Batiatus walked to stand in front of the German, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, wouldn’t meet his gaze. That was enough for the lanista. ‘Piss off,’ he barked. ‘Coward.’ As the German obeyed, Batiatus’ attention shot back to the black-haired Thracian. ‘You’ll do,’ he pronounced. ‘In fact, I think you will be a worthy adversary for Spartacus.’
The man nodded jerkily.
Spartacus waited to be dismissed. Just because the snake was around my neck doesn’t mean that I couldn’t kill it, he told himself. Yes, I would need the Rider’s help, but it wouldn’t be impossible.
‘Go on, then! Get yourself ready,’ snarled Phortis at the black-haired Thracian. ‘The fight starts at midday.’
As the warrior sloped away, Batiatus’ cold eyes returned to Spartacus. ‘If you survive this bout, you had best impress me from now on. If I’m not happy, I’ll set up a fight with Crixus. To the death. I don’t give a damn about how much money you’ve made me so far. Understood?’
‘Yes.’ Somehow, Spartacus knew that the mocking laugh he could hear was that of Crixus.
‘Insolent arse wipe! Yes, master,’ growled Phortis.
Spartacus gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, master.’
‘Good. Now piss off, before you test Batiatus’ goodwill even more.’
His goodwill? thought Spartacus sourly. He kept his mouth shut, however. Backchat could earn him a flogging, and that was the last thing he needed. He’d have to be on top form to defeat the black-haired warrior.
Shortly before Albinus was to arrive with his prestigious guest, the fighters were forced to return to their quarters. While it didn’t come as a surprise to Carbo — why give nearly two hundred dangerous men access to nobility? — the order infuriated him. Once he was in his cell, there was no possible way he could harm Crassus. The gladiators were also angered by the move, but Phortis had been expecting their response. Deploying all the guards, armed with bows, he ordered everyone into their quarters. The more reluctant individuals were encouraged with strokes of his whip. A torrent of abuse rained down on the Capuan as he locked door after door. Objects — coins, cups and oil lamps — were hurled from the cell windows. The insults and missile-throwing made no difference. Within a quarter of an hour, the courtyard had been emptied.
The semicircular seating area which filled one end of the yard now looked immense. It could comfortably hold five hundred people. Being the only people to occupy it would reinforce the extravagance of Albinus’ gesture to his guest, thought Carbo. Batiatus knew how to throw a grand spectacle. Yet Capua’s arena was even more impressive. The huge circular edifice was constructed from great slabs of stone, decorated with statues of the gods and towered over the neighbouring residential buildings. Carbo didn’t know how many citizens packed in to see the gladiator contests, but it must be several thousand. During the frequent visits he’d made there, Carbo had never imagined that one day he would actually fight on the circle of sand within. But that day was fast approaching. His training was nearly over. Carbo was looking forward to it. His time as a wet-behind-the-ears tiro was nearly over.
Soon Spartacus and the black-haired Thracian appeared. Carbo studied them both closely. Nervously. Spartacus’ had only a single greave against the other’s two, but that was of little consequence, for his mail shirt and scutum offered a great deal more protection than his opponent’s helmet, manica and small, square shield. The pair threw each other wary glances while their trainers muttered in their ears. Phortis stood in the background, observing. There was no sign of Batiatus. He wouldn’t emerge until the important visitors arrived.
Carbo’s stomach twisted with tension. Since Spartacus had taken him under his wing, he’d spent plenty of time watching him train. He was good. Damn good. But so was the other Thracian. Carbo felt guilty that his concern stemmed only partly from his regard for Spartacus. If the black-haired warrior proved victorious, Carbo stood every chance of losing the protection he’d enjoyed in the previous few months. If that happened, life would become just as dangerous as it was in the arena. Carbo had no desire to return to the life he’d endured during the dark days after he’d first entered the ludus. Spartacus had to win.
Batiatus appeared the moment that Albinus and his party arrived. He was dressed in his best toga, his hair pomaded. His profuse, unctuous welcome turned Spartacus’ stomach. He studied Albinus, a self-satisfied, stout man with a pompous air, and his guest, Crassus, who was as broad-shouldered as his host was fat. A faintly supercilious expression was fixed on Crassus’ handsome face. He took his seat in the centre of the front row — the most prestigious place — with poor grace, complaining about the hard stone. Batiatus apologised and hissed a command at Phortis, who returned a moment later with a plump cushion. This seemed to mollify Crassus somewhat. With pursed lips, he sat down. Albinus, looking worried, took a place beside him. He was joined by Batiatus, while the rest of the party — low-ranking officials and bodyguards — went to sit on the top row of seats.
Carbo couldn’t stop staring at Crassus. He looks just as arrogant as I thought he would. Prick.
Spartacus was also eyeing him. The son of a whore looks as if he hasn’t had a shit in a week. He pulled his gaze away before the politician noticed. Don’t lose focus. Stay calm. Spartacus recalled how the icy look had melted from Ariadne’s face when she’d heard he’d been picked for this fight. He remembered what she’d said. Hung on to it. ‘This is not what your dream is about. It can’t be.’
Not being an organised munus, there was none of the usual pomp of the public spectacle. No group of trumpeters to march around the arena, playing for all they were worth. No slave-carried platforms with painted statues of the gods being honoured that day. No procession of the prizes on offer to the victors: palm branches and leather purses full of cash borne aloft on silver platters. When Spartacus and his opponent made their way, fully armed, to stand before Batiatus and the others, a solitary trumpet sounded.
In Carbo’s mind, this made the contest more ordinary, but far more chilling.
It was now that Batiatus came into his own. He waxed lyrical, describing the black-haired Thracian in glowing terms. He paid particular attention to his victories thus far. At a sign from Phortis, the Thracian raised his arms and turned a circle, so that Albinus and Crassus could admire his muscular physique. The lanista did the same for Spartacus.
The gladiators whistled and cheered for both men at the tops of their voices. The noise mingled in an ear-shredding crescendo that filled the ludus.
Watching from their cell, Ariadne’s breath caught in her chest. Despite herself, she admired Spartacus’ body, but this was the last situation she’d have chosen to see it exhibited. Would you prefer him in your bed then? She shoved away the disquieting thought.
With the preliminaries over, Phortis moved out on to the sand. He would act as the summa rudis, the referee for the bout. He ordered the two fighters to stand fifteen paces apart before looking to Batiatus. The lanista nodded and Phortis signalled to the trumpeter. A short series of notes rang out, and the Capuan stepped out of the way.
Spartacus didn’t barrel forward as he had in his fight against Carbo. Instead, he shuffled towards the warrior, his bare feet silent upon the sand. Moving with the grace of a dancer, his opponent did the same. Spartacus wasn’t prepared at all for the warrior’s speed and skill. When he was no more than half a dozen steps away, he suddenly broke into a sprint. Darting forward like a wolf closing in on a deer, he thrust his sica straight at Spartacus’ face. Spartacus had no time to raise his scutum. Desperately, he wrenched his head to the side. The warrior’s blade whistled past, missing his left cheek by a whisker length.