anyway — after we’ve finished. How does that sound?’
‘Good, thank you.’ Carbo feigned sudden surprise. ‘Gods!’ He kicked Chloris with his sandal. ‘Chloris, is that you?’
She didn’t reply, so Carbo kicked her harder. ‘Answer me!’
‘Y-yes.’ There was still no trace of recognition in her terrified eyes.
‘Ha! I was right.’ He threw the Gauls a broad smile. ‘Imagine that.’
A sudden scowl creased Crixus’ face. ‘The useless whore was crying about being one of us. I thought she was lying.’
Carbo shoved the words out of his mouth before his fear made him swallow them down forever. ‘She wasn’t. Chloris is my woman.’ At the edge of his vision, he was aware of her reaching out an entreating hand. ‘The silly cow must have wandered into town after us. Let me take her. I’ll find you a replacement. Or two of them! Better-looking ones too.’
Crixus’ right fist bunched, and he jabbed his gladius at Carbo’s face, forcing him to take a step backwards. ‘Cheeky little bastard! Do you really think you can take a piece of cunny from me that easily? I don’t give a shit whether she’s yours or not.’
Carbo flushed deep red. ‘I-’
‘Piss off!’ Crixus glanced down at Chloris. ‘So you belong to this shitbag, eh? I must remember to cut your throat when we’re done.’
‘No!’ roared Carbo. He half drew his blade.
The point of Crixus’ sword swung back to prick him under the chin. ‘You’re testing my patience, Roman. Want to die right now?’
If I die, Chloris does too. ‘No.’
‘You have some brains then. I’m going to count to three. If you’re still here when I finish, I’m going to let my friends here carve you up. One-’
Carbo shot Chloris what he hoped was an encouraging look, before he turned and fled. As he ran, his ears rang with the Gauls’ mocking laughter. He expected Chloris to call out, begging him not to leave her, but she didn’t.
That hurt far more.
Carbo hurdled the corpse in the kitchen doorway with a single leap. Throwing open the door, he sprinted into the garden. He was vaguely aware of the girl emerging from the shrine, her mouth opening in a question. ‘Get back under there!’ he hissed. ‘The bastards have no reason to come outside.’
‘Where are you going?’ she wailed.
‘To get help.’ Trying not to think about how he was leaving a defenceless child, Carbo ran for the back gate.
Spartacus. He had to find Spartacus.
If he didn’t succeed, and fast, Chloris would be dead.
The period that followed was the longest of Carbo’s entire life. Never had he had a task more urgent, and never had he been so foiled at every turn. On every street, he found nothing but death, destruction and the men who delivered it. There was no sign of Spartacus anywhere. Carbo struggled even to recognise many of the armed men he came across. Fortunately for him, the opposite did not apply, and he received little in the way of open aggression. They even answered his demands for their leader. Carbo didn’t know why, but the killing seemed to have eased, and with it the blood lust. Now the slaves and gladiators were in search of wine, food and women — not necessarily in that order.
Men sat on huge amphorae, bending to guzzle the wine that poured unchecked on to the stony ground. They passed around joints of meat, tearing off chunks with their teeth. Lumps were sliced from round wheels of cheese with knives still covered in blood. By some soldiers’ feet, Carbo saw open-necked leather bags full of coins. All that he expected. What surprised him, and nearly unnerved him, were the women’s screams. They shredded the air in a dreadful chorus of terror and pain. Everywhere he looked, Carbo saw women being raped. Usually it was by men, lots of them, but sometimes the violations were even worse. How anyone could shove a spear or a sword blade inside a living person, Carbo had no idea. It wasn’t long before the remains of his meagre breakfast came up. Mesmerised, dazed by the violence, he wandered from house to temple, shop to stable in search of Spartacus.
When he found him, it was by complete chance. Glancing around, he found one of the Scythians glowering at him from the doorway of a nondescript house. ‘Have you seen Spartacus?’
‘He’s inside,’ came the growled reply. ‘Why?’
Carbo was already shoving past, his desperation greater than his fear of Atheas. ‘Where is he?’
‘In office… off courtyard.’
Carbo broke into a trot. He skidded across the tablinum, catching sight of several imperious death masks of the owners’ ancestors before he plunged into the spacious central square. Spartacus was slouched on a stone bench, surrounded by piles of rolled parchment. Taxacis was sitting on the ground nearby, drinking wine from a delicate glass flute. Both men looked up as Carbo pounded over. Taxacis scowled. ‘By the Rider, what happened to you?’ asked Spartacus.
Carbo rubbed absently at the blood caking his face. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Spartacus cocked his head, his eyes as inquisitive as a bird’s. ‘You look scared. What is it?’
Carbo told his tale in a gabble of words, scarcely stopping to breathe.
Spartacus leaped to his feet, silently cursing this bad fortune. To avoid trouble with Crixus, he could have — should have — refused to do a thing. After all Carbo’s loyalty, however, that would seem the ultimate betrayal. Crixus was in the wrong, plain and simple. The damn hothead won’t see it that way of course. Would it do any harm to intervene? Spartacus grimaced. We shall soon see. ‘Let’s hurry, or it will be too late.’
Carbo felt as if a massive ball of lead had just filled his belly. It probably is already.
‘Taxacis! Atheas!’ Spartacus turned to Carbo. ‘Which way?’
Numbly, he headed for the door. The three men followed.
Let her be alive still, Dionysus. Please. Her companion and the girl too.
It didn’t take them long to reach the house. Carbo made to enter, but Spartacus pulled him back. ‘Let us go first.’
Resentfully, Carbo stood aside.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the courtyard.’
‘And there are three of them?’
‘That’s all I saw.’
Spartacus’ sica came thrumming out of its scabbard. The long, curved blade was covered in telltale, dark red stains. Whatever many others have done, I have killed no women today. He glanced at the Scythians, who were fingering their weapons. ‘I want no bloodshed unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
They grinned evilly at him.
‘Come on.’ Spartacus took a careful step into the atrium, then another. The Scythians went next, cat-soft on their feet. Carbo was last. He crossed the threshold, seeing for the first time an image of a snarling black dog on the mosaic floor. It was most lifelike. A chain round its neck was all that held it back from springing up at Carbo. Under it were the words ‘ Cave Canem ’. Beware of the dog, he thought warily. I didn’t hear it when I was in the courtyard. Why not?
The reason became clear half a dozen paces further on. The body of a large black dog filled the hallway. A snarl still twisted its lips, but its eyes had the glassy look that only death can bring. Its body was covered in hack wounds, and purple strings of intestine had slithered out of its belly. They lay in the creature’s blood like fresh sausages in a red wine stew. ‘It wasn’t much of a match for Crixus,’ whispered Spartacus. ‘Not much is.’
New fear clawed at Carbo. He couldn’t hear a sound. Had they come too late?
The low moan — a woman’s — that reached his ears a moment later had never been more welcome. The sound was accompanied by a man’s loud grunting. Let Chloris be alive.
Spartacus made a quick gesture. At once, one Scythian went to stand at his left shoulder, the other to his right. Sweating profusely, Carbo took up the rear. Another signal, and they sped into the tablinum. Moving around the impluvium, the pool that collected rainwater from the roof overhead, they came to the doors that opened on to
