by Ben Kane
‘This is no longer our home,’ said his father gently. ‘We’ll go to Rome. Varus will take us in for a little while.’ His lips quirked. ‘At least I hope he does, when we turn up on his doorstep unannounced.’
Carbo felt a wave of guilt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘For what?’
‘All I’ve been thinking of is running off and training with Paccius. I should have been trying to help you.’
‘Gods above, it’s not your fault, boy,’ cried Jovian.
‘What will happen to the slaves?’
‘Crassus owns everything now, apart from our personal possessions. The slaves will go with the house.’ Regret filled his father’s face. ‘I know how much Paccius means to you.’
‘You must be able to do something!’ said Carbo furiously.
‘I’ve been to every moneylender in the city.’
‘No, I mean can you not approach Crassus directly?’
‘I’d have more chance of walking up to the gates of Hades and stroking Cerberus on the head.’ He saw his son’s incomprehension. ‘Crassus is the personification of friendliness and jollity when he lends money. If he’s decided to foreclose on a debt, however, he’s a devil incarnate.’
‘Bastard,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I’d soon show him some manners.’
‘I’ll have no talk like that.’ Jovian’s voice was sharp. ‘We’re law-abiding citizens. Besides, Crassus has done nothing wrong. Do you understand?’
Carbo did not answer.
‘Carbo?’
‘Yes, Father,’ he said, biting down on his resentment.
‘Go on then,’ ordered Jovian wearily. ‘Pack your things. We have to quit the house tomorrow, and it’s a long journey to Rome.’
Carbo stamped off to his room, where he thumped his fists into his pillow until they hurt. He couldn’t believe it. His world had just been turned upside down. From now on, he and his family would exist on the charity of his uncle. Could anything be worse? Varus was kind enough in his own way, but he was pompous and had a tendency to be overbearing. Carbo could already imagine his patronising tone, and the years of interminably boring lessons he’d have to sit through to become a lawyer. On the spur of the moment, he decided to run away. He had his own savings, a little stash of denarii that sat in a clay pot under his bed. They would secure him a room of his own somewhere in Capua, and give him enough to live on while he looked for work. What kind of work, Carbo wasn’t sure, but the idea was far more appealing than trudging in penury to Rome. I’m better than that.
Amidst all the uncertainty, one thing was certain in his mind.
One day, somehow, he would be revenged on Crassus.
Chapter IV
Several weeks later…
The Illyrian coast
The sun was still climbing in the sky when the column reached the busy harbour. Most of the craft visible were broad-beamed merchant vessels or simple fishing smacks, but at the end of the stone quay was the unmistakable sharp-prowed outline of a Roman trireme. Unsurprisingly, it occupied the best mooring spot, and fully half of the area for unloading goods. Yet the warship’s presence caused no rancour. In the eyes of the traders and seamen swarming about the area, it was welcome. Even the rumour of its existence would help to deter the rapacious Cilician corsairs who infested the local waters. Without the trireme’s protection, they regularly ran the risk of losing their goods, slaves and even their lives through piracy.
Seagulls swooped and dived overhead, their beady eyes fixed on the catch being brought ashore by the local fishermen. They ignored the file of men that had just arrived. In turn, Phortis, the figure in charge, paid the screeching birds little heed. His only interest was in finding a ship that would carry his party to Italy. Phortis scrutinised his fifteen captives with a practised eye. He would have loved to be taking more over the Adriatic, but a lifetime in the slave trade had taught him not to be greedy. Fifteen was enough. Thracians, Scythians and Pontic tribesmen were excellent gladiator material, but, by all the gods, they were slippery as eels. Untrustworthy. Dangerous. Consequently, every one of the new slaves had chains around his neck, but also encircling his wrists and ankles. Phortis’ eight guards were all tough ex-soldiers. If he ordered it, they would slit a man’s throat or toss him overboard without even blinking.
