Someone slams into him from the side, knocking him from his feet. When he rises, he thinks, Free the Germani. That’s what Gaidres said to do. He said, Stay true and you will be free this night. Either that, or stay here and be killed.
Philon understands now what this is. A mass escape. The largeness of it hits him, pulls him like a tide he can’t resist. He didn’t ask for this. His lot in life is not as bad as the gladiators’. But this is happening. And still he’s a slave. Any slave here among the bodies of masters and free men in the morning will be killed. Roman law is simple on such matters. Staying is death. Helping may be life. He chooses one over the other and runs to make it so.
Dolmos
Dolmos knows he is not clever. He doesn’t have a spacious mind like Spartacus or Gaidres. But there are some things he is good at. Climbing is one. He has long arms and legs and is slim enough to lift himself with ease. That was why he was sent to scale the wall and kill the guard. He failed. He made noise when he shouldn’t have. He climbed faster after that but still did not kill the guard. Instead, he struggled with him. The point of the spear bruised his side and sliced his hands. And then it was Kastor who killed him. He wants to bang his fists against his temples as punishment for that, but he doesn’t think Spartacus would like for him to do that.
The other thing he is good at is being faithful. That’s why when he climbs down from the balcony, he follows Spartacus like a shadow. There is more violence to come, and if he can only do one thing right, he wants it to be protecting Spartacus’s life. He will die in his place if need be. He will take the sword or javelin or club aimed at him and meet it with his own body. That is how a true man protects his chieftain’s life. Spartacus is not a Maedi chieftain in this place, but he would have been if they were still in Thrace. He has the lineage, and he holds himself like a leader and thinks and acts like one. Dolmos is sure of this, so he makes it true here in the ludus. In his own mind, at least.
He is at his side, along with Gaidres and Nico and several others, waiting to meet the first of Vatia’s men who answer the call of the horn. Spartacus says some of them will be fools. They’ll be groggy, maybe, or just angry at being woken. A few will stumble out of the barracks ignorant of what awaits them.
“It would have been better,” Nico whispers, “if we had killed the guard before he sounded an alarm. Think how far we might have gotten before being discovered. We will lose lives this way.”
If Dolmos could walk away a little distance and pound his temples without being seen, he would.
Spartacus, seeming to know this, grasps him by the wrist. “It doesn’t matter now. Things are as they are. Put thoughts of what might have been from your mind.”
Nico doesn’t say anything. His eyes cut sideways at Dolmos, making sure he knows that Nico does not forgive as readily. Dolmos doesn’t need reminding of this. Nico never forgives.
Three of Vatia’s men emerge. Spartacus grabs the first by the neck and smashes his fist into his face. Gaidres cleaves into the second one. The third carries a sword, sheathed. He tries to run back to the inner gate, but the guards inside it, seeing the Thracians, slam the gate closed. The man isn’t even able to unsheathe his sword before Nico trips as he chases him and falls on the back of the guard’s legs. Before either can rise, Spartacus stomps on the man’s sword arm, then on his head. The men on the other side of the bars stare in disbelief. They issue threats and promises. Spartacus taunts them, challenging them to come out now. Why wait? He is here, ready to greet them.
They will not be baited and do not come out.
Back in the open again, having turned from them in disgust, Spartacus says, “When the rest of them come out, they’ll be prepared. They’ll be armed and armored and alert.”
He doesn’t say that their side has only four swords among them, some cleavers and knives from the kitchen. That will make for ugly fighting, if it comes to it. If they’re quick enough, it may not. The plan had never been to fight them all, only as many as need be to escape. Perhaps that can still be achieved.
Women creep out into the night. Five. No, six of them. The more the better. Cerzula is among them. She carries a lamp. Gaidres calls to her, telling her to start fires in the storage sheds, ones that will spread. She goes to the task, taking Epta and others with her.
Nico asks, “Where are the Celts? Should I go for them?”
Gaidres says, “No. They are being freed as we speak.”
“I hope—” Nico begins.
Spartacus doesn’t wait to hear what he hopes. “We carry on.”
Yes, Dolmos thinks. We carry on.
