Spartacus: The Gladiator (15 page)

Seeing her mood, Spartacus chose to ignore her.

The bad feeling between them lingered in the air like a bad smell, and they retired in silence. Spartacus blew out the oil light, and lay down beside Ariadne. They were close enough to touch, but neither did so. Neither spoke either. After a few moments, Spartacus turned over and inadvertently brushed his leg against hers. She turned on him before he could say a word of apology. ‘This marriage is a convenient pretence, you understand? Don’t get any ideas.’

She saw his lips twitch in the half-light. ‘I touched you by mistake. And I never thought our “marriage” would be otherwise.’

Ariadne was furious to feel cheated that he hadn’t put up more of an argument. I’m acting like a child, she thought. But she couldn’t bring herself to apologise. The last man to touch her had been her father.
Damn him to hell
. A wave of hatred towards all men swelled in her heart.
You profess to want a husband, when in reality you’ll never let anyone close
. She was too frightened to do so.
Stop it
.
There are decent men in the world, men who do not act as my father did. Spartacus is one of them
. If he wasn’t, she reflected with a guilty thrill, why did she want him to touch her?

Spartacus stared at the outline of her shape, watched her chest go up and down with each breath.
Why is the bloody woman so prickly?
Suddenly, he grinned.
She’s still damn attractive. Maybe she’ll come around in the end
. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he closed his eyes and fell straight to sleep.

Once he began to snore gently, Ariadne relaxed. The moon came out from behind the clouds that had masked it previously, and the cell filled with a gentle yellow light. Spartacus did not stir, and Ariadne was shocked to find herself surreptitiously studying him. Guilty pleasure filled her at what she saw. There were little laughter lines at the corners of his eyes that she’d not noticed before, and a few hairs that shone white among the others on his head. The scar on his nose and cheek had tiny dots on either side of it, marking where the sutures had sat. His face, neck and arms were a darker colour than the skin that normally lay beneath his tunic. Everything about Spartacus, from his firm chin to his wiry muscles, spoke of strength. Ariadne found it most reassuring, and when an image of Phortis inevitably came to mind, she was able to shove it away with ease.

To her surprise, sleep was not long coming.

For the second time, she dreamed of being in Spartacus’ arms.

Carbo slurped down the dregs of his wine and stared into the bottom of his cup, hoping for inspiration. He found none. Glancing around the clammy, packed tavern, he scowled. He wouldn’t be finding any in here either. The place was full of lowlifes: scrawny, ill-fed men with, if Carbo were to make a bet on it, a nasty tendency towards the criminal. The only women present were a couple of gap-toothed, straggle-haired waitresses and three diseased-looking whores. The inn’s sole attraction was its wine, which was the cheapest Carbo had found. It didn’t taste that bad, considering its likely provenance. After a few its flavour had even started to grow on him.

‘Another one?’

Carbo turned his head to find the innkeeper standing over him. He looked at the four bronze coins on the bar top by his left hand. They were all he had left of the two denarii that Paccius had given him. He let rip with a morose belch. At least he’d had the sense to pay his rent arrears first. ‘Why not?’

In the blink of an eye, his crudely worked clay cup had been filled; one of the coins also vanished.

Carbo nodded his thanks before taking a deep swallow. He considered his day for the umpteenth time. What had gone wrong? His plan of hanging around his former home had initially seemed a good one. An excellent one, in fact. He’d wanted to see Paccius, to have a word with the only person in the world who still had time for him. It had worked, too. The Samnite had emerged not long before noon, heading out on an errand. Carbo had caught up with him on the next street, and they had walked all the way to Capua’s forum together.

Naturally, Paccius hadn’t had any news of his parents, but he’d been able to tell Carbo all about what was going on. How their new master, Crassus’ agent, did not seem too bad – for the moment. Carbo had been glad for the Samnite, and the other domestic slaves, whom he liked well enough. He’d been mortified when Paccius had pressed the two silver coins on him, however. ‘You need these more than I do,’ he had said. To Carbo’s undying shame, he’d taken the coins. Saying goodbye to Paccius had been even more poignant than the first time, when he’d crept out before his parents woke.
I took money from one of my own slaves
. His attempt to join the army had also been a disaster. The centurion he’d approached had demanded proof that he was seventeen. Carbo had stuttered that his birthday was not far off. The officer had told him in a kindly tone to come back with the relevant paperwork when the time was right. Of course he wouldn’t be able to comply, because his father had all the family records.
It’s all fucking Crassus’ fault
. He drained his cup and thumped it savagely on to the wooden top.

