Today Spartacus had more reason than ever to communicate with his friend. The evening before, on Batiatus’s instructions, Oenomaus had drawn Varro and Spartacus together and discussed the strategy for the following day’s primus with them at length. He had admitted that for dominus’s plan to come fully to fruition would require not only tactical understanding and split-second timing, but also a great deal of luck. “If the gods bestow favor upon us,” he had said, “there stands no reason why we should not prevail.”
Now they were putting those tactics into practice, by either retreating or pushing forward as they circled their opponents, with the result that they were herding them almost surreptitiously to the far side of the arena. In this way, little by little, all four gladiators were drawing closer and closer to the huge iron gates which Spartacus and Varro had passed through some minutes before-and behind which currently stood Oenomaus and Mantilus, their dark forms just visible through the thick, cross-hatched strips of iron.
When they were within ten paces of the gates, and had circled round so that the vast metal structures were at their backs, Spartacus and Varro began to retreat more rapidly, at the same time drawing closer together, as if menaced by a pack of wild dogs that were closing in on them from all sides.
Encouraged by this, their opponents surged forward- and as they did so, Spartacus, as if momentarily wrongfooted by their sudden advance, stumbled and dropped to one knee.
Sensing an advantage, the thraex immediately broke formation and raced forward, raising his sica for a slashing blow. Instantly Spartacus leaped to his feet, whereupon the thraex hesitated, realizing-too late-that his opponent’s apparent stumble had been nothing but a ruse. As his attention was fully focused on engaging with Capua’s Champion, who was now moving forward with purpose, his swords raised to slash down in a straight-armed pincer movement, he was blind-sided by Varro, who, raising his shield to ward off a potential attack by the hoplomachus, took a step to his right and slashed his sword with brutal force across the thraex’s exposed back.
Blood flew like a curling red streamer as the thraex screamed and staggered forward. Even as he peddled his feet in a desperate attempt to stop his knees from crumbling beneath him, Spartacus took a step to his right to avoid the man’s hopeless lunge with his sword, and brought his own sword up in an arc, hacking through the thraex’s ribs and into his chest.
The thraex, his torso now gushing blood from hideous wounds at both front and back, dropped his shield and sword and crashed face-first to the ground. As he lay, whimpering with agony, his shaking body lathered in a thick red coating of his own blood, he managed to weakly lift one arm and raise his fingers in the time-honored gesture of submission.
By this time, however, knowing that the man was too severely wounded to be any more of a threat, Spartacus had already moved on. Jumping over the thraex’s prone body, he stepped up beside Varro, and together the two of them moved forward as one to engage the hoplomachus.
With his partner out of action, the hoplomachus now had only two courses of action available to him. The less honorable option was to turn and run, in the sure and certain knowledge that eventually he would be caught, and-no doubt with the jeers of the crowd ringing in his ears — slaughtered on the sands like a suckling pig intended for the roast.
His second option, and that which he chose to employ, as any true gladiator would, was to take the fight to his opponents, in the hope that, with luck or skill or simply the sheer ferocity of his attack, he could put one of them out of action and thus even up the odds once again.
Roaring like an enraged bull, he ran forward, the spear in his right hand held parallel to the ground at waist height. The point of the spear was aimed at Varro’s belly, and it was clear he was focusing on the bigger man because he considered him the larger and slower-moving of the two targets.
That was his mistake. Because despite his size, Varro’s reflexes were surprisingly acute. As the hoplomachus lunged at him, he sidestepped and spun, grabbing the shaft of the spear as it passed through empty air and yanking it so hard that his opponent was jerked toward him.
Caught off-balance, the hoplomachus staggered forward, whereupon Varro raised his shield and smashed it into the man’s face. There was an almighty clash of impact as the heavier, thicker shield bent and mangled the hoplomachus’s metal helmet, crushing it inwards with such force that the man’s nose burst like a plum beneath a boot, and his lips were instantly shredded against his upper teeth, which in turn were smashed to jagged splinters of bone.
The hoplomachus dropped his spear and spun away, limbs pinwheeling wildly, giving him the look of someone who was comically, hopelessly drunk. Blood poured from beneath the rim of his crumpled helmet in thick loops and candles, collecting on his chest and running down his body like a red, tasseled bib.
Closing the gap between them, Varro ran forward and gave the man an almighty shove. His intention was not to knock his reeling opponent off his feet, however, but to direct him toward the nearby gate, which he promptly crashed into with a clanging impact that reverberated around the entire arena. Shaking his head, an action which caused droplets of blood to fly in all directions and spatter the sand like red rain, the hoplomachus leaned back against the gate for a moment, breathing heavily through his broken nose. It was a testament to his courage and experience that as Spartacus and Varro came at him again, pressing forward their advantage, he raised his shield and snatched at the sword in his belt, instinctively preparing to fight back.
His helmet was bent so out of shape that he was almost blind, but he tried to defend himself regardless, taking mighty swings with his sword. His desperate survival attempt proved to be sadly in vain, however. Eyeing the wildly swooping sword, Spartacus chose his moment, then leaped forward, raising and bringing his own sword down with speed and deadly accuracy.
The hoplomachus merely grunted, like a man punched in the gut, as his sword arm was all but sliced completely through at the elbow. It dangled grotesquely on a thread of skin and sinew, the sword dropping from the nerveless fingers, as blood gushed from the severed arteries and veins like water from a pump, turning the sand red.
Groaning, his exposed flesh turning a grayish-white, the hoplomachus began to slide slowly down the gate as his knees folded beneath him. Instantly Spartacus leaped forward, grabbed the man by the throat and forced him upright again. With the hoplomachus’s blood spattering his body, he turned and gave Varro a short, grim nod.
“Now,” he said.
On the other side of the gate, Mantilus jerked back as the hoplomachus’s body crashed against it. Before he could take another step, however, Oenomaus, standing behind him, stepped forward, reaching out with his long arms. He grabbed handfuls of the scarred man’s loose-fitting robe in two places-at the scruff of his neck and at the base of his spine. Lips curling back from his teeth in a silent snarl, Oenomaus then slammed Mantilus back up against the gate, directly behind the wounded hoplomachus.
Like a fish on a riverbank, Mantilus immediately began to squirm and wriggle, his white eyes bulging, his mouth opening wide and his forked tongue flickering out. He began to squeal like a child, his body so thin and light that Oenomaus couldn’t help but think that perhaps he was a child, a child aged far beyond his years by some hideous enchantment.
Yet, although he grimaced with distaste, utterly repelled by the feeble struggles of the bony creature within his grip, Oenomaus held on, crushing his captive against the bars, his arms clamped tight, his muscles like iron. As a bead of sweat trickled down the front of his bald head and into his eyebrow, he silently urged Spartacus and Varro to make haste.