He watched eagerly as the girl approached and beamed a welcoming smile at her. He too observed the guards closely to make sure that they weren’t paying attention, and then he stood up, and with a deft flick of his wrist he smacked the stack of plates out of her hand. The bronze plates came crashing to the ground with a loud clatter that resounded with painful volume through the hall, and everyone sat bolt upright at the noise.
‘Oy!’ one of the guards snapped angrily. ‘What the fuck just happened?!’
‘I didn’t see the wench behind me,’ Spartacus growled, before Arishat could say anything. ‘And I stood up and bumped into her. It was my fault.’
The guard spat on the floor and shook his head, patting the pommel of his gladius in its sheath.
‘Stupid, clumsy half-wit!’ he shouted. ‘And you, you thick-headed whore! Clean up the mess, both of you, hurry up! What a pair of fucking morons.’
The guard glowered at them and muttered a few more insults under his breath, before leaning back against the wall and continuing his conversation with the other guard. Arishat, meanwhile, looked down at Spartacus with both confusion and injury writ raw across her face.
‘Why did you do that? I thought you were a decent man…’
‘Hush,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll help you pick it up. Now we can talk without them noticing.’
A knowing glint entered the girl’s eyes, and the corners of her lips bent upward in a conspiratorial smile.
‘Oh!’ she whispered. ‘Got it!’
‘Don’t clear up the mess too quickly,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘We must speak about something very important, so listen carefully, all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied as she knelt down and began picking up the plates. ‘I’m listening.’
Spartacus’s eyes were aglow with a fiery intensity, and he locked them straight into Arishat’s.
‘Freedom, girl, freedom … what would you do for it? What would you do to escape those animals, those disgusting guards over there who molest you day in and day out? What would you do to escape a life of endless servitude and toil? Tell me Arishat, tell me!’
‘I … I cannot think of such things,’ she replied worriedly. ‘I’d do almost anything, but … but freedom is an impossibility.’
Spartacus shot out a hand, quick as a loosed arrow, and gripped her arm.
‘No, Arishat. No. It is, in fact, a very, very distinct possibility … but only if you can help us.’
‘Me … help you? I don’t know how I can help anyone, even myself. And who do you mean by “you”?’
‘Us gladiators: myself, Oenomaus and the General here.’
Arishat looked up and saw that all of them were staring at her, their collective attention focused with unwavering intent upon her.
‘Freedom? You gladiators? But … how?’
‘You’ve seen us fight, girl,’ Spartacus replied. ‘Tell me, if any one of us had a weapon in our hands, how would we fare against those slobs leaning against the wall, those pigs who are sitting there idly talking of whoring and gambling? Those vile thugs who grope and abuse you at every opportunity?’
A vengeful crackling burned in Arishat’s eyes as these words escaped Spartacus’s lips.
‘You would slaughter them … and I would be glad to see it.’
Spartacus smiled a wicked smile and nodded.
‘We would avenge every wrong you have suffered at the hands of those beasts. And not only that, we would free every slave in this ludus.’
Her jaw dropped with shock and her eyes bulged.
‘You’re talking about … a full rebellion?!’
Spartacus smiled grimly.
‘Nothing less, girl, nothing less. But we must have weapons in order to do this. Everything about our plan is hinged on that particular detail … and that’s where you come in.’
‘Weapons? But, but I’m only a kitchen slave. I don’t have access to the armoury.’
‘We don’t need access to the armoury, although that will be the first place we’ll hit after we’ve taken out these guards. No, to get started we just need knives from the kitchens. I’ve seen the big fruit knife you carry – how many more of those are in the kitchen? Are there butcher’s knives in there as well? There must be!’
Arishat nodded, biting her lower lip, her eyes darting repeatedly over to the guards. Paranoia was scuttling across her skin like a swarm of maddened insects.
‘There are plenty of butcher’s knives, cleavers and fruit knives in the kitchen,’ she said, dropping her voice to a low whisper, ‘but I don’t know how I’d get them out without someone noticing they’re gone, much less how I’d get them inside this dining hall without the guards noticing me carrying them. The kitchen master is very picky about his utensils; each utensil is placed in a very particular place, and he beats us if we put them in the wrong place.’
‘Getting the knives inside unnoticed will not be a problem,’ the General interjected, taking over from Spartacus. ‘I have a plan for that. What I need to know is how much you personally are involved in the preparation of the food, and what your routine in the kitchen entails.’
‘I don’t prepare any of the food at all. I just clean up after the cooking is done and deliver the food and water. What happens in the kitchen every day is this: first the kitchen slaves prepare the simple food for you gladiators, us household slaves and the household servants. After that, myself and the other serving girls eat and then deliver your food and water to you. We then take the empty plates and amphoras back to the kitchens, clean everything up, and then a chef comes and prepares the masters’ food. Then we have to clean up once more, after him.’
‘I see … Who is this person who cooks the masters’ food?’ the General asked.
‘He is a famous chef from Pompeii. He prepares all of the masters’ dishes.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
Arishat paused to think for a while before replying.
‘He is an
