‘In another life, we might have met socially, when you visited Italy.’
‘Chloris!’
She started at the summons. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Who’s calling you?’
‘Amatokos. He’s one of the Thracians.’
‘I know who he is.’ One of Spartacus’ best warriors. ‘Is he your …’
‘Yes. I need someone to protect me in here.’
Carbo scowled as she left the cell. He’d lost all desire to rest.
Chapter VII
The nightmare became part of Spartacus’ life, recurring every week or so. For all that he did his best not to dwell on it, he was unable to dismiss it from his mind entirely. Frustration gnawed at him over its possible meanings, but he didn’t ask Ariadne about it again. He had come to the conclusion that it probably meant his death in the arena. Frustrated by his powerlessness to change that fate, he did his best to bury his concerns. Ariadne knew that Spartacus was still having the dream — he woke her up every time with his thrashing about. Things were complicated by the fact that he’d taken her reassuring touch one night for more than it was, and come on to her. Ariadne had leaped away from him as if he’d poured a pot of scalding water over her. Spartacus’ instant apology had produced nothing but a muttered curse. It had taken days for her frigid disapproval to thaw. He hadn’t tried it on with her again. His memories of rape from his time with the legions were too dark, too savage. Ariadne would consent to sex, or it wouldn’t happen at all. And yet the yoke of his unfulfilled lust was less troubling than his dream of the snake. Spartacus was damned if he would do anything about it again, however. If Ariadne came up with some explanation about it, she could approach him. Angered that both avenues seemed to be dead ends, Spartacus got on with his existence, such as it was. He trained hard. Bound his followers to him. Existed.
The flavour of his reality over the subsequent few months was unvarying. Nightmares. Training. Recruiting men to his cause. Fights. Pressed by Phortis, Amarantus began entering him into single combats in the local arena. He won his first bouts with ease, and the Gaul responded by putting him in against more skilled opponents, often from the ludi in Rome. Spartacus beat them too, learning with each to gain the crowd’s approval from the first moment he walked on to the circle of sand, the gladiator’s world. With each victory, his following within the ludus increased. His status was also augmented by Ariadne’s efforts. She had begun accepting offerings to Dionysus and making requests of the god on behalf of a good number of the school’s inmates.
Spartacus’ successes made it inevitable that he would eventually be forced into a contest to the death. His opponent was a strapping German who belonged to another lanista. The fight had been hard, but Spartacus had prevailed. Phortis’ hope that he died in the arena had been firmly set aside by Batiatus, who was delighted by his new fighter’s success, and the amount of money he’d won as a result. The sea change in Spartacus’ situation was made evident by the size of the purse he was thrown afterwards, and by Batiatus’ approving looks. Instead of feeling pleased, he felt increased resentment towards the lanista. I’m no prize bull, to be paraded whenever you choose. His anger was fuelled to new heights by his abiding memory of the whole episode, which was not burying his blade in his opponent’s throat, but the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd that had followed. While he knew intimately the adrenalin thrill of killing a man, and a primitive part of him took pleasure in the sensation, Spartacus loathed the way random people could pay to watch him commit the act and enjoy that feeling vicariously. Let the whoresons come down on to the sand and do it for themselves, he had thought savagely. I’ll wager that few could actually shove a sword into another’s flesh they way that I can. His eyes had drifted to the guards. The way that I could kill every one of you.
From that moment. Spartacus’ troubling vision of the snake had been interspersed with a regular dream about freedom. For all that it seemed impossible, the idea would not go away.
Carbo’s life, had definitely improved. He had won his first two fights, and with them, small sums of money which he carefully salted away. These steps encouraged him hugely. If the gods kept him safe from injury or death, he would save until he had a decent amount of cash to send to his father. Sometimes he dreamed of gaining retribution on Crassus. It was pure fantasy, but enjoyable nonetheless. Carbo found dealing with his attraction to Chloris more troubling. He couldn’t stop himself eyeing her up at every opportunity, and resenting Amatokos, her strapping lover. Yet it was common policy for the female slaves in the ludus to pair off with a gladiator. Without a guardian, they fell prey to every fighter who felt like sex. Unsurprisingly, Batiatus cared not a jot about such violations. If the women became pregnant, nine months later he would have either a boy child who could be reared as a gladiator, or a girl who could be sold in the slave market when she was old enough. Knowing this did not ease Carbo’s frustration. He’d tried talking to Chloris, but Amatokos kept a close eye on her, and he’d been lucky to avoid a beating from the Thracian on one occasion.
Carbo wasn’t sure, but there was something about the way that Chloris slyly returned his stares which told him not to give up all hope. While Amatokos was around, however, nothing much would happen. The warrior was tough, fast, and had won more than half a dozen fights in the arena, including one mortal bout. All Carbo could do in answer to that was to apply himself mercilessly to his training, and pray to the gods. Despite his frustrations, he found the martial life rewarding — more so, he was sure, than he’d have found training to be a lawyer. If he couldn’t be a soldier, then he’d be a gladiator. And a damn good one.
Late one night, a messenger came to see Batiatus. Albinus, one of the most senior politicians in Capua, was playing host to no less than Marcus Licinius Crassus, a praetor who was reportedly the richest man in Rome. Apparently, Crassus had expressed an interest in visiting Batiatus’ ludus. Keen to impress, Albinus had offered the lanista a huge sum of money to stage a special fight in the school during Crassus’ visit. The gossip went that it was to be a combat to the death. Naturally, both gladiators were to be picked from within their number. The next morning, every part of the yard was filled with huddles of anxious, muttering fighters. The same question fell from everyone’s lips. Who would the two men be?
Batiatus, Phortis and the senior trainers strolled through the yard as the gladiators ate their breakfast. Most men picked morosely at their porridge, while they cast furtive glances at the group. Spartacus, refusing to be intimidated, made it his business to eat every last scrap in his bowl, while conducting a loud conversation with Getas, Seuthes and Carbo. In between the casual glances he was taking over his shoulder, Spartacus eyed the young Roman sidelong. Under his protection, Carbo’s zest for life had returned. He was becoming a skilled fighter. He seemed to be loyal too. How strange to have a Roman following me.
‘Do you really think Crassus is coming here?’ asked Carbo.
‘Sounds like it,’ replied Spartacus.
Carbo swore. ‘I’d love to have a few moments alone with him.’
‘What do you care about the prick? Have you met him?’
‘No.’ Quickly, Carbo told his story.
‘I’m not surprised you’d want to give him a good seeing-to.’ Spartacus thought of Kotys. What I’d do to you, you whoreson…
Carbo sighed. ‘Not that I’ll ever get a chance for revenge.’
‘You won’t,’ Spartacus growled. And nor shall I. ‘Get used to it.’
Catching the sharp tone in the Thracian’s voice, Carbo fell silent. I’d still love to thrash Crassus within a whisker of his life.
Phortis began to call out names. He did not pick any rookies, Spartacus noted. This clash had to impress, and therefore experienced gladiators would fit the bill better. It wasn’t long before the Capuan had picked out five men — two Germans, a pair of Thracians and a Gaul. Spartacus also saw that the most successful fighters, individuals such as Oenomaus and Crixus, had not been selected. Batiatus wanted to put on a good show, but he wasn’t going to lose one of his best gladiators. Do I qualify as one of those yet? Spartacus wondered. He had nowhere near the stature of someone like Crixus, who had more than thirty victories to his name.
Those chosen stood miserably near Batiatus and Phortis.
‘Are these sufficient, master?’
