who it might be. Needles of panic stabbed through her before she regained control. Kotys or Polles would not be so polite. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Berisades,’ said a respectful voice. ‘I’m a trader.’
Ariadne’s professional mien took over. ‘Come in,’ she commanded, gliding towards him. Berisades was a short man in late middle age with a close-cut beard and deep-set, intelligent eyes. ‘You’ve been on the road,’ she said, eyeing his green tunic and loose trousers, which were covered in dust.
‘I have come from the east. It was a long journey, but we made it without too many losses. I wanted to offer my thanks to the god immediately.’ Berisades tapped the purse on his belt, which clinked.
Ariadne ushered the trader forward to the stone altar. Behind it, on a plinth, was a large painted statue of Dionysus. In one hand, the bearded god held a grapevine, and in the other a drinking cup. Waves lapped at his feet, showing his influence over water. A carved bull with the face of a man stood to one side of him while a group of satyrs cavorted on the other. At his feet lay bunches of withered dry flowers, miniature clay vessels containing wine and tiny statues in his likeness. Light winked off pieces of amber and glass. There were long razor clam shells, ribbed cockles and, most prized of all, a rare leopard cowrie shell.
Kneeling, Berisades placed his pouch amongst the other offerings.
Ariadne retreated, leaving him to his devotions. An image of a leering Kotys filled her mind’s eye at once, and her spirits plunged. She could see no escape from him and despair overtook her. Thinking that meditation would make a difference, she closed her eyes and tried to enter the calm state that so often provided her with insight into the god’s wishes and desires. She failed miserably, instead imagining Kotys manhandling her on to his bed.
‘What do they call you, lady?’ Berisades’ voice was close by.
With huge relief, she jerked back to the present. ‘Ariadne.’
‘You weren’t here when last I visited.’
‘No. I arrived here six months ago.’
He nodded. ‘I remember at the time the old priest not being that well. Still, you’re young and healthy. No doubt you’ll be here for many years, to gladden the eyes of every grateful traveller wanting to pay his respects.’
‘You’re very kind,’ murmured Ariadne, cringing inside. If only you knew the truth.
‘It won’t be long until the next pilgrim arrives, by the way.’
‘No?’ Ariadne was barely listening. She was already worrying about Kotys once more.
‘I met a warrior yesterday who was returning here. He’d have come in with us, but his horse is lame. Spent years in the Roman auxiliaries, apparently. He wants to give thanks to the tribe’s gods for his safe return. A quiet man, but he put himself across well.’
‘Really?’ replied Ariadne vacantly. She had little interest in the return of yet another tribesman who’d served as a mercenary for the Romans.
Berisades could see that her mind was elsewhere. ‘My thanks, lady,’ he muttered, withdrawing.
Ariadne gave him a bright smile. Inside, however, she was screaming.
As they climbed the slope to the palisaded settlement, old memories came flooding back. Hot summer days swimming with other boys in the fast-flowing river that ran past one side of the village. Herding the sturdy horses that served as mounts for the wealthier warriors. Hunting for deer, boar and wolves as a youth among the peaks that towered overhead. Being blooded as a warrior after killing his first man at sixteen. Kneeling in the sacred grove at the top of a nearby mountain, praying to the rider god for guidance. The hours of his life he’d spent wishing that his mother had not died birthing his sister, a babe that had lingered less than a month in this world. The day he’d heard the news that Rome had invaded Thrace. Riding to war against its legions with his father Sitalkes, brother Maron and the rest of the tribe. Their first glorious victory, and the bitter defeats that followed. The agonising death of Maron, a week after being thrust through the belly by a Roman sword, a gladius. The subsequent vain attempts to overcome the Roman war machine. Ambushes from the hills. Night attacks. Poisoning the rivers. Unions with other tribes that were undone by treachery or greed, or both.
