stemmed only partly from his regard for Spartacus. If the black-haired warrior proved victorious, Carbo stood every chance of losing the protection he’d enjoyed in the previous few months. If that happened, life would become just as dangerous as it was in the arena. Carbo had no desire to return to the life he’d endured during the dark days after he’d first entered the ludus. Spartacus had to win.
Batiatus appeared the moment that Albinus and his party arrived. He was dressed in his best toga, his hair pomaded. His profuse, unctuous welcome turned Spartacus’ stomach. He studied Albinus, a self-satisfied, stout man with a pompous air, and his guest, Crassus, who was as broad-shouldered as his host was fat. A faintly supercilious expression was fixed on Crassus’ handsome face. He took his seat in the centre of the front row — the most prestigious place — with poor grace, complaining about the hard stone. Batiatus apologised and hissed a command at Phortis, who returned a moment later with a plump cushion. This seemed to mollify Crassus somewhat. With pursed lips, he sat down. Albinus, looking worried, took a place beside him. He was joined by Batiatus, while the rest of the party — low-ranking officials and bodyguards — went to sit on the top row of seats.
Carbo couldn’t stop staring at Crassus. He looks just as arrogant as I thought he would. Prick.
Spartacus was also eyeing him. The son of a whore looks as if he hasn’t had a shit in a week. He pulled his gaze away before the politician noticed. Don’t lose focus. Stay calm. Spartacus recalled how the icy look had melted from Ariadne’s face when she’d heard he’d been picked for this fight. He remembered what she’d said. Hung on to it. ‘This is not what your dream is about. It can’t be.’
Not being an organised munus, there was none of the usual pomp of the public spectacle. No group of trumpeters to march around the arena, playing for all they were worth. No slave-carried platforms with painted statues of the gods being honoured that day. No procession of the prizes on offer to the victors: palm branches and leather purses full of cash borne aloft on silver platters. When Spartacus and his opponent made their way, fully armed, to stand before Batiatus and the others, a solitary trumpet sounded.
In Carbo’s mind, this made the contest more ordinary, but far more chilling.
It was now that Batiatus came into his own. He waxed lyrical, describing the black-haired Thracian in glowing terms. He paid particular attention to his victories thus far. At a sign from Phortis, the Thracian raised his arms and turned a circle, so that Albinus and Crassus could admire his muscular physique. The lanista did the same for Spartacus.
The gladiators whistled and cheered for both men at the tops of their voices. The noise mingled in an ear- shredding crescendo that filled the ludus.
Watching from their cell, Ariadne’s breath caught in her chest. Despite herself, she admired Spartacus’ body, but this was the last situation she’d have chosen to see it exhibited. Would you prefer him in your bed then? She shoved away the disquieting thought.
With the preliminaries over, Phortis moved out on to the sand. He would act as the summa rudis, the referee for the bout. He ordered the two fighters to stand fifteen paces apart before looking to Batiatus. The lanista nodded and Phortis signalled to the trumpeter. A short series of notes rang out, and the Capuan stepped out of the way.
Spartacus didn’t barrel forward as he had in his fight against Carbo. Instead, he shuffled towards the warrior, his bare feet silent upon the sand. Moving with the grace of a dancer, his opponent did the same. Spartacus wasn’t prepared at all for the warrior’s speed and skill. When he was no more than half a dozen steps away, he suddenly broke into a sprint. Darting forward like a wolf closing in on a deer, he thrust his sica straight at Spartacus’ face. Spartacus had no time to raise his scutum. Desperately, he wrenched his head to the side. The warrior’s blade whistled past, missing his left cheek by a whisker length.
Spartacus roared with anger, but his opponent was already gone, using his momentum to deftly spin off, out of harm’s way. The movement brought the warrior around behind him. Spartacus turned to meet the next attack, another wicked stab at his face, which he managed to parry with his scutum. His riposte, a lunge that would have spitted the warrior through and through, met only thin air. Panting, they separated from each other.
Crassus leaned over and whispered in Albinus’s ear. When he’d finished, the portly politician gave Batiatus a pleased nod. ‘An impressive start.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ gushed the lanista.
