Ben Kane - The Gladiator

Other than through marriage, the concept of escaping her father had never entered Ariadne’s mind. There had been simply nowhere for her to go. Then, on her thirteenth birthday, things had changed utterly. In a remarkable intervention, Ariadne’s downtrodden mother had persuaded her father to allow her to attend the Dionysian temple in Kabyle as a prospective candidate for the priesthood. Once there, her burning determination had impressed the priests and allowed her to remain. More than a decade later, she still had no desire to return home. Unless, of course, it were to kill her father, which would be a pointless exercise. While Ariadne’s position as a priestess elevated her above that of ordinary women, a patricide could expect but one fate.

No, her best option was to weather out Kotys’ attentions — Dionysus, let some doe-eyed beauty catch his eye soon — and establish herself here. It had been a mere six months since she’d arrived at this, the main Maedi settlement. Not long at all. Ariadne’s chin lifted. There was another option of course. If Kotys were deposed, a better man could take his place. She’d been here long enough to sense the seething discontent with his rule. Rhesus, the previous king, and Andriscus, his son, weren’t especially missed, but Sitalkes, the noble who might have replaced them, had been a popular figure. They were careful not to do it within earshot of Kotys’ bodyguards, but plenty of warriors spoke nostalgically of Sitalkes and his two sons, of whom one had been killed in battle against the Romans and the other had gone to serve the conquerors as a mercenary, and never returned.

If only someone would step forward and harness the simmering rage against Kotys, thought Ariadne. A short, sharp fight and the bastard would be gone for ever. Not for the first time, she cursed the fact that she’d been born a woman. No one would follow me. She studied the familiar reflection in the bronze mirror before her. A heart-shaped face, with a straight nose and high cheekbones, framed by long black ringlets of hair. A determined chin. Creamy white skin, most unsuited to the blazing sun that bathed Thrace every summer. A swirling design of dots tattooed on both her forearms. Slim but muscular shoulders. Small breasts. What does Kotys see in me? she wondered. I’m no beauty. Striking perhaps, but not pretty. As ever, the same answer entered Ariadne’s head. He sees my wild spirit and, being a king, wants it for his own. It was the same fieriness that had often got her in trouble during her training, and which had also helped her to become a priestess sooner than might have been expected. Ariadne valued her tempestuous nature greatly. Because of it, she could enter the maenad trances easily, and reach the zone where one might encounter Dionysus, and know his wishes. My spirit belongs to no man, Ariadne thought fiercely. Only to the god.

Standing, she moved to her simple bed, a blanket covering a thick layer of straw in one corner of the hut. It was the same as that used by everyone in the settlement. Thracians were known for their austerity, and she was no different. Ariadne donned her dark red woollen cloak. In addition to marking her position in life, it served as her cover at night. Picking up the wicker basket that lay at the bed’s foot, she put it to her ear. Not a sound. She wasn’t surprised. The snake within did not like the chilly autumn weather, and it was as much as she could do to rouse it occasionally from its torpor and wrap it around her neck before performing a rite at the temple. Thankfully, this simple tactic was enough to inspire awe in the villagers’ minds. To Ariadne, however, the serpent was but a tool in maintaining her air of mystery. She respected the creature, indeed feared it a little, but she’d been exhaustively trained to handle it and its kind in Kabyle.

With the basket under one arm, she headed outside. Like most of the others in the settlement, her one-roomed, rectangular hut had been constructed using a lattice of woven branches, over which a thick layer of mud had been laid. Its saddle roof was covered with a mixture of straw and mud, with a gap at one end to let out smoke from the fire. To the hut’s rear stood part of the rampart that ran around Kotys’ living quarters. It was a defence within the circular settlement’s outer wall, reinforcing the king’s elevated position and serving against treachery from within. Other huts lay to either side, each surrounded by a palisade that kept in their owners’ livestock. The dwellings followed the winding paths that divided the sprawling village. Like the regular dungheaps and mounds of refuse, they had evolved over centuries of inhabitation. Ariadne was eternally grateful that her hut was a reasonable distance from any of these necessary, but stinking, piles.

She followed the lane towards the centre of the settlement, acknowledging the respectful greetings of those she met with a grave smile, or a nod. Women with babes at the breast and the old asked for her blessing or advice, while all but the boldest of the warriors tended to avoid her gaze. Children tended to fall into two camps: those who were terrified of her and those who asked to see her snake. There were far more of the former than the latter. There was little to leaven the loneliness of Ariadne’s existence. She forced her melancholy away. The god would send her a man, if he saw fit. And if he didn’t, she would continue to serve him faithfully, as she had promised during her initiation.

The crowd in front of her parted, revealing a group of richly dressed warriors. Ariadne’s heart sank. It wasn’t just the men’s swagger that told her who they were. Their red long-sleeved tunics with vertical white stripes, elaborate bronze helmets and silver-inlaid greaves shouted stature and importance. So too did their well-made javelins, kopis swords and long, curved daggers. Ariadne mouthed a silent curse. Wherever this many of his bodyguards were, Kotys wouldn’t be far behind. Glancing to her left, she greeted an elderly woman whose sick husband she’d recently treated. A torrent of praise to Dionysus filled Ariadne’s ears. Smiling, she moved nearer to the woman’s hut, turning her back on the path. With a little luck, the warriors wouldn’t have seen her. Perhaps they weren’t even looking for her?

‘Priestess!’

Ariadne cursed silently. She continued listening to the old woman’s patter, but when the voice called again, it was right behind her.

‘Priestess.’

The traveller didn’t linger at the scene where he’d been ambushed. Of course, the brigands had nothing worth taking. All he’d had to do was clean his sica, snap off the javelin that had skewered his shield and retie the shield to the pack on his horse’s back. Leaving the bodies where they’d fallen, he set out for the village. At this rate, they’d be lucky to reach it before dark. That eventuality did not bear thinking about. Banks of dull yellow clouds overhead promised an early fall of snow. His luck was in, however. Whether it was the adrenalin pumping through his mount’s veins, or an intervention by the Great Rider, he did not know, but the stallion now seemed to move more easily on its bad leg. They made good progress, coming within sight of the settlement just as the first flakes began to fall.

Loud bleating carried through the air, and the traveller looked up. Aided by a pair of dogs, a small boy was herding a flock of sheep and goats on to the road just ahead. ‘We’re not the only ones seeking shelter,’ he said to his mount. They halted, giving the lad space to usher his resentful charges on to the stony track. ‘Some bitter weather coming. You’re wise to head for home now,’ he said in a friendly tone.

The boy made no move to come down off the slope. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘Peiros is my name,’ he lied. Even this close to his home, he did not yet feel like revealing his true identity.