Carbo held his stare. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you use a sword or spear?’
‘A sword, yes.’
‘Is that right?’ sneered the guard.
‘Yes, it damn well is, you cheeky bastard,’ snapped Carbo. For all his failures, he was far above this creature on the social ladder. ‘I demand to see the lanista.’
The guard blinked at his determination. ‘What do I care if you want to get yourself killed?’ He rapped on the timbers with his knuckles. ‘Open up!’
With a loud creaking noise, one of the gates began to open.
Carbo’s stomach twisted, but he stood his ground. Stay with me, Jupiter, Greatest and Best.
Chapter VI
With a loud creaking sound, the ludus’ main gate opened. This was enough to attract most gladiators’ attention. The trainers, Amarantus among them, were not immune either. A guard came stumping in, followed by a tall figure in a once fine tunic. The moment that they were both inside, the gate swung shut with a heavy clang.
‘Someone looking for fighters?’ wondered Getas.
‘No,’ answered Spartacus. ‘He’s only a boy. He can’t be more than eighteen.’
‘Look at the way he carries himself. He must be from a good family.’
‘His clothes are soaking wet,’ noted Spartacus. ‘That’s odd.’
The young man was led upstairs to Batiatus’ quarters. Rival theories about his reason for visiting the ludus rippled through the assembled gladiators.
‘Back to work,’ cried Amarantus. ‘Get a move on, you lazy scumbags. We haven’t got all day.’
‘Attention!’ Phortis’ voice cracked through the air like a whiplash.
Spartacus looked up to see the Capuan on the balcony beside the man who’d been escorted upstairs. The youth was sallow-skinned, with a thin, pockmarked face.
‘This young gentleman goes by the name of Carbo,’ announced Phortis. ‘He has asked Batiatus if he can enter the ludus as an auctoratus.’
‘He looks as if he’s still on his mother’s tit!’ bellowed a fighter.
‘The prick’s far too scrawny,’ cried another. ‘He’d snap in two if you hit him hard enough.’
A rumble of amusement rose from the yard, and Carbo flushed with anger.
‘Why is he here? Has he screwed his father’s mistress?’ asked Crixus.
A murmur of interest replaced the gladiator’s laughter. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a citizen to join their number as a paid contractee. Some joined for the thrill of it, the taste of danger that they might never experience otherwise. Most, however, entered the ludus under a cloud. Sometimes it was because they had broken the law in some way, but often it was the likes of gambling debts that drove them through the gate.
Above them, Phortis smirked. ‘It wasn’t that. Or so he says. I didn’t like to ask further.’
‘What was it then?’ cried Crixus. ‘Lost all your money on chariot racing?’
Carbo’s temper flared. ‘It’s none of your damn business.’
‘A sensitive issue, is it?’ retorted Crixus, glowering back.
‘Piss off,’ Carbo replied.
‘Come down here and say that again,’ yelled Crixus. Given Carbo’s request to enter the ludus, the huge difference in their status meant little, and he knew it.
Carbo cursed silently. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? I’ve just angered someone as big as Hercules. Even if by some miracle I win, he’ll want to kill me.
‘Before Batiatus agrees, he wishes to have Carbo’s ability with weapons judged,’ said Phortis loudly. ‘I need a volunteer to spar a round or two with him.’ He smiled at the animal sound of interest which met his words. ‘With wooden swords. I know what you lot are like. Otherwise, Carbo would spend his first month here in the infirmary. Who’s interested?’
At least half the men in the yard stepped forward with raised hands. Spartacus regarded them with faint amusement. Thrashing a nobleman, especially a damp, beaten-down one, was the last thing on his mind. To most, however, the prospect was clearly appealing, even if it was only with a blunt-edged practice weapon.
Phortis looked down in silence, studying the fighters.
Crixus was busy hissing at every Gaul within earshot. ‘Stand back! Lower your hands! This is my fight.’ With sullen glances, some of his countrymen obeyed. Wary of antagonising him, a number of other gladiators did the same. Plenty ignored Crixus, however.
