The Gladiator s-1

by Ben Kane

  No one argued, and again Spartacus gave silent thanks. For the moment at least, the others would follow his lead.

  ‘Thank you for the wine.’ Draining his cup, he set it down beside Castus. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Castus. ‘There’s a whole night of drinking to come.’

  ‘For you, maybe. I’m going to talk to the new arrivals.’ And Ariadne is waiting for me. Ignoring their protests, Spartacus walked away. He was glad that none of the Gauls followed him. If they were more interested in getting drunk than making a good first impression on the slaves who’d fled their masters to come here, that was their loss.

  The four sentries were relieved to see him. Although they’d been trying to keep the slaves from spreading out, theirs was an impossible task. It was like trying to stem the tide, thought Spartacus, looking at the ill-dressed, nervous-looking rabble before him. Even a rough headcount took him to a hundred, and more men were spilling over the crater’s lip with every heartbeat. Here and there, he spotted a woman too.

  ‘Welcome!’ he shouted in Latin.

  At once he became the focus of attention. ‘Who are you?’ The question came from a strapping man with old, healed burns all over his arms.

  A blacksmith. Just the type we need. ‘I am Spartacus.’

  ‘You’re Spartacus?’ The man’s face was incredulous.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘That I’d be seven feet tall and breathe fire? Is that it?’

  There was a burst of laughter and the blacksmith coloured beneath his tan.

  Moving closer, Spartacus fixed the man with his piercing gaze. ‘I am Spartacus the Thracian, who fought as a gladiator in the ludus at Capua. Last night, I led eighty men into a camp where more than three thousand legionaries were sleeping. We killed hundreds of the whoresons, and sent the rest screaming for their mothers. If you think I’m lying, perhaps you’d like to take me on. Bare hands or with weapons. It’s your choice.’

  The blacksmith looked into Spartacus’ eyes and saw his death there. His confidence vanished like morning mist. ‘I meant no offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Spartacus replied amiably. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve come to join you. If you’ll have me,’ the blacksmith added quickly.

  ‘You’re a smith?’

  ‘Yes. Been doing it since I was a lad.’

  ‘Do you want to fight the Romans? Kill them?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘And the rest of you?’ asked Spartacus. ‘Is that what you’ve come for? To become fighters?’

  The baying roar that answered him filled the crater with a wall of sound.

  Spartacus waited until it had died down. ‘Good. I will feed you and give you tents to sleep in. I will arm you and train you. And I will lead you against the Romans.’ He drew his sica and stabbed it into the air. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘YES!’ they roared.

  Spartacus smiled. Ariadne’s words were already coming true.

  From the smallest seed, a great oak can grow.

  It was a start.

  Ariadne had kept herself busy all day, but that hadn’t stopped her mind from racing. As she counted bags of wheat, slabs of dried pork, containers of salt, spices and other foodstuffs, all she could think of was the kiss that she had shared with Spartacus. And what would inevitably happen when they went to bed that night. The thought of that filled her with anticipation, and terror. I could still say ‘No’. Ariadne dismissed the idea at once. She hadn’t come through all that she had with Spartacus, helped him, developed feelings for him, just to give up at the final hour. Deep down, Ariadne knew that if she didn’t have sex with Spartacus soon, she would never do so with anyone. Willingly, at least.

  Having made her mind up, Ariadne was annoyed to feel nervous still. She was a grown woman, was she not? Without meaning to, she visited some of her irritation on Chloris and the other women, snapping unnecessarily when they miscounted something, or didn’t move fast enough to the next job. They were already wary of her — a priestess of Dionysus — and so rather than answer her back, they scuttled about, trying to avoid her gaze and making even more mistakes.

  I’m acting like a bully. This realisation made Ariadne gentle her tone. Instead of criticising the women when each task was completed, she started praising them. The atmosphere lightened, and their work rate improved. By the time the sun had dropped to the crater’s edge, virtually all the food had been checked over and had its details recorded.

  ‘It looks as if you’ve been busy.’

