Chapter X

When Ariadne woke again, the position of the sunlight on the tent told her that it was late afternoon. The churring of the cicadas was louder than ever, but the heat of the day had begun to abate. She gazed down at Maron, who was asleep on her chest. ‘My son,’ she whispered.

Hearing her voice, the midwife came fussing over. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tired, but well.’

The old woman lifted the blanket and checked between her legs. ‘Good. There’s only been a little bleeding. In the morning, I’ll get you up.’ She grinned, revealing lines of brown pegs. ‘Word gets around fast. Hundreds of soldiers have already been asking to see Spartacus’ son. Atheas has had to post sentries to stop them approaching the tent.’

Ariadne listened. Sure enough, there were numerous muttered conversations outside. She was filled with pride at this proof of the men’s love for their leader. ‘How many are out there now?’

‘Dozens.’

‘We cannot let them wait. Take the baby, so I can sit up.’

‘You need to rest,’ said the midwife, alarmed.

‘I can do that later. Besides, I want them to see Maron.’ She handed him to the crone. ‘Swaddle him, please.’ Ariadne sat up carefully. She reached for the bronze mirror that sat beside the bed and used it so that she could comb and tie back her hair. She found her dark red woollen cloak and threw it over her shoulders. It would conceal her nightdress, and remind everyone that as well as being Spartacus’s wife, she was also a priestess. She wondered about taking out her snake too, but decided against it. Seeing Maron would impress them enough. ‘I’m ready,’ she announced, reaching out for the baby.

‘Are you sure? You’ve just been through childbirth. You mustn’t overdo it,’ scolded the midwife.

‘I won’t stay outside for long.’

There was an exasperated sigh. The old woman lifted the tent flap.

A hush fell at once.

Holding Maron to her chest, Ariadne stepped into the sunlight.

A loud Ahhhhh rose into the air from the large crowd of men who stood before the tent. Among them, Ariadne recognised Navio, Pulcher, Egbeo, and many others. ‘You have come to see Spartacus’ son?’ she asked.

‘YES!’ they shouted.

Startled, Maron woke up and began to cry.

The men gave each other embarrassed grins.

‘Hush now,’ Ariadne whispered, comforting Maron. ‘Those are your father’s soldiers, who have come to welcome you into the world.’ It was as if he understood her words. He quietened, and began to nuzzle for her breast. ‘In a moment, little man.’ She advanced, so that everyone could see. ‘Our son is healthy, and has fed well.’

Men laughed, grinned and slapped each other on the back.

‘What’s his name?’ asked Egbeo.

‘Maron.’

They cheered.

‘After Spartacus’ brother, who died fighting the Romans?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a good Thracian name. A strong name,’ declared Egbeo.

‘Behold Maron, son of Spartacus,’ cried Ariadne, raising him into the air.

That made them roar until they were hoarse.

Maron began to cry again and, seeing his distress, the men fell silent. Ariadne cuddled him until he was content once more.

‘May he grow up to be as strong and clever as his father,’ called a man with a black beard.

‘As good with a sword and spear as Spartacus!’

‘And as good-looking as his mother,’ added a voice further back.

Ariadne joined in the laughter. Here, basking in the adoration of Spartacus’ soldiers, it was easy to forget her nightmare. But she knew that when she went back inside, her fears would return. Ever since they had turned away from the Alps, she had worried about the future. They could not march around Italy for the rest of their lives. The Romans would not permit it. To think otherwise was naive in the extreme. Yet most of the men seemed to believe just that.

‘Ariadne,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Castus.’ She could not keep her displeasure from her voice. ‘And Gannicus,’ she added with a trace more warmth. Inside, her stomach was churning. Neither man would wish Spartacus’ son and heir well. She wouldn’t put it past them to slip a blade into Maron’s heart. Ariadne took some relief from the fact that Atheas and Taxacis, scowls locked in place, were right at the Gauls’ backs. ‘You’ve come to see Maron?’

