The Gladiator s-1

by Ben Kane

  ‘You’re not to go first,’ declared Getas.

  ‘You’re too important,’ added Carbo fervently.

  ‘He… right,’ added one of the Scythians. ‘If you killed… we… fucked.’

  To Spartacus’ amazement, the rest of the warriors shouted in agreement.

  Shoving him to one side, the Scythian and his comrades swarmed up the steps. They were followed by Carbo, Getas, Seuthes and a tide of Thracians.

  Spartacus had another chance to assess the greater situation. What he saw filled him with dread. Oenomaus was standing by the gate yet he was alone. Huddles of his Germans were visible under the walkway; occasionally, one or two of them made a break for their leader, but they didn’t get more than a dozen steps before being cut down. Crixus and Gavius appeared to have charged up the other staircase, but Castus and Gannicus remained at the bottom. Their wild eyes and desperate expressions told Spartacus that they had met with little success on the balcony above. I have to talk to them. There must be something else we can do. Ducking down as low as he could, Spartacus ran over to where the pair stood.

  ‘My men are being butchered up there!’ roared Castus.

  ‘The same will happen to yours,’ added Gannicus. ‘There are extra quivers of arrows stacked up behind the bastard guards. They knew exactly what was going to happen.’

  ‘It was Restio.’

  ‘The Iberian?’ cried Castus.

  ‘Yes. He’s dead. Forget about him,’ urged Spartacus. ‘We need another plan.’

  ‘You don’t fucking say!’

  ‘Without any shields and swords our men can do little — except die where they stand,’ said Gannicus. ‘What’s your plan now?’

  Spartacus’ eyes flickered around the yard. The sand was littered with the injured and dying. Some men screamed for help that wasn’t coming. Others cursed, or cried for their mothers. Most lay completely still. Fewer arrows were falling, but the ones that did were better aimed. A Nubian went down, bellowing his innocence, with a shaft in his belly. Two more Germans tried to join Oenomaus, who had somehow obtained a shield and a sword and was now heroically attacking the guards at the gate. He remained alone — his men were struck down long before they got near.

  We’re finished. Spartacus’ hope had all but disappeared when he saw the terrified-looking slave who’d served breakfast peering out from the depths of the kitchen. Insight struck him like a hammer blow. ‘There are weapons in there!’

  Castus goggled at him. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the kitchen! Knives. Meat spits.’

  ‘By Belenus, you’re right!’ cried Gannicus.

  Time to take control. ‘The attempt on the armoury is futile. We stop it at once,’ said Spartacus crisply.

  ‘Someone will have to hold the bottom of both sets of steps,’ Castus butted in. ‘The instant that he realises what’s going on, Batiatus will send the guards down to stop us.’

  ‘True. I’ll take a group into the kitchen to gather what we can. The rest can carry tables over to block up the staircases. The wood will give them some protection too.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ snarled Gannicus.

  ‘As soon as my lot are armed, we’ll attack the gate.’ Spartacus’ lips peeled back into a snarl. ‘You will hear when we’ve opened it.’

  Looking more heartened, Castus grinned. ‘Until then!’

  ‘Until then!’ Spartacus pounded back to his men. By this stage, the base of the steps was clogged with injured fighters. He shoved past and began to climb, his feet slipping on the slick, bloody treads. Reaching the first floor, Spartacus could see little but a mass of yelling Thracians heaving to and fro at the guards. Bodies — feathered with arrows or sporting savage sword wounds — lay everywhere. ‘Pull back!’ he screamed in Thracian and Latin. ‘Pull back!

  ’ Carbo’s head turned, and Spartacus gestured urgently. ‘Come on! I have another plan!’

  To his relief, Carbo heard him. Understood him. Began telling his comrades.

  Within moments, Carbo and the rest were in full retreat. Triumphant screams followed them as the guards pressed home their advantage. Spartacus tumbled down the stairs at the fighters’ head, and was pleased at the bottom to find six Gauls carrying tables. As the last men — two of the Scythians — spilled out of the staircase, Spartacus grinned. Following his instruction, four of the tables were heaved on to their ends against the opening, blocking it entirely.

  ‘Hold them there!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘The rest of you, follow me to the kitchen.’

