by J M Hemmings
He twisted his boot and applied even more pressure, trying to inflict as much pain as he could. Hubble grimaced, his mouth twisted in agony, his bloodied teeth dark, looking as if they were coated in liquid rust.
‘It’s finished now, monkey,’ Rudd growled. ‘You lost, we won. Everything you just done was fir nothin’. How does that feel? How does it feel, huh?’
The chimpanzee looked up and locked a cold stare into Rudd’s eyes, and even as those deep brown eyes began to cloud over with the stillness of death, his lips curled not into a grimace of agony, but a smile … and the look was so unsettling that Rudd almost stumbled and fell, as if the creature had fired an unexpected dart into his throat.
For the look on the chimp’s face said not, ‘it is over’; no, instead it said, ‘it has only just begun’.
It was then that Colonel Rudd noticed something curious – the jungle around them, formerly so loud with life, seemed to have fallen utterly silent; even the omnipresent symphony of insect song had disappeared completely, leaving in its wake an eerie emptiness.
And that was when the ground itself began to groan and tremble … and then shake with terrifying violence beneath their feet.
PART EIGHTEEN
60
LUCIUS
August 73BC. Lucius Sertorius’s Villa, Neapolis
Lucius packed the last of his Greek amphoras into the wooden crate and then stuffed some cloth in to pad it and protect the valuable items therein. When that was done, he put on a lid and hammered it shut with restrained, controlled strokes so as not to crack any of the delicate pottery. After this, he set the hammer down and walked over to the window, where he stared in silence out at the vast blue expanse of the Mediterranean as it lapped ceaselessly at the feet of the phalanx of rocky cliffs that stretched off into the distance.
He stayed this way for a long time, just standing and thinking, reminiscing and revisiting times past. With an unexpectedly cutting pang of sadness, he wondered if he would ever see this sight again. As he stewed in this melancholy, a knock on his door caused him to jump with sudden fright. He turned and stared at the door with quickening breath, ever alert and prepared to fight off a Huntsmen attack. First, he loosened his gladius in its scabbard on his hip, and then with quiet, slow movements he picked up the loaded hunting crossbow he kept with him at all times and shouldered it, aiming it at the door.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
‘An emissary from Batiatus,’ came the muffled reply.
‘All right. The door’s open, come in.’
The door creaked open, and a fresh-faced young man dressed in a plain white tunic stepped in. His eyes widened with fright as he caught sight of the crossbow aimed at his chest, and he raised his hands in a gesture of submission.
‘I mean you no, harm, master!’ he stammered. ‘Please, l-, lower the weapon!’
‘What’s in the satchel?’ Lucius asked, his tone dripping with suspicion as he kept the crossbow trained on the young man’s chest.
‘It’s a, a gift, a gift from Batiatus.’
‘Close the door behind you, put the satchel on the floor, and go stand over there in the corner.’
‘Okay, okay, just don’t hurt me master, please,’ the young man whimpered plaintively.
He lowered the satchel to the ground and then closed the door with trembling hands. After that he walked on shaky legs over to the corner and stood there, keeping his hands raised above his head. Lucius nodded, assuming a less aggressive stance, but he kept the crossbow aimed at the youth nonetheless.
‘All right boy, tell me why Batiatus sent you here. I’ve already said farewell to him, and I told him that I didn’t expect to ever see him again, not with my upcoming journey to the unknown lands of the Far East, whence I will not likely return. He knows I’m leaving, we’ve talked about it, and he was fine with it. So, what’s this all about then?’
‘He s-, says that you shouldn’t leave j-, just yet,’ the young man stuttered, his fright-widened eyes locked on the loaded crossbow. ‘He is having a great banquet in a few days, and r-, requests your presence there. Um, as, as a f-, final farewell.’
‘You’re not a particularly good messenger, are you? By the gods boy, try to speak without stuttering! I’ve already said that I’m not going to hurt you.’