‘We have,’ said Castus with a half-smile. He came closer and Ariadne had to force herself not to back away.

Castus peered at the baby. ‘He’s handsome. May he grow up healthy and strong.’

‘Just like his father,’ added Gannicus with real heartiness. ‘And may the gods watch over him always.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ariadne, still wary.

Castus made to speak, but Gannicus intervened. ‘We shouldn’t stay. She’s tired.’

‘It was good of you to come.’ Despite their apparent goodwill, Ariadne eyed the pair with deep suspicion. Since the showdown about where the army would go, she had avoided talking to them. As far as she was concerned, they had betrayed Spartacus. They could not be relied upon. Yet although relations had been strained, Spartacus had continued to deal with them. ‘Because I have to,’ he’d said to her repeatedly. ‘Otherwise the split will come sooner.’ I want to know now. She had heard enough talk about how they were cajoling men to follow them. She threw caution to the wind. They wouldn’t attack her or the baby, not with the Scythians at their backs. ‘When are you going to leave?’

Castus flushed. ‘We’re just leaving.’

‘That’s not what she meant,’ said Gannicus, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is it?’

‘No.’

‘What makes you so sure that we will?’ asked Castus.

‘Come on. A blind man could see how angry you were when Spartacus told the men that he would lead them south again. Besides, you told him that you would when the time was right.’

‘I might have changed my mind,’ he said with a silky smile.

‘But you haven’t.’

Castus didn’t deny it, but he didn’t answer either.

Ariadne turned to Gannicus. ‘I know that you will split off eventually. Have you decided when?’

Gannicus sucked on his moustache and said nothing.

Ariadne felt safe enough to let her temper rise. ‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘I haven’t decided,’ Gannicus admitted. ‘We’ll see how the land lies after we make camp near Thurii.’

‘But you will break away?’

‘Yes.’ He held her gaze. ‘Spartacus is a great leader, but a man can’t follow another all his life.’

‘Thank you for your honesty.’

He smiled, reminding her why she had always preferred him to the shifty Castus. Yet she still wouldn’t trust either man. Without the Scythians’ presence, she would have been scared.

‘When were you planning on telling me that?’ Castus’ tone was accusatory.

‘In my own good time.’

‘The best thing would be to unite forces. Go together.’

‘True. Let’s not argue about it here, eh?’ Gannicus glanced at Ariadne. ‘Wishing the blessings of the gods upon you and your son.’ He reached out and threw an arm over Castus’ shoulders. Still grumbling, the red-haired Gaul let himself be led away.

Ariadne watched them go. They’ll probably go in the spring. That would make most sense, after the hard weather is over. The knowledge sent relief, and a little sadness, flooding through her veins. After the uncertainty, it was better to know. Once she told Spartacus, he could make plans, work on the men’s loyalty, seek out even more recruits. But they still needed a place to head for. Thurii was a long way from Rome, but it wasn’t an impregnable fortress, or inaccessible. To reach it, all the Romans had to do was march down the Via Annia. Where would be best?

Maron whimpered, distracting her. Ariadne retreated into the tent, racking her brains. There had to be somewhere that they could go. She would ask the god. Dionysus had helped her previously. Perhaps he would again now.

‘You prick!’ hissed Castus when they were clear of the throng. ‘You told her when you would leave before me?’

‘I said I’d see how the land lay after we got to Thurii. I didn’t say when I’d leave.’

‘We hadn’t even talked about that!’ Castus spat.

‘We had decided that we wouldn’t make any definite decisions until then. By inference, that meant we would move some time after that.’ Gannicus couldn’t stop the sarcasm creeping into his voice.

‘Don’t you fucking patronise me!’ shouted Castus. ‘I thought we were supposed to be acting together?’

‘We are.’

‘Well, if you want me and my men as allies, and I’d wager my left ball that I’ve got a damn sight more of them than you’ — here Castus shoved his face right into Gannicus’ — ‘there’d better be more sharing of information in future.’

