mirror that her heart-shaped face had grown softer and more attractive. Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought.
A thrill of joy shot through her as she pictured herself holding a strong baby boy while her smiling husband looked on. It was instantly followed by a familiar, snaking dread. What if her interpretation of Spartacus’ dream was incorrect? What if he was destined to die in battle against the Romans? Today? Stop thinking like that. He will win. We will cross the Alps while it’s still summer. Get out of Italy altogether. She felt happier at that thought. Few tribes would dare to hinder the passage of his army – even if it was depleted – and they would make their way to Thrace. I cannot wait to see Kotys’ face, she thought vengefully. He will pay for what he did to us. So will Polles, the king’s champion.
‘Enough daydreaming,’ she said to herself. ‘Do not tempt fate.’
Atheas, who was stacking a pile of bandages, looked up. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Gods willing, my hopes will come to pass. Ariadne counted the heaped rolls of linen by his feet. They would serve to dress the hideous wounds they’d soon be seeing. ‘Five hundred. Not nearly enough.’ Her eyes moved to the score of women who were ripping up sheets, tunics and dresses into dressings of various sizes. To her relief, the heaps of garments by their feet were still sizeable. ‘Faster. We may well need all of those.’ Ariadne wasn’t surprised when the women ducked their heads and their conversation petered away to an occasional whisper. As Spartacus’ wife, she was respected, but the fact that she was also a priestess of Dionysus elevated her status close to his. Slaves held the god in especial esteem. I am part of the reason that Spartacus has so many followers, she thought with pride. Long may that continue.
Putting everything other than preparations to receive the injured from her mind, Ariadne embarked on a patrol of the hospital area, which had been positioned on the edge of the camp nearest the battlefield. She checked that the surgeons and stretcher-bearers were ready, that supplies of wine for the wounded were plentiful and ordered that another fifty makeshift beds be made up. The whole process didn’t take nearly as long as she would have wished. When it was done, her worries returned with a vengeance. She glanced at the sun, which had reached its zenith. ‘They’ve been gone for four hours.’
‘That not . . . long time,’ pronounced Atheas, making an attempt to sound reassuring, which failed utterly.
Ariadne groaned. ‘It feels like an eternity.’
‘Battle could . . . last . . . whole day.’
She racked her brains for something to do, a task that would prevent her from agonising over the worst possible outcomes for Spartacus and his men.
Tan - tara - tara . Ariadne jumped. The trumpet sound was near. No more than a quarter of a mile away. Fear coursed through her veins. ‘Is that the—’
Atheas finished her question. ‘Romans?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not . . . sure.’ Atheas cocked his head and listened.
Tan - tara - tara . Tan - tara - tara . The trumpets were a little closer now, allowing Ariadne to discern the irregular blasts and off-tone notes. Her heart leaped with exhilaration, and she barely heard Atheas say ‘Roman trumpeters . . . play better.’ Then they have won! Let him be alive, Dionysus. Please. Ariadne didn’t run to meet the returning soldiers as she had after the battle against Lentulus. Instead she walked as calmly as she could to the start of the track that Spartacus and his men had used that morning. Atheas trailed her, shadowlike. The pair were followed by almost everyone – a crowd made up of women. Loud prayers for the safe return of their menfolk filled the air.
Ariadne’s only concession to her inner turmoil was to clench her fists, unseen, by her sides. Atheas’ tattooed face, as ever, was impassive.
When the cheering mob of soldiers rounded the bend and she
Elizabeth Amelia Barrington