wet. Hissing could be heard from within, as cypress wood gave up its resin, imparting a pine aroma to the proceedings.
A gust of wind shoved a pall of smoke closer to the crowd, who backed away, protesting.
All eyes were locked on the two squads of four men who stood ready to fight.
Nobody gave the word. But the fight began.
They advanced. The “Romans” locked their shields, forming a small imitation of a legion’s front line.
Spartacus launched himself at the line before they could get their spears in place, smacking into the shields with the spear-points safely behind him. The force of his charge immediately broke his opponents into two pairs, the men staggering back.
Ignoring one couple, Spartacus flailed against Timarchides himself and his surprised lieutenant. At his back, he heard the clang and clatter as Varro and his fellow gladiators pressed against the other two-and a sudden scream.
Spartacus glanced behind, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Bebryx reeling with a spear in his shoulder his face contorted with pain, before he turned back to face his chosen foe.
Lucretia shot a concerned look at Batiatus.
“I know your thoughts,” he muttered. “Your expectation cannot be for me to intervene.”
Bebryx, the spear protruding from his shoulder, let go of his sword. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the spear. Its haft smacked into the ground, levering the point deep into the wound and causing Bebryx to scream in agony again.
Varro backed away so that he stood between his opponents and the wounded gladiator. He flung the pointless round shield at the “Romans,” and grabbed the hilt of his own sword with both hands, swinging it straight for their heads.
Cycnus grappled his opponent, the two men shoving together, grunting with effort. Cycnus drew back his sword arm, repositioning the blade ready to stab, when, suddenly, his opponent grabbed one of the horns on his helmet, and tugged downwards.
Spartacus caught a look in Cycnus’s eyes, a momentary spark of realization, as the gladiator was dragged headfirst. He tried to struggle to his feet, but his opponent had a tight wrestling hold on both his head and his torso. Cycnus roared in frustration, his free hand flailing, trying to punch a soft spot in his assailant. Instead, his knuckles scraped on unyielding armor. The man in soldier’s armor raised his sword to stab into Cycnus’s pinned neck, and a snarling Cycnus raised the two fingers of surrender.
The soldier did not even halt, but plunged his sword into Cycnus’s throat. Silencing his angry growls in an instant, the blade pierced straight through the throat and the bones of the neck.
A cry escaped Lucretia’s lips, her mouth agape in surprise at the unexpected death. A fountain of blood sprayed across the killing ground, spattering in hissing droplets on the ever-growing fire, tainting the air with the sudden tang of copper.
Batiatus sank onto his haunches, one hand held despairingly over his left eye, as if he could barely endure the sight.
“We cannot afford such losses as these!” Lucretia said.
Batiatus sat meekly by the sidelines. Lucretia yelled at Timarchides to call an end to the bloodshed, but her voice was drowned out by the crackle of the fire, the continued dirge of the musicians, the clash of blades, and the shouts of the crowd.
The killer of Cycnus tugged brutally at his blade, pulling off his victim’s head, and holding it aloft by one of the helmet horns, the head still held in place by its strong leather chin strap. A drizzle of blood fell from the severed neck and spattered the killer’s arms.
The victorious gladiator laughed as he brandished the grisly trophy, and then spun to cast it upon the flames.
Spartacus and Varro stood back to back, the two of them still facing four opponents. At their feet, Bebryx moaned in pain, his hands grasping the blood-wet spear in his shoulder.
“The odds fall out of favor,” Varro muttered.
Spartacus said nothing for a few moments. He glared in turn at each of the men who faced him as he and Varro spun in small circles.
“I have won victory against worse,” Spartacus muttered.
Cackling, Cycnus’s killer drew close to Spartacus, his sword arm outstretched, his other hand held far away from his body.
“Mark the others,” Spartacus said to Varro. “I am for this one.”
The man stopped laughing, but still drew near, his eyes staring deep into Spartacus’s own, his arms held wide, presenting a tantalizing target.
Spartacus feinted, watching his opponent’s left arm twitch in response to an attack that never came.
Spartacus smiled to himself, and lunged for real.
The man darted to the side, his left arm coming up to grab at the horn of Spartacus’s helmet, tugging savagely down as he had done to the luckless Cycnus. But the helmet came off clean in his hand, throwing him off balance, sending him tumbling back onto the grass, his arms crossed protectively over his body, warding against a blow that never came.
For Spartacus had immediately wheeled and plunged his sword into the neck of one of the other attackers, a man who had been too busy watching the scuffle to parry an unexpected blow. The crowd roared.
While Varro railed against the remaining two, keeping them at bay, Spartacus turned back to the fallen man, who was struggling to his feet.
Spartacus kicked away his sword arm, dropping to his knees on the man’s bicep, cracking the bone even as he lifted his sword to strike downward.
His victim tried to ward off the blow, shoving the stolen helmet in front of him. Spartacus’s sword glanced off its curves, missing the man’s face, but plunging deep into his chest.
The sword was stuck fast. Spartacus wasted no time wrenching it free, instead he snatched up his victim’s Roman sword-and that of the other fallen opponent.
Now it was two against two. His paired new swords threshing in an unstoppable onslaught, Spartacus cut and slashed against his remaining opponent, pushing him back under a hail of blows, forcing him perilously close to the mounting flames. The man stumbled against the edges of the pyre, pushing up a cloud of red embers that danced in the smoke around the fighters like angry flies. There were choking coughs from among the crowd of onlookers, but few dared to give up their place. Ilithyia retreated, one hand over her mouth, another clutching at her hair, but among the rest of the crowd, there was barely a rustle.
Varro was face to face with Timarchides. The two men shifted, each sizing up the other. Timarchides made to thrust with his sword, revealing it as a feint only at the last moment, as the edge of his shield shoved up toward Varro’s face. Varro darted to the side, spinning so as to wheel upon the Greek with the full force of his sword, wielded with two hands.
Beside the pyre, the heat of the flames stung Spartacus’s flesh. He saw his adversary struggle and shift as the warmth infested his armor plates. Sweat poured from their bodies as the two men labored against the heat like blacksmiths in a furnace. Spartacus’s opponent flinched, and the Thracian saw his moment, driving forward with both swords, shoving the other man back into the flames. Parallel, his twin swords rammed through the gaps in his rival’s shoulder armor into the vulnerable flesh, traveling straight through his body and sticking fast in the burning logs.
The flames leapt up, crackling along the hairs on Spartacus’s arms. He let go his grip on the two hilts, stumbling back from the shimmering heat as his opponent began to scream. Pinned to the heart of the fire, the man struggled to pull at the blades, even as the flames caught on his hair and in the padding beneath his armor.
“SET ME FREE!” the trapped gladiator yelled. “FREE ME!”
Backing away, his eyes still on his victim as though he was hypnotized by the grim sight, Spartacus tripped
