Ben Kane - The Gladiator

‘We Thracians never change, eh?’ he asked the stallion. ‘Never mind what might be best for Thrace. We fight everyone, even our own. Especially our own. Unite to fight a common enemy, such as Rome? Not a chance!’ His barking laugh was short, and angry. The first part of the task his father had set him — serving with the Roman legions — had been completed. He had anticipated a period of relatively normal life before attempting the second part, that of trying to unify the tribes. It was not to be. The dark cloud of war with its bloody lining had found him yet again. Yet he did not try to ignore the adrenalin rush. Instead he welcomed it. Kotys killed my father. The treacherous bastard. He must die, and soon.

Used to both his soliloquies and his silences, the horse plodded on behind him.

Two sentries armed with shields and javelins stood by the walled settlement’s large gates. They peered at him through jaundiced eyes, muttering to each other as he approached. Few travellers arrived at this late hour, in such bad weather. Even fewer possessed a mail shirt or tinned helmet. Although the newcomer’s stallion was lame, it was of fine quality. It was also white — the colour prized by kings.

‘Halt!’

He came to a stop, raising his left hand in a peaceful gesture. Just let me in without too many questions. ‘It’s an evil evening,’ he said mildly. ‘After paying respects to the rider god, it’s one to spend by the fire with a cup of wine.’

‘You speak our tongue?’ asked the older guard in surprise.

‘Of course.’ He laughed. ‘I’m Maedi, like you.’

‘Is that so? I wouldn’t recognise you from a dog turd,’ snarled the second sentry.

‘Me neither,’ his comrade added in a slightly more civil tone.

‘Maybe so, but I was born and raised in this village.’ He frowned at their scowls. ‘Is this the best welcome I can expect after nearly a decade away?’ He was about to say that his name was Peiros, but the first guard spoke first.

‘Who are you?’ He peered at the newcomer’s arms, noticing for the first time the spatters of blood, and then back at his face. ‘Wait a moment. I know you! Spartacus?’

Shit! ‘That’s right,’ he replied curtly, caressing the hilt of his sword.

An incredulous grin split the older man’s face. ‘By all the gods, why didn’t you say? I’m Lycurgus. Sitalkes and I rode together.’ He threw a warning look at the other guard.

‘I remember you,’ said Spartacus with an amiable nod. The stare he gave the second sentry was far less friendly. Mortified, the warrior took a sudden interest in the dirt between his feet.

‘Things have changed since you left home,’ said Lycurgus unhappily. ‘Your father-’

‘I know,’ Spartacus cut in harshly. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

He couldn’t help himself. ‘Died in suspicious circumstances, I hear.’

Lycurgus glanced at his companion. ‘Neither of us had anything to do with it. Polles is the one you want to talk to.’

‘Polles?’

‘The king’s chief bodyguard.’ The distaste in Lycurgus’ voice was clear.

‘What about Getas, Seuthes and Medokos? Are they still alive?’ he asked casually.

‘Oh yes. They’ve fallen from favour, but they keep their noses clean so Kotys leaves them be.’ Aware of the dangerous undercurrent to their conversation, Lycurgus licked his lips. ‘Are you…?’

Spartacus acted as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I’m tired. I’ve been on the road for weeks. All I want is some hot food in my belly and a drink with my old friends. The king can wait until tomorrow. He doesn’t need to know that I’ve returned until then.’ By which time, gods willing, it will be too late. Now that these two know my identity, I’ve got to act at once. Getas and the others will help. ‘That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

‘O-of course not,’ stammered Lycurgus. He glared at his companion.

‘We won’t say a word to anyone.’

‘Not a soul,’ warned Spartacus. Hearing the sudden chill in his voice, the two guards nodded fearfully.

‘Good.’ Pulling a fold of his cloak over the lower half of his face, Spartacus walked by without another word.

‘You fucking idiot,’ hissed Lycurgus the instant that he had vanished from sight. ‘Spartacus is one the deadliest warriors that our tribe has ever seen! Be grateful that he was in a good mood. You do not want to piss him off.’

‘What is he planning?’

‘I don’t know,’ snapped Lycurgus. ‘I don’t want to know. If anyone asks later, we didn’t recognise him. Understand?’

Ariadne’s mood was darkening. The usual ritual of burning incense and meditation had brought her nothing but a sequence of fractured, distressing images. Most of them featured Kotys, naked on a bed. Others also involved Polles, which revolted her. The more appealing — and dangerous — ones were those in which she defended herself against the king with a knife, or her snake. What use is there in killing him? she wondered hopelessly. I’d have to flee the settlement to avoid being killed by his bodyguards. Where would I go then? Kabyle? Ariadne could think of nowhere else, but she dismissed the notion out of hand. The priests in the city would not shelter a regicide. She was trapped. Alone, with no one to help her.

Cloaked by misery, she shut up the temple and headed for her hut. The sky was full of clouds threatening snow, and she wanted to gain the safety of her door before it started falling heavily. The settlement wasn’t dangerous for most, but Kotys could easily have set some of his warriors to lie in wait for her. As she hurried towards the alleyway that led home, Ariadne saw a man entering by the main gate. She’d never seen him before, but his slow, self-assured carriage attracted her attention. He was of average height, with short brown hair, and wearing a mail shirt and closely fitting red trousers. A Roman soldier’s belt circled his waist; from it hung a sheathed sica and dagger. The bronze helmet he was holding had a forward curving crest, and the lame white stallion following him was also clearly Thracian.

He called out a low greeting to a bunch of warriors who were standing nearby. Ariadne recognised three of them: Getas, Seuthes and Medokos. Hearing the other’s voice, Getas turned his head. He frowned, and then with delighted looks, he and his companions descended on the newcomer.

So that’s the traveller whom Berisades met, thought Ariadne. He must be well liked if they have not forgotten him in his absence. She kept walking. Reaching home was more important than staring at strangers. Perhaps Dionysus would visit her that night. Give her some hope. She consoled herself with that idea. A moment later, she heard a characteristic, braying laugh coming from inside the alleyway. Recognising Polles by the sound, Ariadne reacted without thinking. She quickly angled away from the alley’s entrance to approach it from the side. Poking her head around the corner, she saw the outline of at least three men a short distance inside. Their slouching posture was at direct odds with the naked weapons in their hands. Feeling very weary, Ariadne sagged against the house’s cold wattle and daub. Kotys was being true to his word. The bodyguards were there to abduct her. Curse him! Creeping around them to reach her hut by another route would merely delay the inevitable. In that instant, the helplessness that Ariadne had felt when her father was about to assault her sexually returned. It sat in her belly as if it had never been absent, an acid pool of nausea and self-loathing.

Her indecision seemed to last an eternity, but in reality was no more than a few heartbeats. Unsure of where to go, Ariadne stumbled across the central space. It was then that she saw a second party of warriors heading towards her from the temple. Ducking her head in a pathetic attempt not to be seen, she changed direction. There was only one way to go. To the main gate. It didn’t matter that it was bitterly cold, snowing, or that it was dangerous beyond the village walls. She had to get away from Kotys, and it didn’t matter how.