‘Tell me, do the masters generally prefer food with a strong flavour?’
‘Yes, especially Batiatus. He likes his meals to have very bold flavours, and encourages the use of all sorts of expensive herbs and spices to enhance the taste. The chef has a whole range of condiments from all over the world.’
The General nodded slowly, smiling triumphantly as he did.
‘Good … then you can take the first step of this plan right now.’
‘How?’
He looked up to make sure that the guards weren’t watching, and into Arishat’s hand he slipped a small pouch, cut from a loincloth and bound crudely with torn-off cloth fibres. He closed the girl’s fingers around the illicit item and then quickly withdrew his hand, looking left and right to make sure the exchange hadn’t been seen.
‘Take this to the kitchen. Slip the powder that is inside that pouch into one of the chef’s herb or spice vials on the day that the time is right; it should be one with an especially strong flavour, so that the taste of our powder will not be too noticeable. And one that he is likely to use, of course.’
‘What is this powder?’
‘It is ground-up fungus of a type that grows in the damp darkness of the underground cell in which we gladiators are sometimes placed for punishment. Spartacus harvested this last time he was put in there. It is highly poisonous. A gladiator who was locked in the cell a while ago tried to eat a little of the fungus, and he was violently ill and was at death’s door for a few days. Of course, this small amount I’ve just given you, diluted in a soup or stew, will not kill or even make seriously ill those who consume it, but it will probably be enough to cause them a fair amount of discomfort and keep them off their feet for at least a few hours. And that is all we are going to need to succeed in our endeavour: a few hours, and those knives.’
‘Hey!’ rasped a thuggish voice from across the hall. ‘Hurry up and pick up those plates, you little bitch! Dining time is almost over, we need to clear these slave dogs out and get them back to their kennels!’
‘I have to go,’ Arishat whispered, her voice low with urgency. ‘Quickly, tell me what else I must do.’
‘We are ready for action at any time. Along with us three, there are ten more gladiators who have pledged their allegiance to us, and if we succeed, I think that every gladiator in this ludus will join us. All we need is for that powder to get into the masters’ food, and the knives to be brought to us.’
‘This must be done at the same time?’ asked Arishat.
‘Yes. This is crucial.’
She nodded.
‘I will keep a keen eye on the chef when he prepares food for the masters. But what of the knives?’
‘On the day that you put that poisonous powder into the masters’ food, you will give us a signal. Cough loudly, three times, when you enter the dining hall. Pretend you are feeling sick. Do this a total of three times – so, nine distinct coughs in total, grouped into threes. After this, one of us will bump into you. It will seem like an accident, and you will drop and smash your amphora of water. Go back to the kitchen to get another one, and slip as many knives from the sink as you can fit into it. Bring that to us … and we will unleash hell.’
‘I’m gonna shove the butt end of my fuckin’ spear up your tight little gash, slut,’ a guard barked viciously, ‘and keep shovin’ until it comes out your cock-swallowin’ mouth! Get away from those slave dogs and get that shit to the kitchen! Go!’
‘Quickly,’ Spartacus urged. ‘Leave now. You know what to do when the time comes.’
‘I will do this,’ Arishat murmured to Spartacus as she walked away, feeling the withering gaze of the guard who had just shouted at her burning holes into her back. ‘Yes, I will do this. Trust me, gladiators, I will do this!’
***
A Few Days Later
‘Welcome! Welcome, senators and free citizens of Rome!’ Batiatus bellowed to the crowded dining hall. ‘We are gathered here this evening to celebrate the festival of Mars Invictus. Let us feast tonight and revel in the glory of the undefeated god of war! Let us drink and let us eat, and at the end of the night we will spill blood upon his altar in a sacrifice to his continuing glory!’
The hall resounded with enthusiastic cheers and applause from the numerous senators and their wives, along with other notable Roman citizens, all of whom were seated around a number of ostentatiously carved dining tables in Batiatus’s cavernous hall. As Batiatus took a seat to the dying of the applause, one of the guests stood up, holding a goblet of wine in his right hand as he beamed a kingly smile out to everyone.
‘We thank you, Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Batiatus, for so generously offering to host us on this auspicious evening!’ Octavian said. ‘I am happy that myself and my fellow senators have been made to feel so welcome in this house.’
At the end of the dining hall, standing at attention and completely disguised inside his full suit of gladiatorial armour, Lucius Sertorius shifted uneasily on his feet. Right there, in the centre of the hall, seated around the largest table – the table of honour – were many of the members of the secret society known as the Huntsmen, well, those whose identities he knew
