by Ben Kane
He walked quietly back to Getas’ house, bidding farewell to the others one by one. Safely indoors, his friend handed him a spare blanket. Spartacus nodded his thanks. He lay down without undressing, making sure that his sword was to hand.
Getas crept under the covers with his wife, who was now mercifully asleep.
Spartacus closed his eyes. So much had happened that day that he expected to lie awake until the appointed hour, which was when Getas’ cockerel started to crow. Apparently, it was annoyingly reliable, beginning its morning chorus an hour before sunrise each day. Spartacus was more weary than he’d realised, however. Lying back, he sank into a dreamless slumber.
He woke to the sound of splintering wood. Long years of combat experience sent him leaping up, tugging at his sword. Too little sleep, and the fact that he stumbled as he rose, meant that Spartacus had no time to draw his blade successfully. Half a dozen men came charging through the remains of the door, clubs in hand. They closed in on him and Getas, who had grabbed a cooking spit from the fire, like wolves cornering a deer. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Getas mumbled. ‘What do you want?’
Spartacus knew in the pit of his belly what this meant. Someone has betrayed us. One of the men smashed him across the head with his club. The stars that burst across his vision were accompanied by a tidal wave of agony. He dropped to the floor like a bag of rocks. As more blows rained down, he was dimly aware of Getas’ wife and children screaming in the background. Rage battered the edges of his consciousness, yet Spartacus could only curl into the foetal position in a vain attempt to escape more punishment.
‘Stop,’ shouted a voice at last. ‘You’ll kill him.’
Reluctantly, the warriors stood back.
It took every shred of Spartacus’ strength to move, but he managed to uncurl himself and look up. ‘Getas?’ he croaked.
‘I’m all right.’
He eyed the handsome warrior who looked to be in charge. ‘Motherless cur! You must be Polles.’
There was a mocking bow. ‘At your service.’
‘If you lay a hand on the woman or the babes, I’ll-’
‘Do what?’ interrupted Polles with a cruel laugh. His men smirked.
‘Cut your balls off and force you to eat them,’ growled Spartacus. ‘That’s before I kill you.’
‘I’d like to see you try.’ Polles stepped over and kicked Spartacus in the belly, causing him to retch uncontrollably. ‘Fortunately for you, the king doesn’t want them harmed. At least, not yet.’ He sniggered.
Spartacus reached out weakly, trying to grab Polles by the ankle, but the champion just moved beyond his reach. ‘Everyone thought you were dead.’
‘Clearly, I’m not.’
‘You will be soon. Plot to murder the king, would you?’
‘You’d know all about murdering,’ replied Spartacus. ‘You whoreson.’
Polles chuckled. ‘Heard about your father, then?’
Spartacus threw him a hate-filled glare by way of reply. ‘Who’s the rat? Who told you?’
Polles glanced at his men. ‘Shall I tell him, or let him stew in his juices for a while?’
‘Leave it until he sees who it is,’ suggested one warrior cruelly. ‘I’d like to see the expression on his face when he realises.’
‘Good idea,’ purred Polles.
‘Fuck you all,’ whispered Spartacus. Now he remembered the delay before Olynthus had replied to his question. Olynthus. He was the traitor for sure.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ asked Getas’ wife in a trembling voice.
‘What do you think?’ Polles sneered. ‘These two and the other prick who is responsible will be tied up in front of the whole tribe and tortured. When Kotys is happy that all the conspirators have been identified, he’ll have their throats cut. The remainder will simply be executed.’
Screaming with rage, she threw herself at Polles, but the warrior guarding her stuck out his foot. Getas’ wife tripped and went sprawling to the floor, coming to rest beside Spartacus. She did not try to get up, even when the children began to wail. Silent sobs racked her thin frame.
Impotent fury filled Spartacus. ‘Ariadne?’
‘So it was you who stood up for her by the gate. I thought it might have been,’ snarled Polles. ‘Once the day’s proceedings have finished, Kotys is throwing a celebratory feast. He’ll bed her after that. She’s to be his new wife.’
