Spartacus watched Phortis sourly. His haggling with the captain of a merchant vessel looked to be drawing to a successful close. ‘This is it. There’s only one place we’re going to now. Italy.’ The guilt he’d felt at the death of Olynthus and the ten others condemned to die felt heavier than ever.
Curse Kotys to hell
.
‘Unless the ship sinks, and we all drown.’ Getas eyed the glittering sea unhappily. It extended to the western horizon. ‘The weather at this time of year is so unpredictable. A storm could take us at any time.’
‘It could. And there’s nothing we can do about it except to ask the gods for their protection,’ replied Spartacus. ‘Get used to that idea.’
Deep in his own misery, Getas didn’t register his annoyance. ‘I’ve never been on a stinking boat before,’ he went on.
‘Prepare to vomit constantly for the next day or two, then. You won’t need bad conditions to make you feel sick either,’ warned Seuthes. ‘Just being on it is enough. You won’t know what bloody way the ship is going to move from one moment to the next. Up, down, forwards, backwards, side to side. It’s always changing.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Getas. ‘I can’t wait.’
Spartacus wasn’t looking forward to the motion sickness either. He’d been on ships when serving in the legions, but never for more a few hours, the time it took to cross to Asia Minor from the south-east coast of Thrace.
That is the least of my concerns
. Seeing Ariadne approach, he forced a smile. ‘Wife.’
‘Husband,’ she answered gravely.
Because they were chained to each other, Getas and Seuthes hadn’t been able to give Spartacus and Ariadne real privacy since they’d left the village. Out of courtesy, however, they had got in the habit of moving back a step. They did do now, and began talking to each other in low voices. Spartacus felt a wave of gratitude towards them yet again.
‘Ready for the journey?’ she asked.
‘After a fashion.’
She frowned, suspecting the reason for his reserve, but not wanting to ask.
‘It’s the finality of leaving Illyria. Not for me, you understand? I’m reconciled to my fate,’ Spartacus growled. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. After I’m dead and gone, you’ll be left alone. Not only will you be in an alien land full of bastard Romans, but you’ll have Phortis trying to screw you at every turn. I’ve seen him staring at you. Wouldn’t it be better to reconsider? For you to stay here?’
‘It was my choice to accompany you. Don’t you remember what Kotys would have done to me?’ Ariadne felt sick just thinking about it. ‘Leaving with you was my best option by far! Where else would I have gone – back to Kabyle, and the crusty old priests there? Or to my bastard of a father? And as for Phortis – pah! The whoreson will get a face full of snake if he tries anything. No. My place is here, by your side.’ Hoping that her bravado was convincing, Ariadne reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘It’s what Dionysus would want,’ she lied.
He shot her an intense glance. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘No, not as such.’ Her sigh was full of not wholly feigned regret. ‘But I cannot believe that the god would want me to have stayed there, for Kotys to abuse. What would be the point in that? At least this way, I can carry his word back to Italy. His religion has been suppressed there for generations. I will be a new emissary for him.’
Spartacus thought for a moment. It wasn’t as if he could stop her anyway. If the truth be told, he was glad that she was coming. ‘Good.’
Ariadne sent up a silent prayer to Dionysus: Forgive me. I do not mean to use your name in vain. Surely the best thing for me is to travel with Spartacus? I will do my utmost to tend to your devotees, and to win new converts. Coward, screamed her conscience. You’re just looking after your own skin.
Since their untoward passage of the Adriatic, they’d walked for nearly a week. Nothing could have prepared Spartacus for the fertile Italian countryside, and its fields that contained every crop imaginable to man. That overwhelming display was without even taking the breadbaskets of Sicily and Egypt into consideration. No wonder the bastards could raise such large armies, he’d reflected bitterly. The Romans’ food supply was guaranteed, unlike that of his people, who lived in a homeland that was barren by comparison. Yet for all Italy’s fertility, the narrow mountain path that had carried them through the Apennines had been welcome, because it had reminded him of Thrace. It had taken in the most stunning scenery: steep ravines, plunging streams and rocky crags inhabited only by birds of prey. They had encountered no one but the occasional shepherd.