‘We Thracians never change, eh?’ he asked the stallion. ‘Never mind what might be best for Thrace. We fight everyone, even our own. Especially our own. Unite to fight a common enemy, such as Rome? Not a chance!’ His barking laugh was short, and angry. The first part of the task his father had set him — serving with the Roman legions — had been completed. He had anticipated a period of relatively normal life before attempting the second part, that of trying to unify the tribes. It was not to be. The dark cloud of war with its bloody lining had found him yet again. Yet he did not try to ignore the adrenalin rush. Instead he welcomed it. Kotys killed my father. The treacherous bastard. He must die, and soon.
Used to both his soliloquies and his silences, the horse plodded on behind him.
Two sentries armed with shields and javelins stood by the walled settlement’s large gates. They peered at him through jaundiced eyes, muttering to each other as he approached. Few travellers arrived at this late hour, in such bad weather. Even fewer possessed a mail shirt or tinned helmet. Although the newcomer’s stallion was lame, it was of fine quality. It was also white — the colour prized by kings.
‘Halt!’
He came to a stop, raising his left hand in a peaceful gesture. Just let me in without too many questions. ‘It’s an evil evening,’ he said mildly. ‘After paying respects to the rider god, it’s one to spend by the fire with a cup of wine.’
‘You speak our tongue?’ asked the older guard in surprise.
‘Of course.’ He laughed. ‘I’m Maedi, like you.’
‘Is that so? I wouldn’t recognise you from a dog turd,’ snarled the second sentry.
‘Me neither,’ his comrade added in a slightly more civil tone.
‘Maybe so, but I was born and raised in this village.’ He frowned at their scowls. ‘Is this the best welcome I can expect after nearly a decade away?’ He was about to say that his name was Peiros, but the first guard spoke first.
‘Who are you?’ He peered at the newcomer’s arms, noticing for the first time the spatters of blood, and then back at his face. ‘Wait a moment. I know you! Spartacus?’
Shit! ‘That’s right,’ he replied curtly, caressing the hilt of his sword.
An incredulous grin split the older man’s face. ‘By all the gods, why didn’t you say? I’m Lycurgus. Sitalkes and I rode together.’ He threw a warning look at the other guard.
‘I remember you,’ said Spartacus with an amiable nod. The stare he gave the second sentry was far less friendly. Mortified, the warrior took a sudden interest in the dirt between his feet.
‘Things have changed since you left home,’ said Lycurgus unhappily. ‘Your father-’
‘I know,’ Spartacus cut in harshly. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Yes.’
He couldn’t help himself. ‘Died in suspicious circumstances, I hear.’
Lycurgus glanced at his companion. ‘Neither of us had anything to do with it. Polles is the one you want to talk to.’
‘Polles?’
‘The king’s chief bodyguard.’ The distaste in Lycurgus’ voice was clear.
‘What about Getas, Seuthes and Medokos? Are they still alive?’ he asked casually.
‘Oh yes. They’ve fallen from favour, but they keep their noses clean so Kotys leaves them be.’ Aware of the dangerous undercurrent to their conversation, Lycurgus licked his lips. ‘Are you…?’
Spartacus acted as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I’m tired. I’ve been on the road for weeks. All I want is some hot food in my belly and a drink with my old friends. The king can wait until tomorrow. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve returned until then.’ By which time, gods willing, it will be too late. Now that these two know my identity, I’ve got to act at once. Getas and the others will help. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘O-of course not,’ stammered Lycurgus. He glared at his companion.
‘We won’t say a word to anyone.’
‘Not a soul,’ warned Spartacus. Hearing the sudden chill in his voice, the two guards nodded fearfully.
‘Good.’ Pulling a fold of his cloak over the lower half of his face, Spartacus walked by without another word.
‘You fucking idiot,’ hissed Lycurgus the instant that he had vanished from sight. ‘Spartacus is one the deadliest warriors that our tribe has ever seen! Be grateful that he was in a good mood. You do not want to piss