Spartacus’ face contorted with fury, and he tried to get up. A heavy blow from a club knocked him back to the floor. He was barely aware of being picked up and carried outside. Outside, a crowd had gathered. Their faces were unhappy, but none dared intervene. They’ll have attacked Seuthes and Medokos’ huts at the same time, thought Spartacus bitterly.
Then the blackness took him.
When Ariadne awoke, she looked straight at the spot where Spartacus had sat. Disappointment at his absence and guilt for feeling like that filled her. Sharp realisation sank home a moment later as she stared at the daylight streaming in through the chinks in the roof. It was nearly full day. She had overslept. Cursing, she jumped up and padded to the door. Why had the fighting not woken her? She was a light sleeper at the best of times. Maybe there was no fighting. Could they have been betrayed? The thought made Ariadne feel sick to the pit of her stomach. Please, no.
Throwing her cloak around her shoulders and picking up the basket that contained her snake, she unlocked the door and stepped outside. Unusually, the alleyway was deserted, but Ariadne could hear the swelling noise of a crowd from the central meeting area. Cold sweat ran down her back as she walked slowly towards the sound. Her feet felt as heavy as lead. Something had gone wrong. Spartacus had failed. She knew it in her bones.
Rallying her courage, she emerged from the alley. Practically everyone in the settlement looked to be present. They weren’t happy either. The angry mutters rising from the onlookers made it clear that whatever was going on in the centre was unpopular. Ariadne’s dread grew as she heard Spartacus’ name being shouted periodically. Other names were also being cried out, although she didn’t catch them. Ariadne began pushing her way through the throng. People soon gave way when they saw who wanted to pass by, and it wasn’t long before she had reached the front of the crowd. Her knees nearly buckled at what she saw. The king’s entire force of bodyguards stood in a rough square around three wooden frames upon each of which a man had been tied, face down. Polles waited behind them, holding a whip. Kotys stood alongside him, a thin smile playing across his lips. To their rear, perhaps three score warriors were kneeling in the dirt, ropes tied around their necks. Their bloodied and battered appearance told its own story.
‘Who are they?’ Ariadne whispered to a woman beside her.
‘Spartacus, Sitalkes’ son. Getas and Seuthes, his friends, and the men who had sworn them loyalty.’
Where are the rest? Ariadne wanted to scream. Where are Olynthus and Medokos? But she had no time to linger on the horror of that implication, that Spartacus had been betrayed by two of his so-called comrades, because Kotys stepped forward, smirking. ‘Priestess. You honour us with your presence. I’m glad that you will witness this.’
Ariadne turned her face away in disgust. It was the only way she could resist. Dionysus, help us please, she begged silently. I’ll do anything. Anything.
Kotys made a gesture at Polles.
‘Before you are three traitors who planned to depose the king. Know that one of their number is not here. He was killed when my men went to arrest him.’
Spartacus had just come to. I honour your passing, Medokos, he thought. At least you died well.
‘Together these pieces of filth persuaded more than sixty warriors’ — Polles waved contemptuously at the tied-up figures to his rear — ‘to join their hopeless cause. Thank the Rider, Kotys was alerted to the danger. He owes his thanks to the loyalty of a warrior whom Spartacus, the fool, trusted implicitly.’
The bodyguards roared with laughter.
Balefully
, Spartacus lifted his head from the frame. He caught Getas and Seuthes doing the same.
‘Step forward, Medokos,’ ordered Polles triumphantly.
Utter disbelief filled Spartacus as Medokos emerged from the crowd to a chorus of jeers. So Olynthus is dead. Forgive me, brother, for misjudging you.
‘How could you?’ roared Getas. ‘You fucking shitbag!’
‘Curse you to hell!’ cried Seuthes.
Spartacus stared at Medokos with utter hatred.
His former friend flinched, but walked out to stand by Kotys, who patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your loyalty will not be forgotten.’
Ariadne began calling down silent curses on Medokos’ head. May he go blind. May disease waste the flesh from his bones. May lightning strike him down, or a horse throw him to his death. She knew that if there was ever a time to flee, it was now, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. At the very least, Spartacus and his comrades deserved someone to stand witness to their terrible fate.
