Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter IX

Carbo ambled towards the nearest door of the basilica; Spartacus followed. Placing his back against the wall, Carbo cast an idle eye about, in the manner of a man who has nothing particular on his mind. Crassus was still talking to Caepio, although he’d come down a couple of steps.

‘I fancy a few cups of wine, not just the one,’ Carbo said loudly. ‘The excitement’s over as well. After this, I think we’ll head back to the Elysian Fields.’

‘Yes, master,’ replied Spartacus.

‘Want to see the future, good sir?’

Carbo turned. A man of indeterminate age in a grubby robe stood before him. The blunt-peaked leather cap on his head and his obsequious manner told him what he already knew. ‘You’re a haruspex.’

‘That’s right, sir. Place a denarius on my palm and I’ll endeavour to see what the gods have in store for you.’

Ten legions are coming my way. ‘Piss off,’ Carbo said curtly.

The haruspex began to protest, but Spartacus took a step forward. ‘Are you deaf? Peddle your lies somewhere else, or I’ll give you a set of bruises that you most definitely didn’t foresee.’

Muttering dire imprecations, the man sidled off.

Carbo didn’t really believe in soothsayers, but it was a little unnerving that after what he’d just heard, the man had picked him out from everyone else. He made the sign against evil.

Spartacus had other things on his mind. ‘Pssst! He’s moving. With only six men guarding him too,’ he hissed with delight. ‘Caepio’s one of them.’

Carbo’s eyes swivelled. With two legionaries in front and four behind, Crassus was heading in their general direction. To his surprise, one of the leading soldiers was indeed the veteran centurion. ‘They’re aiming for the same street we came in on. What should we do?’

Spartacus knew that the odds were long indeed, but his blood was up. ‘We go for it.’ Whether we’ll get away afterwards is uncertain, but it’s worth the risk.

Carbo’s heart was like a pounding drum in his chest. This is what he’d prayed for so hard, but two against six? The legionaries were fully armed too, and all they had were daggers. I can’t back down. He gave Spartacus a tight nod. ‘How do you want to do it?’

‘Let’s get ahead of him. Head into the alley that Tulla brought us down. Charge out as they come alongside. We take a soldier each — the ones nearest us — and put them down, hard. Then you go for whichever legionary gets to you first. I’ll kill Crassus. You’ll have to hold off the rest as they come at you. Think you can do that?’

‘Yes,’ said Carbo with all the confidence he could muster. I’m a dead man. What does that matter though, if we succeed?

‘The instant I’m done with Crassus, we flee back up the alley and lose ourselves in the back streets.’ His eyes drilled into Carbo. ‘Clear?’

He licked dry lips. ‘Yes.’

Spartacus honed in on the fractional delay in his reply. He chuckled. ‘You want to kill him, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘Think you can murder an unarmed man? You’d just have to hack into him, as you would with a side of pork. No thinking, no hesitating.’

Sudden doubt tore at Carbo. Could he slay Crassus in cold blood? He had always thought he could, but now the chance had fallen into his lap, he wasn’t so sure. His eyes fell away from the Thracian’s.

‘I’ll do it,’ Spartacus said.

Carbo rallied himself with images of his parents having to leave the house that been in the family for generations. The familiar rage flared in his belly. ‘I can do it,’ he protested.

‘No,’ replied Spartacus in a hard voice. ‘This is the only opportunity that we’ll ever get. There can be no cock-ups.’

Furious with himself, Carbo acquiesced.

‘Lead on then, or they’ll get ahead of us. Let’s pray that Tulla doesn’t come back before we’re out of sight. The last thing we need is her shouting after us.’

‘Right. I’ve had enough of waiting for the brat,’ said Carbo loudly, assuming his role of master once more. ‘Let’s head back to the inn.’ He strode off, not twenty paces ahead of Crassus and his escort. It was hard not to look behind him as he walked. The jingle of the legionaries’ mail was clearly audible. I’ll have to get close enough to stab my man in the throat. His anxiety grew, and his fingers stole of their own volition to the hilt of his dagger. Jupiter, let my aim be true.

After they had slain two of the legionaries and while Spartacus was killing Crassus, their companions would turn on him. Carbo did not have time to dwell on what might happen after that. Crassus will die, he told himself. He reached the alleyway and quickly turned into it.

Spartacus came spilling in behind him. His knife was already in his hand. ‘Ready?’

Drawing his own blade, Carbo nodded.

Spartacus padded to the corner of the building and peered around it with great caution. Then he stepped back and glanced at Carbo. ‘They’re fifteen paces away. You take the front legionary on this side. I’ll take the next one. Move the instant your man is parallel with us. Don’t wait until he or Crassus have passed by or they might realise what’s going on.’

‘Yes.’ Spartacus was taking the harder kill, but Carbo didn’t argue. He moved in front of the Thracian, as far forward as he could without actually being seen, and pressed himself against the cool brickwork.

‘Ten paces they’ll be now,’ whispered Spartacus. ‘Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.’

Carbo held his dagger with the tip pointing towards the ground, the way he’d been trained. It provided a far stronger grip, and was almost impossible to knock from his fingers. His gaze narrowed to the space before him: the gap that led to the street. He was aware of the blood rushing in his ears, the crunch of caligae on the uneven ground and the clink of mail. In the background, noises from the basilica — and Spartacus’ voice. ‘Five. Four. Three.’

Carbo tensed.

‘Two. One. Now.’

The first thing Carbo saw was the edge of a scutum. Then a mailed shoulder, and a head covered by a crested bronze-bowl helmet. Carbo darted forward. Grabbing the top edge of the shield with his left hand, he ripped it downwards. The unsuspecting legionary was jerked downwards and to the side, exposing his neck. Raising his knife, Carbo hammered it into the hollow to the side of the collarbone. He was aware of Spartacus shooting forward like a wraith to his left, of the other soldiers’ confused faces turning towards him, of Crassus’ shocked expression. A scream of agony from his victim dragged him back. He ripped free his blade, releasing a spray of bright red blood into the air. Carbo stabbed the man again for good measure, and let him fall.

