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.’