Spartacus dropped his gaze even lower, as if in subservience. Inside, however, he was incandescent with rage. ‘That’s all I am, yes,’ he said. Or so you think. Give me half a chance, and I’d show you different.
Crassus turned away, satisfied. ‘After all that bloodshed, I feel the need for some wine.’ At once Batiatus jumped in, promising fine vintages in the humble luxury of his quarters. ‘Good.’ Crassus added in an undertone, ‘If you have other fighters of similar quality, we can do business. I’ll want that Thracian, but I will need at least twenty more for my upcoming munus.’
Spartacus’ ears pricked, but Phortis had noticed him. ‘Piss off. Get that wound seen to.’
The last he heard was Batiatus asking, ‘All mortal bouts?’ and Crassus barking in reply, ‘Naturally. I need to impress.’
From his cell, Carbo hawked and spat in Crassus’ direction. Great Jupiter, bring me face to face with him one day, please.
Spartacus shuffled off towards the infirmary. His mind was racing. Crassus’ contempt had driven home further than ever before the triviality of his existence. If he was soon to be forced into another fight to the death, what was the point in carving out a following and a position of respect among the gladiators in the ludus? He was nothing but a child’s toy. A Roman plaything.
A seething fury took hold of him. Spartacus recognised and welcomed the volcanic emotion. It was how he’d felt when he was riding to war with the Maedi against Rome, a lifetime ago. How he’d felt when plotting to overthrow Kotys. This time, he only had thirty or so men who’d follow him, but that no longer mattered.
He saw the snake wrapped around his neck, but shoved the disturbing image away.
Something had to be done.
Somehow he had to be free.
Chapter VIII
As soon as the cell doors had been unlocked, Ariadne hurried in search of Spartacus. Like faithful shadows, Getas and Seuthes followed her. They were as concerned as she. Ariadne found her husband in the sick bay, which was positioned beside the mortuary. She tried not to dwell on the significance of that proximity. He won. He’s alive. How long will his luck hold out, though? she wondered in the next heartbeat. What if his dream means that his death is imminent?
Ariadne managed to pull a smile on to her face as she entered the whitewashed room, which was furnished with several cots and an operating table covered in old bloodstains. Shelves lined one wall, stacked with a frightening variety of probes, hooks, spatulas and scalpels. Dark blue bottles of medicine stood in careful rows alongside the metal instruments.
The surgeon, a stoop-shouldered Greek of indeterminate age, was crouched over Spartacus, obscuring the view of the door. ‘Hold still,’ he ordered, pouring the contents of a little vial over the cut. ‘ Acetum,’ he said with satisfaction as Spartacus hissed with pain. ‘It stings like a dozen wasps.’
‘More like twenty, I’d say,’ replied Spartacus sarcastically.
‘It’s excellent at preventing gangrene and blood poisoning, though,’ said the surgeon. ‘So the pain is well worth it.’
‘The pain is nothing,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘How bad is the wound?’
Ariadne stopped herself from calling out. A pulse hammered at the base of her throat. Dionysus, stay with him, she pleaded.
‘Let me see.’ Picking a probe from the tray beside him, the surgeon began to examine the gash. He poked and prodded, and Ariadne saw Spartacus’ free hand clenching into a fist. Her heart bled for him, but she said nothing. She was too worried.
‘It’s not deep,’ pronounced the surgeon a moment later. ‘The blade sliced through the skin and the subcutaneous tissue, but the muscle below hasn’t been damaged. You’re lucky. I’ll place a line of metal clamps along the wound. It should be healed within two weeks. You’ll be able to fight again in a month.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Spartacus drily. ‘Batiatus will be pleased.’
The surgeon reached over to the nearest shelf and in doing so, noticed Ariadne. ‘Ah! You have a visitor.’
Ariadne hurried forward. Close up, the blood from the shallow cut on his cheek looked horrifying. Without even realising, she reached out to touch his face. ‘You’re all right?’
He smiled. ‘I will be, yes.’
They stared at each other, and then Spartacus reached up to enclose her hand in his.
Ariadne bit her lip, but she didn’t move. She could feel a strange but pleasant warmth in the pit of her stomach. He was going to be fine. Thank you, Dionysus.
The surgeon came fussing in with a bowl of metal staples and the magic vanished, like a feather carried away on the wind. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. What he needs now is for that wound to be closed, before any foul airs get into it. Leave us in peace.’
Spartacus’ lips twitched. ‘You heard the man. I’ll see you in our cell in a short while.’
‘Yes.’ Reluctant to let Spartacus out of her sight, Ariadne backed away. She lingered by the door until the surgeon gestured irritably at her to get out. Feeling happier than she had in an age, Ariadne walked towards the baths. This was a good time of the day to have a wash. The gladiators mostly washed in the evening, when their day’s work was done. Getas and Seuthes would check that the area was empty, and then she could relax in peace. And think about Spartacus, she thought with a guilty stab of pleasure.
She smiled at the two Thracians as they disappeared inside. For once, life was very sweet.
‘Going to clean yourself up and give him a victory fuck, are you?’
Ariadne turned in horror to find Phortis three steps away, with half a dozen guards at his back. Several were carrying lengths of rope. The Capuan clicked his fingers. ‘You know what to do.’ Grinning, the men shoved past, into the baths.
Too late, Ariadne cursed her decision not to carry her snake. She’d thought only to be gone from her cell for a few moments. ‘W-what are you doing?’ Her eyes flickered around the yard, desperately looking for Carbo, or any of the Thracians allied to Spartacus. She couldn’t see a single one.
Knowing what she was doing, Phortis moved fast. He stepped in close, and shoved his face into hers. His breath stank, and Ariadne recoiled. ‘Why, nothing. I just wanted us to have a little time together without your shitbag of a husband.’
She tried to step away, but Phortis pinned her against the wall. One hand immediately dropped to her groin. Letting out a sigh of lust, he cupped her crotch with his palm. ‘Sweet,’ he breathed into her ear. ‘Very sweet.’
Ariadne sank her teeth into his neck.
With an animal squeal of pain, Phortis pulled free. Ariadne had a brief impression of the blood oozing from her teeth marks before he backhanded her across the cheek with all his might. Half stunned, she felt her knees give way beneath her, but then Phortis threw an arm around her shoulders and hauled her bodily inside the door, shoving it closed with his foot.
Through eyes that were barely able to focus, Ariadne saw Getas and Seuthes lying tied up side by side. Both their faces were cut and bruised from the attack that had rendered them helpless. The leering guards stood over them. This was all planned, she thought dully. With that, Phortis threw her to the floor. Ariadne’s head cracked off the mosaic, and another sheet of pain slashed through her brain. She was barely conscious as the Capuan ripped off her clothes and pulled down his own undergarment. Old, terrible memories of her father were woken, however, when he knelt and she saw his throbbing erection spring free. ‘No!’ Ariadne mumbled. ‘Please, no.’
‘That means you really want it, you whore,’ Phortis snarled. ‘You’re all the same!’
‘No,’ she said, pitching her voice as loudly she could. Dionysus, help me!