Gannicus had had enough of Castus and his perpetual grievances. He shoved the redhead hard in the chest. ‘Screw you! I’ve told you before that if you want to go it alone, you can do it anytime. See how far you get with only five or six thousand men! You’ll be massacred by the first Roman legion that you come across.’

‘Is that right?’ Castus’ sword hummed free.

‘Oh, so you want to fight me now?’ snapped Gannicus, beginning to draw his own weapon.

‘No, I want to chop you into little fucking pieces.’

Gannicus felt his own rage beginning to rise. With an effort, he brought it under control. He wasn’t scared of taking on Castus, but it was a pointless exercise that would end with one or both of them injured or dead. He let his blade slide back into the scabbard. ‘This is stupid.’

Castus darted forward. ‘There’s nothing stupid about hewing your smart-arse head from your neck,’ he cried, drawing back his right arm. ‘Tell Hades I said “Hello”.’

‘You know I’m not a coward, Castus. You know I’m also your equal with a sword. Before you kill me, think about what you’re doing. Remember our plan to seize control of the whole army? To be like Brennus, the chieftain of old?’

It was as if someone had thrown Castus into a pool of icy water. A degree of sanity returned to his eyes.

‘Is that what you want still?’ Gannicus continued.

‘Of course.’

‘Then put away your damn weapon. Let’s talk about how we can make our idea a reality instead of butchering each other like a pair of drunken warriors arguing over a woman.’

Lowering his arm, Castus leaned towards him. ‘We could start by going back and slitting that bitch’s throat — and killing the baby too.’

‘I’d do it in a heartbeat, but we would never get close enough. Did you not see how closely the Scythians were watching? Even if we managed it, the men would turn on us when they found out.’

Castus looked disappointed. ‘Best to do something like that at night, I suppose. Secretly.’

‘Let’s stay focused on one idea.’ Gannicus glanced around. ‘Killing Spartacus. Once he’s out of the picture, it will be a lot easier to rally the army around us. Ariadne and the brat can be dispatched then too.’

‘Egbeo and Pulcher will also need to be killed.’

‘Agreed.’

‘What had you in mind? An ambush on him when he’s coming back here?’

Gannicus winked.

Castus’ answering grin was predatory. ‘How will they find him?’

‘It’s a gamble, I know, but I’d say that he and Carbo will travel the same way they went to Rome. Straight down the Via Annia.’

‘You’re right. All they’ll need to do is find a good spot to spy on the road some distance from here. They can do the job at night.’ Castus’ grin slipped. ‘We can’t send Gauls in case anyone sees them and points the finger at us.’

‘I’ve got a group of mixed bloods in mind. You know the types.’

Castus nodded. On the large latifundia, it was common for slaves of different origins to have children together. Thousands of the soldiers in Spartacus’ army were such. These men felt no loyalty to one race or another, as the Gauls, Thracians and Germans did.

‘They’re mostly farm slaves, former herders and the like. They answer to me, not Spartacus, and every one of them would slit their own mothers’ throats for a purse of silver.’

Suspicion flared in Castus’ eyes. ‘You’re not just sending your men. Not for something this big.’

‘Send a few of your lot as well,’ replied Gannicus, holding up his hands. ‘But make sure that they’re capable of getting the job done.’

‘If we pick five each, that will be plenty. Even Spartacus can’t kill ten men.’

‘He’s not alone, remember?’

‘Surely you’re not worried about that little sewer rat Carbo?’

‘Worried? No. But he can handle himself in a fight.’ Gannicus sucked in his moustache. ‘Ten men should be enough, though.’

‘They’d best leave tonight. Gods, but I’d love to go myself.’ Castus eyed Gannicus sidelong. ‘Make sure the job’s done properly.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Spartacus won’t tell any tales afterwards.’ He leered. ‘Neither will his little catamite.’

‘That Thracian has more lives than a cat. He might get away. Imagine that he does, and that he’s seen you. What’s the first thing he’d do?’