  Ariadne jumped at the sound of Spartacus’ voice. Suddenly conscious of the sweat marks on her dress and her straggly hair, she turned. ‘We’ve hardly stopped all day.’

  ‘Neither have I. It didn’t stop me thinking about you, however.’

  She blushed. ‘I’ve been doing the same.’

  He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Hundreds of slaves have been coming in, wanting to join us.’

  ‘As in my dream?’

  Giving her a pleased look, he nodded.

  ‘Dionysus be praised. That’s great news!’

  ‘It is. And don’t ask me how, but I got the Gauls to agree to training for the men. It’s to start in the morning.’

  She was already moving. ‘The new arrivals will need food and drink.’

  Bemused, Spartacus watched her as she ordered the other women to ready themselves for an influx of hungry men.

  She reappeared by his side. ‘That will do for now.’

  ‘I suspect that they’ll be happy enough with all the wine that’s on offer.’

  ‘It will help,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m forgetting myself. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not for food. Are you?’

  ‘N-no,’ Ariadne said, aware that her voice had gone husky.

  ‘Shall we go back to the tent?’

  In answer, she took Spartacus’ hand and led him away.

  Ariadne lay on her side, gazing at Spartacus’ sleeping form. In the grey light of predawn, it was hard to make out his features in detail. Taking great care to move slowly, she shifted position on the blanket until she was lying right next to him. Here she was, in bed with a man she had chosen to couple with. It felt good, just as last night had. Ariadne had been surprised by that. She’d been willing, even eager, to engage in the physical act with Spartacus, certain that it would bring them closer, cement the bond between them. But she hadn’t expected to enjoy it.

  Spartacus had been gentle yet sure, and so attentive. Several times, feeling her tense, he had paused. He’d looked at her enquiringly, and on each occasion, Ariadne had nodded fiercely to indicate that he should continue. Gradually, her lust had risen, if not to match his, then to lift her for the first time above the hurt that had blighted her for so long. The whole experience had felt, in no small way, healing. A tiny, self-conscious smile twitched across Ariadne’s lips. By the end, she’d felt quite wanton.

  ‘You’re watching me. Eyeing me up, in fact.’

  Ariadne was startled from her reverie. ‘Maybe I am,’ she flashed back. ‘A woman is allowed to admire her man, isn’t she?’

  ‘Of course. As long as I’m allowed to do the same to you,’ he murmured, reaching out for her.

  She wriggled into the circle of his arms. ‘I expect nothing less.’ Surprising herself again by her own daring, Ariadne moved her right hand to his waist — and below.

  ‘I need to get up,’ he protested weakly.

  ‘I need you more,’ Ariadne retorted. ‘I’ve waited so long for moments like this. Half an hour won’t make any difference to the men’s training.’

  He smiled and pulled her to him. ‘True.’

  Two days later, in Rome…

  When Saenius had ushered the last bowing client from his simple yet elegant courtyard, Crassus clicked his fingers at the body slave standing behind his chair. ‘Take away that m
ule piss,’ he ordered, indicating the wine on the sturdy table before him. ‘Bring me a decent vintage. Remember to water it down.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ The slave was used to Crassus’ routine. Those who came seeking his favour were given plenty of refreshment, but not of the expensive kind. Once the morning’s business was dispensed with, his master liked to relax with a glass of quality wine.

  ‘Bread and cheese too.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ The slave was careful to hide his half-smile. He would have brought those items anyway. In many respects, Crassus was as predictable as the tide. In order that his slaves knew his likes and dislikes, he trained them all himself.

  Saenius came padding back through the tablinum, past the death masks of Crassus’ ancestors, and the lararium, the shrine to the house gods. He found Crassus trailing a hand in the brick channel that carried water to the lemon trees and vines filling the courtyard. ‘That last one was quaking with fear as he left,’ he observed.

  ‘All I did was remind him that his debt was due in a month,’ said Crassus mildly.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Saenius’ smile was acid. ‘He knows that you’re a bull with hay on his horns.’

