pressed home their advantage. Spartacus tumbled down the stairs at the fighters’ head, and was pleased at the bottom to find six Gauls carrying tables. As the last men — two of the Scythians — spilled out of the staircase, Spartacus grinned. Following his instruction, four of the tables were heaved on to their ends against the opening, blocking it entirely.
‘Hold them there!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘The rest of you, follow me to the kitchen.’
Without explaining, he wove his way across the yard. Even without the arrows being loosed from above, it was lethal going. Thanks to the number of dead and injured, there was barely room to place one’s feet on the sand. A quick glance over either shoulder, however, told Spartacus that he had plenty of support. Carbo, Getas and Seuthes were right behind him. The guards can’t bring them all down.
‘Find anything that will do as a weapon,’ yelled Spartacus as they clattered into the kitchen, wild-eyed, chests heaving. Gasping with terror, the porridge boy retreated into a corner. Like wild animals descending on their prey, the gladiators seized whatever they could find: large-bladed cleavers, slender filleting knives and thick iron spits. A few even grabbed the heavy wooden pestles that were used to grind their barley.
‘To the gate!’ Spartacus spun on his heel and charged outside. ‘Quickly!’
He glimpsed Oenomaus under the walkway nearby. It was no surprise that he’d pulled back. He’s god-gifted still to be alive. The German’s face lit up as he took in Spartacus and his men charging forward. Roaring a battle cry, he ran out to join them. A mob of his countrymen followed.
Spartacus focused on the guards protecting the gate. They looked petrified. Finally, the tables have been turned. ‘Prepare for Hades, you cocksuckers! The ferryman awaits you,’ he shouted.
Two of them made a run for it at once. Led by Carbo, Getas and Seuthes, half a dozen of the men behind Spartacus split off and went for them like rabid dogs. The pair vanished, screaming, beneath a frenzy of blows. The rest of the guards by the entrance were made of sterner stuff than those who had fled. Four of them shuffled in close, holding their shields together while their companions stood to the rear, loosing arrows in low arcs overhead. Spartacus felt, rather than saw, several shafts as they hissed past him to sink into fighters behind him. His heart thumped madly in his chest, but he didn’t falter. Ten paces from the guards, he raised his cleaver high. His other hand gripped a large, heavy pan. ‘For Thrace!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘For Thrace!’
He couldn’t have chosen better words.
A threatening, primeval roar — the titanismos — filled the air around Spartacus as the warriors answered his battle cry. With faces distorted by fury, they smashed en masse into the guards’ shield wall. A pair of fighters each took a sword in the belly, but the impact drove their enemies several steps backwards; two of the guards stumbled and fell. They were trampled into the sand and hacked apart like slabs of beef.
Spartacus was facing one of those who’d kept his feet, a piggy-eyed individual whom he knew and disliked. Panicked, the man made the elementary mistake of swinging his gladius overhand at Spartacus’ head.
Sparks flew as Spartacus met the blow with his metal pan. ‘Eat this,’ he hissed, slicing the cleaver sideways into the guard’s face. The razor-sharp blade opened his flesh with ease. Powered by Spartacus’ rage, it smashed his teeth apart, cut off half his tongue and ripped out of his other cheek. A sheet of blood followed the cleaver, misting the air with tiny red droplets. Uttering an indescribable shriek of pain, the maimed guard collapsed to the ground. He’s finished.
Dropping his pan, Spartacus swept up the man’s sword. Leaping over the screaming heap, he threw himself at one of the guards with a bow. The terrified archer was desperately trying to notch an arrow to his bowstring. It was the last thing he did. With a smashing blow of his cleaver, Spartacus swept the weapon out of the way. He followed through, stabbing the man in the chest so hard that the gladius pinned him to the gate timbers.