A couple of hours previously, the column had finally emerged from the mountains and joined a wide paved road, the Via Appia. It had led them south-east towards the town of Capua, the imposing walls of which now filled the horizon. Before it, however, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, lay a squat, rectangular building standing on its own. It was partly backlit by the rays of the setting sun, giving it a black, brooding appearance.
‘There you are, fine sirs,’ sneered Phortis, gesturing. ‘The first glimpse of your new home.’
Every one of the captives craned his neck to see.
‘It looks like a damn fortress,’ said Getas in an undertone.
Somehow Phortis caught the words. ‘Congratulations! You’re not as stupid as you look,’ he answered in Thracian. ‘That’s exactly what it is. The walls are nearly ten feet thick, and there’s but one entrance, which is guarded day and night by six of Batiatus’ best men. With two hundred scumbags like you inside it, what else would you expect? I hope you like it there, because once you’ve entered, the only time you dogs will ever leave is to go to the arena. Or,’ and he leered, ‘when your corpse is being carted to the refuse heaps nearby.’ Phortis glared at the seven non-Thracian captives, who were regarding him blankly. ‘Journey finish soon!’ he shouted in Latin, and pointed. ‘Ludus! Ludus!’ He smiled as the men began muttering unhappily to each other.
‘What was the first bit?’ hissed Seuthes to Getas, who had a smattering of Latin. The other whispered in his ear, and Seuthes’ expression grew angry. ‘Screw him anyway,’ he growled. ‘Gloating over us as if we were a herd of cattle going to the slaughterhouse.’
‘That’s about what we are,’ replied Getas grimly. ‘Except it’s the carrion birds who’ll feed on us after we’re dead, not people.’
Phortis came stalking along the line, looking for someone to use his whip on, and they both fell silent.
Spartacus, who’d also understood, kept his gaze fixed on the road. Inside, he was warning himself never to say a thing within fifty paces of Phortis. The man’s knowledge of Thracian was far better than he let on, and his hearing was uncanny. He didn’t relax until the Capuan had resumed his place at the head of the column. The moment he had, however, Spartacus’ eyes focused on the ludus. He kept his gaze fixed on it as they drew nearer. It looked impregnable. No doubt it was the same inside. Gradually, the sound of voices and the familiar ring of weapon on weapon carried to him through the air. Spartacus’ jaw hardened. The battles that he fought from now on would be much smaller scale that he was used to. According to Phortis, the majority would probably be one on one. That didn’t mean he’d approach them any differently. In fact, thought Spartacus savagely, he’d go in twice as hard. Twice as fast. Twice as brutally. With only one aim. To win. That’s all his life would be about from now on. Winning.
It was that or death, which didn’t appeal.
Spartacus didn’t overly care about himself, but it wasn’t just about him any longer. He had Getas and Seuthes to look out for. And most importantly of all, there was Ariadne. Spartacus had no real idea how he’d provide for her. He had heard a rumour that the best gladiators could earn good money, and hoped it was true. Ensuring that Ariadne had plenty of cash would mean that if, or when, he was killed, she had the resources to survive on her own.
Grant me that much at least, O Great Rider
.
Carbo twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible. The filthy straw mattress beneath him was falling apart. It was also full of bed bugs. His blanket had more holes in it than a fishing net. Rats scuttered to and fro on the floor, looking for food. He’d emptied the bucket by the end of the bed the night before, but it still stank of piss and shit. Because he had no money to buy fuel for the little brazier that sat in the corner, the room was freezing. Room? Carbo scowled. It could scarcely be called that.
The cheapest accommodation that he’d been able to find, it was located at the very top of a five-storey
insula
, or block of flats. There were no windows, and he rarely used his oil lamp, so the only light that came in was through the gaps in the roof tiles. Carbo glanced around the pathetic limits of his domain. It could be called a garret perhaps. Scarcely ten paces by six, it had an angled roof that made it impossible to stand upright. The door didn’t lock, and the walls were so thin that he could hear every sound made by his neighbour, a rheumy-eyed crone with a hacking cough.
