‘It’s the wrong time of year for prisoners,’ Kotys snapped. ‘It’s best to come in the summer, when we’re raiding other tribes.’
‘I told my master that, Your Majesty,’ said Phortis, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to avoid snow on the mountain passes that lead back to Illyria. With your permission?’
‘You may go,’ Kotys grunted. He was already turning towards Ariadne.
Spartacus clenched his fists, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life.
She was utterly terrified, but Ariadne knew that she had to act now. Rolling the blood clots to the side of her mouth, she began to speak in her harshest voice. ‘As his faithful priestess, I call upon Dionysus, the powerful Almighty, the god of intoxication and mania, to witness my curse upon the king of the Maedi.’
A hushed silence fell over the watching villagers. Polles and the other bodyguards gave each other nervous looks. Even Phortis and his men stopped what they were doing. Kotys’ face went white, but he dared not stop her.
‘No one loves a tyrant or a murderer, Kotys. I curse you to an early, violent death. I curse you to die slowly and painfully, with an enemy’s blade buried deep in your guts.’ Ariadne paused, relishing her power. Dionysus had returned to her! ‘Your final moments will be filled with agony, and when your miserable soul leaves your body, the gates of the warrior’s paradise will be closed to you. Instead, Dionysus’ maenads will carry you below, to the underworld. There, for all eternity, they will rip off pieces of your flesh and present them to the god.’ Delighting in Kotys’ shocked expression, she spat the gobbets of blood in his face. ‘Finally, I mark you as one of Dionysus’ chosen ones.’
There were loud, reverential gasps from the onlookers. Most people looked petrified, as if they had seen a divine apparition. The king’s eyes were filled with living horror. He stood mutely, with trails of scarlet running down his cheeks, as Ariadne walked towards Spartacus. ‘I am this man’s wife. I am following him into captivity,’ she announced in a loud, authoritative voice.
‘His wife?’ roared Polles, moving to block her way.
‘That’s right. We exchanged our vows last night,’ lied Ariadne. She gripped the fabric of her cloak until her fists hurt. Let me pass!
‘We also consummated the marriage,’ croaked Spartacus. ‘After so many years on campaign, I couldn’t wait any longer.’
Ariadne’s cheeks flamed as the bystanders roared with laughter.
Kotys glared, humiliated anew, and Ariadne dared to feel a scintilla of hope. No king would want a woman who had given her virginity to another. ‘It is Dionysus’ wish that I should go with Spartacus into exile,’ she shouted.
‘Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!’ The villagers’ thunderous roar of agreement drowned out all other sound.
Visibly furious, Polles stood aside. Ariadne hurried to stand with Spartacus.
Phortis shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue with the mouthpiece of a god or hundreds of angry Thracians. ‘One more mouth to feed shouldn’t matter.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Spartacus in an undertone.
‘Look at my alternative.’ With a tiny jerk of her head, Ariadne indicated Kotys.
‘I understand.’
‘We will travel to Italy, and see what fate awaits us there,’ she intoned, trying to ignore the new fears that clutched at her. Part of Ariadne was pleased, however. I can stay with him — for now at least.
Spartacus was glad too. ‘This way, you won’t be left alone.’
Chapter III
Capua, Italy
‘Show me again, Paccius,’ ordered Carbo, offering the gladius.
Refusing to accept it, the doorman — a big Samnite with a mass of curly black hair — looked uneasily over his shoulder, towards the open doors of the tablinum, the main reception area. ‘We should stop, young master. It was one thing play fighting with wooden swords when you were a boy, but you’re sixteen now, and nearly a man. I’m not supposed to use a real blade unless your father orders me to. If he catches me showing you how to use one of his own weapons-’
‘He won’t,’ declared Carbo briskly. ‘He will be gone all day. Mother won’t be back for hours either, and the only other people about are the kitchen slaves. I’ve given them a coin each to keep their mouths shut. Stop worrying. Our secret is safe.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Paccius unhappily.
‘I am,’ Carbo snapped.
Paccius didn’t know the reason for Carbo’s father’s absence. Jovian’s financial situation was desperate. Carbo had learned that things had recently come to a head when Jovian hadn’t been able to pay the previous quarter’s arrears on his loan. They were now at risk of losing their farm, their home here in Capua, and all of their property, slaves included. Carbo only knew of the drama facing the family because he’d eavesdropped on part of his parents’ worried conversation the night before. Jovian was pinning all his hopes on securing a stay of execution today. Furious at his own powerlessness, Carbo shoved the sword forward again, hilt first. ‘Take it!’
Unable to protest further, Paccius took a firm hold of the bone handgrip. ‘Grasp it so. Remember, it takes real force to stick it in a man’s belly. Like this.’ He thrust his right arm forward in a powerful, calculated manner and pulled it back to his side. He repeated the move several times. ‘Clear?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Let me see you do it,’ said Paccius, handing the gladius back.
With grim concentration, Carbo held the sword close to his right side. With a grunt, he copied Paccius’ move, imagining that he was sinking the iron blade into the guts of a Pontic warrior or a Cilician pirate. Along with the former Marian leader Sertorius in Iberia, these were Rome’s main enemies. Better still, he imagined, would be to bury it in the flesh of his father’s largest creditor, whoever he was. ‘Like that?’
Paccius pursed his lips in approval. ‘That’s better. Do it again.’
Carbo obeyed eagerly, plunging the weapon back and forth in a flurry of blows.
‘Slow it down. Conserve your energy. Striking your opponent in the belly once should be enough to put him down. There are few men who’ll stay standing after half their guts have been sliced apart.’ Contorting his face in mock agony, Paccius clutched at his abdomen and mimed falling to the ground. ‘That’s the beauty of this weapon,’ he went on. ‘When used with a bloody great shield like the scutum, by a line of soldiers who stick close together, it’s damn near invincible.’
‘That’s how your people were defeated.’
Paccius grimaced. ‘It’s one of the reasons, yes.’
Carbo had spent his childhood listening to Paccius’ tales of the Social War, when the last of the fiercely independent Samnites had been crushed by Rome. He knew how the defeat still rankled. Once Paccius had been a high-ranking warrior among his people. Now he was but a slave. When they’d lived on the family’s farm, a dozen miles from Capua, he’d been the foreman. After the move to the city, he’d assumed the role of doorman and guard. Paccius was also the person to whom Carbo went with his problems, and he cursed himself for bringing up old, painful history. ‘I want to learn how to use a shield too,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Go and fetch one.’
Paccius started to argue again, but thought better of it. Muttering under his breath, he disappeared into the tablinum again.
Carbo dipped a hand into the fountain that graced the centre of the small courtyard. He patted his face with water several times, refreshing himself. Inadvertently touching the myriad of pockmarks that covered his cheeks, he scowled. Much of his good humour fell away. Why couldn’t the scars be on my chest or back? It was easy to tell himself that he was lucky to be alive — after all, more than a third of those who developed the pox died, while others were left blind — but quite another thing to enter adulthood looking like a freak. The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that most of those he’d regarded as friends didn’t want to know him now. And what woman would ever want him? Carbo’s mother kept telling him not to worry about it, that an arrangement would be made with a suitable family, but it did little to ease his self-loathing. While some of his peers were already sleeping with willing girls — merchants’ daughters and the like — Carbo found it hard even to skulk into a brothel and choose a prostitute.