Hearing the impact, the innkeeper materialised once more. ‘Want a refill?’

‘Why not?’ snarled Carbo. ‘I’ve nothing else to be doing.’

An instant later, he had another full cup of wine, and only two coins. Soon after, it was one coin, and then none. Carbo was destitute once more. Before he had time to dwell on that miserable detail, one of the prostitutes sidled over and tried to sit on his knee. Carbo waved her away irritably. ‘Even if I wanted to, I can’t afford it.’

‘You’ve got this,’ she purred, poking at the brooch on his cloak with a cracked, dirty fingernail. ‘I’ll screw you every night for a week for it. Maybe even two weeks, if you’re man enough.’ She cackled at her own joke.

‘That piece is worth more than your life, you diseased bitch,’ Carbo growled. ‘Leave me alone.’

Her expression soured. ‘Who said I’d fuck you anyway? Those scars would put anyone off.’

Carbo raised the back of his hand to her, and she stepped back, curling her lip. But it was a pyrrhic victory. The moment that the whore had reached her friends, she began jeering and pointing at him. ‘Shame you’re not a man or I’d give you a damn good hiding,’ he growled, making an obscene gesture. They hissed with fury. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Carbo made for the door. When would his luck change? he wondered bitterly. Making any kind of money seemed impossible. Pulling open the door, he stumbled outside. The blast of cold air that hit him restored some of his senses.
I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep
. Trying to keep that thought uppermost, Carbo wove off into the narrow, unpaved alley. Despite the near complete darkness, he knew his way back to the insula atop which his garret perched. It wasn’t far.

A moment later, the prostitute whom Carbo had rejected came hurrying out of the inn. She was accompanied by an unsavoury-looking man. Both came skulking after him.

The first thing Carbo knew about it was when a heavy blow struck the back of his head. The explosion of light that burst across his eyes was accompanied by a tidal wave of pain, and he dropped like a sack of grain. Landing face first in the muck, Carbo was all too aware of its foul stench, and taste, but he was too weak to do anything about it, or about the fingers that were already rifling under his tunic for a purse.
Bastards!

‘Don’t waste your time,’ said a shrill female voice. ‘He’s got no money, just the brooch I told you about.’

‘It’s still worth checking,’ growled the man. ‘You never know what you might find.’

Carbo felt himself being rolled over, and a hand pawing at his left shoulder. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled as the fabric ripped. His reward for speaking was a blow across the face that smacked his head back down into the reeking blend of mud and human waste. Light-headed, half stunned, Carbo’s strength deserted him.

‘Shall I cut his throat?’

‘You might as well,’ answered the woman. ‘In case he saw us coming after him.’

I know who you are, and I’ll kill you if I get half a chance, Carbo wanted to say, but his attempt came out as an unintelligible mumble. As his chin was shoved back, he tensed in expectation of the blade.
What a god-awful way to die
.

There was a creaking sound from above as a window opened. An instant later, a torrent of urine and faeces landed on all three of them. The woman screamed. ‘Hades take your soul!’ roared the man. ‘What whoreson did that?’

‘It was I, Ambrosius the veteran,’ bellowed a loud voice. ‘And now I’m coming outside with three of my slaves. We’re all armed with swords and spears.’

Carbo felt the weight on his chest ease as the thug scrambled up. ‘That’s it. I’m not dying just to finish off this fool.’

‘Leave him,’ muttered the woman. ‘Hopefully, he’ll die anyway.’

Dimly, Carbo heard their footsteps retreating. He tried to move but his limbs didn’t seem his own. He heard a door creak open and then the orange glow of an oil lamp penetrated the darkness.

A ruddy, concerned face bent over him. ‘Are you alive?’

‘I think so. My head hurts like a bastard.’

‘I’d say it does,’ replied Ambrosius with a scowl. ‘I heard the crack of the blow from my bedroom.’ Carbo tried to sit up, but Ambrosius pressed him back down again. ‘Wait.’ He probed with his fingers around the sides and back of Carbo’s head. ‘I can’t feel a break. You’ll probably live,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Grab my hand.’

