‘Eh?’ His grey eyes came back into focus. ‘I was in a desolate place, with little but rocks all around. It may have been the top of a mountain.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I could see nothing but sky around me, and the air was thin, as it is at altitude.’
‘Was I with you? Or Getas and Seuthes?’
He frowned, concentrating. ‘No. I was alone.’
‘Anything else?’
There was a short pause. ‘I was carrying a sword.’
‘What type?’
The fingers of Spartacus’ right hand clenched and opened again. ‘It was a sica.’
‘You’re sure?’ demanded Ariadne.
He nodded.
This vision can only have been sent by the gods. Ariadne rose from the mattress without a word. She drew on her robe. Moving to where her figurines of Dionysus sat, she knelt. Her lips began to move in silent entreaty. I place myself at your command as always, O Great One. I ask you for an explanation of my husband’s dream. There was no immediate response, which did not surprise, or worry, Ariadne. She began to breathe deeply, preparing herself to go into the trance-like state which often aided her understanding of all things arcane.
Spartacus eyed her with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. She had placed their single oil light before two tiny carvings. Both depicted Dionysus. One showed him as a half-clad, beardless youth surrounded by ecstatic maenads, his women followers; they reached their hands up to him in offering. The second statuette was of two figures, the first a mature, bearded deity, clad in a long tunic and with a fawn skin cloaking his shoulders. Ivy wreathed his entire body. Dionysus’ right hand gripped that of the other figure, a majestic, elderly man whose left hand bore a sceptre. Hades.
Spartacus shivered. He’d have been happier without a representation of the god of the underworld in his living quarters. He could take the maenads presenting Dionysus with raw animal flesh to eat, but seeing Hades always made him feel uneasy. Yet he had to respect with Ariadne’s ways. Her habits. It was part of who she was. As ever, Spartacus prayed not to Dionysus, but to his favourite deity, the Rider. Finishing his own request, Spartacus watched her in respectful silence.
Time dragged by.
Spartacus knew better than to interrupt Ariadne. He fell deep into thought, worrying about what the dream might mean. In the background, he was vaguely aware of Phortis unlocking the door and throwing in his usual taunts. Eventually — Spartacus was not sure how long — he felt Ariadne’s eyes upon him. ‘Did you see aught that might explain what I saw?’
She shook her head sorrowfully. I can’t think of anything positive to say either.
‘I see.’ The horror Spartacus had experienced as the snake coiled around his neck surged back. A moment before, his belly had been grumbling. Now it felt like a pool of burning acid. So I will end my days here, as a plaything for the Romans. Sighing, he shrugged on his undergarment, tunic and over them, a densely woven brown cloak. ‘Coming?’ he asked without looking at her.
‘Spartacus.’
He dragged his eyes up to Ariadne’s.
‘Try not to worry. It might be revealed later.’ Great Dionysus, do not fail me. I beg you.
‘Or it might not,’ he retorted sourly. ‘I could be killed at any time.’
She recoiled as if stung. Do not let his dream be about that. His life cannot be nearly over yet. Can it?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Spartacus, feeling instant remorse. There was no need to remind her of the dangers he faced.
‘So am I.’ He moved towards Ariadne, but as ever, was stopped by her raised hand. ‘Leave me. I must try to reach the god a second time.’
‘So soon?’ Spartacus protested. ‘Is it not too exhausting?’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Her retort was far sterner than Ariadne had meant it to be, but she needed it to retain control. I have to discover something positive to lift his spirits.
Spartacus bowed his head, hiding his concern. Leave her to it. I am not her master. Think of the hours ahead, he thought. Convincing himself that his bad dream would be forgotten by sunset, Spartacus headed for the door. Like every day since his capture, this was just another one to be endured.
Ariadne’s expression, however, remained troubled long after he had shut it behind him.
Spartacus hadn’t forgotten the snake by the day’s end, but he’d managed not to dwell on it too much. Amarantus had largely been responsible for that, running him and the three others ragged. The Gaul had stopped treating them as rookies. Instead, he concentrated on increasing their fitness to even higher levels. By the time the sun sank in the sky, Amarantus had finished with exercise. He had begun talking about gladiatorial tricks, things mostly alien to a soldier. ‘When you’re about to fight, get to the weapons rack first. The best blades go fast. Once in the arena, keep the sun at your back so that it doesn’t blind you. Ignore any insults that are thrown at you from the crowd, but acknowledge any praise or encouragements. Try to get the spectators to support you. Make flashy moves during your bout if you can. Lightly wounding your opponent goes down a treat.’
It rankled Spartacus to hear this, but he listened closely. Amarantus hadn’t got to where he was by being stupid.
Getas was much unhappier, though. ‘Why should I try to entertain the whoresons?’ he demanded. ‘They’ll have come to watch me fight and die, nothing less.’
Amarantus’ smile was world-weary. ‘Remember that your survival might depend not just on the goodwill of the editor,’ he warned. ‘The men who organise these things are always out to please the audience. If you’ve pissed them off, and then you’re unlucky enough to lose, don’t be disappointed when they call for you to die. Iugula! ’ Miming the gesture that meant death to the defeated gladiator, he jabbed a rigid thumb at his throat. Spartacus blinked, imagining the pain of a snake striking him there. ‘Whereas if they like you, they’ll do the opposite.’ Pulling up the corner of his tunic, Amarantus waved it at the balcony, as if to catch Batiatus’ attention. ‘ Mitte! Let him go!’
‘Bastard Romans,’ muttered Getas, glowering.
‘Listen or not, it’s your choice,’ said Amarantus with a shrug.
‘That’s how life is now. If you want to survive, pay attention,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘Think how stupid it would be to die because you refused to take in one piece of advice. It’d be like not thinking out your tactics before fighting a battle.’
Getas gave him a tight, angry nod.
Amarantus’ lesson came to an end soon after, and he dismissed them. Other trainers were doing the same. All over the yard, men were tugging off their sweat-drenched helmets, drinking from water skins, and doing stretches to loosen their weary muscles. Idle banter, boasts and fabricated stories filled the air. A mobile food vendor who’d been allowed in worked his way around the gladiators, hawking spiced sausages, roasted cuts of meat and small, round loaves of fresh bread. Already there was a queue for the baths. It was the quietest time of the day, when Phortis was either absent or closeted with Batiatus, talking business. Even the guards were more relaxed, talking in twos and threes on the balcony.
During this period, another group of Thracians approached Spartacus. He and his companions immediately prepared for a fight. Instead of wanting to quarrel, however, the warriors asked to join with him. Pleased, Spartacus accepted. Now he could call on nearly thirty men. It wasn’t nearly as many fighters as Oenomaus commanded, but it was approaching the size of the other factions in the ludus. Spartacus glanced around the yard, catching several other gladiators glowering at him, clearly unhappy that his position had grown stronger. Crixus in particular looked most unhappy. I can’t let down my guard even a fraction, Spartacus thought. Despite his newfound followers, it wouldn’t be that hard to kill him.
Irritated that his good mood had not lasted, Spartacus headed for his cell. Ariadne’s guarded expression jumped out at him as he entered. ‘I’ve tried all day. I could see nothing,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’ Blinking away images of the snake around his neck, Spartacus nodded.