‘All right, I see what you’re getting at.’ Castus’ face soured. ‘We would lose any chance of uniting the army under our command.’

‘Precisely. But if we only send men whom we trust, who are not Gauls, there’s far less of a trail back to us if things go wrong. And even if this doesn’t work, we’ll find another opportunity,’ said Gannicus. ‘The slyest cat uses up its lives in the end, eh?’

The next morning, Carbo and Spartacus rose early. Varus’ cook served the trio a hearty breakfast of bread, honey, nuts and cheese. The rest of the domestic slaves, a dozen or more, gathered in the doorway and windows of the kitchen and stared in awe at Spartacus. Feeling sorry for them, he said nothing. They had all asked to come with him when they left, and he’d had to refuse. What he needed were hardened agricultural slaves and herdsmen, men who were used to the outdoors and, if possible, to hunting. The frustrated slaves had then wanted to turn on Varus, and he’d had to forbid that as well. ‘You will only bring a sentence of death upon yourselves,’ he’d warned. It wasn’t uncommon for the authorities to execute every slave in a household in which the master had been murdered. For his own safety, therefore, and to ensure that he could make no attempt to escape, Varus, together with his major domo and doorman, had been locked overnight into an office.

Spartacus had resolved to confine the household slaves before they left. That way, Varus would have no real reason to punish them for not raising the alarm. What he hadn’t yet decided was their best way of leaving the city. At dawn, he’d sent Tulla out to spy on the nearest gates. To Carbo’s evident relief and Spartacus’ amusement — he had judged the girl would honour her vow — she had soon returned. She reported that all the entrances were being heavily guarded. Many of those who sought to leave were being questioned. Not surprising, thought Spartacus.

‘We should split up,’ he said as they sat in the courtyard, listening to the muttered complaints issuing from Varus’ prison. ‘The guards will be looking for two men, not one.’

‘What if you get taken?’ asked Carbo.

‘If I do, I do. The gods will decide my fate.’ A wry shrug. ‘That’s why I’m giving you the gold. If I am captured, you are to find the army. As soon as the baby is strong enough to travel, you are to escort Ariadne away — as we previously discussed. The Scythians will go with you.’

The memory of the dawn before they’d fought Lentulus — and what Spartacus had asked him to do — was etched in Carbo’s memory. He nodded miserably, feeling the loss of his parents even more. ‘What of Navio? Egbeo? Pulcher? The rest of the men?’

‘They can choose their own paths. It won’t be up to me any longer. But whatever may happen to me, my family will be safe.’

‘Of course. If the day should ever come, and I pray to the gods that it does not, I shall do everything in my power to save them.’

Spartacus gripped his shoulder. ‘I know you will.’

‘And if I am captured?’ Carbo threw the words out to confront his fear. At least my pain would end.

‘Your comrades and I will never forget you. We shall make offerings to the gods, and hold a feast in your honour. Inside the next two months, I shall send a man to check on the progress of your parents’ tomb. If Varus hasn’t done what he said, he’ll lose a few fingers, and be warned that the next time, it will be his hands. That will hurry him along.’

A lump rose in Carbo’s throat. ‘Thank you.’ It will not come to that, he told himself.

‘Enough miserable talk,’ declared Spartacus. ‘Since when are soldiers good at seeing through disguises? We will both get through. If you cut down one of Varus’ best togas, you can just act like a rich young noble.’

‘Very well. What will you do?’

‘Take the simplest option.’ Spartacus’ eyes let his eyes go vacant and his lower lip fall slackly. A trickle of spit dribbled down on to his chin. He made a noise halfway between a distressed animal and a man in pain. He shuffled across the courtyard, hunching his back and dragging one of his legs. All the while, he kept moaning.

Carbo stared in amazement. Tulla looked horrified.

Abruptly, Spartacus stood up. ‘Convinced?’ he asked with a smile.

They both shook their heads in assent.

‘Good. That’s settled then.’ He eyed Tulla. ‘I’d wager that the busiest times are the first few hours of the day, and the last hour before the gate shuts.’