The young man seemed unconvinced of this and remained skittish. Lucius saw that the young man’s eyes never once left the crossbow, so he set the weapon down on a table nearby, making sure that it was close enough to snatch up quickly if the need arose. Once the crossbow was out of Lucius’s hands, the messenger calmed down somewhat, although he remained rather jittery.
‘He, um, he says that if you come, you can, er, learn a great deal more about um, the Huntsmen.’
‘I’m not interested,’ Lucius said flatly. ‘You can tell him that. Now, if that’s all—’
‘P-, please wait master. He was very, very insistent that you attend.’
‘So?’ Lucius scoffed. ‘I’m not a slave, I’m a free man, and I can do whatever I want. Look, I’m all set to leave for the East tomorrow morning, and I have no desire to delay my plans for the sake of a damned banquet … as much as Batiatus is my friend.’
‘He s-, said that you would say that. That is why he has sent this g-, gift. If you come to the b-, banquet, he says that there’ll be a l-, lot more where this came from.’
Lucius raised an eyebrow and shot a sidelong glance at the satchel.
‘What is it then, gold, jewels? I have more than enough of those. No, I don’t think—’
‘Please just look in the bag. He made it very clear that I was not allowed to leave you until you at least l-, looked at the gift.’
Lucius rolled his eyes and sighed.
‘Fine.’ He strolled over to the satchel and bent down to examine it. ‘What’s this?’ he said as he picked it up. ‘It feels like there’s nothing in here!’ Opening it, he saw inside a single scroll, rolled up and sealed with Batiatus’s personal wax seal. Now his interest was piqued. ‘Well, well, well … what’s this now?’
He broke open the seal and unravelled the scroll. As he began perusing the contents, his jaw dropped open and his eyes widened with surprise – for what he was reading was a secret Huntsmen manifesto.
‘By all the gods … how in Hades did he manage to get his hands on this?!’
‘I don’t know—’
‘I wasn’t asking you, you idiot!’ he snapped, shooting a venomous glance at the youth. ‘It was a rhetorical question!’
‘As I said, sir, if you c-, come to the banquet, there will be a lot more of these.’
‘All of my travel arrangements have been made. This is very, very tempting but…’
Lucius paused here and stared at the scroll again. He couldn’t believe what he was reading, but unfortunately the information therein was only a scratch on the surface; at any rate though, these Huntsmen seemed to know way more about his own kind than he did. It seemed that there was a vast body of knowledge that existed on the topic of beastwalkers – and, quite alarmingly, it appeared that these Huntsmen had unrestricted access to all of it. Here were the answers he had been seeking for years, now so tantalisingly close. He had no desire, however, to go to Batiatus’s banquet, especially because it would be a highly risky undertaking, for the Huntsmen had ramped up their activity near Capua recently. A part of him was screaming out to merely decline the offer, as tempting as it was, and head East on the morrow as planned. Another part, however, was urging, pushing, and desperately stoking the fires of curiosity. Batiatus now held a key, a key to open a door that had been barred with frustrating persistence for so long now, and all that Lucius had to do to gain access to that key was to simply attend a banquet.
It seemed too good to be true. Was it, though? There was only one way to find out.
Lucius sighed and put the scroll down, and then looked up at the messenger.
‘Very well, boy,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll delay my plans and come to Batiatus
’s banquet.’
***
Batiatus’s Ludus, outside Capua
‘Arishat!’
The serving girl looked up in surprise as she gathered up the last plates from a circle of gladiators, all of whom were seated in contented silence on the floor of the dining hall after a hearty dinner. She glanced at the new gladiator, Spartacus – the one who had chastised the guard for groping her a few days ago – and as their eyes met, he raised his index finger to his lips in a gesture for her to be silent. He subtly beckoned to her to come over to his circle of gladiators, who were still busy eating their grain and vegetable stew. Arishat peered nervously at the guards. Both of them were chewing loudly on apples and engaged in idle conversation, paying little attention to the goings on in the dining hall. She swallowed a mouthful of quick fear, steeled her nerves and hurried over to Spartacus.