‘Continue, Polles,’ directed the king.
‘The traitors are to be whipped first. Forty lashes for each man.’ He indicated the tools on the table beside him with an evil smile. ‘Then the real torture will begin. When we’re done, I will slit their throats and move on to the other scumbags.’ He glanced at Kotys.
‘Luckily for you miserable goat-turds,’ the king thundered, ‘the tribe cannot afford to lose so many warriors. I have therefore decided that one in six of you will die. Ten men, drawn by lot. The rest of you will swear undying allegiance to me, and will provide a hostage as surety of this newfound allegiance.’
The crowd’s unhappiness soared, and they pressed forward at the bodyguards, who used their javelin butts to restore control. Ariadne’s rage knew no bounds. She had to stop herself from leaping out at the king and trying to kill him. Dionysus, help me, please.
‘Start with Spartacus,’ commanded Kotys.
Ariadne could not watch, but she nor could she block her ears to the horror. There was a sibilant whisper as the whip hissed through the air. Next came the crack as it connected with Spartacus’ flesh. Last — and worst of all — came his stifled groan. Within a couple of heartbeats, Polles brought the whip down again. And again. And again. It was unbearable. To stop herself from crying out, Ariadne bit the inside of her lip. It wasn’t long before the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but rather than release her grip, she clamped her teeth even tighter. Somehow, the agonising pain filling her head made it easier to listen to Spartacus’ ordeal.
By the time that Spartacus had counted twenty lashes, he could feel his strength slipping away. He was angered, but unsurprised. During his time with the legions, he had seen soldiers whipped on plenty of occasions. By forty lashes, he’d be semi-conscious, the flesh of his back in tatters. If Polles was ordered to continue beyond that, he would know nothing after sixty strokes. From that point, he could easily die from his injuries. That thought brought a fleeting, sour smile to Spartacus’ lips. Kotys wouldn’t want him to die under the lash. It would end at fifty strokes. Only then would the true pain begin. He’d seen the table covered in the tools of the trade: the pliers, probes and serrated blades, the glowing brazier alongside. Still his experience didn’t seem real. It felt like a complete aberration. Beaten and tortured to death in my own village. How… ironic.
Spartacus didn’t hear the challenge of the sentry at the gate.
Kotys, Polles, Ariadne and those watching the gory spectacle were also oblivious.
It was when the column of men filed inside the walls that people began to notice. Heads began to turn. Men asked questions of each other. Some even broke away to go and speak with the newcomers. Ariadne craned her head, but the throng prevented her from seeing anything. Eventually, even the king became aware that something was going on and ordered Polles to cease.
With a disappointed look, the champion obeyed.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Spartacus sagged against the wooden frame. He had no idea why Polles had stopped. The short delay was welcome, however. It would give him the chance to recover some of his strength. Allow him to endure more of the pain when it resumed. He caught Ariadne looking at him, and the agonised expression on her face tore at his conscience. He tried to smile in reassurance, but succeeded only in grimacing. Great Rider, protect her at least.
‘Let them approach,’ shouted Kotys.
There was a short delay as his bodyguards manhandled people out of the way to create a path leading towards the gate. Curious, Spartacus squinted to see who, or what, had halted his punishment.
The first person to come striding into sight was a shaven-headed, blocky man wearing a faded green cloak. From the belt around his waist hung a sheathed gladius. The newcomer looked as if he knew how to use it too. He resembled a Roman soldier, thought Spartacus. So did the eight similarly armed figures following him. Hard-faced, their limbs laced with scars, they had to be veteran legionaries. The men in ragged clothes who stumbled along behind, and who were chained to each other’s necks, were a different matter. Even the smallest child could see that they were slaves. They were of different nationalities: some were Thracian, but others seemed to be Pontic or even Scythian. Two men took up the rear, leading a trio of mules.
