Spartacus threw Phortis a filthy stare. The Capuan’s lip curled in response. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s what every man says,’ interjected Batiatus.
Albinus and Phortis laughed.
Whoresons, thought Spartacus.
Crassus smiled politely at the joke, but his attention remained on Spartacus. ‘How did it happen?’
Spartacus blinked in surprise that the other should ask. ‘I returned to my village after fighting with the legions-’
‘You fought for Rome?’
‘Yes. For eight years. Upon reaching home, I discovered that the rightful heir to the throne had been murdered by the man who now calls himself King of the Maedi. So had my father. I immediately made plans to overthrow the usurper, but I was betrayed.’
‘By whom?’
‘A friend.’
‘It’s no surprise that you are bitter. And what would you have done if you had achieved your aim?’
Spartacus hesitated, holding Crassus’ gaze, and wondering if he should keep silent. But he was too angry to stop. ‘After putting Kotys and his henchmen to death, I would have made plans to lead my tribe against Rome again.’
Crassus arched an eyebrow. ‘And what would have been your aim?’
‘To drive the legions off our lands. Forever.’
‘Forever?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must know little of Rome and its history,’ said Crassus with an amused look. ‘Even if you had succeeded, our armies would have returned in vengeance. They always do.’
‘You have led legionaries into war?’ demanded Spartacus.
For the first time, Crassus’ self-assurance faltered. ‘Not abroad.’
‘Where then?’
‘Against my own people, in a civil war.’
It’s no surprise you did that, thought Carbo savagely. You have no mercy.
‘And I thought that I was the savage?’ asked Spartacus.
‘This is too much,’ protested Batiatus.
‘Be silent! I am still talking to this…’ Crassus hesitated. ‘… gladiator.’ He added in a hiss, ‘At least he doesn’t see the need to lick my arse.’
Batiatus flushed and looked away. Beside him, Albinus harrumphed in quiet indignation.
Encouraged by this tiny victory, Spartacus quickly continued, ‘I would have unified the tribes. What would Rome have made of that?’ He was pleased by the trace of fear in Albinus’ and Batiatus’ eyes. Phortis bristled, but did not dare speak while Crassus, his better, held the floor. A man who showed no apprehension at Spartacus’ words at all. No career soldier then, but he’s not short of courage. I wonder if he could lead an army, as I could.
‘You risk much by revealing this. A single word from me, and you’ll be a dead man,’ said Crassus, ignoring Batiatus’ alarm.
Spartacus cursed himself silently for having let his anger speak first. He looked down at the sand. Great Rider, I ask for your help once more.
‘I won’t give the order, however.’ Crassus inclined his head at the lanista, who beamed in gratitude. ‘Why? Because there’s more chance of the heavens falling than you leading an army against Rome. Look at you! Reduced to fighting for our amusement.’ He smiled maliciously. ‘You’re little more than a performing animal, damned to perform the same primitive dance whenever we demand it.’
Spartacus dropped his gaze even lower, as if in subservience. Inside, however, he was incandescent with rage. ‘That’s all I am, yes,’ he said. Or so you think. Give me half a chance, and I’d show you different.
Crassus turned away, satisfied. ‘After all that bloodshed, I feel the need for some wine.’ At once Batiatus jumped in, promising fine vintages in the humble luxury of his quarters. ‘Good.’ Crassus added in an undertone, ‘If you have other fighters of similar quality, we can do business. I’ll want that Thracian, but I will need at least twenty more for my upcoming munus.’
Spartacus’ ears pricked, but Phortis had noticed him. ‘Piss off. Get that wound seen to.’
The last he heard was Batiatus asking, ‘All mortal bouts?’ and Crassus barking in reply, ‘Naturally. I need to impress.’
From his cell, Carbo hawked and spat in Crassus’ direction. Great Jupiter, bring me face to face with him one day, please.
Spartacus shuffled off towards the infirmary. His mind was racing. Crassus’ contempt had driven home further than ever before the triviality of his existence. If he was soon to be forced into another fight to the death, what was the point in carving out a following and a position of respect among the gladiators in the ludus? He was nothing but a child’s toy. A Roman plaything.
A seething fury took hold of him. Spartacus recognised and welcomed the volcanic emotion. It was how he’d felt when he was riding to war with the Maedi against Rome, a lifetime ago. How he’d felt when plotting to overthrow Kotys. This time, he only had thirty or so men who’d follow him, but that no longer mattered.
He saw the snake wrapped around his neck, but shoved the disturbing image away.
Something had to be done.
Somehow he had to be free.
Chapter VIII
As soon as the cell doors had been unlocked, Ariadne hurried in search of Spartacus. Like faithful shadows, Getas and Seuthes followed her. They were as concerned as she. Ariadne found her husband in the sick bay, which was positioned beside the mortuary. She tried not to dwell on the significance of that proximity. He won. He’s alive. How long will his luck hold out, though? she wondered in the next heartbeat. What if his dream means that his death is imminent?
Ariadne managed to pull a smile on to her face as she entered the whitewashed room, which was furnished with several cots and an operating table covered in old bloodstains. Shelves lined one wall, stacked with a frightening variety of probes, hooks, spatulas and scalpels. Dark blue bottles of medicine stood in careful rows alongside the metal instruments.
The surgeon, a stoop-shouldered Greek of indeterminate age, was crouched over Spartacus, obscuring the view of the door. ‘Hold still,’ he ordered, pouring the contents of a little vial over the cut. ‘ Acetum,’ he said with satisfaction as Spartacus hissed with pain. ‘It stings like a dozen wasps.’
‘More like twenty, I’d say,’ replied Spartacus sarcastically.
‘It’s excellent at preventing gangrene and blood poisoning, though,’ said the surgeon. ‘So the pain is well worth it.’
‘The pain is nothing,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘How bad is the wound?’
Ariadne stopped herself from calling out. A pulse hammered at the base of her throat. Dionysus, stay with him, she pleaded.
‘Let me see.’ Picking a probe from the tray beside him, the surgeon began to examine the gash. He poked and prodded, and Ariadne saw Spartacus’ free hand clenching into a fist. Her heart bled for him, but she said nothing. She was too worried.
‘It’s not deep,’ pronounced the surgeon a moment later. ‘The blade sliced through the skin and the subcutaneous tissue, but the muscle below hasn’t been damaged. You’re lucky. I’ll place a line of metal clamps along the wound. It should be healed within two weeks. You’ll be able to fight again in a month.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Spartacus drily. ‘Batiatus will be pleased.’
The surgeon reached over to the nearest shelf and in doing so, noticed Ariadne. ‘Ah! You have a visitor.’
Ariadne hurried forward. Close up, the blood from the shallow cut on his cheek looked horrifying. Without