Out on the sand, and oblivious to their audience, Spartacus and the warrior circled warily around one another.
Without warning, Spartacus launched a savage attack on his opponent. Using a one-two technique of punching forward with his shield boss followed by a brutal thrust of his gladius, he drove the warrior backwards across the arena. His opponent had no option but to retreat. No one could stand against such an overwhelming assault. Spartacus’ tactic worked. Before long, one of the warrior’s feet slipped, and he stumbled backwards, falling on his backside.
Spartacus yelled in triumph. Drawing back his gladius, he prepared to run the defenceless warrior through. He gave no thought to Batiatus or Crassus, and whether they wanted him to kill the other so fast. He’d gone into battle mode, when all that mattered was finishing one’s opponent as quickly as possible.
But the fight wasn’t over.
In desperation, the warrior raised his left arm. Swinging his shield around like a discus, he smashed its metal-rimmed edge into Spartacus’ right knee.
The impact made Spartacus stagger. Roaring in pain, he dropped the point of his sword, giving his opponent a chance. The warrior rolled away and scrambled to his feet, swiftly launching a counter-attack of his own, a relentless flurry of slashes aimed at Spartacus’ unprotected face. It was all Spartacus could do to lift his scutum and deflect the other’s blows. And then the warrior changed his tactic. Spinning with the grace of a maenad in ecstatic frenzy, he swung around to Spartacus’ rear again. With consummate skill, he brought his sica down in a flashing arc, across the back of Spartacus’ shield arm. Blood sprayed into the air. Spartacus’ answering bellow was a combination of shock, pain and rage.
Albinus and Crassus called out in appreciation.
‘ Iugula! Iugula! ’ shouted many of the gladiators.
Ariadne closed her eyes, but the bloodthirsty cry still echoed in her ears. Steeling herself, she stared out at the arena again. Dionysus, do not give up on him.
Gods above, it can’t end like this, Carbo thought, offering up desperate prayers.
A feral smile twisted the black-haired warrior’s face as he closed in again. Spartacus snarled back, letting him know that he was far from finished. His opponent began a new attack, probing forward with his sica as a child might poke a stick at a crab. He met Spartacus’ weakened ripostes easily with his shield.
Clever bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s seeing how much strength I have left in my bad arm. Twisting it so he could see, he assessed the long, shallow wound. It didn’t look to have severed any muscles or tendons, but he was already struggling against the weight of his scutum.
Even as Spartacus looked up, the warrior’s blade hissed in. He jerked away, but still received a nasty cut on his right cheek. An involuntary hiss of pain left his lips. Rider, help me! I could easily lose this.
The warrior clearly thought so too. A little smile flickered across his lips. All he had to do was stay out of reach, and keep chipping away.
Spartacus cursed silently. His opponent was shrewd. Thanks to the wound on his arm, wearing him down wouldn’t take long. But he wasn’t finished yet. Not with his life at stake. Not with Ariadne to look after.
Letting out a shrieking war cry, Spartacus threw himself forward. With supreme effort, he kept his scutum high. Over and over he thrust his gladius at the warrior, who desperately defended himself with his small shield. It was a risky plan, but Spartacus didn’t have long before his strength really began to fail.
As his sword struck the warrior’s shield for the seventh or eighth time, the blade drove through the leather covering. It splintered the wood beneath to emerge on the other side. The warrior goggled, amazed that he hadn’t been gutted. He fell back a step, and Spartacus saw a golden opportunity. Ripping his weapon free, he shoved it into the other’s shield again. And again. Within a few heartbeats, it had cracked apart, and the warrior was forced to discard it. Looking scared now, he retreated further.
Spartacus had to pause to catch his breath. The pain from his arm was coming in waves, lancing up into his shoulder and beyond. He was no longer able to keep his scutum high enough to protect his throat. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let up his assault. Clenching his jaw, he went at the warrior like a wild beast. His gladius’ thrusts were so savage that his opponent had no chance to strike at his neck. It took every scrap of skill that the warrior possessed