Slave-trader scum, thought Spartacus savagely. Men like these — human vultures — had followed in the wake of every army he had ever served in. They usually bought prisoners captured by the legionaries, but they weren’t above abducting anyone weak or foolish enough to come within their grasp. Men, women, children — they took them all. In recent decades, Rome’s appetite for slaves had become insatiable. This individual was not an average slave trader, however. He only had males, which meant that his prospective clients owned farms or mines. Spartacus closed his eyes and tried to rest. This was nothing to do with him.
‘That’s close enough,’ shouted Polles when the newcomer was a dozen steps from Kotys. ‘Bow to the king.’
Immediately, the other obeyed. ‘My name is Phortis. I am a trader,’ he said in poor Thracian. ‘I come in peace.’
‘It’s as well,’ said Kotys acidly. ‘Nine of you wouldn’t make much impression against my bodyguards.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’ Phortis smile’ was rueful.
‘Why are you here?’
‘My master in Italy has sent me in search of slaves, Your Majesty.’
‘I can see that. Agricultural slaves and the like, eh?’
‘No, Your Majesty. I want men who can fight in the arena, as…’ Phortis paused, searching for the right word before reverting to Latin. ‘… gladiators.’
Spartacus’ ears pricked. He had seen Roman prisoners of war forced to fight each other to the death for the amusement of thousands of cheering legionaries. The savagery of these combats had been mitigated by the fact that the victors were often allowed to go free. Spartacus doubted that that was the case in Italy. Shifting position on the rack, he shuddered as fresh waves of agony radiated from the raw flesh of his back. He closed his eyes again, breathing into the pain.
‘Gladiators?’ asked Kotys, frowning.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis in Thracian. ‘Skilled fighters of various classes who battle each other in front of a crowd until one is victorious. It makes for a first-class spectacle. The practice is very popular among my people.’
‘You use only slaves? How can they be entertaining?’ demanded Kotys contemptuously.
‘It’s not that simple, Your Majesty. Prisoners of war and criminals also provide large numbers of suitable candidates.’ Phortis jerked his head at his captives. ‘There’s nothing wrong with using slaves either, if you pick the right ones. Scythians are savage bastards, and Pontic tribesmen fight like cornered rats. But the pick of the lot are Thracians. Everyone knows that your people are the most warlike in the world. In Italy, we say that the Thracians are “worse than snow”, and that if every tribe were to join together, you would conquer every race in existence.’ He smiled at the growls of appreci
ation that rose up from those within earshot.
‘Honeyed words from a Roman,’ interrupted Kotys, snarling. ‘So you have come looking for slaves to buy?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis in a humble tone. ‘Prisoners that your warriors might have taken during raids on other tribes, and the like.’ His gaze moved to Spartacus and his companions and slithered away.
Kotys did not miss Phortis’ interest. ‘Do these gladiators live for long?’
Phortis’ eyes returned to Spartacus, appraising him. Then he glanced at Seuthes and Getas and gave a tiny snort of contempt. ‘No, Your Majesty. Only a fraction survive for more a year. The rest are soon defeated; wounded and humiliated in the arena, they are executed in front of a crowd baying for their blood. When it’s over, their bodies are dragged outside. Each corpse has its throat slit to make sure that none are playing dead, before being thrown on the communal refuse heap.’
Ariadne could not help herself. A tiny gasp of horror left her lips.
‘You don’t like the idea of that, eh?’ asked Kotys, rounding on her like a striking snake.
She said nothing, which told him everything he wanted to know.
‘Imagine Spartacus, and his friends,’ Kotys lingered over the words, ‘being in such an arena with thousands of Romans screaming for their deaths. Hundreds of miles from home, they would be totally alone. Abandoned to their fate. I cannot think of a worse death.’
Nor can I, thought Ariadne, listening to the screams of Seuthes’ and Getas’ wives rend the air. You evil whoreson.
Adrenalin coursed through Spartacus, and he opened his eyes. It might be fighting for the amusement of a mob of stinking Romans, but it sounds better than what Kotys has planned for me. He stole a glance at Seuthes and Getas and took heart. There wasn’t a trace of fear in their faces, just a cold, calculating rage.