  Without explaining, he wove his way across the yard. Even without the arrows being loosed from above, it was lethal going. Thanks to the number of dead and injured, there was barely room to place one’s feet on the sand. A quick glance over either shoulder, however, told Spartacus that he had plenty of support. Carbo, Getas and Seuthes were right behind him. The guards can’t bring them all down.

  ‘Find anything that will do as a weapon,’ yelled Spartacus as they clattered into the kitchen, wild-eyed, chests heaving. Gasping with terror, the porridge boy retreated into a corner. Like wild animals descending on their prey, the gladiators seized whatever they could find: large-bladed cleavers, slender filleting knives and thick iron spits. A few even grabbed the heavy wooden pestles that were used to grind their barley.

  ‘To the gate!’ Spartacus spun on his heel and charged outside. ‘Quickly!’

  He glimpsed Oenomaus under the walkway nearby. It was no surprise that he’d pulled back. He’s god-gifted still to be alive. The German’s face lit up as he took in Spartacus and his men charging forward. Roaring a battle cry, he ran out to join them. A mob of his countrymen followed.

  Spartacus focused on the guards protecting the gate. They looked petrified. Finally, the tables have been turned. ‘Prepare for Hades, you cocksuckers! The ferryman awaits you,’ he shouted.

  Two of them made a run for it at once. Led by Carbo, Getas and Seuthes, half a dozen of the men behind Spartacus split off and went for them like rabid dogs. The pair vanished, screaming, beneath a frenzy of blows. The rest of the guards by the entrance were made of sterner stuff than those who had fled. Four of them shuffled in close, holding their shields together while their companions stood to the rear, loosing arrows in low arcs overhead. Spartacus felt, rather than saw, several shafts as they hissed past him to sink into fighters behind him. His heart thumped madly in his chest, but he didn’t falter. Ten paces from the guards, he raised his cleaver high. His other hand gripped a large, heavy pan. ‘For Thrace!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘For Thrace!’

  He couldn’t have chosen better words.

  A threatening, primeval roar — the titanismos — filled the air around Spartacus as the warriors answered his battle cry. With faces distorted by fury, they smashed en masse into the guards’ shield wall. A pair of fighters each took a sword in the belly, but the impact drove their enemies several steps backwards; two of the guards stumbled and fell. They were trampled into the sand and hacked apart like slabs of beef.

  Spartacus was facing one of those who’d kept his feet, a piggy-eyed individual whom he knew and disliked. Panicked, the man made the elementary mistake of swinging his gladius overhand at Spartacus’ head.

  Sparks flew as Spartacus met the blow with his metal pan. ‘Eat this,’ he hissed, slicing the cleaver sideways into the guard’s face. The razor-sharp blade opened his flesh with ease. Powered by Spartacus’ rage, it smashed his teeth apart, cut off half his tongue and ripped out of his other cheek. A sheet of blood followed the cleaver, misting the air with tiny red droplets. Uttering an indescribable shriek of pain, the maimed guard collapsed to the ground. He’s finished.

  Dropping his pan, Spartacus swept up the man’s sword. Leaping over the screaming heap, he threw himself at one of the guards with a bow. The terrified archer was desperately trying to notch an arrow to his bowstring. It was the last thing he did. With a smashing blow of his cleaver, Spartacus swept the weapon out of the way. He followed through, stabbing the
man in the chest so hard that the gladius pinned him to the gate timbers.

  Panting, Spartacus looked to either side. He could see no living guards, just a mass of grinning, bloodied gladiators. Getas was two steps away. Where’s Seuthes? he wondered. There was no time to look. ‘Open the gate! Go out on to the street, beyond arrow range. Wait for us there,’ Spartacus roared. ‘Castus! Gannicus! Gavius! Oenomaus! The entrance is secured.’ Through the din, he heard his call being answered. Good. Some of them will get away at least. Whether I — or Ariadne — will remains to be seen. ‘Getas, come with me.’ Spartacus grabbed one of the Scythians by the arm. ‘I must fetch my wife. Will you come?’ He was gratified by the man’s instant nod.

  ‘My friend come too. We protect you,’ growled the Scythian. A fierce grunt of agreement from the second man proved the point.

