‘It was I, Ambrosius the veteran,’ bellowed a loud voice. ‘And now I’m coming outside with three of my slaves. We’re all armed with swords and spears.’
Carbo felt the weight on his chest ease as the thug scrambled up. ‘That’s it. I’m not dying just to finish off this fool.’
‘Leave him,’ muttered the woman. ‘Hopefully, he’ll die anyway.’
Dimly, Carbo heard their footsteps retreating. He tried to move but his limbs didn’t seem his own. He heard a door creak open and then the orange glow of an oil lamp penetrated the darkness.
A ruddy, concerned face bent over him. ‘Are you alive?’
‘I think so. My head hurts like a bastard.’
‘I’d say it does,’ replied Ambrosius with a scowl. ‘I heard the crack of the blow from my bedroom.’ Carbo tried to sit up, but Ambrosius pressed him back down again. ‘Wait.’ He probed with his fingers around the sides and back of Carbo’s head. ‘I can’t feel a break. You’ll probably live,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Grab my hand.’
Carbo obeyed, and felt himself being pulled upright. The mud made a wet, sucking sound as it released him, and his nostrils were again filled with the rank odour of everything that made it into such a glutinous morass. He didn’t care. ‘They took my brooch. It was the only valuable I had.’ He made to move after the thieves. ‘I have to get it back.’
Ambrosius’ strong arm blocked his way. ‘I wouldn’t. Be grateful that you don’t have a gaping smile around the base of your neck.’
His slave nodded in mute agreement.
Reality crashed back down on Carbo. Better to be covered in shit and breathing than to be dead. ‘Very well. Thank you for your help.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Ambrosius wrinkled his nose and stepped back a little. ‘Gods, but you stink. You’ve got baths at home?’
Carbo’s pride rallied. ‘Yes, yes,’ he lied.
‘Good. You’ll understand if I don’t accompany you,’ said Ambrosius. ‘And as for my slave, well, I only have the one…’ Looking shamefaced, he fell silent.
‘It’s all right. You did more than most people would ever do, coming out on to the street in the middle of the night. I can find my own way back.’ To what? he thought furiously.
‘Here.’ Ambrosius shoved forward the oil lamp and his rusty gladius. ‘You’ll have more chance of making it with these.’
‘But-’
‘I insist. If you wish, return them to me in the morning. My door is the one by the butcher’s. As you know, Ambrosius is my name.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carbo simply, accepting both lamp and sword. ‘I will come back tomorrow.’
‘Excellent! My wife won’t have any reason to complain if I bring you in for a cup of wine then.’
Leaving Ambrosius and his slave to return indoors, Carbo trudged off. The end of his all too brief contact with a decent person fuelled the flames of his anger to new heights. Now he had to return to his garret, where no one cared if he lived or died. Where the crone would keep him awake all night with her coughing. It wasn’t even as if he could wash before climbing into his bed. The insula had no running water, so he’d have to lie in his own filth until the morning, when it was safe to go out and the public baths were open. Carbo wished for the pair who had attacked him to appear before him. I’d cut them both to pieces.
Of course nothing happened. He kept walking.
Then, in the flickering light cast by his oil lamp, something caught his eye. He stopped and peered at the plastered wall to his left. On it, someone had scratched a series of crude drawings. Carbo leaned closer, making out a pair of small, almost childlike figures fighting each other and, on either side, sets of cursive characters. He read the gladiators’ names and the boasts about them. ‘Hilarus the Thracian, never defeated, victor in fifteen fights, and Attilius the Samnite, strongest of his tribe, and killer of four men.’ Hope, and a little excitement, stirred deep in Carbo’s heart. Here was one path left for him to follow. It might be that taken by the lowest of the low, by criminals, prisoners of war and slaves, yet occasionally it was taken by a citizen. He could become an auctoratus, a contracted gladiator. If he succeeded, the financial rewards could be very great indeed.
The thought made Carbo’s lips twitch. Despite all that had happened that day, this seemed like a sign from the gods.
