Spartacus roared with anger, but his opponent was already gone, using his momentum to deftly spin off, out of harm’s way. The movement brought the warrior around behind him. Spartacus turned to meet the next attack, another wicked stab at his face, which he managed to parry with his scutum. His riposte, a lunge that would have spitted the warrior through and through, met only thin air. Panting, they separated from each other.
Crassus leaned over and whispered in Albinus’s ear. When he’d finished, the portly politician gave Batiatus a pleased nod. ‘An impressive start.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ gushed the lanista.
Out on the sand, and oblivious to their audience, Spartacus and the warrior circled warily around one another.
Without warning, Spartacus launched a savage attack on his opponent. Using a one-two technique of punching forward with his shield boss followed by a brutal thrust of his gladius, he drove the warrior backwards across the arena. His opponent had no option but to retreat. No one could stand against such an overwhelming assault. Spartacus’ tactic worked. Before long, one of the warrior’s feet slipped, and he stumbled backwards, falling on his backside.
Spartacus yelled in triumph. Drawing back his gladius, he prepared to run the defenceless warrior through. He gave no thought to Batiatus or Crassus, and whether they wanted him to kill the other so fast. He’d gone into battle mode, when all that mattered was finishing one’s opponent as quickly as possible.
But the fight wasn’t over.
In desperation, the warrior raised his left arm. Swinging his shield around like a discus, he smashed its metal-rimmed edge into Spartacus’ right knee.
The impact made Spartacus stagger. Roaring in pain, he dropped the point of his sword, giving his opponent a chance. The warrior rolled away and scrambled to his feet, swiftly launching a counter-attack of his own, a relentless flurry of slashes aimed at Spartacus’ unprotected face. It was all Spartacus could do to lift his scutum and deflect the other’s blows. And then the warrior changed his tactic. Spinning with the grace of a maenad in ecstatic frenzy, he swung around to Spartacus’ rear again. With consummate skill, he brought his sica down in a flashing arc, across the back of Spartacus’ shield arm. Blood sprayed into the air. Spartacus’ answering bellow was a combination of shock, pain and rage.
Albinus and Crassus called out in appreciation.
‘ Iugula! Iugula! ’ shouted many of the gladiators.
Ariadne closed her eyes, but the bloodthirsty cry still echoed in her ears. Steeling herself, she stared out at the arena again. Dionysus, do not give up on him.
Gods above, it can’t end like this, Carbo thought, offering up desperate prayers.
A feral smile twisted the black-haired warrior’s face as he closed in again. Spartacus snarled back, letting him know that he was far from finished. His opponent began a new attack, probing forward with his sica as a child might poke a stick at a crab. He met Spartacus’ weakened ripostes easily with his shield.
Clever bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s seeing how much strength I have left in my bad arm. Twisting it so he could see, he assessed the long, shallow wound. It didn’t look to have severed any muscles or tendons, but he was already struggling against the weight of his scutum.
Even as Spartacus looked up, the warrior’s blade hissed in. He jerked away, but still received a nasty cut on his right cheek. An involuntary hiss of pain left his lips. Rider, help me! I could easily lose this.
The warrior clearly thought so too. A little smile flickered across his lips. All he had to do was stay out of reach, and keep chipping away.
Spartacus cursed silently. His opponent was shrewd. Thanks to the wound on his arm, wearing him down wouldn’t take long. But he wasn’t finished yet. Not with his life at stake. Not with Ariadne to look after.
Letting out a shrieking war cry, Spartacus threw himself forward. With supreme effort, he kept his scutum high. Over and over he thrust his gladius at the warrior, who desperately defended himself with his small shield. It was a risky plan, but Spartacus didn’t have long before his strength really began to fail.
As his sword struck the warrior’s shield for the seventh or eighth time, the blade drove through the leather covering. It splintered the wood beneath to emerge on the other side. The warrior goggled, amazed that he hadn’t been gutted. He fell back a step, and Spartacus saw a golden opportunity. Ripping his weapon free, he shoved it into the other’s shield again. And again. Within a few heartbeats, it had cracked apart, and the warrior was forced to discard it. Looking scared now, he retreated further.
Spartacus had to pause to catch his breath. The pain from his arm was coming in waves, lancing up into his shoulder and beyond. He was no longer able to keep his scutum high enough to protect his throat. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let up his assault. Clenching his jaw, he went at the warrior like a wild beast. His gladius’ thrusts were so savage that his opponent had no chance to strike at his neck. It took every scrap of skill that the warrior possessed just to avoid Spartacus’ long iron blade.
Fortunately, the warrior’s good fortune ran out before Spartacus’ own strength failed. His sword sliced into the side of the black-haired fighter’s belly, through the taut muscles there, to emerge red-tipped on the other side. There was a wet, soughing sound as Spartacus ripped the gladius free, and the warrior shrieked with the agony of it. With blood pouring from his wound, he staggered away, his sica dangling from his slack fingers. When Spartacus followed, there was little resistance. Two massive overhand blows, and the warrior had dropped his weapon. Spartacus ploughed on, pushing the other away from the curved sword, and any chance of redemption.
The warrior was unarmed now, and the manica on his right arm was his only defence. Of the two, his wound was far more serious. He was therefore desperate to retrieve his sica. Spartacus met every attempt with unbridled fury, however, and with each moment that passed, the warrior grew weaker. Spartacus didn’t delay. Toying with an opponent might please some, but it was not in his nature. The fight had gone on long enough. He needed to get his arm seen to. It was time to end it.
Shoving his shield boss at the other’s chest, Spartacus stabbed him in the left thigh. As the blade slid free, the moaning warrior collapsed to the sand. He made no attempt to get up.
A loud roar rose from most of the cells as the gladiators showed their approval.
Ariadne closed her eyes, and sagged with relief against the bars of the window.
Thank all the gods, thought Carbo.
Looking down at his opponent, defenceless and bleeding, Spartacus felt cold to the marrow of his bones. The warrior was one of his own, and he was about to kill him — at the behest of those he hated. Romans. At this moment, this is the way it has to be, he told himself fiercely. He glanced at Batiatus, who turned with a questioning look to Albinus and Crassus. ‘Do you still wish this to be a mortal bout?’
‘Have I said otherwise?’ asked Crassus in an acid tone.
Batiatus coloured. ‘No.’
‘Then the loser must die.’
‘It is as my revered guest says,’ said Albinus pompously. ‘It’s also what I paid you a fortune for,’ he added in an undertone.
‘Of course, sir.’ Batiatus swiftly regained his poise. ‘It would be my honour to ask Crassus if he wishes to make the gesture.’
Crassus’ tongue flickered over his lips, like that of a snake. ‘Very well.’ Looking at Spartacus, he jabbed the thumb of his right hand at his own throat. ‘ Iugula! ’ he ordered.
At once the cry was repeated by the incarcerated gladiators. Feet hammered on the floor of the cells. Spoons clattered off the window bars. The din was incredible. Spartacus wasn’t surprised that the ludus’ inmates approved of his victory. Their bloodlust had been roused by the fight’s intensity and now the black-haired warrior had to pay the price. As he would have if the situation had been reversed. ‘Get up,’ he ordered.