He watched eagerly as the girl approached and beamed a welcoming smile at her. He too observed the guards closely to make sure that they weren’t paying attention, and then he stood up, and with a deft flick of his wrist he smacked the stack of plates out of her hand. The bronze plates came crashing to the ground with a loud clatter that resounded with painful volume through the hall, and everyone sat bolt upright at the noise.
‘Oy!’ one of the guards snapped angrily. ‘What the fuck just happened?!’
‘I didn’t see the wench behind me,’ Spartacus growled, before Arishat could say anything. ‘And I stood up and bumped into her. It was my fault.’
The guard spat on the floor and shook his head, patting the pommel of his gladius in its sheath.
‘Stupid, clumsy half-wit!’ he shouted. ‘And you, you thick-headed whore! Clean up the mess, both of you, hurry up! What a pair of fucking morons.’
The guard glowered at them and muttered a few more insults under his breath, before leaning back against the wall and continuing his conversation with the other guard. Arishat, meanwhile, looked down at Spartacus with both confusion and injury writ raw across her face.
‘Why did you do that? I thought you were a decent man…’
‘Hush,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll help you pick it up. Now we can talk without them noticing.’
A knowing glint entered the girl’s eyes, and the corners of her lips bent upward in a conspiratorial smile.
‘Oh!’ she whispered. ‘Got it!’
‘Don’t clear up the mess too quickly,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘We must speak about something very important, so listen carefully, all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied as she knelt down and began picking up the plates. ‘I’m listening.’
Spartacus’s eyes were aglow with a fiery intensity, and he locked them straight into Arishat’s.
‘Freedom, girl, freedom … what would you do for it? What would you do to escape those animals, those disgusting guards over there who molest you day in and day out? What would you do to escape a life of endless servitude and toil? Tell me Arishat, tell me!’
‘I … I cannot think of such things,’ she replied worriedly. ‘I’d do almost anything, but … but freedom is an impossibility.’
Spartacus shot out a hand, quick as a loosed arrow, and gripped her arm.
‘No, Arishat. No. It is, in fact, a very, very distinct possibility … but only if you can help us.’
‘Me … help you? I don’t know how I can help anyone, even myself. And who do you mean by “you”?’
‘Us gladiators: myself, Oenomaus and the General here.’
Arishat looked up and saw that all of them were staring at her, their collective attention focused with unwavering intent upon her.
‘Freedom? You gladiators? But … how?’
‘You’ve seen us fight, girl,’ Spartacus replied. ‘Tell me, if any one of us had a weapon in our hands, how would we fare against those slobs leaning against the wall, those pigs who are sitting there idly talking of whoring and gambling? Those vile thugs who grope and abuse you at every opportunity?’
A vengeful crackling burned in Arishat’s eyes as these words escaped Spartacus’s lips.
‘You would slaughter them … and I would be glad to see it.’
Spartacus smiled a wicked smile and nodded.
‘We would avenge every wrong you have suffered at the hands of those beasts. And not only that, we would free every slave in this ludus.’
Her jaw dropped with shock and her eyes bulged.
‘You’re talking about … a full rebellion?!’
Spartacus smiled grimly.
‘Nothing less, girl, nothing less. But we must have weapons in order to do this. Everything about our plan is hinged on that particular detail … and that’s where you come in.’
‘Weapons? But, but I’m only a kitchen slave. I don’t have access to the armoury.’
‘We don’t need access to the armoury, although that will be the first place we’ll hit after we’ve taken out these guards. No, to get started we just need knives from the kitchens. I’ve seen the big fruit knife you carry – how many more of those are in the kitchen? Are there butcher’s knives in there as well? There must be!’
Arishat nodded, biting her lower lip, her eyes darting repeatedly over to the guards. Paranoia was scuttling across her skin like a swarm of maddened insects.
‘There are plenty of butcher’s knives, cleavers and fruit knives in the kitchen,’ she said, dropping her voice to a low whisper, ‘but I don’t know how I’d get them out without someone noticing they’re gone, much less how I’d get them inside this dining hall without the guards noticing me carrying them. The kitchen master is very picky about his utensils; each utensil is placed in a very particular place, and he beats us if we put them in the wrong place.’