Remembering the last time that he’d had to order a guard to do exactly that, Phortis grimaced. Such losses were unfortunate, but they still happened periodically. Over the years, he’d seen numerous men abandon all reason when they realised at last the dreadful fate that awaited them. Sometimes it was when they crossed the mountains from Thrace into Illyria, and at others it was when the glistening Adriatic filled the western horizon. More often, it was when they had to embark and sail for Italy. Not this trip, though. So far, the men he’d bought during their journey had remained reasonably calm, and given little trouble. Just the short sea passage remained. With that accomplished, a swift crossing of the Apennines would bring them to the ludus, the gladiator school, in Capua.
There, Lentulus Batiatus, the lanista, would be waiting. A trainer who accepted only the best. Phortis sighed. Batiatus was the sole reason that they’d had drag their arses halfway to Asia Minor in their search for suitable gladiator material. Most lanistae were happy buying slaves off the block in their local market in Italy. Not Batiatus. Thinking of the heavy purse he’d get when they returned, Phortis relaxed. His hard work would have been worthwhile. For all that Batiatus was an exacting master, he paid well.
Phortis’ gaze flickered again over the men he’d bought and abducted in the previous two months. There was a quartet of Scythians; bearded, tattooed savages whom he’d kept apart from day one. That hadn’t stopped them from trying to converse with each other in their guttural tongue at every opportunity. Of course Phortis had seen it all before. They didn’t plot murder and escape any longer — at least not with each other. A particularly savage beating of the last one he’d caught whispering had kept the bastards silent for days now.
Phortis had bought the three Pontic tribesmen from a lank-haired trader on the Illyrian border with Thrace. Renegades who’d been part of Mithridates’ army, apparently, and captured by Thracians fighting for Rome. Phortis didn’t know the truth of that story, nor did he care. The scars on the warriors’ chests and arms, and their combative manner, spoke volumes. They were fighters, and that was what Batiatus wanted.
He studied the eight remaining men. As usual these, the majority of his captives, were Thracian. The most warlike of all the peoples Rome had ever encountered. Tough, intelligent and stubborn. Natural warriors, they were excellent at both ambushes and face-to-face combat. Always prepared to fight to the death. Bitter enemies. It was fortunate, thought Phortis, that the majority of Thracians had ended up as subjects of Rome. Now they provided much of the fodder for the gladiatorial games.
When the largest of the Thracians, a warrior with black hair, noticed Phortis looking, he glared back. Phortis affected not to notice. A beating at this stage would serve little purpose. It was important not to crush all of the slaves’ spirit. If the fool learned to curb his temper, he would survive the first weeks of savage training. A man with any brains at all could last twelve months in the ludus. If the Thracian was lucky as well as smart, he might make it to three years, when he’d be entitled to the rudis, the wooden sword that symbolised freedom. And, if the gods smiled upon him, he would reach the benchmark of five years as a gladiator, and be granted his manumission. The black-haired man looked strong enough to do that, Phortis concluded. So did the short, muscular warrior with swirling tattoos on his chest. And the rest? He idly scanned the group. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t last that long. Few did.
His gaze fell last upon the most unremarkable-looking Thracian, a compact man with short brown hair and slate-grey eyes. It was odd, thought Phortis, that he knew the man’s name. Normally, he didn’t bother with such details. It had all come out in the Maedi village, however, where he’d bought two other men
as well. Kotys, the tribe’s chieftain, had accused the trio of plotting to overthrow him. That was good enough for Phortis. As with the rest of his new acquisitions, the three men’s guilt — or innocence — was irrelevant.
Phortis saw Spartacus staring at the little huddle of women who stood a short distance away. He sneered. Like some of the other captives, Spartacus’ wife had followed him into captivity. It wasn’t uncommon. The alternative, being left without a man’s protection, was worse. A slender, aloof figure, Ariadne was more composed than her companions, who wept and wailed at Phortis’ and the guards’ nightly sexual assaults. Yet none fought back. It was part of the unspoken price of being allowed to accompany the column. Phortis’ groin throbbed at the thought of Ariadne. She was striking rather than pretty but there was an inexplicable sense of the untamed, the exotic about her. It was most alluring. He hadn’t touched her, though. Nor had his men. If the truth be known, Phortis didn’t have the courage to. Who could forget the curse she’d placed on Kotys? In addition, the madwoman carried a venomous snake. Who would dare to try and fuck a creature like that?