‘It seems that some want to fight you more than others,’ said Phortis, casting a sardonic glance at Carbo.
‘Fine,’ snapped Carbo. ‘I don’t care.’ And he genuinely didn’t. He had run out of ideas, bar one: to pass the entrance test here.
‘In that case,’ said Phortis, his tone silky smooth, ‘you won’t mind if…’ His gaze fell on Crixus, before moving on. He pointed to Spartacus. ‘… a fellow newcomer, as yet untested in the arena, has the honour of welcoming you to the ludus?’
Carbo eyed the Thracian. Despite Phortis’ deprecating comments, he was compactly built, and looked expert at handling himself. His guts churned. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said, trying to sound confident.
Spartacus could sense Crixus’ rage from twenty paces away. Anger surged through his own veins. Phortis had done this deliberately, not to see Carbo beaten, but to set the Gaul against him — as if he wasn’t already, after what had happened the previous night. He set his jaw. There was nothing to be done about it for now. ‘Where do I go?’
‘Follow me,’ directed Amarantus. He headed for the roped-off square in the centre of the courtyard. Already fighters were standing three and four deep around it. Spartacus and his comrades followed. So did the Scythian. They shoved their way through the throng, right up to the waist-high ropes which formed the area’s perimeter.
‘In you go,’ said Amarantus, lifting the rope.
As Spartacus entered the square, he felt a tickling thrill of anticipation. A fight was still a fight.
‘Who’ll back Carbo?’ shouted a voice. ‘The boy looks unremarkable, but he wouldn’t have walked in here if he couldn’t handle himself.’
Glancing around, Spartacus recognised Restio, who had seen him kill the Gaul. So he’s a betmaker too.
‘What odds?’ asked a German.
‘Twenty to one against.’
‘That’s well worth a gamble.’ The German’s grin was feral. ‘Put me down for five denarii.’
A clamour of voices rained down, placing even larger wagers on the newcomer. Restio’s business was only interrupted by the arrival of Phortis and Carbo in the square. The Capuan had two practice swords under one arm. Ordering Carbo to shed his tunic and sandals, he made the pair stand ten paces apart.
Spartacus stared hard at Carbo, who surprisingly held his gaze.
The onlookers were eyeing the Roman’s well-muscled chest and upper arms. ‘Sure you should have given me such long odds?’ asked the German.
‘Compared to Spartacus, he looks like a plucked chicken,’ retorted Restio with aplomb. ‘Just wait and see.’
Next, Phortis tossed each man a weapon: to Spartacus, a gladius, and to Carbo, a sica. Spartacus gripped his blade like a lover, and wishing that he’d been given the other sword. Unused to the wooden sica’s weight, Carbo hefted his to and fro. A damn shame that I didn’t have more lessons from Paccius.
‘Helmets and shields!’ Phortis bellowed.
There was a short delay before two slaves appeared. One carried a scutum, while the other bore a small, square shield and a distinctive Phrygian helmet. The first headed for Spartacus, and the other to Carbo. They handed over the items and scurried to safety.
Phortis looked up at the balcony, where Batiatus was now waiting. An expectant hush fell over the courtyard.
‘The bout will last until one man is either disarmed or acknowledges defeat,’ said the lanista. ‘Begin!’
Phortis scrambled out of the way, and Spartacus moved forward at a trot.
By now, Ariadne had heard what was going on. Using a bench to stand on, she peered out of the cell window. Let it be over quickly, she prayed. Keep Spartacus from harm.
Carbo had the sense not to meet Spartacus’ overwhelming attack head on. With nimble footwork, he dodged to one side. Instantly, the air filled with jeers. Spartacus spun around and went after him with deadly speed. He caught up within six strides. Clattering his shield off the other’s, he thrust his gladius straight at Carbo’s face. The Roman’s head jerked frantically to one side, and the wooden sword’s tip skittered off the side of his helmet.