Groaning, the black-haired fighter managed to sit up. Fiddling with the knot, he undid his chinstrap and tugged off his helmet. It fell unnoticed to the ground. Another effort brought him on to his knees. Spartacus inclined his head in respect. ‘You fought well. It was a close contest. But the Rider chose to help me, not you.’
‘He did,’ replied the warrior, grunting with pain. He lifted his head up, exposing his throat. ‘Make it swift.’
‘I will,’ Spartacus promised. He looked up at the sky. ‘I offer this man’s life to you, Great Rider.’
Without delay, he took aim and thrust his gladius down into the hollow at the base of the warrior’s neck. The man’s eyes opened wide with shock as the sharp iron slid through his skin and the soft tissues beneath. An instant later, he was dead. Driven with immense force, the blade had sliced apart the major vessels around the base of his heart. With a smooth movement, Spartacus pulled out the gladius. A thick, graceful arc of blood sprayed through the air as the warrior’s corpse fell limply to one side. It pumped out for a short time, creating a large red stain around the motionless corpse.
Crassus began to clap slowly in appreciation. Batiatus, Phortis and the rest of those watching joined in. So did the gladiators, roaring and shouting their pleasure from their cell windows.
Unmoved for once by the ovation, Spartacus stared down at the body, and the scarlet colouring the sand. That could so easily have been me, he thought. And then the Roman bastards would have been applauding him, while I lay dead before them. Fuck them all.
Feeling the weight of someone’s stare, he looked up.
‘Come here!’ Crassus beckoned.
His mere tone made Spartacus’ knuckles whiten on the hilt of his gladius. ‘Me?’
‘I’m hardly talking to him, am I?’ Crassus indicated the dead warrior. He glanced at Albinus and Batiatus, who both tittered dutifully.
Arrogant bastard. Spartacus took a step forward.
Go on, thought Carbo. Kill the whoreson!
‘Archers!’ bellowed Phortis.
Spartacus froze. Without even turning his head, he could see four bows levelled at him from the balcony. There’d be at least another six to ten outside his range of vision. If Phortis said the word, they’d turn him into a practice target. The Capuan wanted him to keep walking, but Spartacus did not move. His had been a tiny act of rebellion, but it was over.
‘Drop the sword!’ ordered Phortis.
‘What, this?’ Spartacus raised the weapon. He was pleased to see Batiatus flinch slightly. Neither the Capuan nor Crassus reacted. He was surprised by the politician’s calm.
‘Just do it,’ snarled Phortis. ‘Unless you want to choke to death on a dozen barbed arrowheads!’
Spartacus opened his fingers and let the bloodied gladius fall to the sand. ‘Happy now?’
Phortis’ nostrils pinched. He glanced at Batiatus, who jerked his head meaningfully. The Capuan swallowed his rage. ‘Approach!’
Spartacus obeyed.
‘That’s close enough!’ shouted Phortis when he was ten steps away.
Gods damn them all! I’m being treated like a wild beast. Now Spartacus couldn’t stop himself from glowering at Phortis, who smirked.
‘You fight well,’ said Crassus. ‘For a savage.’
‘Savage?’ retorted Spartacus.
‘Yes.’
‘Where I come from, we do not force men to slay each other for the amusement of…’ He laid special emphasis on the last words. ‘… important visitors.’
Batiatus leaped up from his seat. ‘How dare you?’ He waved his arm in furious summons. ‘Guards! I want this man tied to the palus and given fifty lashes.’
‘Stay your hand,’ said Crassus.
Shocked, Batiatus glanced at his guest. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard what I said. Let it go. The slave has a point, after all.’
With a confused look, Batiatus sat down again.
‘While Thracians may not stage gladiator fights, they are nonetheless barbarians. They are called brigands even by other brigands,’ declared Crassus smugly. ‘I’ve heard how every five years, the Getai nobility pick one of their number to serve as messenger to the gods. He’s sent on his way by tossing him in the air to land on his comrade’s spears.’ As Batiatus and Albinus tutted in horror, Crassus smiled. ‘And the Triballi regard it as normal for sons to sacrifice their fathers to the gods. Scarcely the acts of civilised people, eh?’
Spartacus scowled.
‘Am I not right?’
‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted reluctantly.
‘You’re surprised by how much I know of your race.’
He nodded.
‘You are a proud man,’ observed Crassus.
Spartacus did not answer.
‘It galls you to be a slave? A gladiator?’
‘Yes.’ He’d said it before he could stop himself. ‘Of course it does.’
Spartacus threw Phortis a filthy stare. The Capuan’s lip curled in response. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s what every man says,’ interjected Batiatus.
Albinus and Phortis laughed.
Whoresons, thought Spartacus.
Crassus smiled politely at the joke, but his attention remained on Spartacus. ‘How did it happen?’
Spartacus blinked in surprise that the other should ask. ‘I returned to my village after fighting with the legions-’
‘You fought for Rome?’
‘Yes. For eight years. Upon reaching home, I discovered that the rightful heir to the throne had been murdered by the man who now calls himself King of the Maedi. So had my father. I immediately made plans to overthrow the usurper, but I was betrayed.’
‘By whom?’
‘A friend.’
‘It’s no surprise that you are bitter. And what would you have done if you had achieved your aim?’
Spartacus hesitated, holding Crassus’ gaze, and wondering if he should keep silent. But he was too angry to stop. ‘After putting Kotys and his henchmen to death, I would have made plans to lead my tribe against Rome again.’
Crassus arched an eyebrow. ‘And what would have been your aim?’
‘To drive the legions off our lands. Forever.’
‘Forever?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must know little of Rome and its history,’ said Crassus with an amused look. ‘Even if you had succeeded, our armies would have returned in vengeance. They always do.’
‘You have led legionaries into war?’ demanded Spartacus.
For the first time, Crassus’ self-assurance faltered. ‘Not abroad.’
‘Where then?’
‘Against my own people, in a civil war.’
It’s no surprise you did that, thought Carbo savagely. You have no mercy.
‘And I thought that I was the savage?’ asked Spartacus.
‘This is too much,’ protested Batiatus.
‘Be silent! I am still talking to this…’ Crassus hesitated. ‘… gladiator.’ He added in a hiss, ‘At least he doesn’t see the need to lick my arse.’
Batiatus flushed and looked away. Beside him, Albinus harrumphed in quiet indignation.
Encouraged by this tiny victory, Spartacus quickly continued, ‘I would have unified the tribes. What would Rome have made of that?’ He was pleased by the trace of fear in Albinus’ and Batiatus’ eyes. Phortis bristled, but did not dare speak while Crassus, his better, held the floor. A man who showed no apprehension at Spartacus’ words at all. No career soldier then, but he’s not short of courage. I wonder if he could lead an army, as I could.
‘You risk much by revealing this. A single word from me, and you’ll be a dead man,’ said Crassus, ignoring Batiatus’ alarm.
Spartacus cursed himself silently for having let his anger speak first. He looked down at the sand. Great Rider, I ask for your help once more.
‘I won’t give the order, however.’ Crassus inclined his head at the lanista, who beamed in gratitude. ‘Why? Because there’s more chance of the heavens falling than you leading an army against Rome. Look at you! Reduced to fighting for our amusement.’ He smiled maliciously. ‘You’re little more than a performing animal, damned to perform the same primitive dance whenever we demand it.’