‘It must be them!’ roared the second man at the front — Caepio. ‘Protect Crassus!’

At the time, the words didn’t register with Carbo, because his attention was focused on Caepio, who was charging at him with a drawn sword.

Fortunately, Caepio tripped as he leaped forward. His scutum, which should have thumped into Carbo’s chest, instead caught Crassus in the side, sending him stumbling to one side.

‘Kill him, you fool!’ screeched the politician, backing away towards the wall of the Curia.

Gripping his gladius, Caepio advanced.

From the corner of his eye, Carbo saw a pair of bodies on the ground and Spartacus scrambling forward at Crassus. The two last legionaries, his mind screamed. Where in Hades are they? He couldn’t look around, though, because Caepio was coming at him fast. One. The centurion’s shield boss was rammed at Carbo’s face. Two. A throat-ripping thrust of his sword followed. He dodged the first and backed away from the second.

‘I recognise you! You’re the traitor I spoke to after the munus.’ Snarling with pleasure, Caepio swept forward. ‘Ready to choke on your own blood, you vermin?’

Carbo didn’t answer. Shieldless, his only form of defence was to retreat. That took him further away from Spartacus, and the fifth and sixth soldiers, who he now saw had not made for him. Instead, they had somehow got between Crassus and the Thracian and were shielding him with their scuta. Carbo cursed. With just a dagger, there was no way that Spartacus could succeed. There was nothing he could do to help either. Every time he tried to move in the direction of the Forum, Caepio blocked his way. He shot a glance behind him. A safe distance away, a crowd of shocked citizens were watching their every move. He spat another oath. The same would be happening beyond where Spartacus was. The alarm would have been raised. Any moment, more soldiers would come to Crassus’ rescue.

Spartacus knew it too. He made one last desperate attempt to reach Crassus, darting in to one side of the legionaries guarding him. He managed to strike the leftmost man in the fleshy part of his shield arm. As he did, Crassus cursed and shrank back against the wall. If I’d had more time, thought Spartacus, it might have made a difference. No one could hold the heavy weight of a scutum for long after suffering such a wound. But the soldier’s companion drove at him with a flurry of blows from his shield and sword, and he had to withdraw. A quick glance towards the Forum told him that his attempt was over. A large group of legionaries, accompanied by men in civilian clothes — some of the veterans, no doubt — were sprinting up the street.

He pinned Crassus with his stare. ‘It’s not to be this time. But next time you won’t be so lucky.’

Crassus glared at him. ‘I should have ordered you killed that day.’

‘That’s right, you cocksucker. A stupid mistake, eh?’ called Spartacus over his shoulder as he ran off.

‘After him!’ screamed Crassus, shoving his guards in the back and gesticulating wildly at the approaching men. ‘It is Spartacus! A gold piece to the man who brings me his body!’

Caepio was too busy with Carbo; he didn’t see Spartacus coming. I could kill him easily enough. Yet the dignity with which the centurion had conducted himself still lingered in his mind. Instead he shoulder-charged Caepio from behind, sending him flying to the ground. Spartacus bounded over him with a great leap. ‘Fortuna is smiling on you today.’

‘Curse you for a treacherous assassin!’ Caepio spat. ‘I won’t forget this.’

‘Neither will I.’ What a missed opportunity, thought Spartacus grimly. Crassus should be coughing out his last breath. He locked eyes with Carbo. ‘Let’s move!’

They fled up the street. Neither saw the little figure in their wake, darting in and out between the pursuing soldiers. There was a cup of wine in her hand.

Spartacus led the way. He ran through the dimly lit alleyway, barging past an old man carrying a hen by the neck, to a junction with another. He turned left blindly and hared up that, followed by Carbo. Fifty paces later, the narrow way forked. He took the right. A moment later he cursed as his feet sank into a stinking pile of semi-liquid waste. ‘A dung heap.’ His teeth flashed in the darkness at Carbo. ‘They won’t want to follow us through this. If they do, at least they’ll be covered in shit as well.’

Carbo peered back whence they had come. He couldn’t hear any sounds of pursuit. ‘I think we’ve lost them.’

‘Maybe. They’ll be searching every street by now, though. We need a place to lie low.’

‘Shouldn’t we get out of the city?’

‘It’s too late for that. The first thing Crassus will have done is to order soldiers to every single gate. Anyone trying to leave will be questioned, certainly for the rest of the day. We’ll have a better chance if we can hole up somewhere until tomorrow and try then.’ It will still be damn risky, thought Spartacus. Had it been worth the risk? Yes, because if their attempt had succeeded, the Romans would have been thrown into complete disarray.

‘We could always hide here.’

Spartacus indicated the narrow window openings above them. ‘Someone will see us, and put two and two together. It’ll be dangerous to head back to the Elysian Fields, but it’s our best option.’

Carbo didn’t like the idea either, but he couldn’t think of another. He swung his head this way and that, trying to get his bearings. ‘Do you even know which direction it is?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll try this way,’ said Spartacus, taking a step forward.

‘You’ll get even more lost if you do.’

Carbo turned to see a small shape scurrying out of the gloom. He couldn’t help but grin. It was Tulla, still clutching the dregs of a cup of wine.

‘You!’ spat Spartacus. ‘Why have you followed us?’

‘You haven’t paid me.’ Tulla’s voice died away as Spartacus took a step towards her.

‘Did you see what happened?’ demanded the Thracian.

‘Y-yes,’ replied the girl, backing away. ‘Is it true that you’re Spartacus?’

Spartacus darted forward and grabbed Tulla by the front of her tunic.

Carbo’s breath caught in his chest.

‘It is.’

