power.’
‘Good. With your permission, I’ll tell the warriors exactly that.’
She started up in alarm. ‘You’re going?’
‘Not yet. I’ll stay until midnight or so. If Polles and his men haven’t appeared by then, they’re not going to before the morning. I’ll rest until then. It’s been a long day.’
Ariadne caught him looking at the cupboard where she kept her provisions. ‘I’m sorry. You must be hungry after your journey.’
‘I could eat.’
‘Let me fetch you something.’ Conscious of his eyes on her the whole time, Ariadne prepared a plate of bread and goats’ cheese. She added a spoonful of cold barley porridge from a blackened iron pot. ‘Apart from water, that’s all I have.’
‘It’s plenty,’ he said, reaching out with eager hands.
Ariadne crept to the door while he demolished the food. Placing her ear against the timbers in a number of places, she listened. Nothing, apart from the usual chorus of dogs barking. It was some relief. Not knowing what else to do, she found a spare blanket and tossed it to him. She saw his eyes move to her bed. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas. You can rest on the floor.’
‘Of course.’ He looked amused. ‘I expected no less.’
Discomfited by his confidence — was it smugness? — she lay down on her bed without undressing and pulled up the covers.
‘Sleep well.’ He moved around the room, blowing out all but one of the oil lamps. Laying the mantle by the door, he drew his sword and placed it alongside. Then, sitting with his back against the wall, he pulled his cloak tightly around himself and closed his eyes.
Almost at once, Ariadne found herself staring at him. The flickering of the lamp’s flame threw Spartacus’ regular features half into shadow, giving him a mysterious appearance. His hair was cut close to the scalp in the Roman military fashion. A faint scar ran off his straight nose on to his left cheek. A heavy growth of stubble covered his square, determined jaw. It was an attractive face, as she had noticed before. Hard, too, she thought, but she could see no cruelty there, no similarity to the likes of Polles or Kotys.
Was it possible that he had been sent by Dionysus? she wondered. It was tempting to think so. If he hadn’t appeared, she would currently be dying of exposure, or of injuries sustained from falling off one of the precipices that lined the road away from the village. She offered a prayer of thanks to her god. That done, Ariadne relaxed on to her bed. It was time to get what rest she could. Tomorrow was another day.
Ten steps away, Spartacus was silently communing with his own favourite deity, the Thracian rider god. He who shall not be named. I ask you to keep your shield and sword over us both. Let the warriors listen to me as I go among them. It was a heartfelt plea. For years, Spartacus’ life had been about nothing more than fighting, killing and learning Roman battle tactics. In the last two hours, things had changed more than he could have thought possible. His hopes of a warm homecoming had vanished. He was now seeking vengeance for his father’s murder. He was a potential regicide. Spartacus let out a long breath. Such was the way of the gods. Over the years, he’d learned to take the knocks that life delivered him, but this one was harder than most. As always, I bow to your will, Great Rider. He took a surreptitious look at Ariadne, and his fierce expression softened. Not everything that had happened since his return was to be regretted.
Ariadne woke from an arousing dream in which Spartacus had enveloped her in his arms. Shocked, she sat up, clutching her blanket to her chest. He was by the door, sheathing his sword. ‘Good sleep?’
‘I–I think so,’ she muttered, hating her crimson cheeks and racing pulse.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Startled, she glanced at him. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. The best-looking woman I’ve ever seen in this village, if I may say so.’
‘You made a habit of comparing them, then?’ she asked, using sarcasm to cover her embarrassment.
‘Of course,’ he said, grinning. ‘Every man does.’
Disarmed by his honesty, and more pleased than she’d ever let on, Ariadne pointed at the door. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘No, nothing. It’s time for me to go.’
Reality came crashing back, and her stomach clenched into a painful knot. ‘I see. How will I know what has happened?’
‘You’ll hear the fighting. It will soon be obvious who won.’
Terror constricted Ariadne’s throat. She wanted to ask Spartacus not to leave, but she knew that would be futile. Everything about him now oozed grim determination. She let herself take strength from that. ‘The gods keep you safe.’
‘The Rider has been good to me all these years. I trust that he will continue to do so.’ He fixed her with his grey eyes, and smiled. ‘Afterwards, I would like to get to know you better.’
For a moment, Ariadne’s tongue wouldn’t move. ‘I–I would like that too,’ she managed.
‘If things go against me-’
‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered. Images of Kotys filled her head.
‘Nothing is certain,’ he warned. ‘If it comes to it, take my horse and go. Even though he’s lame, you’re light enough for him to carry. With all that will be going on, nobody will notice that you’re gone for a day at least. You’ll be able to reach the next village, and seek sanctuary there.’
What good will that do? Ariadne wanted to scream. All she did, however, was to shake her head in silent assent.
He lifted the beam that barred the door. ‘Replace this after I’ve gone.’
‘I will.’
‘Get some more rest if you can.’
Her chin firmed. ‘No.’
He was halfway through the doorway, but he turned. ‘Eh?’
‘I will pray to Dionysus for your success. And Kotys’ death,’ she added.
His eyes glinted. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped out without another word.
Gods, but she’s fiery. Attractive too. Putting thoughts of Ariadne aside, he let his vision adjust to the darkness. Using all his senses, he scanned the alleyway. After a few moments, he relaxed. No one was stirring. Even the dogs had gone to sleep. Keeping a hand to his sword, he stole off through the gloom. Eight years of absence didn’t stop him from unerringly making his way to Getas’ house. He’d grown up here and knew every alley and path in the settlement like the back of his hand. The yellow glow of lamplight through chinks in the wall drew him past the palisade, and he rapped lightly on the portal. ‘Getas?’
The muffled conversation within died away. He heard footsteps approaching. ‘Who is it?’
‘Spartacus.’
There was a scraping noise as the locking bar was lifted, and then the door eased open, revealing a skinny man with a mass of tangled red hair. He grinned. ‘Come in, come in.’
Spartacus stooped and crossed the threshold. The inside of the rectangular hut was similar to most in the village. A large fire burned in a fireplace set into the back wall. Bunches of herbs hung from the roof beams. Tools were stacked untidily in one corner; bowls, pots and pans in another. A weapons rack stood proudly by the entrance, weighed down with javelins, spears and swords. To the left of the fireplace, two small children were curled up together under a blanket, like puppies. A dark-haired woman lay alongside them, her eyes watching his every move. Getas urged Spartacus to the bench in front of the blaze, where three warriors clad in long-sleeved, belted tunics were sitting. They all rose, smiling, as he approached.
‘Spartacus! It’s been too long!’ exclaimed a tall man with a shaven forehead. ‘Thank the gods you have returned.’
‘Seuthes!’ Spartacus returned the embrace before greeting the two others in the same way. ‘Medokos. Olynthus. I’ve missed your company.’
‘And we yours,’ replied Medokos, a barrel-chested figure with a wiry beard. Olynthus, who was older than all of them, murmured in loud agreement.
‘Sit,’ said Getas, waving a clay jug. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
When they all had a cup in hand, he poured the wine. Raising his right arm, he toasted them all. ‘To the