‘That’s right.’

‘There’s no point waiting until sunset. We want to get as far from the city as possible today. We go now,’ declared Spartacus. Inside, he wasn’t quite so certain. Crassus would be sparing no effort to find him. The politician would suspect that if he was captured, the rebellion would soon be over. How right he would be. Castus and Gannicus were no generals. Navio was an able tactician, but because he was a Roman, many distrusted him. Egbeo and Pulcher were brave and capable enough, but they lacked the charisma necessary to hold together tens of thousands of men. I have to get out. Great Rider, watch over me. Dionysus, help me to return to my wife, your priestess. The prayers helped. Spartacus felt his inner calm return. ‘Tulla, you will leave us before the gate. I’ll pay you now.’ He reached for the purse around his neck.

Dismay filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Now? But I might betray you!’

‘I don’t think you’ll do that, will you?’

‘No.’

‘I knew it. You’re a good girl.’ It had been the right decision not to kill her, thought Spartacus.

Tulla’s chin wobbled. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘Of course you don’t, but we must,’ said Spartacus in a kindly tone. ‘My army is waiting for me.’ And my wife and son.

‘Take me with you!’

‘I cannot.’

‘Why?’ wailed Tulla.

‘You cannot fight.’

‘I can be a scout! I’ll clean and polish your equipment. There must be something I can do.’

‘Tulla, you have a stout heart, but you’re too young.’ Spartacus stooped to the girl’s level. ‘However, there is something you could do for me here.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I want you to hang around the Curia, the basilicae and the better classes of baths. You know, the places where senators tend to congregate. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. See what you can find out. Any information about Crassus or their legions could be very useful.’

Tulla’s eyes shone. ‘I can do that!’

‘I’m relying on you.’ Spartacus clapped her on the arm. ‘I’ll send word to you at the Elysian Fields, on the ides of every month. You can tell the messenger everything that you’ve heard.’

‘I will!’

Carbo admired Spartacus’ ability to make people believe in him. The day before, he’d been on the point of killing the girl. Now she was eating out of his hand. Not only that, but he had neatly restored Tulla’s pride. Now she had a purpose. As he himself did, with his oath to protect Ariadne. In the depths of his grief, that knowledge gave him strength.

Spartacus gave them both an encouraging nod. ‘Let’s move.’

Carbo’s guts had turned to liquid by the time he came within thirty paces of the gate. The Thracian had opted to go ahead of Carbo. They had arranged to meet about a mile out of the city, by a tomb that they both remembered. Carbo and Tulla — who was still hanging around — had watched with bated breath as Spartacus had joined the queue that packed the street leading up to the gate. They had grinned at the loud exclamations of disgust and the way people had moved as far away from him as possible. Spartacus’ idea of grabbing a fuller’s bucket of urine and emptying it over himself had continued to pay off royally. The guards, supplemented by ten hard-faced legionaries, had begun to complain as soon as his ripe smell had hit their nostrils. When Spartacus had shuffled before them, dribbling, moaning and covered in piss, they had urged him out of the city with the butts of their pila.

It had been as easy as that, thought Carbo enviously. Great Jupiter, let it be the same for me. His prayer did little to ease his concerns, or to propel his feet forwards. Yet he couldn’t hang around for much longer without starting to attract attention. Wealthy young men didn’t loiter on street corners. Already he had had some strange looks.

Since the Thracian had left, Carbo had seen one man — a foreigner, maybe Greek or Dacian — accused of being Spartacus. Protesting his innocence in poor Latin, the man had been hammered to the ground in a flurry of blows, trussed up like a hen for the pot, and dragged off to be interrogated. After that, Carbo had hoped that the guards’ vigilance would lapse a little, but it was not to be. They continued their aggressive questioning of all men of fighting age, as well as stabbing their pila into any carts loaded with merchandise.

Gods above, facing death in battle is easier than this.