‘Y-you’ve just been pretending to be a slave? Why?’

‘To find out what’s going on here. To discover what Crassus is planning to do.’

‘And when you saw a chance to assassinate him, you took it.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ Despite Tulla’s bravado, her voice quavered.

‘I’m not in the habit of murdering children, but I don’t want the soldiers to find us either. There’s no other way, really.’ Spartacus placed his knife against the side of Tulla’s scrawny neck.

Carbo saw the fabric covering the girl’s groin darken as she lost control of her bladder. ‘Spartacus, please!’

The Thracian didn’t answer, but his knife stayed where it was. Tulla’s eyes flickered from Carbo up to Spartacus and back again, but she had lost the ability to speak.

‘You’re to become a father soon,’ said Carbo.

‘What has that to do with it?’ Spartacus demanded harshly.

‘If you have a daughter, imagine her when she’s Tulla’s age.’

‘I am to have a son, not a daughter,’ Spartacus barked. ‘And he will be no gutter rat.’ The tip of the dagger dug into the skin, causing Tulla to wail in terror and letting a fat drop of blood drop to the ground.

‘Wait! We could make a deal with her.’

Spartacus stared at Carbo without speaking, but again his knife remained still.

‘Offer her an aureus to guide us to the Elysian Fields,’ said Carbo quickly. ‘She will stay there with us and in the morning, we’ll give her another gold coin to take us to one of the quieter gates.’

Spartacus chuckled. ‘That’s enough to live on for a year! Why would I do that when I can simply cut her throat and keep the money?’

‘Because it would mean one less life being lost. She’s an innocent child.’

‘Innocent? So were the children in Thracian villages that the fucking Romans murdered a few years back!’ The muscles in Spartacus’ forearm tensed.

‘Do it for me then,’ said Carbo, wondering if he was going too far. ‘Please.’

Spartacus’ lips thinned. ‘You dare to question me?’

‘She will not play us false,’ urged Carbo. ‘I know it.’

Spartacus used the point of the blade to force Tulla’s chin upwards. ‘Hear that? Carbo trusts you. With his own life.’ He shot a flinty look at Carbo, whose mouth went very dry. ‘Are you worthy of that trust?’

‘Y-y-yes, sir.’

He let her go and Carbo let out a ragged breath. Thank the gods.

The Thracian fumbled in the purse that hung unseen around his neck. ‘Here.’

Tulla grabbed the coin, and turned it over and over. ‘This is only a denarius!’

‘That’s right. And this,’ said Spartacus, flicking a gold coin between his fingers, ‘is one of the aurei you’re going to earn. If I give it to you now, you’ll probably still play us false. And I’ll have to kill Carbo here.’

Tulla’s eyes grew beady.

‘It’s more than you’ve ever had in your damn life,’ said Carbo angrily, sure that the money was motivating the girl more than his life.

Tulla reached out to try and snatch the aureus, but Spartacus lifted his hand out of reach. ‘You will be paid in full if you do as I’ve asked. But if you don’t, I will hunt you down and kill you. Not nicely, like I was going to do just now. Very slowly.’

Tulla’s face went pale beneath the grime. ‘All right. You know that the gods will keep you to your side of the bargain?’

Carbo was relieved to hear her words. If she believed in oaths, she would not betray his trust. If she did, he had little doubt that the Thracian would kill him. Despite Spartacus’ continuing trust, he’d already made two mistakes too many.

‘I do,’ said Spartacus solemnly.

This seemed to satisfy the girl. ‘Two aurei in total then.’

‘Yes. The balance payable when you take us to the gate in the morning.’

‘Along with the amount we agreed for the job of guiding you around.’ Tulla’s jaw jutted out stubbornly.

‘Can you believe this girl?’ Spartacus barked a laugh. ‘She’d bargain with the ferryman!’

Despite the danger he had placed himself in, Carbo grinned.

Spartacus spat on his hand and shoved it forward. ‘It’s a deal.’

‘Deal,’ agreed Tulla, gravely accepting the grip.

Some time later, they found themselves in a side alley that overlooked the Elysian Fields. Tulla made to enter the street, but Spartacus pulled her back. ‘Wait. Let’s not be hasty.’

Staying in the shadows, they watched the inn. Several tables outside were occupied. A balding man dozed with his head against the front wall; a bored-looking whore toyed with her bracelets; two older men argued amiably about which horse-racing team was best that season. Carbo’s unease reduced a fraction. There didn’t seem to be any reason for alarm. He glanced at Spartacus.

‘Not yet.’

Tulla rolled her eyes, but she too stayed where she was.

A boy pushing a small cart went by, shouting about the fresh fruit juice he had for sale. A matron passed in the other direction, issuing orders to the trio of house slaves who hurried behind her, carrying her shopping. The delicious smells issuing from a baker’s shop a short distance away mixed with the smell of burning charcoal, and manure from the pens behind a butcher’s. The cattle held there roared their protests. Ting. Ting. Ting. The sound of metal hammering off metal reached them from a smithy. A cripple hobbled by on a crudely fashioned crutch.

Carbo began to relax.

Beside him, Tulla was jiggling with impatience. ‘Do you think it’s safe yet?’

Spartacus shook his head.

‘But everything is going on as norm-’

Tramp. Tramp. Tramp.

Tulla’s eyes widened. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back as Spartacus peered briefly around the corner. ‘Soldiers. Eight, nine, ten of them.’

A moment later, a party of legionaries came to a halt before the inn. A burly figure emerged from within and sat down with the two old men. Focused on the soldiers, Spartacus didn’t see the man give them a tiny nod. Carbo did, but put it down to nothing more than a greeting. Six entered; the remainder waited outside.

Spartacus had been right to be cautious, thought Carbo, but their predicament was only a fraction less dire than before. ‘What in Hades do we do now?’

‘Good question.’ Spartacus racked his brains. Great Rider, help us.