‘Getting the knives inside unnoticed will not be a problem,’ the General interjected, taking over from Spartacus. ‘I have a plan for that. What I need to know is how much you personally are involved in the preparation of the food, and what your routine in the kitchen entails.’
‘I don’t prepare any of the food at all. I just clean up after the cooking is done and deliver the food and water. What happens in the kitchen every day is this: first the kitchen slaves prepare the simple food for you gladiators, us household slaves and the household servants. After that, myself and the other serving girls eat and then deliver your food and water to you. We then take the empty plates and amphoras back to the kitchens, clean everything up, and then a chef comes and prepares the masters’ food. Then we have to clean up once more, after him.’
‘I see … Who is this person who cooks the masters’ food?’ the General asked.
‘He is a famous chef from Pompeii. He prepares all of the masters’ dishes.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
Arishat paused to think for a while before replying.
‘He is an elderly man. He has some strange habits, and mutters to himself a lot. He is very pompous and arrogant, and believes himself to be the greatest chef in all of Capua. Granted, he is a talented chef; sometimes if he is in a good mood he will let us taste some of the dishes he prepares for the masters. They are always excellent.’
‘Tell me, do the masters generally prefer food with a strong flavour?’
‘Yes, especially Batiatus. He likes his meals to have very bold flavours, and encourages the use of all sorts of expensive herbs and spices to enhance the taste. The chef has a whole range of condiments from all over the world.’
The General nodded slowly, smiling triumphantly as he did.
‘Good … then you can take the first step of this plan right now.’
‘How?’
He looked up to make sure that the guards weren’t watching, and into Arishat’s hand he slipped a small pouch, cut from a loincloth and bound crudely with torn-off cloth fibres. He closed the girl’s fingers around the illicit item and then quickly withdrew his hand, looking left and right to make sure the exchange hadn’t been seen.
‘Take this to the kitchen. Slip the powder that is inside that pouch into on
e of the chef’s herb or spice vials on the day that the time is right; it should be one with an especially strong flavour, so that the taste of our powder will not be too noticeable. And one that he is likely to use, of course.’
‘What is this powder?’
‘It is ground-up fungus of a type that grows in the damp darkness of the underground cell in which we gladiators are sometimes placed for punishment. Spartacus harvested this last time he was put in there. It is highly poisonous. A gladiator who was locked in the cell a while ago tried to eat a little of the fungus, and he was violently ill and was at death’s door for a few days. Of course, this small amount I’ve just given you, diluted in a soup or stew, will not kill or even make seriously ill those who consume it, but it will probably be enough to cause them a fair amount of discomfort and keep them off their feet for at least a few hours. And that is all we are going to need to succeed in our endeavour: a few hours, and those knives.’
‘Hey!’ rasped a thuggish voice from across the hall. ‘Hurry up and pick up those plates, you little bitch! Dining time is almost over, we need to clear these slave dogs out and get them back to their kennels!’
‘I have to go,’ Arishat whispered, her voice low with urgency. ‘Quickly, tell me what else I must do.’
‘We are ready for action at any time. Along with us three, there are ten more gladiators who have pledged their allegiance to us, and if we succeed, I think that every gladiator in this ludus will join us. All we need is for that powder to get into the masters’ food, and the knives to be brought to us.’
‘This must be done at the same time?’ asked Arishat.
‘Yes. This is crucial.’
She nodded.
‘I will keep a keen eye on the chef when he prepares food for the masters. But what of the knives?’
‘On the day that you put that poisonous powder into the masters’ food, you will give us a signal. Cough loudly, three times, when you enter the dining hall. Pretend you are feeling sick. Do this a total of three times – so, nine distinct coughs in total, grouped into threes. After this, one of us will bump into you. It will seem like an accident, and you will drop and smash your amphora of water. Go back to the kitchen to get another one, and slip as many knives from the sink as you can fit into it. Bring that to us … and we will unleash hell.’