  Crassus gave a pleased nod. He never tired of hearing the popular expression being used about him. Every Roman worth his salt knew that only dangerous bulls had their horns covered in this way. Such a beast was to be avoided if at all possible. It was a good — no, an excellent — reputation to have, he reflected.

  The domestic slave returned with a bronze tray upon which sat a jug, two blue glasses and a platter of bread and cheese. He set it down carefully, before pouring wine for his master.

  ‘Care to join me, Saenius?’ asked Crassus.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  As was their custom, master and servant drank together in companionable silence. Above them, the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Despite the shade offered by the plants and trees, the temperature in the courtyard was climbing steadily. Crassus felt the first beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. ‘Thank the gods that there’s no session in the Senate today. I don’t want to go out, even in a litter.’

  Saenius murmured in agreement. Walking through Rome at midday in the height of summer was akin to sitting in a caldarium for too long: hot, sweaty and uncomfortable.

  Crassus closed his eyes, luxuriating as a light breeze trickled across his face. An instant later, his nose wrinkled. The rising heat exacerbated the omnipresent reek of human waste. While he — naturally — had the comforts of piped sanitation, most of Rome’s residents did not. The public toilets weren’t nearly numerous enough to cope either. The maze of alleyways lacing the city were therefore home to vast, steaming dungheaps, the ammonia-laden odour of which now filled Crassus’ nostrils. He frowned. He could order that some olibanum be burned, but it would only mask the stench and leave a cloying, unpleasant taste at the back of his throat. ‘Maybe it’s time for a break,’ he mused. ‘A month at the coast would be very pleasant.’

  ‘Your villa there is always ready,’ said Saenius, clearly pleased at the idea of quitting the capital. ‘And the sea breezes make the heat easier to bear.’

  Crassus was about to agree when a totally different scent reached him. Smoke. His head turned, seeking the direction from which it came. ‘Do you smell that?’

  Saenius leaned forward, sniffing. ‘Ah yes.’ He concealed his disappointment well, thought Crassus with amusement. ‘Something’s burning,’ he said.

  ‘It’s certainly the right weather for it,’ replied Saenius. ‘The city hasn’t had a drop of rain for weeks, and some fools will always leave a brazier untended.’

  Crassus threw back the last of his wine and stood. ‘The coast can wait. Let’s go and have a look around.’

  Saenius knew better than to argue. ‘I’ll gather the slaves.’ Calling for those who made up Crassus’ entourage, he vanished into the depths of the house.

  Crassus took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the harsh tang of burning wood. It was most effective at concealing the stink of shit, he thought wryly.

  Anticipation filled him next. The powerful odour meant that somewhere not too far away, there was money to be made.

  The source of the fire wasn’t hard to track down. Crassus’ large but plain house was situated on the lower slopes of the Palatine Hill. By simply walking to the nearest crossroads, he could gain a partial view over the centre of Rome. That told him that the conflagration was on the Aventine Hill. The score of slaves trailing Crassus — a mixture of bodyguards, labourers and architects — spied the billowing smoke at once too. Faint cries were also audible above the hum of ordinary life. Debate broke out among the men about the size of the blaze, what had started it and how many people would die before it was put out.

  Crassus ignored their chatter. All would become clear when they got there. He strode down the street, indicating that his slaves should follow. ‘It’s bad luck to live on the Aventine,’ he said softly, repeating the old saying.

  His bodyguards quickly moved in front of him. Armed with cudgels and knives, they bellowed and used their fists to clear a path through the teeming, narrow streets. ‘Make way for Marcus Licinius Crassus, praetor and the most generous man in Rome!’ they shouted. ‘Scion of one of the Republic’s oldest families, son and grandson of a consul, he regularly donates a tenth of all he owns to Hercules.’

  Crassus smiled benevolently.

  ‘So fucking what? Crassus is so damn rich that he could afford five times that amount and still not notice the loss!’ a voice suddenly yelled from the throng.

  The bodyguards’ heads spun angrily, looking for the culprit.