‘What about a whorehouse?’ suggested Tulla. ‘You could stay in one of those overnight.’

‘No,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘Places like that live on gossip. Besides, they could be searched. Believe me, Crassus is going to have this city turned upside down to try and find us.’

‘We could try going to my uncle’s house and finding out where my parents live,’ said Carbo slowly. ‘If we clean ourselves up, it might work.’ His mind raced. What would he say to Varus? To his mother and father?

‘That’s a damn good idea. If the worst comes to the worst, we can hold them hostage until the morning.’ Spartacus eyeballed Carbo.

‘Very well.’ Carbo almost wished that he had said nothing. He didn’t want his parents to remember their last meeting with him — for surely this would be the last — to be tainted in that manner. But they had to escape.

Spartacus gave a satisfied nod.

‘Where does your uncle live?’ asked Tulla.

‘On the Esquiline Hill. I’m not sure where.’

‘Can you find his house?’ asked Spartacus.

Tulla gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Of course. I might need to ask around a little.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Tulla thumbed her nose at Spartacus and headed back down the alley.

Marcion had drunk more than the rest of his comrades, and his pounding head the next morning had made it easy to turn down his comrades’ suggestion of a swim in the river that lay near the camp. They hadn’t been gone long, however, before his rest was disturbed again by the sound of widespread cheering. Irritably poking his head out of his tent, he discovered something that sent him fumbling for his clothes. Ignoring his hangover, he ran all the way from the camp to the broad watercourse. ‘Did you hear the news?’ he called excitedly as he came barrelling down the slope, dodging past other soldiers.

There were scores of men in the water, bathing, washing their clothes, filling water containers or doing as his tent mates were, sporting about in the shallows near the bank. A few looked up, but none of Marcion’s comrades heard him.

‘Ariadne has had her baby!’ he shouted.

That got him some attention.

Arphocras, one of the nearest to Marcion, was shoving a comrade’s head under the surface. The sun glinted off the droplets in his close-cropped hair. ‘What did you say?’

‘Tell us!’ cried a soldier Marcion had never seen before.

‘Ariadne has given birth to a healthy boy!’

A lop-sided grin twisted Arphocras’ face. ‘A son? The gods be thanked. That’s wonderful news. Let’s hope that Spartacus comes back soon, eh?’

‘He will,’ declared the soldier who’d spoken first.

Marcion nodded. Unlike many others, Zeuxis prominent among them, he still felt sure that their leader would return. He wasn’t sure why this was, but the news of Maron’s birth had increased this belief.

The others were still play-fighting. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got big news!’

No one paid him any notice. Marcion was not surprised. During their weeks of marching under the hot summer sun, few of the mountain streams they’d encountered had been safe enough to enter. This one was, making it a huge draw to the soldiers. Despite the ragging he got for washing regularly, his comrades could not deny the sheer pleasure of being able to bathe in running water.

Marcion’s gaze was drawn back to Arphocras, whose victim had just managed to struggle free. His head had been half-submerged, so he had no clue what Marcion had been saying either. With a triumphant roar, he threw his arms around Arphocras’ neck and dragged him under. Water fountained into the air as the pair thrashed about.

Ten paces further out, Gaius had Zeuxis on his shoulders, and was facing up to two more of their comrades. Shouting curses, Zeuxis and the other man on top grappled fiercely, trying to throw one another into the water. It wasn’t long before Zeuxis’ ‘steed’ lost his footing and fell. Zeuxis began to topple backwards, but he seized his opponent by one arm and, shouting with glee, managed to take him down as well.

Their antics made Marcion forget his news for a moment. Keen to join in, he began to strip off. He had just pulled his tunic up over his shoulders when an immense blow sent him flying forward, his limbs flailing. A heartbeat’s delay, and Marcion landed in the river. He thrashed about madly, trying to find the bottom. Heaving himself upright, he ripped off his tunic and coughed up several mouthfuls of liquid. ‘Who did that?’ he roared. ‘Who did that?’

Laughter filled his ears, and he looked up at the bank. ‘You bastard!’

‘The opportunity was too good to miss,’ said Antonius, another of his tent mates. ‘You were standing there, shouting your head off like bloody Julius.’

Marcion grinned. Throwing their disciplinarian officer into the river was a most appealing idea.

‘What were you bawling about?’ asked a deep voice.

‘Zeuxis. Finally!’ He dodged the balding man’s charge with ease, giving him a push that, to his immense satisfaction, sent his argumentative tent mate face first into the river.

‘Ariadne has given birth,’ Arphocras butted in.

That put a smile on most men’s faces, but Zeuxis, dripping water, scowled. ‘I wish the babe no harm, but that’s the last thing we need.’

‘It’s not as if it’s a surprise. She’s been pregnant for nine months!’ retorted Arphocras to a ripple of laughter.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘Castus and Gannicus aren’t going to be too pleased about this, are they?’

‘Who cares what those whoresons think?’ demanded Marcion. ‘Not us, that’s for sure.’ He was pleased when a number of men nearby voiced their agreement. It was hard to ignore, however, that some soldiers were throwing him foul looks. Even worse, they weren’t Gauls. The rot is spreading, he thought unhappily.

‘It might force them to act. They’ve been planning something since we turned around at the Alps,’ said Zeuxis. ‘If I’ve heard what they promise us in exchange for loyalty once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. A free rein with every farm and estate that we attack. The right to use iron and gold as trading items. We’ll all be rich men soon, if Castus and Gannicus are to be believed!’

‘What’s your point?’ snapped Marcion, tired of Zeuxis’ constant complaints. ‘I know you think it’s lies that the Gauls are peddling.’

‘They’re not lies, that’s the problem,’ replied Zeuxis sourly. He dropped his voice a fraction. ‘That’s why so many men are listening to them. You mark my words, if Spartacus doesn’t come back soon, there’ll be trouble. Real trouble.’