  Spartacus spun and ripped his gladius free. The guard’s lifeless body slid down the gate, smearing a wide, red trail on the wood. ‘Follow me!’ Pushing his way through the throng, he sprinted for his cell. He had never felt such a pressing need for speed. The moment that the men holding the tables at the base of the stairs abandoned their posts, the guards would swarm into the yard. If he, Getas and the Scythians didn’t rescue Ariadne very fast, they’d all be killed.

  What made his heart stop was not a tide of guards, however, but the sight of Phortis making his way, sword in hand, towards his cell. He’s going to kill her. ‘No!’ Spartacus screamed. But he was too far away. Too far to do anything but watch.

  Phortis reached the door. Gripping the handle with his left hand, he flipped it open. ‘Where’s your man now, you whore?’

  There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then something thin and black was tossed from within the cell, into Phortis’ shocked face. A cracked scream left the Capuan’s mouth, and he staggered backwards, clutching at his throat. His sword clattered to the ground, unnoticed.

  Her snake! She threw her damn snake at him! Spartacus exulted as he reached Phortis, who had fallen to his knees. His face had already turned purple and his swollen tongue poked out of his black, bloated lips. Spartacus hawked and spat on the Capuan. Good enough for you. ‘Guard the door,’ he ordered Getas. He neatly sidestepped the snake, which had raised itself up into a threatening posture, and bounded into the cell. ‘Ariadne?’

  ‘Spartacus!’ She threw herself into his arms, sobbing.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m here. Phortis is dying.’

  ‘What happened? It all went wrong.’

  ‘Not now,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘Of course.’ Quickly, she grabbed up a fabric-wrapped bundle and a wicker basket from the bed. ‘I’m ready.’

  Gods, but she’s brave. Taking her by the hand, he led her outside. He was relieved to find that although the guards had emerged into the yard, they were making little headway. Holding tables, Crixus and the last of his men were mounting a ferocious rearguard action, allowing more gladiators to escape. Time is still of the essence.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Ariadne!’

  Pulling free, Ariadne began talking to her snake in a low, calm voice. When she had approached to within a few steps, she threw a cloth over it and swiftly grabbed it behind the head. Shoving it into the basket, she gave Spartacus a pleased look. ‘I can’t leave it behind. It saved my life.’

  ‘Let’s go!’

  Together with Getas and the Scythians, they raced past Phortis’ corpse, following the walkway around to the gate rather than crossing the yard. Spartacus was about to shout at Crixus to pull back when the Gaul turned and saw him.

  ‘Where’s Gavius?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘Dead. The remainder of his men have broken.’

  Spartacus hid his disappointment. ‘Time to go then.’ Quickly, he led Ariadne out on to the street, which was filled with gladiators. Among them were Castus and Gannicus. He saw Carbo’s face there, and those of Amatokos and Chloris too. Considerably less than a hundred. So few. ‘All men with weapons, to the front! When Crixus and his lads come out, I want a false charge at the guards. Show them that we mean fucking business. It’ll remind them that Batiatus wields no power beyond the ludus. Clear?’

  They roared their agreement back at him. Barely armed or not, the gladiators’ bloodlust was up. Spartacus felt the same, but he calmed himself.

  They waited on either side of the gate as the Gauls withdrew in good order towards them.

  ‘Crixus! Tell your men to split in the middle as you come out,’ Spartacus shouted. ‘We’ll drive the bastards back.’

  Crixus bellowed something in Gaulish.

  With eager faces, the gladiators around Spartacus moved forward a step.

  ‘Hold!’ He lifted his gladius high. ‘Hold!’

  They did as he said.

  Crixus and his men shuffled backwards out of the ludus.

  The guards’ instinct kicked in, and their advance slowed.

  The Gauls split apart, opening a central corridor.

  ‘Let’s show them that we’ll rip their hearts out!’ roared Spartacus. ‘Now!’ He charged forward, and was followed by a heaving mass of gladiators.

  The guards took one look at them and came to a dead halt. Then, as one, they began retreating into the ludus.

  Spartacus burned to pursue them. Instead, he slowed down and stopped. ‘Halt,’ he cried. ‘They’re scared enough. Back to the street!’ Keeping his face to the front, Spartacus began reversing. On the balcony, he could see Batiatus screaming abuse at his men. Shout all you like, cocksucker. They have more sense than to die needlessly. In forlorn twos and threes, the fighters who had been left behind stood and watched as the escaping gladiators withdrew. They had their chance, thought Spartacus harshly. ‘Pull the gates to. The dogs won’t dare open them again for a while.’

