Spartacus: The Gladiator (11 page)

Soon after, they’d reached his family home. They had barely entered the atrium when the summons rang out. ‘Carbo!’

Gods, he must have been waiting for us. Jupiter, let it be good news
.

Jovian was standing in the doorway of his office, a simply decorated room situated off the courtyard. Carbo didn’t especially like the space. No swords or military mementos here, just stands displaying busts of famous Roman and Greek orators, long-dead men whose names his father had drummed into him but which he refused to remember. Carbo felt – and resented – their heavy-lidded stares on him the moment he entered.

Jovian was scanning a parchment. As Carbo approached, he let it snap closed with a sigh. ‘Where were you?’

‘Training with Paccius, Father.’

Jovian gave him a blank look.

‘With the discus and javelin, remember?’

‘Ah yes. Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself. There won’t be much of that from now on.’

Carbo’s heart sank. ‘Why not?’

‘You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been quite preoccupied of late.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you aware of why we moved to Capua four years ago?’

Carbo’s head filled with happy memories of the former family home, a respectably sized villa on their land. ‘Not really.’

‘I couldn’t afford the upkeep of such a large property.’ Shame filled Jovian’s blue eyes.

‘How can that be?’ cried Carbo incredulously.

‘It comes down to little more than the price of Egyptian grain. It’s ruinous! How any Italian farmer can compete, I do not know. It costs more to produce wheat here than it does to import it from hundreds of miles away.’ Jovian sighed. ‘I told myself each year that things would improve, that the harvests in Egypt would fail, that the gods would answer my prayers. I took out large loans to keep the farm running. And what happened? The price of grain fell even further. For the last twelve months, we have had no income worth talking about, and there’s no sign of that changing.’

‘So …’ began Carbo uneasily.

‘We’re ruined, Carbo. Ruined. My biggest creditor is a politician in Rome. Marcus Licinius Crassus. You’ve heard of him?’

‘Yes.’
I heard correctly, then
.

‘According to his agent, whom I deal with, Crassus’ patience is exhausted. It’s not that surprising, I suppose. I haven’t made a payment for more than three months.’ Jovian’s jaw hardened. ‘What I can’t forgive is Crassus is taking not just the farm and the villa, but this house too.’

Carbo felt a numbness taking hold of him.

‘Did you hear me?’

His father’s voice came as if through a long tunnel.

‘We’re being evicted, Carbo.’

Fucking Crassus!
He controlled his rage with difficulty. ‘Evicted?’

‘This is no longer our home,’ said his father gently. ‘We’ll go to Rome. Varus will take us in for a little while.’ His lips quirked. ‘At least I hope he does, when we turn up on his doorstep unannounced.’

Carbo felt a wave of guilt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

‘For what?’

‘All I’ve been thinking of is running off and training with Paccius. I should have been trying to help you.’

‘Gods above, it’s not your fault, boy,’ cried Jovian.

‘What will happen to the slaves?’

‘Crassus owns everything now, apart from our personal possessions. The slaves will go with the house.’ Regret filled his father’s face. ‘I know how much Paccius means to you.’

‘You must be able to do something!’ said Carbo furiously.

‘I’ve been to every moneylender in the city.’

‘No, I mean can you not approach Crassus directly?’

‘I’d have more chance of walking up to the gates of Hades and stroking Cerberus on the head.’ He saw his son’s incomprehension. ‘Crassus is the personification of friendliness and jollity when he lends money. If he’s decided to foreclose on a debt, however, he’s a devil incarnate.’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I’d soon show him some manners.’

‘I’ll have no talk like that.’ Jovian’s voice was sharp. ‘We’re law-abiding citizens. Besides, Crassus has done nothing wrong. Do you understand?’

Carbo did not answer.

‘Carbo?’

‘Yes, Father,’ he said, biting down on his resentment.

‘Go on then,’ ordered Jovian wearily. ‘Pack your things. We have to quit the house tomorrow, and it’s a long journey to Rome.’

Carbo stamped off to his room, where he thumped his fists into his pillow until they hurt. He couldn’t believe it. His world had just been turned upside down. From now on, he and his family would exist on the charity of his uncle. Could anything be worse? Varus was kind enough in his own way, but he was pompous and had a tendency to be overbearing. Carbo could already imagine his patronising tone, and the years of interminably boring lessons he’d have to sit through to become a lawyer. On the spur of the moment, he decided to run away. He had his own savings, a little stash of
denarii
that sat in a clay pot under his bed. They would secure him a room of his own somewhere in Capua, and give him enough to live on while he looked for work. What kind of work, Carbo wasn’t sure, but the idea was far more appealing than trudging in penury to Rome.
I’m better than that
.

Amidst all the uncertainty, one thing was certain in his mind.

One day, somehow, he would be revenged on Crassus.

Chapter IV

Several weeks later
…

The Illyrian coast

THE SUN WAS still climbing in the sky when the column reached the busy harbour. Most of the craft visible were broad-beamed merchant vessels or simple fishing smacks, but at the end of the stone quay was the unmistakable sharp-prowed outline of a Roman trireme. Unsurprisingly, it occupied the best mooring spot, and fully half of the area for unloading goods. Yet the warship’s presence caused no rancour. In the eyes of the traders and seamen swarming about the area, it was welcome. Even the rumour of its existence would help to deter the rapacious Cilician corsairs who infested the local waters. Without the trireme’s protection, they regularly ran the risk of losing their goods, slaves and even their lives through piracy.

