‘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 appreciation 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.
‘How exactly are they executed?’ enquired Kotys lasciviously.
‘A variety of ways. In one of the most common, the loser has to kneel and lift up his chin to expose his throat. Then the winner of the fight stabs him like this.’ Phortis mimed the action of a sword entering the hollow at the base of his throat. ‘The blade slides down into the chest cavity, severing half a dozen major blood vessels. It kills instantaneously.’
A quick, honourable death, thought Spartacus.
The image described by Phortis and the blood in her mouth combined to make Ariadne feel faint. Swaying from side to side, she struggled to keep her balance.
Kotys was delighted by the intensity of her distress. ‘What will you give me for these creatures?’ he demanded of Phortis.
Dionysus, help Spartacus, Ariadne begged. A few angry shouts went up, but no one dared even to approach the king’s bodyguards. Her spirits fell into a deep abyss.
‘They don’t look up to much, Your Majesty,’ muttered Phortis, narrowing his eyes.
‘Looks often deceive,’ retorted Kotys. ‘Spartacus, the first one, has just returned from years of service with your legions, so he must have some skill. In his youth, he was one of the tribe’s best warriors. The others are tough men too, veterans of many campaigns.’
‘Really, Your Majesty?’ said Phortis in a disinterested voice.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’ Kotys’ face was purple with rage. ‘Remember that you and your men are only here by my grace. One click of my fingers and my warriors will carve new arseholes for you all.’ He glanced at the nearest bodyguards, who grinned and fingered their weapons.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis quickly. ‘I meant no offence.’
Kotys’ scowl eased a fraction. ‘Spartacus is the perfect type of material you’re after. So are his two friends.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ agreed Phortis. He cast a sly look at the king. ‘And the rest?’
‘They’re not for sale. Just these three.’
To Ariadne’s surprise, a tiny ray of hope shone down into the pit of her despair. Could some good could be wrenched from this situation?
‘May I ask why?’
‘They were plotting to overthrow me.’
Phortis didn’t look surprised. ‘What will you take for them, Your Majesty? A thousand pieces of silver?’
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that! Do you really think that I’d give these lumps of dogshit away free?’
‘Of course not, Your Majesty,’ replied Phortis smoothly. ‘How does fifteen hundred sound?’
‘It’s two and a half thousand, or nothing. I know as well as you that Thracian slaves are worth double the price of every other race.’
Phortis didn’t even blink. He gestured at Spartacus and the others. ‘May I…?’
‘Be my guest. Fortunately for you, only the first one has been beaten. He’s escaped lightly too. My champion was just getting warmed up when you arrived.’
Spartacus lifted his head from the wooden frame and gave Phortis a baleful stare as he approached. The trader ignored him, instead studying his back. ‘Your Majesty is correct. There’s no lasting damage.’ He moved on to examine the two others, prodding their muscles and examining their teeth as he would a horse. He made an approving noise at Seuthes’ shaved forehead. ‘So your enemy can’t grab you by the hair at close-quarters, eh?’ Seuthes glowered but did not reply.
Phortis glanced at the king. ‘It’s a fair price, Your Majesty,’ he admitted.
As Kotys smiled with triumph, Phortis barked an order, and one of his men hurried back to the mules. He returned bearing two heavy purses. ‘There should be more than enough here,’ said Phortis.
Kotys motioned Polles forward. Without ceremony, the champion upended the leather bags on to the ground and with the help of another warrior, began counting the silver coins that tumbled out. ‘It’s all there,’ Polles growled eventually.
‘Good, said Kotys. ‘Then we have a deal. Release them.’ He directed a triumphant, malevolent glance at Ariadne. He had no idea that her heart was racing with anticipation. She had a plan at last, born of her utter desperation. Or was it Dionysus finally intervening? Ariadne could no longer tell. Her tactic might not work either, but it felt better than doing nothing.
At least I am not to die today. Spartacus summoned the reserves of his strength. When the last of his bonds were cut away, he was able to stand, knees locked, rather than simply fall to the ground. What about Ariadne? His eyes wandered to where she stood. He took heart. Inexplicably, her expression was no longer distraught, but determined. She will survive somehow.
‘Get over here,’ barked Phortis. ‘You’re mine now.’
Spartacus and his friends shuffled towards him and allowed the trader’s men to fasten iron collars around their necks. These would be attached to the other slaves by a chain. Their indignity was completed by the fetters placed around their ankles. They left no chance of escaping. This leads to the arena. At least there I’ll have a fighting chance of survival, Spartacus told himself. That fate was infinitely preferable to the one on offer from Kotys. His heart wrenched again with guilt. What would happen to Ariadne? Determination would only carry her so far.
‘Have you any other men like these, Your Majesty?’ asked Phortis.