just to avoid Spartacus’ long iron blade.
Fortunately, the warrior’s good fortune ran out before Spartacus’ own strength failed. His sword sliced into the side of the black-haired fighter’s belly, through the taut muscles there, to emerge red-tipped on the other side. There was a wet, soughing sound as Spartacus ripped the gladius free, and the warrior shrieked with the agony of it. With blood pouring from his wound, he staggered away, his sica dangling from his slack fingers. When Spartacus followed, there was little resistance. Two massive overhand blows, and the warrior had dropped his weapon. Spartacus ploughed on, pushing the other away from the curved sword, and any chance of redemption.
The warrior was unarmed now, and the manica on his right arm was his only defence. Of the two, his wound was far more serious. He was therefore desperate to retrieve his sica. Spartacus met every attempt with unbridled fury, however, and with each moment that passed, the warrior grew weaker. Spartacus didn’t delay. Toying with an opponent might please some, but it was not in his nature. The fight had gone on long enough. He needed to get his arm seen to. It was time to end it.
Shoving his shield boss at the other’s chest, Spartacus stabbed him in the left thigh. As the blade slid free, the moaning warrior collapsed to the sand. He made no attempt to get up.
A loud roar rose from most of the cells as the gladiators showed their approval.
Ariadne closed her eyes, and sagged with relief against the bars of the window.
Thank all the gods, thought Carbo.
Looking down at his opponent, defenceless and bleeding, Spartacus felt cold to the marrow of his bones. The warrior was one of his own, and he was about to kill him — at the behest of those he hated. Romans. At this moment, this is the way it has to be, he told himself fiercely. He glanced at Batiatus, who turned with a questioning look to Albinus and Crassus. ‘Do you still wish this to be a mortal bout?’
‘Have I said otherwise?’ asked Crassus in an acid tone.
Batiatus coloured. ‘No.’
‘Then the loser must die.’
‘It is as my revered guest says,’ said Albinus pompously. ‘It’s also what I paid you a fortune for,’ he added in an undertone.
‘Of course, sir.’ Batiatus swiftly regained his poise. ‘It would be my honour to ask Crassus if he wishes to make the gesture.’
Crassus’ tongue flickered over his lips, like that of a snake. ‘Very well.’ Looking at Spartacus, he jabbed the thumb of his right hand at his own throat. ‘ Iugula! ’ he ordered.
At once the cry was repeated by the incarcerated gladiators. Feet hammered on the floor of the cells. Spoons clattered off the window bars. The din was incredible. Spartacus wasn’t surprised that the ludus’ inmates approved of his victory. Their bloodlust had been roused by the fight’s intensity and now the black-haired warrior had to pay the price. As he would have if the situation had been reversed. ‘Get up,’ he ordered.
Groaning, the black-haired fighter managed to sit up. Fiddling with the knot, he undid his chinstrap and tugged off his helmet. It fell unnoticed to the ground. Another effort brought him on to his knees. Spartacus inclined his head in respect. ‘You fought well. It was a close contest. But the Rider chose to help me, not you.’
‘He did,’ replied the warrior, grunting with pain. He lifted his head up, exposing his throat. ‘Make it swift.’
‘I will,’ Spartacus promised. He looked up at the sky. ‘I offer this man’s life to you, Great Rider.’
Without delay, he took aim and thrust his gladius down into the hollow at the base of the warrior’s neck. The man’s eyes opened wide with shock as the sharp iron slid through his skin and the soft tissues beneath. An instant later, he was dead. Driven with immense force, the blade had sliced apart the major vessels around the base of his heart. With a smooth movement, Spartacus pulled out the gladius. A thick, graceful arc of blood sprayed through the air as the warrior’s corpse fell limply to one side. It pumped out for a short time, creating a large red stain around the motionless corpse.
Crassus began to clap slowly in appreciation. Batiatus, Phortis and the rest of those watching joined in. So did the gladiators, roaring and shouting their pleasure from their cell windows.
Unmoved for once by the ovation, Spartacus stared down at the body, and the scarlet colouring the sand. That could so easily have been me, he thought. And then the Roman bastards would have been applauding him, while I lay dead before them. Fuck them all.
Feeling the weight of someone’s stare, he looked up.
‘Come here!’ Crassus beckoned.
His mere tone made Spartacus’ knuckles whiten on the hilt of his gladius. ‘Me?’
‘I’m hardly talking to him, am I?’ Crassus indicated the dead warrior. He glanced at Albinus and Batiatus, who both tittered dutifully.
Arrogant bastard. Spartacus took a step forward.
Go on, thought Carbo. Kill the whoreson!
‘Archers!’ bellowed Phortis.
Spartacus froze. Without even turning his head, he could see four bows levelled at him from the balcony. There’d be at least another six to ten outside his range of vision. If Phortis said the word, they’d turn him into a practice target. The Capuan wanted him to keep walking, but Spartacus did not move. His had been a tiny act of rebellion, but it was over.
‘Drop the sword!’ ordered Phortis.
‘What, this?’ Spartacus raised the weapon. He was pleased to see Batiatus flinch slightly. Neither the Capuan nor Crassus reacted. He was surprised by the politician’s calm.
‘Just do it,’ snarled Phortis. ‘Unless you want to choke to death on a dozen barbed arrowheads!’
Spartacus opened his fingers and let the bloodied gladius fall to the sand. ‘Happy now?’
Phortis’ nostrils pinched. He glanced at Batiatus, who jerked his head meaningfully. The Capuan swallowed his rage. ‘Approach!’
Spartacus obeyed.
‘That’s close enough!’ shouted Phortis when he was ten steps away.
Gods damn them all! I’m being treated like a wild beast. Now Spartacus couldn’t stop himself from glowering at Phortis, who smirked.
‘You fight well,’ said Crassus. ‘For a savage.’
‘Savage?’ retorted Spartacus.
‘Yes.’
‘Where I come from, we do not force men to slay each other for the amusement of…’ He laid special emphasis on the last words. ‘… important visitors.’
Batiatus leaped up from his seat. ‘How dare you?’ He waved his arm in furious summons. ‘Guards! I want this man tied to the palus and given fifty lashes.’
‘Stay your hand,’ said Crassus.
Shocked, Batiatus glanced at his guest. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard what I said. Let it go. The slave has a point, after all.’
With a confused look, Batiatus sat down again.
‘While Thracians may not stage gladiator fights, they are nonetheless barbarians. They are called brigands even by other brigands,’ declared Crassus smugly. ‘I’ve heard how every five years, the Getai nobility pick one of their number to serve as messenger to the gods. He’s sent on his way by tossing him in the air to land on his comrade’s spears.’ As Batiatus and Albinus tutted in horror, Crassus smiled. ‘And the Triballi regard it as normal for sons to sacrifice their fathers to the gods. Scarcely the acts of civilised people, eh?’
Spartacus scowled.
‘Am I not right?’
‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted reluctantly.
‘You’re surprised by how much I know of your race.’
He nodded.
‘You are a proud man,’ observed Crassus.
Spartacus did not answer.
‘It galls you to be a slave? A gladiator?’
‘Yes.’ He’d said it before he could stop himself. ‘Of course it does.’