The others exchanged worried looks.

‘It’s not that bad,’ protested Marcion, but he’d heard the whispers too.

‘Isn’t it?’ asked Zeuxis. ‘An army needs its leader, and if he is absent for too long, then someone else will take the space. It won’t be Egbeo or Pulcher either. They’re not ruthless enough.’

‘We don’t want change. We’re still Spartacus’ men, eh?’ asked Marcion, glaring at his comrades.

His reply was a muted chorus of ‘Ayes’, but Zeuxis’ voice wasn’t one of them. He glared at Marcion. ‘The only reason that I joined Spartacus’ army was to get away from my damn master. You might be different, but a lot of men did the same as me. It was good to learn how to fight, I suppose, and to give the Romans a taste of their own medicine. Spartacus brought us victory after victory as well, so I kept following him. You could say that I became loyal to him, yes. But now he’s fucked off and doesn’t look like coming back. He’s left us at the mercy of a pair of Gaulish savages! So much for his loyalty to us. I’m damned if I’ll stick around for much longer.’

‘We can’t just let Castus and Gannicus take control!’ cried Marcion.

‘How are you going to stop them?’ hissed Zeuxis. ‘You’re an ordinary foot soldier, like me. Like all of us. What can you and I do against the likes of the Gauls? They’ve got thousands of followers! Thousands. If we challenged Castus and Gannicus, we’d be food for the vultures and you know it.’

Marcion looked to his comrades for support, but he found none. No one else was actively agreeing with Zeuxis’ gloomy prediction, but nor were they arguing with it. Misery filled him. The laughter of a few moments before seemed a lifetime ago.

Where are you, Spartacus?

‘Help me, please.’

For a moment, Ariadne could not work out where she was, or who was addressing her. She was alone on a road paved with black basalt slabs. The sun beat down from a clear sky. Above her she saw clouds of vultures. Her skin crawled. Why are there so many?

‘Help. Water.’

Ariadne’s head turned, and she took in the man who hung from a simple wooden cross before her. Horror filled her. ‘Egbeo?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘Ariadne.’ The big Thracian’s voice was husky and dry. Far weaker than normal. ‘Help me.’

She took a step closer. The cross was a simple affair, little more than an upright two handsbreadth in width, and a crosspiece of similar size that stretched to either side. Ariadne saw that she could hack through the rope that bound Egbeo’s feet to the vertical, but the thick iron nails that had been driven through his wrists were beyond her. To prevent removal, their heads had been hammered flat on to the wood, pinning his hands in one agonising position. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thirsty. I’m so thirsty.’

Ariadne’s helplessness reached new heights. She had no water bag with her. Glancing up and down the road, she could see no well, no buildings. Just a line of occupied crosses, stretching away on either side as far as she could see. ‘How many men have been crucified?’ she whispered in horror. ‘It must be hundreds.’

‘Thousands,’ croaked Egbeo.

Suddenly, Ariadne knew why she was here. Terror twisted her stomach into a painful knot. ‘Spartacus — where is Spartacus?’

Egbeo didn’t answer.

‘Where is my husband?’ Desperation turned her voice shrill.

The lines on his haggard face grew even deeper. ‘He-’

A hand shook her shoulder. ‘Ariadne!’

Startled, she opened her eyes to find the midwife crouched over her. ‘You were having a nightmare-’ She was interrupted by a mewling sound from beside Ariadne. ‘And you woke the baby. I think he’s hungry.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Failing to clear her mind of the graphic images, Ariadne scooped up Maron, whose cry was growing louder. It cannot be coincidence that I’ve had the same hideous dream three times, can it? She kissed her son on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, my darling. Come here.’ Placing him on her breast with the help of the midwife, she lay down again. ‘My dream was terrible.’

The old woman cackled. ‘It’s the herbs. They often bring bizarre and unsettling images. Things that we do not want to happen, or things that we fear.’

‘Do the visions ever come true?’

‘Sometimes, but it’s almost impossible to know the real ones from the false. My advice is for you to forget all about it. You’ve got more important things to be doing than brooding over a nightmare.’

Ariadne nodded in agreement. That would be best. She busied herself by gazing at Maron, and imagining what he would look like as he grew up. Would he inherit Spartacus’ piercing grey eyes or her brown ones? Would he be compactly built, like his father, or take after her family, who were slighter framed? Soon though, her mind began to wander. Inevitably, it returned to her dream. With Spartacus in Rome, her natural reaction to it was to assume the worst for him. How can it be the herbs when I’ve had the same vision before? Could Spartacus be already dead? She took a deep breath. On the previous occasions that she had seen the lines of crosses, there had been no Egbeo, no conversation. Surely, the big Thracian’s presence in the nightmare meant that it could not be taking place in the present or the near future, because Egbeo was alive and well, and here with the army. That had to mean that Spartacus was not one of the crucified men.

The old woman coughed, and Ariadne glanced at her. Maybe none of it means anything. Her attempt to reassure herself lasted no more than a heartbeat. A dream so dramatic didn’t keep returning unless it was of some significance.

Maron stirred, and she caressed the back of his head. ‘Hush, my little one. It’s all right. It’s all right.’ Dionysus will look after us, as he always has. Spartacus was not one of the men I saw.

As she closed her eyes and tried to rest once more, Ariadne was haunted by one question. She could not make herself forget it.

What had Egbeo been trying to tell her?

On their way to the Esquiline, Spartacus had Tulla purchase two new tunics from a rundown clothes shop on a side street. Discarding their bloody ones on a dung heap and with their knives cleaned and sheathed, the trio were able to take to the main thoroughfares once more. There were parties of soldiers everywhere, but they were paying little heed to the passers-by. Despite this, Carbo’s heart was racing, but he swaggered along as if he were walking through Capua. Spartacus was careful to look at the ground. Finding a small open-fronted restaurant at the base of the hill, Carbo stood at the counter and ordered some food while Tulla went in search of Varus’ house. Both watched the passing patrols, but fortunately the soldiers seemed interested only in inns and taverns. Despite the fact that no one had challenged them, both were glad when the girl returned.