  ‘Leave it. There’s no time to waste,’ ordered Crassus. Besides, it’s true enough. Similar comments were made everywhere he went. Like the lewd political and sexual graffiti that decorated the walls of houses throughout the city, it was a nuisance that had to be borne, as a dog suffered its fleas. He pulled a heavy purse from inside his tunic and handed it to Saenius. ‘Offer that to the crowd,’ he said loudly.

  A wave of excitement rippled through those within earshot. Scores of hungry, dirty faces turned towards them.

  ‘All of it?’ cried Saenius, acting out the ritual they’d played countless times before.

  ‘Why not? The worthy citizens of Rome deserve no less,’ replied Crassus. He added in an undertone, ‘I’ll recoup it a thousand times over where we’re heading.’

  Saenius’ answering grin was wolf-like. Filling his fist with coins, he fell out of step long enough to fill the air with showers of bronze asses, silver sestertii and denarii. Crassus glanced back at the mob, which had gone wild. Excellent. To add to the spice, he’d added an occasional gold aureus to the change in his purse. One of those was but a drop in the ocean to him, but to the average impoverished resident of Rome, the rare piece of currency represented food for weeks, if not months.

  It took perhaps a quarter of an hour to work their way to the Aventine. The multi-storey buildings pressed in on either side, creating a gloomy, claustrophobic world and preventing a view of the fire’s exact location. The problem was easily solved, however. Hordes of frantic, wild-eyed people were fleeing the quarter. All Crassus had to do was order his bodyguards to drive against the crowd’s flow. Drawing their cudgels from their belts, three of them formed a wedge and shoved forward. From then on, anyone who got in their way was simply smashed over the head. Magically, the centre of the street opened up. Set on a new course, the rabble streamed by on either side of Crassus.

  Some citizens carried their belongings, wrapped in sheets, on their backs. Others had nothing but the clothes they wore. Children who had been separated from their parents screamed. Husbands cursed under the weight of what their wives had made them carry. Upset by the din, babies added their mewling cries to the general mayhem. Crassus ignored the fear-stricken masses, focusing instead on the shopkeepers’ faces framed in the entrances of the establishments that lined both sides of the street. Their precious st
ock, whether it be meat, pottery, metalwork or amphorae of wine, meant that each of them stood to lose far more than the average person if the fire spread. It also meant that the traders did not panic unnecessarily. The expressions of the men he saw here were not that concerned. Yet. ‘Press on,’ Crassus ordered his bodyguards. ‘The blaze is a good way off still.’

  They found it a dozen streets further up the hill.

  Thick brown smoke filled the air all around them now, and the temperature rose sharply. The area was already almost empty of people, and the only ones visible were scuttling in the opposite direction. Crassus wasn’t surprised. Other than the owners of affected buildings, there was no one to fight fires in Rome. The ground floors of most structures were constructed using bricks, but above many towered the dizzying wooden heights of the insulae, three, four and even five storeys of tiny, miserable flats. This was where most people lived. Existed would be a more accurate description, thought Crassus, feeling grateful for his station in life. Built with little regard to safety or architectural design, the insulae were death-traps waiting to collapse or burn down. Fire was the more common of the two disasters. And once a blaze had a foothold in a building, it was virtually impossible to put out. Thanks to the fact that everything was constructed either directly adjoining or actually touching the structures around it, it was the norm for the flames to spread lethally fast. Anyone who stayed in the vicinity risked being incinerated. Conflagrations in which entire neighbourhoods were destroyed, killing hundreds, were commonplace during the summer months.

  He caught sight of two anguished figures ahead: a middle-aged man wearing a grubby shopkeeper’s apron and an attractive woman of similar age. Crassus smiled. This would be the owner and his wife. Those whose livelihoods were in peril could never bring themselves to leave until the very last moment.

  Now the crackling of flames could be heard. Looking up through the swirling eddies of smoke, Crassus saw bright orange-yellow tongues licking hungrily at the third floor of a wood-faced block of flats. ‘It started in a cenacula. It’s out of control already.’

  ‘Is it ever any other way?’ asked Saenius.