They run for the side gate, the one that Vatia uses to bring in wagons of supplies. With this, or the larger main gate, no keys will aid them. They are secured from the outside. It’s tall. The height of three men at least. The beams are even and closely fitted, with nothing to make hand- or footholds out of. Dolmos wishes there were something to grab on to. He would climb again and prove himself this time.
Spartacus shouts for hands to help build a mountain of debris beside it. He points at crates. At timbers stacked for some construction project. They drag a wagon into place. Things are thrown on top of it, anything to give them the height to scale the wall. As he lifts and shoves, Dolmos sees more people emerging into the night. More women. The boys who carry water. The kitchen slaves. The Mysian, Chromis. He sees some of the Libyan gladiators, and that is good. More cells have been unlocked. The more the better. But they need the Celts. Where are they?
Flames from Vatia’s quarters light the night. An explosion in the storage sheds sends a plume of black smoke into the sky. Another horn blows, this one from the wall beside the main gate. Whoever is sounding that alarm is out of sight. His bellows are directed outward. The city will know something is happening. There’s not much time.
Spartacus climbs atop the mound of objects and peers over the gate, Dolmos right behind him. “Give me space to breathe, brother,” Spartacus says.
Dolmos is close enough to see what Spartacus sees. At first, no one. Just a lane, cluttered with a little debris. Just normal things, but the promise of it is exhilarating. There. Right there. Freedom. It seems almost too much good fortune.
It is. Two guards step from the shadows. Both draw their swords. One begins shouting for support.
Kastor says, “I’ll shut him up.” The Galatian sets another crate in place, mounts it, and swings one of his long legs over the gate. He swings his second leg around and perches there briefly. He propels himself with a bellow, cleaver gripped in one hand. He hits hard, but his legs don’t fight the impact. They fold, and he rolls. He comes out of the roll on his feet. He throws the cleaver. It hits one of the guards in the face, but with the handle instead of the blade. It’s enough, though. The man is off balance when Kastor swipes his leg, and they both go down, fighting furiously. The other guard—who might have made all the difference for his fellow—turns and runs, down the lane and around the corner.
That’s the wrong thing to do, Dolmos thinks. He would never, never do that.
And then Astera is with them. She grabs Spartacus’s arm, steadying herself as she climbs onto the highest crate. She looks over and says, calmly, “Will it open? This is too much height for us all to jump. Remember the women.”
“I remember the women” is Spartacus’s response. “I remember everyone.”
Yes, Dolmos thinks. That’s why he is a man worthy of loyalty. That’s why, from listening to him talk, Dolmos understands things he didn’t before. It’s why his mind is growing wider and holding more things within it.
—
A few days before, at the far end of the training ground, in the corner, Spartacus had asked Dolmos if he knew what they intended. Dolmos paused.
“Keep attacking or he will look at us.” Spartacus indicated Numa, the doctore, with a tilt of his helmeted head. Numa, with his eyes that saw everything and his far-reaching whip. He was instructing some new meat, but Spartacus was right. The moment they stopped
their repetitive training, he would notice. He always did.
The two men worked close together. It was an attack drill. Dolmos tried again and again to get past Spartacus’s tall murmillo’s shield and find flesh with the point of his wooden training sword. Playing the part of hoplomachus, he sweltered in his quilted trousers and greaves. The guard on his sword arm dripped with moisture, as did the wool that lined his helmet. He hated this costume. These were not Thracian arms. This was no way for a Maedi to fight.
Dolmos thought a long time about how to answer, then said, “To escape and be free.”
“Yes, to escape and be free,” Spartacus agreed, speaking low so that the guards would not hear him. He caught one of Dolmos’s thrusts with the side of his shield, spinning away from it. “That’s good.”
Dolmos stabbed. Was blocked again. As far as he could tell, Spartacus’s eyes missed nothing. Somehow he kept all of him in focus and took all of him in and saw what he was going to do before he did it.
“That is part of it,” Spartacus whispered, “but freedom isn’t the end point. It’s a state that means a man can decide how he wishes to go forward with his life. It’s the beginning, not the end. See?”