Tulla was immune to their worries. ‘It’s two streets up,’ she announced breezily. ‘We’ll know it by the embroidered cushions on the benches outside.’

Carbo rolled his eyes.

‘What’s she talking about?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘There are seats outside the houses of the rich for their clients to sit on as they wait to be seen. My uncle has always been one for ostentation.’

Tulla led them up the flagged street, weaving her way through the traffic. She took a left at a fountain decorated with a central gilded statue of Neptune, and then the second right.

Carbo spotted the cushions first; he remembered his mother talking about them. ‘That’s it.’

They approached. Apart from the soft furnishings on the otherwise empty benches, Alfenus Varus’ house could have been one of thousands in Rome. As with many others in this part of the city, it stood alone, a rectangular building with a high outer wall whose only features were a massive studded door and a line of small glass windows. This feature was rare indeed. Carbo’s mother’s words echoed in his head. ‘He always has to have the latest fad, no matter how expensive it is.’ The fool. Already he was not looking forward to seeing his uncle again. Yet the thought of his parents drove him on. Somehow he would make them understand what he’d done.

Tulla sat down on the bench to the left of the door. Spartacus remained standing.

Carbo realised that they were both looking at him. He straightened his tunic and ran his hands through his hair. Then he stepped up and rapped the iron elephant trunk knocker off the timbers. It made a deep, thumping noise.

He waited for a long time, and was just about to knock again when a shutter at head height opened. A pair of eyes stared out suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

‘Is Alfenus Varus in?’

There was an audible Phhh of contempt. ‘Not to the likes of you.’ The shutter began to close.

This reaction to his scarred appearance was second nature to Carbo. Once, it would have cowed him. Now he took a step forward. ‘I think you’ll find that that’s not the case. I’m his nephew.’

The shutter stopped. ‘You’re who?’

‘Paullus Carbo, his nephew.’

‘The son of Julia, Alfenus’ sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wait here.’

Carbo was about to ask if his parents were still living in the house, but the shutter had already slammed home. There was a faint sound of footsteps receding, and then silence.

‘That wasn’t exactly the warmest of welcomes,’ muttered Spartacus.

‘Alfenus thinks that Mother married below her station. He has always looked down on us. He’s a good man really.’ Carbo’s protest was automatic, and echoed his father’s words. For the first time in his life, however, the sentiment felt false. The few times he had met Varus, the man had been nothing but patronising and arrogant. It was as well that he’d left the family home, Carbo decided. Otherwise, his father would have sent him to live here under Varus’ supervision, to train as a lawyer.

A moment later, he heard someone returning down the hall. There was a metallic snick as the bolt was drawn back, and the door opened. A shrew-faced man with grey hair looked out. ‘You’re to come in.’ His eyes moved distastefully from Spartacus to Tulla. ‘Your slave, and your…?’

‘Guide.’ Good, thought Carbo. I didn’t even need to lie to him.

‘I see. They can remain outside.’

Carbo gave what he hoped was a reassuring glance to Spartacus, and crossed the threshold. The door was shut with an air of finality, making him uneasy, but he squared his shoulders. This was no time for weakness.

‘Leave the knife here.’ The slave indicated a recess to one side of the entrance. Inside it, a massive man sat on a stool with a club between his knees. He seemed dull-witted, but fully capable of braining someone if he was ordered to. Carbo handed over his dagger without protest.

‘Follow me.’ The slave walked off without looking to see if he obeyed.

They went straight into the tablinum, where a garish, painted statue of a dolphin decorated the impluvium. The scenes from classical myth that adorned the walls were portrayed in similarly gaudy fashion, and not to Carbo’s taste. He studied the death masks of Varus’ ancestors as he passed by the lararium. They had the same self-satisfied expression as he remembered his uncle wearing, a sort of ‘I’m superior to you’ look. He realised he’d been intimidated by it as a child. Now, he loathed it.

The large colonnaded garden beyond was just as grand as Carbo could have imagined. It was overdone: all coy nymphs peeping from behind ornamental bushes and grandiose mosaic patterns on the floor. Everything shouted wealth but not class. Varus was sitting in a chair that was shaded by a large lemon tree. A fine blue glass full of wine sat before him, on a table inlaid with gilt. Behind him, a slave used a palm leaf to fan the air. His uncle had once been handsome, thought Carbo, but years of good living had weighed down his big frame with rolls of fat, and given him a jowl worthy of a prize boar. His straight nose was the only feature in which Carbo could see a resemblance to his mother. Varus was studying a half-unrolled parchment, pursing his plump lips as he read. Although he must have heard them approach, he gave no immediate acknowledgement.

The slave waited. Carbo waited too, a well of anger bubbling within him. With an effort, he controlled his temper. Stay polite. We need his help.

After a little while, Varus lifted his gaze.

‘Your nephew, master.’ The slave took a few steps back.

A well-feigned expression of surprise crossed Varus’ fleshy features. ‘Can it be true? Are you really Paullus Carbo?’

‘Yes, Uncle. It is I,’ said Carbo in as humble a tone as he could manage.

‘There is a certain resemblance to your mother, I suppose.’ Varus’ tone was dubious. ‘The severe scarring from the pox makes it hard to see, however. Not the most good-looking of men, are you?’

It took a great effort for Carbo not to leap forward on to Varus, fists pummelling. ‘I am honoured to meet you at last, Uncle,’ he said, ignoring the question.

The jowls rose and fell in response. ‘You have long since been given up for dead. After a year without so much as a word as to your whereabouts, your parents concluded that you had died, or been killed. And now you return, unannounced? What kind of son does that make you?’

‘I was going to send a letter-’

‘A letter? When?’