Spartacus didn’t look like anything special, however. Just wait until he’s injured or, better, killed, in the arena, thought Phortis. We’ll see how brave the bitch is then.
Spartacus watched Phortis sourly. His haggling with the captain of a merchant vessel looked to be drawing to a successful close. ‘This is it. There’s only one place we’re going to now. Italy.’ The guilt he’d felt at the death of Olynthus and the ten others condemned to die felt heavier than ever. Curse Kotys to hell.
‘Unless the ship sinks, and we all drown.’ Getas eyed the glittering sea unhappily. It extended to the western horizon. ‘The weather at this time of year is so unpredictable. A storm could take us at any time.’
‘It could. And there’s nothing we can do about it except to ask the gods for their protection,’ replied Spartacus. ‘Get used to that idea.’
Deep in his own misery, Getas didn’t register his annoyance. ‘I’ve never been on a stinking boat before,’ he went on.
‘Prepare to vomit constantly for the next day or two, then. You won’t need bad conditions to make you feel sick either,’ warned Seuthes. ‘Just being on it is enough. You won’t know what bloody way the ship is going to move from one moment to the next. Up, down, forwards, backwards, side to side. It’s always changing.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Getas. ‘I can’t wait.’
Spartacus wasn’t looking forward to the motion sickness either. He’d been on ships when serving in the legions, but never for more a few hours, the time it took to cross to Asia Minor from the south-east coast of Thrace. That is the least of my concerns. Seeing Ariadne approach, he forced a smile. ‘Wife.’
‘Husband,’ she answered gravely.
Because they were chained to each other, Getas and Seuthes hadn’t been able to give Spartacus and Ariadne real privacy since they’d left the village. Out of courtesy, however, they had got in the habit of moving back a step. They did do now, and began talking to each other in low voices. Spartacus felt a wave of gratitude towards them yet again.
‘Ready for the journey?’ she asked.
‘After a fashion.’
She frowned, suspecting the reason for his reserve, but not wanting to ask.
‘It’s the finality of leaving Illyria. Not for me, you understand? I’m reconciled to my fate,’ Spartacus growled. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. After I’m dead and gone, you’ll be left alone. Not only will you be in an alien land full of bastard Romans, but you’ll have Phortis trying to screw you at every turn. I’ve seen him staring at you. Wouldn’t it be better to reconsider? For you to stay here?’
‘It was my choice to accompany you. Don’t you remember what Kotys would have done to me?’ Ariadne felt sick just thinking about it. ‘Leaving with you was my best option by far! Where else would I have gone — back to Kabyle, and the crusty old priests there? Or to my bastard of a father? And as for Phortis — pah! The whoreson will get a face full of snake if he tries anything. No. My place is here, by your side.’ Hoping that her bravado was convincing, Ariadne reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘It’s what Dionysus would want,’ she lied.
He shot her an intense glance. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘No, not as such.’ Her sigh was full of not wholly feigned regret. ‘But I cannot believe that the god would want me to have stayed there, for Kotys to abuse. What would be the point in that? At least this way, I can carry his word back to Italy. His religion has been suppressed there for generations. I will be a new emissary for him.’
Spartacus thought for a moment. It wasn’t as if he could stop her anyway. If the truth be told, he was glad that she was coming. ‘Good.’
Ariadne sent up a silent prayer to Dionysus: Forgive me. I do not mean to use your name in vain. Surely the best thing for me is to travel with Spartacus? I will do my utmost to tend to your devotees, and to win new converts. Coward, screamed her conscience. You’re just looking after your own skin.
Since their untoward passage of the Adriatic, they’d walked for nearly a week. Nothing could have prepared Spartacus for the fertile Italian countryside, and its fields that contained every crop imaginable to man. That overwhelming display was without even taking the breadbaskets of Sicily and Egypt into consideration. No wonder the bastards could raise such large armies, he’d reflected bitterly. The Romans’ food supply was guaranteed, unlike that of his people, who lived in a homeland that was barren by comparison. Yet for all Italy’s fertility, the narrow mountain path that had carried them through the Apennines had been welcome, because it had reminded him of Thrace. It had taken in the most stunning scenery: steep ravines, plunging streams and rocky crags inhabited only by birds of prey. They had encountered no one but the occasional shepherd.
