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killed. It was quite another making prisoners fight each other to the death. The idea revolted him. He resolved to say something to Spartacus.
    It wasn’t long before their leader appeared, accompanied by Ariadne, Castus and Gannicus. Behind him walked soldiers carrying four silver eagles and a large number of cohort standards. There were even several sets of fasces, the ceremonial bundles of rods carried by magistrates’ bodyguards and the symbols of Roman justice. An enormous cheer went up as the Thracian strode to stand by the heap of weapons. Despite his anger, Carbo was filled with awe at the sight of his leader with the battle trophies.
    Unsurprisingly, the prisoners’ terrified eyes also focused on Spartacus. They knew who he was, even if they didn’t recognise him. The Thracian was renowned and vilified throughout the Republic as a monster, a man without morals, who defied all societal norms. Here he was, a crop-haired figure in Roman armour, his muscular arms and sword blade covered in their comrades’ blood. Unremarkable in many ways. Yet everything about him, from his emotionless expression to his bunched fists, inspired fear, and threatened death.
    ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ the slaves chanted.
    Spartacus raised his arms in recognition of his men’s acclaim.
    Castus threw Gannicus a sour look, which was reciprocated. No one noticed.
    Ignoring Navio’s cry of ‘Wait!’, Carbo trotted over to Spartacus. ‘Can I have a word?’
    ‘Now?’ Spartacus’ voice was harsh. Cold.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Make it quick.’
    ‘Is it true that these men but one are to die fighting each other?’
    Spartacus’ gaze pinned him to the spot. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Damn right it is!’ said Gannicus.
    ‘You got a problem with that?’ growled Castus, fingering the hilt of his sword.
    Carbo stayed where he was. ‘They deserve better than this.’
    ‘Do they? Why?’ Suddenly, Spartacus’ face was right in his. ‘It is how gladiators up and down the length of Italy die every day of the year, for the amusement of your citizens . Many, if not most of those men, have committed no crime.’ Spartacus was aware of the Gauls’ rumbling agreement here. ‘What we’re about to see is just a turning of the tables.’
    It was hard to deny the logic, but Carbo still felt disgusted. ‘I—’
    ‘Enough,’ Spartacus barked and Carbo bent his head. To say any more would threaten his friendship with the Thracian, never mind risk an attack from either one of the Gauls. He watched unhappily as Spartacus raised his hands again and a silence fell.
    ‘I have not called you here to congratulate you for your actions in the battle against Gellius today. You all know how much I admire your courage and loyalty.’ Spartacus let his followers cheer before continuing: ‘We are here for a different reason. A sad reason. Word has reached us of the death of Crixus, and two-thirds of his men. They were lost in a bitter fight against Gellius at Mount Garganus, about a month ago.’
    A great, gusty sigh went up from the watching soldiers.
    They chose their own fate, thought Carbo. They went with Crixus, the whoreson.
    ‘As well as our own dead, we must honour Crixus and his fallen men. Ask the gods not to forget them, and to allow every last one entrance to Elysium. What better way of doing that than by celebrating our own munus?’ As an animal growl rose from his followers, Spartacus indicated the pile of gladii. ‘Each prisoner is to pick up a sword. Pair yourself off with another, and walk around the fire until you are told to stop. At my command, you will fight in pairs to the death. The survivors will face each other and so on, until only one man remains.’
    The deafening cheers that met Spartacus’ orders drowned out the Romans’ shocked cries. A dozen men moved among them, cutting the ropes that bound them together. None of the prisoners moved a step. Spartacus jerked his head and the guards began jabbing the legionaries with