‘About three months ago.’

‘It never arrived.’

‘I decided not to send it.’

‘You don’t have much of a conscience, eh? Nothing changes,’ thundered Varus. ‘Did you know that after you abandoned your parents without a word, they delayed leaving Capua for two weeks? They lived in a garret as they searched everywhere for you. But you had vanished, as if you had gone down to Hades itself.’ He glared at Carbo.

Guilt hammered at Carbo’s temples. They didn’t check the ludus. They didn’t think I’d stoop so low. ‘I left the city, went to the coast. Took service with a merchant who was sailing for Asia Minor and Judaea.’

Varus’ eyes bulged. ‘ That, when you could have been learning to become a lawyer?’

‘I did not wish to enter that profession,’ replied Carbo stiffly. I didn’t want to live here, with you ordering me about like a slave.

Varus made a contemptuous gesture. ‘You should have obeyed your father’s wishes and my recommendation! There would have been none of the heartache.’

It’s all Crassus’ fault. But for him, I wouldn’t have had to run away from home, or to come here. Their failure to assassinate the politician hit Carbo even harder.

‘As for your poor mother, well, she did nothing but grieve for you. I’m sure that’s half the reason the fever took her so easily.’ He adopted a grieving expression that screamed its falsity. ‘Oh yes, she’s dead.’

His uncle’s face swam in and out of focus. ‘W-when?’

‘Let me see,’ mused Varus. ‘About three months ago, I think it was.’

Even if his letter had arrived, it would have been too late. Carbo’s grief tore at him with renewed savagery. ‘It was a fever, you say?’

‘Yes, yes. Even though they have drained the swamps, the bad airs linger over the city at various times. No one is immune. I myself was lucky to survive a bout several years ago.’

You self-centred pig! thought Carbo furiously.

‘Her death quite took away your father’s will to live. If he had known that his only child was living, perhaps he would have taken better care of himself. As it was, well…’

No, Carbo screamed silently, Great Jupiter, do not let this be happening! ‘Father is dead too?’

‘Yes. Not a week since.’

‘A week,’ repeated Carbo like a fool. Seven days.

‘That’s right. If you had thought to make amends just a little sooner, he might have seen you.’

Carbo closed his eyes. ‘Did an illness take him as well?’

‘No. I had my major domo make some enquiries afterwards. It seems that he was attacked one night outside the cenacula where he lived. According to those who saw it happen, it was a case of simple robbery. The scum who killed him didn’t know that he had little more than two asses to rub together, nor did they care. He was drunk and alone. They stabbed him, rifled him for any valuables and then left his body in the gutter like so much rubbish.’

His mother’s death would have hit his father very hard, thought Carbo. Jovian would have thought himself abandoned in the world once she had gone. It was easy to see how he might have turned to drink in solace. ‘You said he was living in a cenacula. I thought that my parents were staying here with you.’

‘After my sister’s death, tragic though it was, all obligations I had towards Jovian disappeared. He left the day after Julia’s funeral.’

‘He left, or you asked him to go?’

‘I asked him. It was better for everyone concerned.’ Varus’ smile was as practised as a whore’s.

Carbo could scarcely believe what he was hearing. ‘So my mother was barely in her tomb when you put my father out on the street. Have you no heart?’

Varus gave him an offended look. ‘It wasn’t as if he had no money for rent or food. At the time, he was working for a local merchant.’

‘And that made it acceptable, I suppose?’

‘How dare you take that tone with me, you impudent pup!’ snapped Varus. ‘Where were you when your family needed you? I was the one who took them in, who gave them a roof over their heads and put food in their bellies, who listened to their tragic tale over and over. I — not you.’

A wave of shame subsumed Carbo. ‘I was trying to earn the money to help with Father’s debts,’ he muttered. At least that’s how it started out. Once they had broken out of the ludus, there had been no opportunities — other than theft — to make any money, and Carbo wasn’t a thief. Spartacus had also banned the use of gold and silver in his army. The only metals of use, he said, were iron and bronze, for making weapons. I was going to do so much. Yet I have done none of it, and now my parents are dead. Tears pricked his eyes.

Varus was oblivious. ‘Clearly, you haven’t met with much success. Look at you, dressed like the poorest kind of pleb.’ His lip curled. ‘I wonder how you even managed to save the money to buy a slave.’

The sheer level of his uncle’s contempt helped Carbo to swallow his grief. He would deal with it later. What mattered right now was securing a safe place to hide until the next day. Where could be better than here? he thought with black amusement. ‘He’s not a slave.’

‘Eh?’ Varus’ pudgy forehead creased into a frown. ‘Who is he, then?’

‘He’s a friend.’ Carbo took the few steps that separated him from his uncle at speed. Picking up the glass by its stem, he smashed it off the edge of the table. As Varus gaped, he swept around to the rear of his chair. A great shove sent the slave with the palm leaf stumbling backwards. Carbo threw his left arm around Varus’ neck in a choke hold. Gripping the jagged stump of the glass like a knife, he touched it to his uncle’s throat. ‘Up.’

‘What are you doing?’ Spittle flew from Varus’ lips as he stood. ‘Have you gone entirely mad?’

‘Not quite. Tell your major domo to get the brute at the entrance to surrender his club. He is to open the front door and allow my companions in. My friend is to tie up the brute, and then return here with the girl.’

‘You are insane,’ hissed Varus.

‘Maybe I am.’ Carbo pushed the broken glass against his uncle’s skin until it drew blood. There was a loud squawk of pain. ‘I will happily shove this in all the way,’ he murmured. ‘Just keep answering me back.’

‘Y-you heard him,’ Varus wheezed at the major domo, whose complexion had gone pasty. ‘Do as he says! Quickly!’

The grey-haired slave hurried off.

‘C-can I sit down?’ asked Varus. ‘I feel faint.’