Panting, Spartacus looked to either side. He could see no living guards, just a mass of grinning, bloodied gladiators. Getas was two steps away. Where’s Seuthes? he wondered. There was no time to look. ‘Open the gate! Go out on to the street, beyond arrow range. Wait for us there,’ Spartacus roared. ‘Castus! Gannicus! Gavius! Oenomaus! The entrance is secured.’ Through the din, he heard his call being answered. Good. Some of them will get away at least. Whether I — or Ariadne — will remains to be seen. ‘Getas, come with me.’ Spartacus grabbed one of the Scythians by the arm. ‘I must fetch my wife. Will you come?’ He was gratified by the man’s instant nod.
‘My friend come too. We protect you,’ growled the Scythian. A fierce grunt of agreement from the second man proved the point.
Spartacus spun and ripped his gladius free. The guard’s lifeless body slid down the gate, smearing a wide, red trail on the wood. ‘Follow me!’ Pushing his way through the throng, he sprinted for his cell. He had never felt such a pressing need for speed. The moment that the men holding the tables at the base of the stairs abandoned their posts, the guards would swarm into the yard. If he, Getas and the Scythians didn’t rescue Ariadne very fast, they’d all be killed.
What made his heart stop was not a tide of guards, however, but the sight of Phortis making his way, sword in hand, towards his cell. He’s going to kill her. ‘No!’ Spartacus screamed. But he was too far away. Too far to do anything but watch.
Phortis reached the door. Gripping the handle with his left hand, he flipped it open. ‘Where’s your man now, you whore?’
There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then something thin and black was tossed from within the cell, into Phortis’ shocked face. A cracked scream left the Capuan’s mouth, and he staggered backwards, clutching at his throat. His sword clattered to the ground, unnoticed.
Her snake! She threw her damn snake at him! Spartacus exulted as he reached Phortis, who had fallen to his knees. His face had already turned purple and his swollen tongue poked out of his black, bloated lips. Spartacus hawked and spat on the Capuan. Good enough for you. ‘Guard the door,’ he ordered Getas. He neatly sidestepped the snake, which had raised itself up into a threatening posture, and bounded into the cell. ‘Ariadne?’
‘Spartacus!’ She threw herself into his arms, sobbing.
‘It’s all right. I’m here. Phortis is dying.’
‘What happened? It all went wrong.’
‘Not now,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Of course.’ Quickly, she grabbed up a fabric-wrapped bundle and a wicker basket from the bed. ‘I’m ready.’
Gods, but she’s brave. Taking her by the hand, he led her outside. He was relieved to find that although the guards had emerged into the yard, they were making little headway. Holding tables, Crixus and the last of his men were mounting a ferocious rearguard action, allowing more gladiators to escape. Time is still of the essence.
‘Wait.’
‘Ariadne!’
Pulling free, Ariadne began talking to her snake in a low, calm voice. When she had approached to within a few steps, she threw a cloth over it and swiftly grabbed it behind the head. Shoving it into the basket, she gave Spartacus a pleased look. ‘I can’t leave it behind. It saved my life.’
‘Let’s go!’
Together with Getas and the Scythians, they raced past Phortis’ corpse, following the walkway around to the gate rather than crossing the yard. Spartacus was about to shout at Crixus to pull back when the Gaul turned and saw him.
‘Where’s Gavius?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Dead. The remainder of his men have broken.’
Spartacus hid his disappointment. ‘Time to go then.’ Quickly, he led Ariadne out on to the street, which was filled with gladiators. Among them were Castus and Gannicus. He saw Carbo’s face there, and those of Amatokos and Chloris too. Considerably less than a hundred. So few. ‘All men with weapons, to the front! When Crixus and his lads come out, I want a false charge at the guards. Show them that we mean fucking business. It’ll remind them that Batiatus wields no power beyond the ludus. Clear?’
They roared their agreement back at him. Barely armed or not, the gladiators’ bloodlust was up. Spartacus felt the same, but he calmed himself.
They waited on either side of the gate as the Gauls withdrew in good order towards them.
‘Crixus! Tell your men to split in the middle as you come out,’ Spartacus shouted. ‘We’ll drive the bastards back.’
Crixus bellowed something in Gaulish.