A couple of hours previously, the column had finally emerged from the mountains and joined a wide paved road, the Via Appia. It had led them south-east towards the town of Capua, the imposing walls of which now filled the horizon. Before it, however, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, lay a squat, rectangular building standing on its own. It was partly backlit by the rays of the setting sun, giving it a black, brooding appearance.
‘There you are, fine sirs,’ sneered Phortis, gesturing. ‘The first glimpse of your new home.’
Every one of the captives craned his neck to see.
‘It looks like a damn fortress,’ said Getas in an undertone.
Somehow Phortis caught the words. ‘Congratulations! You’re not as stupid as you look,’ he answered in Thracian. ‘That’s exactly what it is. The walls are nearly ten feet thick, and there’s but one entrance, which is guarded day and night by six of Batiatus’ best men. With two hundred scumbags like you inside it, what else would you expect? I hope you like it there, because once you’ve entered, the only time you dogs will ever leave is to go to the arena. Or,’ and he leered, ‘when your corpse is being carted to the refuse heaps nearby.’ Phortis glared at the seven non-Thracian captives, who were regarding him blankly. ‘Journey finish soon!’ he shouted in Latin, and pointed. ‘Ludus! Ludus!’ He smiled as the men began muttering unhappily to each other.
‘What was the first bit?’ hissed Seuthes to Getas, who had a smattering of Latin. The other whispered in his ear, and Seuthes’ expression grew angry. ‘Screw him anyway,’ he growled. ‘Gloating over us as if we were a herd of cattle going to the slaughterhouse.’
‘That’s about what we are,’ replied Getas grimly. ‘Except it’s the carrion birds who’ll feed on us after we’re dead, not people.’
Phortis came stalking along the line, looking for someone to use his whip on, and they both fell silent.
Spartacus, who’d also understood, kept his gaze fixed on the road. Inside, he was warning himself never to say a thing within fifty paces of Phortis. The man’s knowledge of Thracian was far better than he let on, and his hearing was uncanny. He didn’t relax until the Capuan had resumed his place at the head o
f the column. The moment he had, however, Spartacus’ eyes focused on the ludus. He kept his gaze fixed on it as they drew nearer. It looked impregnable. No doubt it was the same inside. Gradually, the sound of voices and the familiar ring of weapon on weapon carried to him through the air. Spartacus’ jaw hardened. The battles that he fought from now on would be much smaller scale that he was used to. According to Phortis, the majority would probably be one on one. That didn’t mean he’d approach them any differently. In fact, thought Spartacus savagely, he’d go in twice as hard. Twice as fast. Twice as brutally. With only one aim. To win. That’s all his life would be about from now on. Winning.
It was that or death, which didn’t appeal.
Spartacus didn’t overly care about himself, but it wasn’t just about him any longer. He had Getas and Seuthes to look out for. And most importantly of all, there was Ariadne. Spartacus had no real idea how he’d provide for her. He had heard a rumour that the best gladiators could earn good money, and hoped it was true. Ensuring that Ariadne had plenty of cash would mean that if, or when, he was killed, she had the resources to survive on her own.
Grant me that much at least, O Great Rider.
Carbo twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible. The filthy straw mattress beneath him was falling apart. It was also full of bed bugs. His blanket had more holes in it than a fishing net. Rats scuttered to and fro on the floor, looking for food. He’d emptied the bucket by the end of the bed the night before, but it still stank of piss and shit. Because he had no money to buy fuel for the little brazier that sat in the corner, the room was freezing. Room? Carbo scowled. It could scarcely be called that.
The cheapest accommodation that he’d been able to find, it was located at the very top of a five-storey insula, or block of flats. There were no windows, and he rarely used his oil lamp, so the only light that came in was through the gaps in the roof tiles. Carbo glanced around the pathetic limits of his domain. It could be called a garret perhaps. Scarcely ten paces by six, it had an angled roof that made it impossible to stand upright. The door didn’t lock, and the walls were so thin that he could hear every sound made by his neighbour, a rheumy-eyed crone with a hacking cough.