Dolmos was listening hard. He always did when Spartacus talked. But he didn’t answer. His mind was getting wider, but still Spartacus often said things he didn’t understand. Spartacus, like Gaidres, could read Greek and speak fluent Latin. Back in Thrace they had been considered noble and been educated accordingly. Dolmos hadn’t been. He’s reminded of this every time either of them opens his mouth.
“I’ll tell you something. When I was young, I cared little for people other than Thracians. I despised many Thracians as well: for their customs, their manners, their weaknesses. There are so many things to look at in other men and ask, ‘What way is that to live?’ I was Maedi first, only part of a larger people second.”
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Dolmos nodded. All that made sense to him. He was Maedi first as well. He knew their ways the best and liked them the most.
“We have always loved to fight among ourselves. Always, since the time of ancients. Who better to test ourselves against than men who speak the same language and value the same things? This is how we Thracians think. Because of it, it was easy to accept the pay the Romans offered for our swords. Right? Why not? We fought among ourselves anyway. Why not take the Roman’s coin at the same time?”
Spartacus swatted away another attack, then yanked his shield up and cut the edge of it into Dolmos’s wrist. Not hard, as he would in battle. Not with wrist-snapping force. “This was true of me, but it was your story too. I was eager to march against the Bessi. You were too, young as you were. They had insulted the Maedi for years and deserved to be punished. And the Odomanti…They had been allies, yes, but they had joined with the Doberes in an allegiance the Romans said was surely meant to strengthen them before they turned on the Maedi. It was easy to think they coveted Maedi territory, our horses and gold and women. The Romans had only to say so for us to suspect that it was true. See? We are too simple a people sometimes.”
Dolmos heard him, but he didn’t nod this time. If Spartacus was simple, what was he?
Numa strolled away from the Libyans, nearer, but lecturing Kastor and his sparring partner on something now.
“So we fought the Odomanti alongside Roman troops, and we prevailed,” Spartacus continued, circling to keep the doctore in sight. “That was well and good, but then what happened? What did they ask us to do next?”
“To go against our own,” Dolmos answered.
“Yesss,” Spartacus hissed. His voice sharpened, punching his words in a way that quickened Dolmos’s heartbeat. “Exactly. To go against our own. They ordered us to help them subdue our own people. They wanted Maedi blood on our swords, and they promised us, in return, that we would be rewarded. We would be important and rich among our people, so long as we did Rome’s bidding. But we refused. We refused and abandoned them and fought against them instead. Then they came at us with the Paeonians beside them. The Paeonians! A people we had no quarrel with. Then I realized that without the Odomanti to call on for aid, the Maedi were weak. You see, the Romans used us one after another against our people, making us think we were prospering at the expense of our neighbors. But it was an illusion. We didn’t see that the whole time only Rome was growing stronger. We were killing ourselves for them. What happened then?”
Dolmos thought a moment. “We went into the mountains to the Bessi.”
“Your memory is good. We went there, and Gaidres spoke for us. He told them all that we had learned on the plains. We knew the Bessi hated the Romans and hated any who wanted to lord over them. We knew that would make them allies in our cause. That night we feasted with them and drank with them and we made plans to fight together. We were getting smart, weren’t we? Attack me!”
Spartacus punched at Dolmos with his shield. Dolmos jabbed but couldn’t find a way past it. They circled again. Dolmos wasn’t sure if that was a statement he was supposed to agree with, or a question meant to trick him. He didn’t answer.
“We were, but not smart enough. What we didn’t know was that the Romans had planted worms inside the Bessi before ever we arrived to call them brothers. We awoke with swords at our necks, chained. It’s they—our Thracian brothers—who made slaves of us. It’s they who sold us to Rome for false promises. Because of it, we live trapped now, here in the ludus. Next year, or the year after, it will be the Bessi brought here in chains. They bought a short reprieve and assured eventual defeat at the same time. Who am I to judge, though? We did the same.
