‘Your balls hurting still?’ jibed Spartacus.
‘Not half as much as yours will when I get to them!’ With a great heave, Crixus threw Spartacus to one side. Caught off balance, he stumbled and went down. Crixus was on him like a raging beast, throwing body punches that sent waves of searing agony through Spartacus’ every fibre. Trying to ignore the pain, he swiftly planted a leg against Crixus’ muscular belly. Gripping the Gaul by the shoulders of his tunic, Spartacus threw him to one side.
Incredibly, Crixus got up quicker than Spartacus could. Spartacus was on his knees still when the Gaul came barrelling in and struck him in the face with one of his enormous fists. Spartacus felt his nose split like an overripe plum, heard the crunch as the tissue within broke. Driven back on to the sand by the force of the blow, he bellowed with the pain of it. Pausing only to kick Spartacus a few times, Crixus leaped on top of him again. His fingers clawed towards Spartacus’ face. ‘I’m going to tear your fucking eyes out of your head!’
Spartacus was half blinded by blood and in complete agony. He also knew that if Crixus locked his thumbs into his eye sockets, the game was up. There had been occasions when he’d used the tactic himself, and it was brutally effective. Spartacus wondered if Crixus would stop once he’d ripped out his eyeballs? Probably not. The thought of living out his life as a blinded cripple, or dying right now, filled him with utter desperation.
Drawing up his arms inside those of Crixus, Spartacus whipped them sideways with all the strength in his body. Unprepared for such a move, Crixus toppled down on top of him. Spartacus sank his teeth into the first part of the Gaul’s flesh that met his lips. It happened to be his nose. Spartacus bit down as hard as he could, worrying it as a dog does a rat. He was dimly aware of Crixus screaming and raining weakened punches on his unprotected abdomen, but he did not release his grip. Take that, you bastard!
Somehow, cold reason penetrated the red mist that coated Spartacus’ consciousness. If I bite off half his nose, the prick will never join us. He unclamped his jaws, and Crixus reared back, showering him in gore. Spartacus heaved over on to his side, and struggled free from the other’s grip. There was no resistance. Scrambling up, he wiped the blood from his eyes. Three steps away, Crixus was climbing to his feet, clutching his ruined nose with one hand. ‘I’ll kill you!’ he snarled.
This was his best chance. For all his noise, Crixus was hurting badly. Spartacus twisted and danced, aiming punches at the Gaul’s belly. Crixus blocked them and threw a couple of immense blows with his free hand. Spartacus let one land, grunting with the shock of it. Another one quickly followed, striking his wounded arm. The pain was overwhelming, and Spartacus’ vision blurred for a moment. Come on! Shaking his head, he stayed where he was. The punishment had to be endured. Managing to stoop under Crixus’ swinging fists a moment later, he enveloped the Gaul with both his arms. Taking all of the other’s weight on his right hip, and ignoring the agony radiating from his wound, Spartacus flung him bodily to the sand.
Crixus landed face first, and it was Spartacus’ turn to jump on top. Sitting on the Gaul’s back, he shoved his right arm around the other’s neck. Grasping his right hand with his left, he took Crixus in a chokehold. As his grip tightened, his arm formed a ‘V’ shape around the Gaul’s windpipe, blocking it entirely. A horrible rattling sound left Crixus’ lips, and his arms flailed about, trying to reach Spartacus. His attempts were futile, and it didn’t take more than a dozen heartbeats before his great strength began to leave him. The flesh on the back of his neck turned dark red.
Spartacus could only imagine what Crixus’ face looked like.
Still the Gaul didn’t give in.
You stupid, stupid bastard, thought Spartacus. He glanced quickly to either side. The faces of the watching Gauls were aghast, stricken with horror, while those of his men were filled with triumph. Killing the big ox won’t help our cause! Gods above, but he hadn’t considered this option. I can’t let him live, though. He’ll try to kill me the first moment he can. Expertly, Spartacus tightened his hold even further. Choose your own death then. I’ll have to convince Castus and Gannicus some other way.
Then Crixus’ left hand rose weakly into the air. The forefinger extended upward, in the appeal for mercy. Spartacus didn’t quite believe his eyes, didn’t trust Crixus even now. ‘Do you yield?’ he roared.
The finger rose a fraction higher, before the whole arm flopped back on to the sand.
‘Let him go!’ roared a Gaul.
‘You’ve killed him!’ yelled another.
With great care, Spartacus released his grip around Crixus’ neck. The Gaul slumped down and did not move. Great Rider, keep him alive! Climbing off, Spartacus rolled his opponent over on to his back. He was shocked by Crixus’ appearance. The Gaul’s face was a shocking purple colour. A steady stream of blood ran from the dreadful wound on his nose, which was covered in sand. His eyes were glassy and the whites had turned scarlet. His engorged tongue protruded from fat, sausage-like lips, and there was a reddened ring around his neck, marking where Spartacus’ hold had been.
‘Get some water!’ shouted Spartacus. He slapped Crixus across the cheeks.
There was no initial response, but a moment later, the Gaul coughed weakly.
Spartacus could have cheered.
Someone — Spartacus was vaguely surprised that it was Restio, the betmaker, because he hadn’t been present initially — handed him a leather water bag, and he emptied it over Crixus’ head.
The Gaul’s eyes came back into focus. He coughed again and rubbed at his neck.
‘Damn sore, I’d say,’ said Spartacus, noticing for the first time that the wound on the back of his right arm was bleeding. ‘You should have given in sooner. You’re as stubborn as a mule.’
‘I’ve never lost a fight,’ said Crixus in wonderment. His voice had a new, gravelly timbre to it.
‘There’s always a first time,’ replied Spartacus, still trying to gauge what the Gaul’s response would be. ‘I’m not quite sure how I did it.’
‘By being the dirtiest bastard in Italy,’ retorted Crixus, gingerly touching his nose.
‘That was the hardest fight I’ve ever had,’ said Spartacus. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but that wasn’t what was important. Getting Crixus to honour his word was. ‘You’re like Hercules himself.’
‘Hercules didn’t lose,’ Crixus grunted irritably.
Spartacus’ heart beat a little faster, and he leaned closer. ‘About my proposition,’ he said in a low voice.
Restio nudged the Gaul beside him. ‘What’s he talking about?’
He was ignored.
‘I’m a man of honour. I lost the fight, so me and my lot will join you,’ growled Crixus.
‘Good.’ I can’t trust him one iota, thought Spartacus. But at least the bastard has agreed to come on board. Sensing the silence, he scanned the yard. Unsurprisingly, all eyes — even those of the guards — were on them. Phortis was only twenty steps or so away. ‘We’re being watched. Act as I do,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘That will teach you to insult my people!’ he yelled. ‘Watch your mouth in future. D’you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ muttered Crixus furiously. He appeared entirely convincing, and Spartacus jerked his head at his men. ‘Let’s go.’
He was pleased to notice Phortis, looking furious, turn away and resume his conversation with one of the trainers. With luck, the Capuan would regard the fight as nothing more than a brawl between two of the best gladiators.