offered his hand. ‘Quick! We go now. Quick!’
Spartacus scrambled up. ‘What the hell happened?’ he cried. The warrior who’d leaped on top of him lay at his feet. There was a filed-down length of iron protruding from the middle of his back. Restio lay beside him, with a similar weapon jutting from his chest. His mouth worked loosely, letting a thin stream of bloody bubbles fall. His face bore a faintly surprised look.
‘Iberian want… kill you,’ growled the second Scythian. ‘My friend stop him. Took… blade meant for you. When the others see… they attack the guards. We must go!’
‘Eh?’ Why would Restio try to kill me? But Spartacus couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him. He knelt by Restio’s side. ‘Did you sell us out?’ The Iberian made no response. Fury consumed Spartacus, and he jiggled the base of the iron spike back and forth.
An animal squeal of pain ripped free of Restio’s throat.
‘You went to Batiatus?’
There was a faint nod.
‘In the name of all the gods, why?’
‘No one asked me to join,’ whispered Restio. ‘But Batiatus promised me freedom. I was to become one of the official betmakers at the arena.’
‘For that, you were willing to murder me?’ demanded Spartacus harshly.
A shadow crossed Restio’s face.
‘We must move!’ Seuthes’ voice was full of alarm.
‘Spartacus!’ cried Carbo. Any doubts that he’d had about joining the escape attempt had vanished. The guards were indiscriminately shooting down men he knew and liked. Bastards!
‘There’s no one worse than a man who betrays a comrade,’ snarled Spartacus, thinking of Medokos. ‘And there’s only one penalty for such scum.’ Placing both his hands on the piece of iron, he shoved it home.
Restio’s eyes went wide with shock and his mouth gaped open. A last, sawing breath left his lungs, and he sagged down on the sand, dead.
Spartacus jumped up, praying that he hadn’t left it too late. Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians were bunched protectively around him, but the entire courtyard was in chaos. Gladiators ran hither and thither, shouting at each other, and without purpose. Waves of arrows were scudding down from above, striking down men at random. From the cells came the screams of the watching women. Ariadne!
‘Chloris,’ said Carbo, looking alarmed.
‘Amatokos will take care of her,’ barked Spartacus. ‘Look at the two sets of stairs.’ He was delighted to see Gavius and the three Gaulish leaders at the base of one, shoving their warriors upwards to the first floor and the all-important armoury. The other was deserted, however. No surprise. My countrymen aren’t going to act unless there’s someone to lead them. Spartacus’ gaze shot to the gate, and horror filled him. There was already a large pile of arrow-riddled bodies heaped before it. The eight guards there were giving a good account of themselves. With six men around him, Oenomaus was standing in the open, screaming encouragement at the rest of his followers. Many of the guards on the balcony were also concentrating their aim on the critical area, so few were prepared to obey. It’s a fucking slaughter. We have to smash open the armoury, or there’s no hope. ‘Follow me!’ he bellowed at the men around him. Then, repeating his cry in Thracian, Spartacus darted out from the walkway’s protection. He sprinted across the yard towards the second staircase, sensing fighters running to join him. Strangled cries rang out as some fell prey to the guards’ arrows.
‘There he is!’ screeched Phortis. ‘Bring him down!’
Gritting his teeth, Spartacus increased his pace. Reaching cover, he felt a heartbeat’s relief. He was also encouraged by the set, determined faces that surrounded him. As well as Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians, there were about thirty Thracians. ‘We need to go up, hard and fast. There are enough of us to rush the guards. Once some of us are armed, we’ll have more of a chance. Know that I ask no man to do what I will not do myself. I will lead the way,’ Spartacus shouted. Watch over me, Great Rider. ‘Who will follow?’ Pride filled him as every man present roared back his support.
‘You’re not to go first,’ declared Getas.
‘You’re too important,’ added Carbo fervently.
‘He… right,’ added one of the Scythians. ‘If you killed… we… fucked.’
To Spartacus’ amazement, the rest of the warriors shouted in agreement.
Shoving him to one side, the Scythian and his comrades swarmed up the steps. They were followed by Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and a tide of Thracians.
Spartacus had another chance to assess the greater situation. What he saw filled him with dread. Oenomaus was standing by the gate yet he was alone. Huddles of his Germans were visible under the walkway; occasionally, one or two of them made a break for their leader, but they didn’t get more than a dozen steps before being cut down. Crixus and Gavius appeared to have charged up the other staircase, but Castus and Gannicus remained at the bottom. Their wild eyes and desperate expressions told Spartacus that they had met with little success on the balcony above. I have to talk to them. There must be something else we can do. Ducking down as low as he could, Spartacus ran over to where the pair stood.
‘My men are being butchered up there!’ roared Castus.
‘The same will happen to yours,’ added Gannicus. ‘There are extra quivers of arrows stacked up behind the bastard guards. They knew exactly what was going to happen.’
‘It was Restio.’
‘The Iberian?’ cried Castus.
‘Yes. He’s dead. Forget about him,’ urged Spartacus. ‘We need another plan.’
‘You don’t fucking say!’
‘Without any shields and swords our men can do little — except die where they stand,’ said Gannicus. ‘What’s your plan now?’
Spartacus’ eyes flickered around the yard. The sand was littered with the injured and dying. Some men screamed for help that wasn’t coming. Others cursed, or cried for their mothers. Most lay completely still. Fewer arrows were falling, but the ones that did were better aimed. A Nubian went down, bellowing his innocence, with a shaft in his belly. Two more Germans tried to join Oenomaus, who had somehow obtained a shield and a sword and was now heroically attacking the guards at the gate. He remained alone — his men were struck down long before they got near.
We’re finished. Spartacus’ hope had all but disappeared when he saw the terrified-looking slave who’d served breakfast peering out from the depths of the kitchen. Insight struck him like a hammer blow. ‘There are weapons in there!’
Castus goggled at him. ‘Where?’
‘In the kitchen! Knives. Meat spits.’
‘By Belenus, you’re right!’ cried Gannicus.
Time to take control. ‘The attempt on the armoury is futile. We stop it at once,’ said Spartacus crisply.
‘Someone will have to hold the bottom of both sets of steps,’ Castus butted in. ‘The instant that he realises what’s going on, Batiatus will send the guards down to stop us.’
‘True. I’ll take a group into the kitchen to gather what we can. The rest can carry tables over to block up the staircases. The wood will give them some protection too.’
‘We’ll do that,’ snarled Gannicus.
‘As soon as my lot are armed, we’ll attack the gate.’ Spartacus’ lips peeled back into a snarl. ‘You will hear when we’ve opened it.’
Looking more heartened, Castus grinned. ‘Until then!’
‘Until then!’ Spartacus pounded back to his men. By this stage, the base of the steps was clogged with injured fighters. He shoved past and began to climb, his feet slipping on the slick, bloody treads. Reaching the first floor, Spartacus could see little but a mass of yelling Thracians heaving to and fro at the guards. Bodies — feathered with arrows or sporting savage sword wounds — lay everywhere. ‘Pull back!’ he screamed in Thracian and Latin. ‘Pull back!
’ Carbo’s head turned, and Spartacus gestured urgently. ‘Come on! I have another plan!’
To his relief, Carbo heard him. Understood him. Began telling his comrades.
Within moments, Carbo and the rest were in full retreat. Triumphant screams followed them as the guards