“But I’m not getting to the point quickly enough. Here, in this ludus, who do we live with? Foreign races, some of them peoples no Thracian has ever heard of before. We live with men who are strange to look upon. They have gods we know nothing of. They speak in garbled tongues that we can’t understand. They are men to be avoided, right? Except…they cannot be avoided. We are trapped with them. Some of them we have killed in the arena. Some of them have killed us. One killed Ziles, even if it took him weeks to die of the injury. Some of these strangers are weak and cowardly. But most are not. Though we can’t talk with them in our tongue, we can use the Roman language. Or Greek. Even you speak some Greek, right, Dolmos?”
In answer, he said, “Naí.”
Spartacus snorted. “Yes. That’s right. Naí. See? Despite ourselves, we’ve come to know men who were once foreign to us. And they have come to know us. Not just the men; the women as well. They labor beside us in their own way. They’re abused in measures equal to the men. Different, but don’t think the crimes they endure are less than ours.”
Dolmos stabbed and was blocked again.
“I came to ask myself what are kinsmen but those who know you and who you know as well? Men whom you can trust. Some will betray you. Some elevate you. Others covet what you have and wish to tear it down. Still, kin do this. What are kinswomen but women who live on in your mind when they are not physically there? Women who bring to mind the past and make you long for a future? Women who share trials of existence with the men in their lives? All these things were true in Thrace. They have been true here as well. You must understand that we have many, many kinsfolk in this land. All we need do—and it will not be easy—is unite them. Ziles was going to help me do that, but he’s gone on to the next world now. Can I count on you to stay and help me?”
Dolmos said, “Naí.”
And then Numa was too near to continue talking. A Latin from some hill tribe, the doctore was short-legged, stout in the middle and strong in the shoulders. He chastised Dolmos for the positioning of his feet. He carried a lead rod. He broke in between them and hit Dolmos’s legs with it, moving them into a better position. Each impact was painful, but Dolmos didn’t flinch. He did as instructed, looking past the doctore at Spartacus. The man’s gray eyes were there for him. His lips didn’t move now, but Dolmos thought he knew what they would say. Be calm. Patient. The time was coming. Soon
they would rise.
—
And they have. That’s why Dolmos is atop the side gate beside Spartacus and Astera.
“I don’t care about everyone,” Astera says. “Remember the women.”
Below them, Kastor gets the better of the guard. He rises while the other man doesn’t. He rubs at his jaw, grimacing. He has a sword. Five blades. They have five blades now.
“See?” Kastor calls up to them. “I shut him up. He should’ve ran like the other.”
“Can you open the gate?” Spartacus asks.
The Galatian checks. He can’t. It’s barred with a stout beam. He says, “We can lift it, but only with more hands than mine.”
“Dolmos, go help him,” Spartacus orders. He calls back for others to join Kastor.
Dolmos looks down. The climb would be easy using the crossbeams and the metal plates that hold the gate’s timbers together. He could do it, but he doesn’t want to leave Spartacus unprotected.
Nico brushes past him. His face shows his contempt. He goes over. Several others follow.
Spartacus watches them descend. When they reach the ground, he looks at Dolmos, face grave. He begins, “Dolmos, when I—”
That’s as far as he gets. Gaidres’s shout of alarm cuts him off.
Vatia’s men arrive. A tight-packed, bristling wedge of them comes out of the barracks. They are armored. Their shields scallop together, helmeted heads above them. They have swords. In addition, men with leashed dogs appear. The hounds are wild with excitement, barking and growling, lurching to get free. And then they are free. They surge into the throng, running, biting. And there are suddenly men on the balconies of Vatia’s quarters. They take position and begin to rain down javelins, the Roman kind. Dolmos knows them well. He once caught one in his shield. It punched through, far enough to nick his chest.
People begin dying.
It’s almost too much. The military might. The missiles from above. The hounds raging through the crowd, taking chunks out of men and women both. The chaos, which the slaves had early owned, is shifting to aid Vatia’s men instead. Dolmos senses everything is about to collapse. Spartacus is leaning far over the gate, urging Kastor and the others to swiftness. Epta and the other women, who are panicked, climb the crates. Gaidres pulls men to him, arranging them in ranks to best meet Vatia’s men. Dolmos wants to protect Spartacus but thinks to do so he should join the others and fight. He’s about to when Spartacus grinds a word between his teeth. The word is “Yeeeessss!”
The Risen Page 5