Carbo obeyed, and felt himself being pulled upright. The mud made a wet, sucking sound as it released him, and his nostrils were again filled with the rank odour of everything that made it into such a glutinous morass. He didn’t care. ‘They took my brooch. It was the only valuable I had.’ He made to move after the thieves. ‘I have to get it back.’

Ambrosius’ strong arm blocked his way. ‘I wouldn’t. Be grateful that you don’t have a gaping smile around the base of your neck.’

His slave nodded in mute agreement.

Reality crashed back down on Carbo. Better to be covered in shit and breathing than to be dead. ‘Very well. Thank you for your help.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Ambrosius wrinkled his nose and stepped back a little. ‘Gods, but you stink. You’ve got baths at home?’

Carbo’s pride rallied. ‘Yes, yes,’ he lied.

‘Good. You’ll understand if I don’t accompany you,’ said Ambrosius. ‘And as for my slave, well, I only have the one …’ Looking shamefaced, he fell silent.

‘It’s all right. You did more than most people would ever do, coming out on to the street in the middle of the night. I can find my own way back.’ To what? he thought furiously.

‘Here.’ Ambrosius shoved forward the oil lamp and his rusty gladius. ‘You’ll have more chance of making it with these.’

‘But—’

‘I insist. If you wish, return them to me in the morning. My door is the one by the butcher’s. As you know, Ambrosius is my name.’

‘Thank you,’ said Carbo simply, accepting both lamp and sword. ‘I will come back tomorrow.’

‘Excellent! My wife won’t have any reason to complain if I bring you in for a cup of wine then.’

Leaving Ambrosius and his slave to return indoors, Carbo trudged off. The end of his all too brief contact with a decent person fuelled the flames of his anger to new heights. Now he had to return to his garret, where no one cared if he lived or died. Where the crone would keep him awake all night with her coughing. It wasn’t even as if he could wash before climbing into his bed. The insula had no running water, so he’d have to lie in his own filth until the morning, when it was safe to go out and the public baths were open. Carbo wished for the pair who had attacked him to appear before him.
I’d cut them both to pieces
.

Of course nothing happened. He kept walking.

Then, in the flickering light cast by his oil lamp, something caught his eye. He stopped and peered at the plastered wall to his left. On it, someone had scratched a series of crude drawings. Carbo leaned closer, making out a pair of small, almost childlike figures fighting each other and, on either side, sets of cursive characters. He read the gladiators’ names and the boasts about them. ‘Hilarus the Thracian, never defeated, victor in fifteen fights, and Attilius the Samnite, strongest of his tribe, and killer of four men.’ Hope, and a little excitement, stirred deep in Carbo’s heart. Here was one path left for him to follow. It might be that taken by the lowest of the low, by criminals, prisoners of war and slaves, yet occasionally it was taken by a citizen. He could become an
auctoratus
, a contracted gladiator. If he succeeded, the financial rewards could be very great indeed.

The thought made Carbo’s lips twitch. Despite all that had happened that day, this seemed like a sign from the gods.

Spartacus was woken before dawn by the cold. His blanket had slipped off in the night. Pulling it up to his chin, he trained his ear to the early-morning sounds entering from outside. The strident crowing of a cock in the ludus’ vegetable garden, which he’d seen outside the thick walls. The rattle of a sword tip along the window bars of the gladiators’ cells. Phortis’ nasal tone rousing them from sleep. The slap of men’s feet on bare concrete floors. Throats being cleared. The distinctive noise of spitting. And from beyond the ludus, where Capua’s market sprawled, the hum of normal life: the rival cries of bakers, butchers and other tradesmen. From the nearby Via Appia came the shouted greetings of travellers, the creak of cartwheels mixed with the lowing of oxen, and the ill-tempered braying of mules. It was very ordinary, and very similar to Thrace. Spartacus hated it. Loathed it. Freedom was so near, he thought bitterly, and so far. A world away. Who’d have imagined that after years of service to the Romans, he’d end up as the lowest of the low?
A fucking gladiator
. He thought of Kotys and grimaced.
At least I’m alive
.