Spartacus was woken before dawn by the cold. His blanket had slipped off in the night. Pulling it up to his chin, he trained his ear to the early-morning sounds entering from outside. The strident crowing of a cock in the ludus’ vegetable garden, which he’d seen outside the thick walls. The rattle of a sword tip along the window bars of the gladiators’ cells. Phortis’ nasal tone rousing them from sleep. The slap of men’s feet on bare concrete floors. Throats being cleared. The distinctive noise of spitting. And from beyond the ludus, where Capua’s market sprawled, the hum of normal life: the rival cries of bakers, butchers and other tradesmen. From the nearby Via Appia came the shouted greetings of travellers, the creak of cartwheels mixed with the lowing of oxen, and the ill-tempered braying of mules. It was very ordinary, and very similar to Thrace. Spartacus hated it. Loathed it. Freedom was so near, he thought bitterly, and so far. A world away. Who’d have imagined that after years of service to the Romans, he’d end up as the lowest of the low? A fucking gladiator. He thought of Kotys and grimaced. At least I’m alive.
Clack, clack, clack. Right on cue, Phortis’ weapon dragged along the bars of the cell’s window. The metallic sound of a key unlocking the door followed. ‘Stop ploughing your woman, latro! Get out here while the porridge is nice and hot.’
‘Filthy Roman bastard.’ Spartacus’ whisper was reflex.
‘Do you hear me, latro?’
‘I hear you.’ He sat up.
‘Good. Today we’ll see what kind of fighter you are to become.’ Phortis moved on.
Spartacus scowled.
‘About last night…’ Ariadne began.
He glanced at her, and saw the desire for reconciliation in her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you,’ he said. ‘Although I’d caught the creature, I was still feeling jumpy.’
‘I’m the one who should be apologising. It’s my snake, and my responsibility to make sure that it stays in the basket.’ She paused, looking awkward. ‘So I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s forget about it, and move on.’
‘Fine.’ Feeling better, she smiled.
‘You look much better like that than with a frown on your face.’
He likes me! Delighted but also embarrassed, Ariadne floundered about for what to say. ‘What type of fighter do you think they’ll pick you for?’ she blurted.
‘Thracian, I’d assume,’ replied Spartacus, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll soon find out. What will you do with the day?’
‘The first thing will be to clean this room properly. Only the gods know when that last happened,’ Ariadne said disapprovingly. ‘Then I want to find something that will serve as an altar for my statues. If I have a chance, I’ll also sound out the women who already live in the ludus. Learn about how life works here.’
‘Stay safe. Keep away from the toilets and baths unless you’re with plenty of other women,’ he warned.
‘Don’t worry.’ She pointed to the basket. ‘That’s going everywhere with me.’
‘Good.’
She nodded. ‘Be careful.’
Her sudden thaw made him grin. ‘I will.’ Pushing open the door, he was gone.
Discomfited, Ariadne was grateful that he hadn’t seen the rising blush in her cheeks.
The new arrivals had barely finished their porridge when, accompanied by Phortis, the trainers who supervised the different classes of fighters came looking for them. The three middle-aged, hard-faced men were each armed with a club, a whip, or both. All were former gladiators who’d earned their freedom the hard way, by winning the rudis.
Forced out into the yard, to a chorus of jeers from the other inmates, the fifteen men were lined up side by side. Spartacus, Getas and Seuthes found themselves at the far end, away from Phortis, who began at once. He threw a barrage of questions at the first man, one of the Pontic warriors, demanding to know his age, his former occupation and his combat experience. The trainers listened carefully to the stumbling answers in poor Latin. Before long, the tribesman was ordered to stand by the man who would school him as a Thracian. The next captive was chosen to fight as a Gaul, and the one after that, as a Samnite. Gradually, Phortis worked his way down the line. The other Thracians grinned as they were selected to appear in the arena representing their own kind. Hearing this, Spartacus’ expectations grew. There’d be some pride to be had fighting as he had in real life.