The old witch was at it now, as she had been all through the night, choking and wheezing until Carbo thought she’d vomit. He wanted to go next door and throttle her. Instead, he shoved his head into the excuse for a pillow and placed a hand over his free ear. It made little difference.
Gods above. I might as well get up and go out
. Because of the coughing, Carbo had had little sleep. He’d hoped now that she was up, he might get some rest. Why fare abroad anyway? It was so damn cold outside. Of course those weren’t the only reasons that Carbo was huddled, fully dressed, under his blankets. He had no money, and no job. Nowhere to go. No prospects. Impotent fury filled him. Since he had run away, things had gone from bad to worse.
He’d kept his head low for several days, and then gone back to the family home. The only people he’d seen apart from a couple of the domestic slaves were an officious-looking man in a toga and several workmen. His attempt to speak with Crassus’ agent had been brushed off; so too had his request to meet with Paccius. Secure – and outraged – in the knowledge that his parents were gone, Carbo had begun looking for work. It hadn’t been long before the realisation sank home that his whole plan was a disastrous mistake. Most of the tradesmen he’d approached took one look at his well-made tunic and soft hands, and laughed in his face. Some had offered him work, but at such a low wage that Carbo had told them where to stick their miserable offers. Unfortunately, his savings had not lasted. The cost of living was much greater than he’d realised. His few remaining friends had helped where they could, giving him food and money, but even their goodwill had started to run dry.
Carbo ground his teeth with rage. What had he or his family done to anger the gods so? He had visited all the major temples, asking for guidance. He’d heard back nothing. Nothing. Even the old soothsayer to whom Carbo given his last coins the previous day had been useless, telling him that he’d soon be married to a wealthy merchant’s daughter. ‘Louse-ridden charlatan,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I should find him and take back my money.’ The idea of marriage brought his mother to mind.
Gods, but she must be worrying about me. Father too
. His pride wouldn’t allow him to write them a letter, however.
I’ll let them know when things have improved. When I’m making money
.
A new storm of coughing overtook the crone next door, and he gave up any pretence of trying to rest. Anything was better than this torture. Getting up, he fastened his cloak at one shoulder with the last valuable item he possessed, a silver brooch given him by his mother the year before, when he had taken the toga. Carbo ran his fingers over it, and silently asked Jupiter and Fortuna for help. Feeling a fraction better, he headed for the stairs. Perhaps his luck would change today. Perhaps the gods would help him at last. If not, maybe he could find a way to join the army. That at least would be better than returning in shame to his family in Rome. His belly grumbled, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten in three days. Carbo’s mind raced. Maybe he could steal a loaf from the bakery next door.
All eyes were upon the column from the moment they passed under the stone archway and into the large colonnaded courtyard beyond. They had to be. Phortis had led them straight into the middle of the circular training area, forcing the gladiators there to move out of the way. None looked unhappy at the interruption to their training. Far from it. The fighters crowded in around the new arrivals. Insults and catcalls in several tongues rained down; these turned rapidly to wolf whistles and lewd suggestions when Ariadne and the other women were seen. Doing his best to ignore the abuse, Spartacus picked out the loudest individuals and memorised their faces. A thickset Thracian with a long ponytail. A skinny Gaul who was missing his top teeth. A Nubian with one gold earring.
I’ll sort out those fuckers
.
Ariadne, who had worked her way into the midst of the women, kept her eyes firmly on the sandy ground. Until men knew that she was with Spartacus, the less attention she got, the better.
‘Shut it, you curs!’ shouted Phortis. He looked up at the archers on the first-floor balcony, which ran all the way around the courtyard. ‘You there! Tell Batiatus that I’m back. Quickly!’ As one of the guards scurried off, he turned back to his fifteen captives. ‘In a line! In a line! Face that way,’ he ordered. ‘Batiatus will want to see what kind of men I’ve brought back for him.’