  The four other leaders were waiting for him. They exchanged a brief, wary look.

  ‘Which way?’ demanded Oenomaus.

  ‘Carbo?’ cried Spartacus.

  ‘Vesuvius is that way.’ Carbo pointed confidently down the street. ‘If we skirt around the walls, we can join the main road to the south of the town.’

  ‘Good,’ said Spartacus.

  Oenomaus was already issuing orders to his men. The three Gauls were doing the same.

  Spartacus glanced at Ariadne, who nodded her readiness. About twenty men were waiting for his command. The majority were Thracian, but Carbo was there too. He also spotted at least one Greek, and a pair of Nubians. Another woman in addition to Chloris. And, of course, the two remaining Scythians. I don’t even know their names.

  His eyes darted around. ‘Where’s Seuthes?’

  Getas’ face darkened. ‘He didn’t make it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of the guards at the gate was playing dead. He stabbed Seuthes from below.’ Getas’ fingers touched his groin. ‘Seuthes didn’t have a chance. He bled out as I watched.’ His face twitched with grief.

  Spartacus’ gaze flickered back to the gate. Sleep well, brother. Then, out loud, ‘Time to move.’

  He loped off. Ariadne ran beside him. Behind them came Getas, Carbo and his men. In a swarming tide, the remainder followed.

  From the vegetable garden, the cock crowed again.

  Spartacus forgot his sorrow for a moment. At least he’d never have to listen to the damn bird again.

  Chapter X

  Marcus Licinius Crassus exited the great bronze doors that framed the entrance to the Curia, the building where the Senate met, and where he had just spent the morning listening to debates. Scores upon scores of toga-clad senators were also leaving. When they saw Crassus, the vast majority were careful to move deferentially out of his way. Many smiled; most murmured a respectful greeting as well. Keeping his expression genial, Crassus returned every salutation, no matter how lowly the politician who had made it. A friendly word of recognition today can become a new friend tomorrow. As always, his efforts bore rich fruit. In the time it took Crassus to reach the
Curia’s front steps, he’d received the promise of two votes in his favour in the upcoming bill on slave ownership, been offered first refusal on the purchase of a newly discovered silver mine in Iberia and had a grovelling request for more time from someone whose debt to him was due the following week. Catching sight of Pompey Magnus nearby, accompanied only by his immediate coterie of followers, Crassus permitted himself a tiny, internal gloat. You might have come back to Rome on a flying visit to bask in the Senate’s adulation over your so-called victories in Iberia, but you’re still an arrogant young pup. Watch and learn, Pompey. This is how political success is achieved.

  Crassus had been irritated by Pompey from the very time that his star had begun its meteoric rise to prominence. His initial reason was simple. Crassus had had a much harder climb to the top. His ancestors might have included those who had served as censor, consul, and pontifex maximus, the highest-ranking priest in Rome, but that hadn’t stopped Crassus’ family fortunes from plummeting during the reign of first Marius, and then Cinna. Times for those who had supported Sulla were bitterly hard for several years. Not for you to lose your father and a brother in the proscriptions, thought Crassus, eyeing Pompey sourly. Not for you to flee Italy with a handful of followers and slaves, there to live in a cave for eight months, like skulking beasts. No, you somehow escaped the Marian bastards’ attentions. Yet for all the way you raised three legions when Sulla returned, and your victories in Africa since, you weren’t the man whose forces won the battle at the Colline Gate; who, with one masterstroke, restored Sulla to power. I was!

  Crassus flashed a practised, false smile at Pompey, who responded similarly. Like the misery of autumn rain, both of them had to accept the other’s presence on centre stage. That didn’t mean they had to like each other but it was important to remain decorous. To appear friendly, even when the direct opposite was the truth. Such is the way of politics, thought Crassus. It’s a way of life that I was born into, Pompey Magnus, while you’re nothing but an upstart provincial. He cast a jaundiced eye at the handful of army veterans who’d been waiting for Pompey to emerge. Raucous cheering broke out when they noticed him. It stung Crassus to see it. Few ex-soldiers of his sought him out to praise him to the skies, yet it happened for Pompey all the time.