help our cause! Gods above, but he hadn’t considered this option. I can’t let him live, though. He’ll try to kill me the first moment he can. Expertly, Spartacus tightened his hold even further. Choose your own death then. I’ll have to convince Castus and Gannicus some other way.
Then Crixus’ left hand rose weakly into the air. The forefinger extended upward, in the appeal for mercy. Spartacus didn’t quite believe his eyes, didn’t trust Crixus even now. ‘Do you yield?’ he roared.
The finger rose a fraction higher, before the whole arm flopped back on to the sand.
‘Let him go!’ roared a Gaul.
‘You’ve killed him!’ yelled another.
With great care, Spartacus released his grip around Crixus’ neck. The Gaul slumped down and did not move. Great Rider, keep him alive! Climbing off, Spartacus rolled his opponent over on to his back. He was shocked by Crixus’ appearance. The Gaul’s face was a shocking purple colour. A steady stream of blood ran from the dreadful wound on his nose, which was covered in sand. His eyes were glassy and the whites had turned scarlet. His engorged tongue protruded from fat, sausage-like lips, and there was a reddened ring around his neck, marking where Spartacus’ hold had been.
‘Get some water!’ shouted Spartacus. He slapped Crixus across the cheeks.
There was no initial response, but a moment later, the Gaul coughed weakly.
Spartacus could have cheered.
Someone — Spartacus was vaguely surprised that it was Restio, the betmaker, because he hadn’t been present initially — handed him a leather water bag, and he emptied it over Crixus’ head.
The Gaul’s eyes came back into focus. He coughed again and rubbed at his neck.
‘Damn sore, I’d say,’ said Spartacus, noticing for the first time that the wound on the back of his right arm was bleeding. ‘You should have given in sooner. You’re as stubborn as a mule.’
‘I’ve never lost a fight,’ said Crixus in wonderment. His voice had a new, gravelly timbre to it.
‘There’s always a first time,’ replied Spartacus, still trying to gauge what the Gaul’s response would be. ‘I’m not quite sure how I did it.’
‘By being the dirtiest bastard in Italy,’ retorted Crixus, gingerly touching his nose.
‘That was the hardest fight I’ve ever had,’ said Spartacus. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but that wasn’t what was important. Getting Crixus to honour his word was. ‘You’re like Hercules himself.’
‘Hercules didn’t lose,’ Crixus grunted irritably.
Spartacus’ heart beat a little faster, and he leaned closer. ‘About my proposition,’ he said in a low voice.
Restio nudged the Gaul beside him. ‘What’s he talking about?’
He was ignored.
‘I’m a man of honour. I lost the fight, so me and my lot will join you,’ growled Crixus.
‘Good.’ I can’t trust him one iota, thought Spartacus. But at least the bastard has agreed to come on board. Sensing the silence, he scanned the yard. Unsurprisingly, all eyes — even those of the guards — were on them. Phortis was only twenty steps or so away. ‘We’re being watched. Act as I do,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘That will teach you to insult my people!’ he yelled. ‘Watch your mouth in future. D’you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ muttered Crixus furiously. He appeared entirely convincing, and Spartacus jerked his head at his men. ‘Let’s go.’
He was pleased to notice Phortis, looking furious, turn away and resume his conversation with one of the trainers. With luck, the Capuan would regard the fight as nothing more than a brawl between two of the best gladiators.
Now all he had to do was persuade the other Gauls to take part.
Preoccupied, Spartacus did not notice Restio scurry away from the crowd.
Rather than go to the surgeon to have his injury tended, Spartacus headed straight for the baths. He’d seen Castus and Gannicus heading in there with a bunch of their men. ‘Carbo, come with me,’ he ordered when they’d reached the door. ‘The rest of you, stay here.’
Carbo was thrilled to be picked, but his stomach twisted with tension. This could get very nasty.
‘Once we’re out, where’s the best place for us to head?’ Spartacus’ attention was already focused on the men within the changing room. They moved out of his way, and he smiled, aware that with the blood covering much of his face, he must look outlandish. There was no sign of the Gaulish leaders, which meant that they’d already progressed into the tiled bathing area.
I can be useful to him! I know the whole region. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Somewhere secure. Hard to reach. Easily defendable. A mountain, or perhaps a forest.’ Once we’re there we can decide what to do.
‘Vesuvius.’
Spartacus looked at him blankly.
‘The flat-topped peak that’s visible to the south of here. The lower slopes are farmed, but not many people visit the summit. It’s supposed to be one of Vulcan’s resting places.’
A memory tugged at Spartacus, but, feeling impatient, he took no notice. ‘It sounds perfect. What about the surrounding countryside?’
‘It’s mostly full of latifundia.’ He saw Spartacus’ interest. ‘They’d be easy pickings.’
‘Good.’ Spartacus beckoned him closer. ‘Castus and Gannicus need to be persuaded that joining us would be a good idea. It’s your job to sell Vesuvius to them. Think you can do it?’
‘Yes,’ said Carbo confidently. This was no time to appear indecisive.
Spartacus clapped him on the arm. ‘Follow me.’
Ignoring the curious looks of the others present, the pair went into the frigidarium. The cold room was empty, so they moved on to the caldarium, which was packed. Ribald banter and gossip filled the muggy air. Men lounged about on the tiles or in the warm water, luxuriating in the heat. This was one of the few indulgences in the gladiators’ lives. Castus, a short man with bright red hair, was at one end of the pool with a number of his followers while Gannicus, moon-faced and jovial, occupied the opposite end with a gaggle of his. Both were studiously ignoring the other.
Spartacus strode to the midpoint of the pool so that the two leaders could see him.
All conversation ceased.
Spartacus leered. Blood had run from his nose down into his mouth, staining his teeth red. He’s like some kind of crazed demon, thought Carbo with a thrill of fear.
‘You think I look bad?’ Spartacus’ gaze moved from Castus to Gannicus and back again. ‘Ha! Take a peek at Crixus next time you see the prick.’
‘Why in Hades’ name did you pick a fight with him?’ asked Castus.
‘To make the fool see sense.’
‘Sense? Crixus?’ Gannicus tapped the side of his head. ‘Not much chance of that.’ He laughed, but there was no humour in his eyes.
‘My tactic worked.’
In the silence that followed, Carbo saw the two leaders lean forward with interest. He glanced at Spartacus, realising that his delay in continuing was deliberate.
‘Crixus has agreed to join me and Oenomaus,’ he said at last.
‘And you want us to take part too,’ said Gannicus softly. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do if we refuse?’ asked Castus.
‘Kill you both.’
Carbo shot a look at Spartacus. What’s he playing at? There are at least twenty Gauls present.
Castus’ nostrils pinched white. ‘You dare to threaten us in front of our men?’
‘We could have you slain on the spot,’ threatened Gannicus. His eyes flickered, and several Gauls took a step towards them.
Spartacus didn’t even turn his head, and Carbo marvelled at his cool. He was fighting an overwhelming urge to piss.
‘Killing us would be easy. I knew that when I walked in the door,’ revealed Spartacus. ‘But I came in with only Carbo because I know that you won’t want to miss out on our opportunity.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that Crassus is going to buy twenty gladiators from Batiatus? To fight in mortal combats?’
