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it there for a heartbeat, before letting it drop. ‘Begin!’
    As the prisoners prepared to set upon each other, a baying cry rose from the watching crowd. It was the same bloodthirsty sound Spartacus had heard when fighting in the arena. He wished that every man in the Senate was about to battle one another before him instead of four hundred legionaries.
    Carbo did not want to watch the slaughter, but his position beside Spartacus meant that he had to. If he closed his eyes, he risked being accused of at best squeamishness, or at worst, cowardice. Despite his misgivings, he soon found himself engrossed. The clash of metal upon metal, the grunts of effort and inevitable cries of pain were mesmerising. Many of the legionaries chose to die quickly, letting their opponents thrust them through or hew their heads from their necks. Carbo wasn’t surprised. Why bother trying to win a fight when victory meant a second combat, and yet more after that? What took him by surprise was the level of ferocity with which some of the prisoners went at one another. Their desire to live was great enough for them to slay a comrade without hesitation. Covered in blood, they stood with heaving chests, waiting for the other fights to end.
    Carbo noted that the centurion who had addressed Spartacus was one of the two hundred ‘winners’. Perhaps because of his kindly face, the senior officer reminded him of his father, Jovian. That thought tore at his heart. Carbo hadn’t seen his family for more than a year, since he’d run away from home. A home that had been repossessed by Crassus, the man to whom his father had owed a fortune. Soon after he’d left, Jovian and his mother had travelled to Rome, there to throw themselves on the mercy of a rich relative. Carbo’s pride had not let him accompany his parents. For all he knew, they could both be dead. As the centurion will be soon.
    When the initial fights were over, Spartacus ordered his men to drag away the bodies of the losers. ‘Any men still breathing are to have their throats cut. Pile them in a heap over there. Meanwhile, the rest of you dogs can get on with it!’ A huge cheer met this announcement. Carbo felt sick. He was glad that Spartacus was ignoring him.
    A short while later, five score more corpses lay sprawled amidst pools of blood. A hundred Romans remained, the centurion among them. Soon their number had been reduced to fifty, and after that twenty-five.
    ‘You fight well,’ Spartacus shouted at the centurion. ‘Stand aside while the remaining two dozen fight each other.’
    Stony-faced, the officer did as he was told.
    The twelve men who came through the fifth combat looked exhausted.
    Six legionaries survived the next brutal set of clashes. They were so tired that they could barely hold up their gladii, but there was no time allowed to rest. ‘Keep fighting!’ shouted Spartacus. Anyone who faltered was threatened and shoved by the guards.
    Spartacus ordered the centurion to take part again when there were a trio of legionaries remaining. Given that he’d had to fight three men fewer than his opponent, it wasn’t surprising that the experienced officer dispatched him with ease – nor that he won the final bout either. He stood with bowed head over the body of his last victim, his lips moving in silent prayer.
    The raucous cheering that had accompanied the bloody combats died away. A strange quiet fell over the thousands of gathered men. Carbo felt his skin crawl. He glanced into the gathering darkness, almost expecting to see Charon, the ferryman, or even Hades himself, the god of the underworld, appearing to claim the great pile of dead legionaries.
    ‘What’s your name?’ asked Spartacus.
    The centurion lifted eyes that were bleak with horror. ‘Gnaeus Servilius Caepio.’
    ‘You’re a veteran.’
    ‘Thirty years I’ve served. My first campaigns were with Marius, against the Teutones and the Cimbri. I don’t expect you know of them.’
    ‘Indeed I do. You