‘Fine.’ Carbo released his grip and let his uncle slide, shaking, back on to his chair. ‘Don’t move.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Carbo-’

‘I said, shut your fat mouth! It would give me extreme pleasure to see you bleed out, you overblown piece of offal.’ Carbo’s mind was full of images of his parents, and his heart was full of sorrow and shame. Killing his uncle might not make that pain go away, but it would help.

Varus heard the threat in his voice, and subsided.

It wasn’t long before the major domo arrived with a grim-faced Spartacus and Tulla in tow. The Thracian smiled when he saw Carbo. ‘I have tied up the doorman, and locked the door. No one is going anywhere without my say so.’ He waved a set of keys. ‘This isn’t the kind of welcome I expected.’

‘Nor I,’ replied Carbo harshly. ‘But my parents are both dead. Uncle Varus here’ — he gestured with the jagged piece of glass — ‘is the only family I have remaining. Not that that means he is dear to me, because he is not. After my mother died a few months ago, he put my father out on the street. In his grief, he took to drink. He was murdered a week ago.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Spartacus. He gave Varus a pitiless look, and returned his gaze to Carbo. ‘So here is as good a place as any for us to stay.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘You must be really rich,’ said Tulla, eyeing Carbo’s uncle with not a small amount of awe.

Varus glowered in response. The urchin took a step backwards.

Carbo knew that Tulla had probably been kicked out of the way by men such as his uncle all her life. He poked Varus with the glass. ‘Answer the girl. Politely.’

‘I suppose you could say that I am wealthy, yes,’ said Varus sullenly.

‘Thought so,’ said Tulla in a grave tone. She wandered off, trailing a hand in a water channel that fed the plants.

Carbo grinned. Tulla had given him an idea. ‘Do you keep any cash in the house?’

‘A-a little, maybe. Not much.’ Varus’ eyes flickered as he spoke.

‘You’re lying.’ Carbo glanced at Spartacus. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘Definitely.’

‘We could do with the money, eh?’

‘Gold always comes in useful.’ Spartacus was more concerned with getting out of the city unharmed, but he saw that Carbo needed to do this. He would act in much the same way if he ever saw Kotys again.

Carbo’s anger towards his uncle had gone ice cold. He took hold of one of Varus’ hands and pulled it down on to the table. He raised the stump of glass high. ‘I’m going to count to three. If you haven’t answered by then, I will stick your fat fucking hand to the wood. One.’

Varus’ jowls wobbled with terror.

‘Two.’

‘All right, all right! There’s a box under a loose tile in the lararium.’

‘Tulla!’

Spartacus’ explanation of what to look for sent the girl sprinting off.

Carbo released his uncle’s hand, which seemed to give Varus some courage. ‘So you came here to rob and murder me, is that it?’

‘Weren’t you listening?’ asked Spartacus. ‘We need somewhere to stay.’

‘I–I don’t understand.’

‘I wanted to spend the night with my parents,’ said Carbo. ‘That’s why I came to your miserable bloody house.’

‘I see.’ Varus looked awkward. ‘You didn’t know that they were dead.’

‘How could I have known?’ spat Carbo.

‘Look!’ Tulla’s beam stretched from ear to ear. In her arms she bore a small iron box. ‘It’s full of gold coins and jewels!’

‘We’ll take that with us,’ said Spartacus with a wink at Carbo.

‘Have it all,’ cried Varus eagerly. ‘You’ll be able to afford the best tavern in Rome.’

Spartacus’ smile vanished. ‘We’ll stay here.’

Varus’ mouth opened to protest, but then he thought better of it. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘I am Spartacus.’

Varus’ eyes darted to Carbo, who nodded in confirmation. ‘S-Spartacus?’

‘That’s right.’

Varus’ face went even paler. ‘But you’re supposed to be with your army, near Venusia.’

‘Clearly, I’m not.’

‘Jupiter above, you’ll torture me to death!’

‘Is that what they say I do to my prisoners?’

Varus nodded fearfully. ‘Terrible, terrible things.’

‘It happens with every army — even Roman ones,’ interjected Carbo. ‘Spartacus tries to stop it.’

‘Don’t waste your breath,’ said Spartacus wearily. ‘He won’t believe you.’

Looking at the fear and loathing smeared all over his uncle’s face, Carbo knew the Thracian’s words to be true. At that moment, part of him wanted to bury the piece of glass in Varus’ heart. There was something more important that he could ensure was done, however. ‘Where are my parents buried?’

‘Your mother lies in the Varus family tomb, and your father’ — Varus licked his lips unhappily — ‘is in a simple grave in the public cemetery.’

‘You filth!’ Carbo’s rage surged out of control, and he slashed Varus across the cheek. ‘Even in death you could not treat my father with honour!’

Varus collapsed howling to the ground with blood pouring from between his fingers.

‘I ought to slay you right here,’ Carbo shouted, pulling Varus up by the front of his tunic.

‘There is another way.’

Spartacus’ voice penetrated Carbo’s fury. ‘Eh?’

‘You could make him swear to erect a fine tomb for both your parents, and to have them reinterred there.’

Carbo heard the wisdom in Spartacus’ words and loved him for it. Despite his ruthlessness, the Thracian cared for him. He let the moaning Varus fall again. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘A tomb, yes, for your parents. It will be the finest I can have built-’

‘It doesn’t need to be the finest. Just make it fitting to their station.’

‘I will, I swear it. If I do not, may Jupiter strike me down.’

‘If you do not,’ growled Spartacus, ‘I will come back and feed you your own prick and balls.’

Varus’ jowls wobbled again, and a fat tear actually ran down each cheek. ‘I understand,’ he whispered.

Carbo’s rage subsided a little. At least he could now rest in the knowledge that they would lie together in a decent tomb. With luck, one day he would be afforded the opportunity to visit it.

One day.

After what they had heard earlier, it seemed a slim hope.