Seagulls swooped and dived overhead, their beady eyes fixed on the catch being brought ashore by the local fishermen. They ignored the file of men that had just arrived. In turn, Phortis, the figure in charge, paid the screeching birds little heed. His only interest was in finding a ship that would carry his party to Italy. Phortis scrutinised his fifteen captives with a practised eye. He would have loved to be taking more over the Adriatic, but a lifetime in the slave trade had taught him not to be greedy. Fifteen was enough. Thracians, Scythians and Pontic tribesmen were excellent gladiator material, but, by all the gods, they were slippery as eels. Untrustworthy. Dangerous. Consequently, every one of the new slaves had chains around his neck, but also encircling his wrists and ankles. Phortis’ eight guards were all tough ex-soldiers. If he ordered it, they would slit a man’s throat or toss him overboard without even blinking.

Remembering the last time that he’d had to order a guard to do exactly that, Phortis grimaced. Such losses were unfortunate, but they still happened periodically. Over the years, he’d seen numerous men abandon all reason when they realised at last the dreadful fate that awaited them. Sometimes it was when they crossed the mountains from Thrace into Illyria, and at others it was when the glistening Adriatic filled the western horizon. More often, it was when they had to embark and sail for Italy. Not this trip, though. So far, the men he’d bought during their journey had remained reasonably calm, and given little trouble. Just the short sea passage remained. With that accomplished, a swift crossing of the Apennines would bring them to the
ludus
, the gladiator school, in Capua.

There, Lentulus Batiatus, the
lanista
, would be waiting. A trainer who accepted only the best. Phortis sighed. Batiatus was the sole reason that they’d had drag their arses halfway to Asia Minor in their search for suitable gladiator material. Most lanistae were happy buying slaves off the block in their local market in Italy. Not Batiatus. Thinking of the heavy purse he’d get when they returned, Phortis relaxed. His hard work would have been worthwhile. For all that Batiatus was an exacting master, he paid well.

Phortis’ gaze flickered again over the men he’d bought and abducted in the previous two months. There was a quartet of Scythians; bearded, tattooed savages whom he’d kept apart from day one. That hadn’t stopped them from trying to converse with each other in their guttural tongue at every opportunity. Of course Phortis had seen it all before. They didn’t plot murder and escape any longer – at least not with each other. A particularly savage beating of the last one he’d caught whispering had kept the bastards silent for days now.

Phortis had bought the three Pontic tribesmen from a lank-haired trader on the Illyrian border with Thrace. Renegades who’d been part of Mithridates’ army, apparently, and captured by Thracians fighting for Rome. Phortis didn’t know the truth of that story, nor did he care. The scars on the warriors’ chests and arms, and their combative manner, spoke volumes. They were fighters, and that was what Batiatus wanted.

He studied the eight remaining men. As usual these, the majority of his captives, were Thracian. The most warlike of all the peoples Rome had ever encountered. Tough, intelligent and stubborn. Natural warriors, they were excellent at both ambushes and face-to-face combat. Always prepared to fight to the death. Bitter enemies. It was fortunate, thought Phortis, that the majority of Thracians had ended up as subjects of Rome. Now they provided much of the fodder for the gladiatorial games.

When the largest of the Thracians, a warrior with black hair, noticed Phortis looking, he glared back. Phortis affected not to notice. A beating at this stage would serve little purpose. It was important not to crush all of the slaves’ spirit. If the fool learned to curb his temper, he would survive the first weeks of savage training. A man with any brains at all could last twelve months in the ludus. If the Thracian was lucky as well as smart, he might make it to three years, when he’d be entitled to the
rudis
, the wooden sword that symbolised freedom. And, if the gods smiled upon him, he would reach the benchmark of five years as a gladiator, and be granted his manumission. The black-haired man looked strong enough to do that, Phortis concluded. So did the short, muscular warrior with swirling tattoos on his chest. And the rest? He idly scanned the group. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t last that long. Few did.

His gaze fell last upon the most unremarkable-looking Thracian, a compact man with short brown hair and slate-grey eyes. It was odd, thought Phortis, that he knew the man’s name. Normally, he didn’t bother with such details. It had all come out in the Maedi village, however, where he’d bought two other men as well. Kotys, the tribe’s chieftain, had accused the trio of plotting to overthrow him. That was good enough for Phortis. As with the rest of his new acquisitions, the three men’s guilt – or innocence – was irrelevant.

Phortis saw Spartacus staring at the little huddle of women who stood a short distance away. He sneered. Like some of the other captives, Spartacus’ wife had followed him into captivity. It wasn’t uncommon. The alternative, being left without a man’s protection, was worse. A slender, aloof figure, Ariadne was more composed than her companions, who wept and wailed at Phortis’ and the guards’ nightly sexual assaults. Yet none fought back. It was part of the unspoken price of being allowed to accompany the column. Phortis’ groin throbbed at the thought of Ariadne. She was striking rather than pretty but there was an inexplicable sense of the untamed, the exotic about her. It was most alluring. He hadn’t touched her, though. Nor had his men. If the truth be known, Phortis didn’t have the courage to. Who could forget the curse she’d placed on Kotys? In addition, the madwoman carried a venomous snake. Who would dare to try and fuck a creature like that?

Spartacus didn’t look like anything special, however. Just wait until he’s injured or, better, killed, in the arena, thought Phortis. We’ll see how brave the bitch is then.