They joined the back of the line. The fighters immediately in front looked around. One or two nodded a greeting at Spartacus, which he returned. No one spoke to him or his companions, which suited him fine. The first day and night in the ludus were all about establishing his independence, his lack of need for friendship with others. He’d told Getas and Seuthes as much. In silence, they shuffled into the kitchen.
‘Here he is! The new latro.’ Phortis’ voice was mocking. ‘Watch out, or you might get stabbed in the back.’
At this, plenty of the gladiators stared. A few guffawed. None said anything.
‘I’m no bandit,’ replied Spartacus loudly.
‘Is that so?’ sneered Phortis.
‘It is.’
‘So you’d know nothing about the body in the baths, then? The ugly bastard who died of a hole in his neck?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
Spartacus lifted his shoulders into an expressive shrug. ‘Believe what you will. Men like to gossip. Nearly all of it is horseshit. Have you got any proof?’
‘I don’t need proof to dispense justice, you halfwit,’ barked Phortis. ‘Let’s just say that any man who can best that brute of a Gaul must be a good fighter. I’ll expect great things from you in the arena.’
Curse him! Spartacus hadn’t considered the eventuality that the Capuan would do nothing even if he knew.
Phortis wasn’t finished with him. ‘How did a scumbag latro like you end up with such a high-class piece of ass, eh?’
Men’s heads turned again. Lustful mutters passed between them as they drank in Ariadne’s exotic looks.
‘I am a warrior of the Maedi tribe, and Ariadne is my wife,’ said Spartacus with a calm smile. Inside, though, he was now raging. He wanted to leap on the Capuan and smash his teeth down his throat. But he kept his peace. He’d kill Phortis, of that there was little doubt, but the four guards would slay him in turn. A stupid way to die.
‘Your king had a different story. He said that you’re a lying, cheating whoreson who was plotting to overthrow him.’
Spartacus could feel the muscles in his jaw working. ‘No surprise there,’ he snapped. Kotys always was a cowardly scumbag.
‘What’s that? I didn’t hear you.’
‘Kotys would say that,’ cried Spartacus. ‘He was a weak leader. My mere existence made me a threat to his authority. Selling me into slavery was a perfect solution.’
‘So if you weren’t standing here, you would have seized power over the Maedi?’ Phortis glanced at the slave who was doling out the barley porridge, who sniggered dutifully. ‘Do you hear that? We have a king in our midst!’
A number of the gladiators laughed. One, the massive, arrogant-looking Gaul whom Spartacus had noticed earlier, stepped out of line and faced them. Blond-haired, moustached, and wearing only a pair of patterned trousers, he was the epitome of a Gaulish warrior. Half a dozen fighters moved to join him. The Gaul performed an extravagant bow. ‘Come and take my place, Your Majesty. If you can.’
Phortis smirked.
Gods above. A fight with him and his cronies is the last thing I — we — need right now. ‘You were here first, friend,’ Spartacus replied, meeting the big man’s gaze evenly. ‘So was everyone else in front of me. I’ll take my turn.’
‘Scared of a fight?’
‘No. But I won’t take you on this evening. Not when Phortis is trying to set it up,’ said Spartacus, praying that the Gaul was as sharp as he was strong.
‘Go on, Crixus! Dance to the puppet master’s tune,’ shouted a voice.
There was a rumble of amusement from the rest of the gladiators, and Phortis scowled.
Crixus didn’t miss the barbed comment, or the Capuan’s expression. ‘Another time then,’ he growled. Throwing a filthy look at Phortis, he grabbed a bowl from the pile on the table and held it out. ‘Fill it up. To the brim!’
The kitchen slave hurriedly obeyed.
Grabbing a flat loaf, Crixus stamped off, and the next of his followers took his place.
Getas let out a long hiss of relief. ‘Thank the Rider! That bastard is as big as Hercules.’
‘Even Hercules had his weaknesses,’ said Spartacus. ‘That Gaulish prick’s not popular either. Most of the fighters seemed happy enough to laugh at him. I’d wager that the six who stood by him are his only supporters.’
‘That’s still four more than us,’ warned Seuthes.
‘True. We need to avoid picking a fight with them for now,’ said Spartacus, thinking of the big German with the broken nose. How many men were loyal to him? Would he be as combative as Crixus? Would the Samnites? Spartacus hoped not. He wouldn’t be able to engineer every fight the way he had the one with the ugly Gaul.
There was plenty to think about as they ate.
Spartacus was still in pensive mood when he and the others returned to their cells. Most of his chamber, which measured little more than ten paces by ten, was filled by two straw mattresses that lay close together. There was no furniture. In fact, the only other objects visible were Ariadne’s possessions: a pair of little statues of Dionysus and the wicker basket containing her snake. The concrete walls were covered in lewd or boastful graffiti, the work of previous occupants. Patches of mould grew in the corners, giving the room an unpleasant, musty smell.
‘This is it. Home,’ said Ariadne brightly. ‘At least it will be when I’ve sorted it out.’
Spartacus grunted by way of reply. Glancing idly at the basket, his heart nearly stopped. The lid was no longer properly in place. ‘Look!’ Flipping off the lid with his foot, he peered warily within. ‘Gods above! It’s gone.’ He took a step into the centre of the room.
‘Steady,’ soothed Ariadne. ‘It won’t have gone far. Unless…’ and her gaze moved to the gap under the door’s bottom edge. ‘Dionysus, do not let it have gone outside,’ she whispered. I need it to protect me!
Spartacus wasn’t listening. He peeled off his tunic and dangled it from his left fist. Lifting the first mattress with great care, he peered underneath. Nothing. He pulled the straw-filled sack to the far side of the room, where he leaned it against the wall. Returning, he raised the corner of the second mattress.
‘There it is!’ cried Ariadne, pointing at a lithe, coiled shape. ‘Let me get it.’
But Spartacus was there before her. Heaving the mattress out of the way, he tossed his tunic over the serpent and leaped over to grasp it behind its head. ‘Got you,’ he hissed.
‘What are you doing? You hate the thing!’ Ariadne lifted the basket so that he could drop the snake inside.
Spartacus waited until she’d secured the lid again. ‘I do. But there’s nothing like confronting your fear. If you think the devil’s behind you, turn around and face him, as they say.’ He wiped his brow and grinned.
‘You could have been bitten. Let me pick it up next time,’ Ariadne snapped, irritated that he’d had the temerity to touch her most sacred possession. She was also scared of what might have happened.
‘Next time? If you’d secured the basket properly in the first place, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,’ he needled back.
‘Leave me alone!’ Ariadne retorted, flushing with anger and embarrassment.
Seeing her mood, Spartacus chose to ignore her.
The bad feeling between them lingered in the air like a bad smell, and they retired in silence. Spartacus blew out the oil light, and lay down beside Ariadne. They were close enough to touch, but neither did so. Neither spoke either. After a few moments, Spartacus turned over and inadvertently brushed his leg against hers. She turned on him before he could say a word of apology. ‘This marriage is a convenient pretence, you understand? Don’t get any ideas.’