Having made her mind up, Ariadne was annoyed to feel nervous still. She was a grown woman, was she not? Without meaning to, she visited some of her irritation on Chloris and the other women, snapping unnecessarily when they miscounted something, or didn’t move fast enough to the next job. They were already wary of her — a priestess of Dionysus — and so rather than answer her back, they scuttled about, trying to avoid her gaze and making even more mistakes.
I’m acting like a bully. This realisation made Ariadne gentle her tone. Instead of criticising the women when each task was completed, she started praising them. The atmosphere lightened, and their work rate improved. By the time the sun had dropped to the crater’s edge, virtually all the food had been checked over and had its details recorded.
‘It looks as if you’ve been busy.’
Ariadne jumped at the sound of Spartacus’ voice. Suddenly conscious of the sweat marks on her dress and her straggly hair, she turned. ‘We’ve hardly stopped all day.’
‘Neither have I. It didn’t stop me thinking about you, however.’
She blushed. ‘I’ve been doing the same.’
He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Hundreds of slaves have been coming in, wanting to join us.’
‘As in my dream?’
Giving her a pleased look, he nodded.
‘Dionysus be praised. That’s great news!’
‘It is. And don’t ask me how, but I got the Gauls to agree to training for the men. It’s to start in the morning.’
She was already moving. ‘The new arrivals will need food and drink.’
Bemused, Spartacus watched her as she ordered the other women to ready themselves for an influx of hungry men.
She reappeared by his side. ‘That will do for now.’
‘I suspect that they’ll be happy enough with all the wine that’s on offer.’
‘It will help,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m forgetting myself. Are you hungry?’
‘Not for food. Are you?’
‘N-no,’ Ariadne said, aware that her voice had gone husky.
‘Shall we go back to the tent?’
In answer, she took Spartacus’ hand and led him away.
Ariadne lay on her side, gazing at Spartacus’ sleeping form. In the grey light of predawn, it was hard to make out his features in detail. Taking great care to move slowly, she shifted position on the blanket until she was lying right next to him. Here she was, in bed with a man she had chosen to couple with. It felt good, just as last night had. Ariadne had been surprised by that. She’d been willing, even eager, to engage in the physical act with Spartacus, certain that it would bring them closer, cement the bond between them. But she hadn’t expected to enjoy it.
Spartacus had been gentle yet sure, and so attentive. Several times, feeling her tense, he had paused. He’d looked at her enquiringly, and on each occasion, Ariadne had nodded fiercely to indicate that he should continue. Gradually, her lust had risen, if not to match his, then to lift her for the first time above the hurt that had blighted her for so long. The whole experience had felt, in no small way, healing. A tiny, self-conscious smile twitched across Ariadne’s lips. By the end, she’d felt quite wanton.
‘You’re watching me. Eyeing me up, in fact.’
Ariadne was startled from her reverie. ‘Maybe I am,’ she flashed back. ‘A woman is allowed to admire her man, isn’t she?’
‘Of course. As long as I’m allowed to do the same to you,’ he murmured, reaching out for her.
She wriggled into the circle of his arms. ‘I expect nothing less.’ Surprising herself again by her own daring, Ariadne moved her right hand to his waist — and below.
‘I need to get up,’ he protested weakly.
‘I need you more,’ Ariadne retorted. ‘I’ve waited so long for moments like this. Half an hour won’t make any difference to the men’s training.’
He smiled and pulled her to him. ‘True.’
Two days later, in Rome…
When Saenius had ushered the last bowing client from his simple yet elegant courtyard, Crassus clicked his fingers at the body slave standing behind his chair. ‘Take away that mule piss,’ he ordered, indicating the wine on the sturdy table before him. ‘Bring me a decent vintage. Remember to water it down.’
‘Yes, master.’ The slave was used to Crassus’ routine. Those who came seeking his favour were given plenty of refreshment, but not of the expensive kind. Once the morning’s business was dispensed with, his master liked to relax with a glass of quality wine.
‘Bread and cheese too.’
‘Yes, master.’ The slave was careful to hide his half-smile. He would have brought those items anyway. In many respects, Crassus was as predictable as the tide. In order that his slaves knew his likes and dislikes, he trained them all himself.
Saenius came padding back through the tablinum, past the death masks of Crassus’ ancestors, and the lararium, the shrine to the house gods. He found Crassus trailing a hand in the brick channel that carried water to the lemon trees and vines filling the courtyard. ‘That last one was quaking with fear as he left,’ he observed.
‘All I did was remind him that his debt was due in a month,’ said Crassus mildly.
‘That’s enough.’ Saenius’ smile was acid. ‘He knows that you’re a bull with hay on his horns.’
Crassus gave a pleased nod. He never tired of hearing the popular expression being used about him. Every Roman worth his salt knew that only dangerous bulls had their horns covered in this way. Such a beast was to be avoided if at all possible. It was a good — no, an excellent — reputation to have, he reflected.
The domestic slave returned with a bronze tray upon which sat a jug, two blue glasses and a platter of bread and cheese. He set it down carefully, before pouring wine for his master.
‘Care to join me, Saenius?’ asked Crassus.
‘Yes, thank you.’
As was their custom, master and servant drank together in companionable silence. Above them, the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Despite the shade offered by the plants and trees, the temperature in the courtyard was climbing steadily. Crassus felt the first beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. ‘Thank the gods that there’s no session in the Senate today. I don’t want to go out, even in a litter.’
Saenius murmured in agreement. Walking through Rome at midday in the height of summer was akin to sitting in a caldarium for too long: hot, sweaty and uncomfortable.
Crassus closed his eyes, luxuriating as a light breeze trickled across his face. An instant later, his nose wrinkled. The rising heat exacerbated the omnipresent reek of human waste. While he — naturally — had the comforts of piped sanitation, most of Rome’s residents did not. The public toilets weren’t nearly numerous enough to cope either. The maze of alleyways lacing the city were therefore home to vast, steaming dungheaps, the ammonia-laden odour of which now filled Crassus’ nostrils. He frowned. He could order that some olibanum be burned, but it would only mask the stench and leave a cloying, unpleasant taste at the back of his throat. ‘Maybe it’s time for a break,’ he mused. ‘A month at the coast would be very pleasant.’
‘Your villa there is always ready,’ said Saenius, clearly pleased at the idea of quitting the capital. ‘And the sea breezes make the heat easier to bear.’
Crassus was about to agree when a totally different scent reached him. Smoke. His head turned, seeking the direction from which it came. ‘Do you smell that?’
Saenius leaned forward, sniffing. ‘Ah yes.’ He concealed his disappointment well, thought Crassus with amusement. ‘Something’s burning,’ he said.
‘It’s certainly the right weather for it,’ replied Saenius. ‘The city hasn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, and some fools will always leave a brazier untended.’
Crassus threw back the last of his wine and stood. ‘The coast can wait. Let’s go and have a look around.’