Spartacus’ blood pounded in his ears, and all sound died away. He was so incensed that his entire world shrank to a narrow tunnel before him. At its end was the smirking Phortis, his lips moving in more insults. Spartacus felt his mouth twist into a snarl. It would be so easy. Just dash the bowl in his face, leap over the table and smash the whoreson to a pulp.
He forced his eyelids into a blink, and came crashing back to reality. ‘Thank you.’ Without meeting the Capuan’s gaze, Spartacus reached out and took the bowl. He didn’t see the two guards on the balcony behind him lowering their bows, nor the fleeting look of disappointment on Restio’s face.
‘Fucking coward,’ Phortis snarled.
We’ll see about that. Externally, Spartacus didn’t even register the insult. He walked off and sat down beside the four Scythians, who threw him eager grins. Carbo, Getas and Seuthes plonked themselves alongside. Their table was nowhere near those of Crixus or Oenomaus, but he didn’t dare approach them. From the corner of his eye, he could see Phortis still glaring at him. Spartacus dipped his spoon into the top layer of porridge and took a mouthful, swallowing the thick liquid without even tasting it.
‘Why did he do that?’ Oddly, Restio had joined him again.
‘The fucker enjoys goading me.’ What do you care, anyway?
‘Why?’
‘He’s tried to rape Ariadne once already,’ said Spartacus. ‘If I were beaten unconscious by the guards, I wouldn’t be able to stop him when he tries again.’ More likely, it would foil the escape attempt before it even started. If the Thracians were no longer part of the equation, would the other leaders risk their men’s lives? I doubt it.
‘Dirty bastard,’ said Restio sympathetically.
Spartacus ate some more porridge from the top of the bowl. When Phortis was finally distracted, he emptied the rest on to the sand by his feet. Spartacus’ nerves were wire-taut, killing any appetite he might have had. Ignoring Restio’s attempts at conversation, he sat in silence until breakfast had stopped being served.
Time for the trainers to appear, and the room containing the practice weapons to be unlocked. Long moments dragged by, and nothing happened. Carrying the empty porridge pot, the slave had vanished into the depths of the kitchen. Phortis was nowhere to be seen. It’s just a short delay. Yet Spartacus could see his unease mirrored on many of the gladiators’ faces.
He hadn’t sneaked a look at the guards for a short time. Seated under the walkway, he could only see the ones at the far end of the balcony. Glancing upwards, Spartacus’ heart stopped. Why did they have arrows notched to their bowstrings? They surely weren’t alone acting in such a manner. He could taste bile in the back of his throat now. We’ve definitely been betrayed.
All at once, things began to happen very fast.
Batiatus appeared on the balcony, Phortis by his side. Both men’s faces were hard. Cold.
Spartacus clenched his fists. He wasn’t going to back out now. Even if the Germans and Gauls don’t join in. He tensed, preparing to leap up and roar at the Thracians to run for the stairs.
There was a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. Spartacus glanced to his left, and was startled to see one of the Scythians hurtling over the table at him. There was no time to move. The bearded warrior crashed into him, driving them both backwards, to the sand. In the same instant, Spartacus felt something strike the Scythian in the back. The man grunted in pain, and went limp. Is he dead? Angry voices shouted and Spartacus could sense a struggle going on overhead.
Abruptly, the body was hauled off him. Getas and another of the Scythians filled his vision. The warrior offered his hand. ‘Quick! We go now. Quick!’
Spartacus scrambled up. ‘What the hell happened?’ he cried. The warrior who’d leaped on top of him lay at his feet. There was a filed-down length of iron protruding from the middle of his back. Restio lay beside him, with a similar weapon jutting from his chest. His mouth worked loosely, letting a thin stream of bloody bubbles fall. His face bore a faintly surprised look.
‘Iberian want… kill you,’ growled the second Scythian. ‘My friend stop him. Took… blade meant for you. When the others see… they attack the guards. We must go!’
‘Eh?’ Why would Restio try to kill me? But Spartacus couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him. He knelt by Restio’s side. ‘Did you sell us out?’ The Iberian made no response. Fury consumed Spartacus, and he jiggled the base of the iron spike back and forth.
An animal squeal of pain ripped free of Restio’s throat.
‘You went to Batiatus?’
There was a faint nod.
‘In the name of all the gods, why?’
‘No one asked me to join,’ whispered Restio. ‘But Batiatus promised me freedom. I was to become one of the official betmakers at the arena.’
‘For that, you were willing to murder me?’ demanded Spartacus harshly.
A shadow crossed Restio’s face.
‘We must move!’ Seuthes’ voice was full of alarm.
‘Spartacus!’ cried Carbo. Any doubts that he’d had about joining the escape attempt had vanished. The guards were indiscriminately shooting down men he knew and liked. Bastards!
‘There’s no one worse than a man who betrays a comrade,’ snarled Spartacus, thinking of Medokos. ‘And there’s only one penalty for such scum.’ Placing both his hands on the piece of iron, he shoved it home.
Restio’s eyes went wide with shock and his mouth gaped open. A last, sawing breath left his lungs, and he sagged down on the sand, dead.
Spartacus jumped up, praying that he hadn’t left it too late. Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians were bunched protectively around him, but the entire courtyard was in chaos. Gladiators ran hither and thither, shouting at each other, and without purpose. Waves of arrows were scudding down from above, striking down men at random. From the cells came the screams of the watching women. Ariadne!
‘Chloris,’ said Carbo, looking alarmed.
‘Amatokos will take care of her,’ barked Spartacus. ‘Look at the two sets of stairs.’ He was delighted to see Gavius and the three Gaulish leaders at the base of one, shoving their warriors upwards to the first floor and the all-important armoury. The other was deserted, however. No surprise. My countrymen aren’t going to act unless there’s someone to lead them. Spartacus’ gaze shot to the gate, and horror filled him. There was already a large pile of arrow-riddled bodies heaped before it. The eight guards there were giving a good account of themselves. With six men around him, Oenomaus was standing in the open, screaming encouragement at the rest of his followers. Many of the guards on the balcony were also concentrating their aim on the critical area, so few were prepared to obey. It’s a fucking slaughter. We have to smash open the armoury, or there’s no hope. ‘Follow me!’ he bellowed at the men around him. Then, repeating his cry in Thracian, Spartacus darted out from the walkway’s protection. He sprinted across the yard towards the second staircase, sensing fighters running to join him. Strangled cries rang out as some fell prey to the guards’ arrows.
‘There he is!’ screeched Phortis. ‘Bring him down!’
Gritting his teeth, Spartacus increased his pace. Reaching cover, he felt a heartbeat’s relief. He was also encouraged by the set, determined faces that surrounded him. As well as Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and the three Scythians, there were about thirty Thracians. ‘We need to go up, hard and fast. There are enough of us to rush the guards. Once some of us are armed, we’ll have more of a chance. Know that I ask no man to do what I will not do myself. I will lead the way,’ Spartacus shouted. Watch over me, Great Rider. ‘Who will follow?’ Pride filled him as every man present roared back his support.