‘Good luck!’ hissed Tulla from her spot against a wall a dozen paces away.

Carbo gave her a terse nod, and walked to join the line. He forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nostrils, counting his heartbeat as he exhaled. After he had done that several times, he felt calmer. A wagon drawn by two oxen pulled up behind him. Carbo half turned. One of the beasts sniffed at him, and then tried to lick his arm. Normally, he liked the way cattle did that, but now he recoiled from its long tongue and threw the carter a poisonous look. The man glared at him. ‘It’s what oxen do, isn’t it? Won’t do you no harm. Anyone who’d ever been around livestock would know that. Bloody city folk!’

Carbo sniffed haughtily and turned his back.

The man in front shuffled forward a few steps. He did the same.

And so it went for what seemed an eternity.

As he edged closer, Carbo strained his ears to pick out what the soldiers were saying. Most of the conversations were short.

‘Name?’

‘Julius Clodianus.’

‘Trade?’

‘Stonemason.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To a new tomb about two miles out.’

There was a snort of laughter. ‘Not your own then, I take it?’

‘No,’ the mason replied sourly. ‘It’s that of a rich lawyer. He requested that the family mausoleum be enlarged before his funeral. New brickwork, marble floor, expensive Greek statues: you name it, he wanted it. A dozen of us have been working on it fit to burst for a week now.’

‘Trying to take it all with him, is he? It won’t work!’ The soldier jerked his head. ‘On your way.’

The next man was a sailor on shore leave who was going to visit relations living in the countryside. He was ushered out with loud good wishes. The woman following was a villager who had been to Rome to seek Minerva’s help at the temple on the Capitoline Hill. She called down the blessings of the goddess on the guards as they waved her through. Then there were only two more people in front of Carbo. Sweat oozed down the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Varus’ toga had been cut down, but the wool was still heavy and over warm for the time of year. He shuffled forward, the barrage of shouted questions and answers merging into one.

‘Next!’

Carbo blinked. The man ahead of him was already walking under the archway of the gate.

‘Come on, young sir! We don’t have all day.’

A second soldier leered. ‘Daydreaming about your favourite whore?’

Carbo’s anger made his flush grow deeper, and the legionaries, thinking he was embarrassed, roared with laughter.

‘The lad must have been doing just that,’ said the first man. He turned back to Carbo. ‘Name?’

‘Paullus Carbo,’ he said proudly. He’d considered lying, but there was no need.

The soldier caught his regional accent. ‘Not from Rome, are you?’

‘No. I’m from Capua.’

‘Been here for business or pleasure?’ He winked at his companions.

Carbo scowled. ‘Business.’ If only you knew what. ‘For my father.’

‘Heading back to Capua?’

‘Yes.’

‘On foot? The likes of you normally ride or travel in a litter.’

Fortunately, Carbo had thought of the answer to this question. He looked down. ‘My horse is gone.’

‘Stolen from the inn’s stables, was it?’

‘No. I wagered it.’

‘Fortuna’s tits! And you lost it?’

More hoots of amusement.

‘That’s right.’

‘So now you have to walk back to Capua?’

Carbo nodded, making his expression as sulky as when he’d been a boy.

The legionary pulled a face. ‘A hundred miles is a long way to walk.’

‘And don’t we know it?’ added his comrade, chortling. ‘We have to do it while carrying half our bodyweight in equipment!’

‘Can I go?’ asked Carbo resentfully.

‘Eh? Yes, you can go,’ the soldier replied. ‘Have a safe journey. There are plenty of latrones about between here and Capua.’

‘If you’re really unlucky, you might even meet Spartacus,’ said the second man. ‘That is, if he’s-’

‘Shut it!’ barked the first legionary.

His companion turned away with a scowl.

‘On your way,’ ordered the legionary.

Muttering his thanks, Carbo made his way out of the gate. The soldier’s words had made his mind race back to their attack on Crassus. Caepio had shouted something. What had it been? ‘It is them!’ To his frustration, Carbo couldn’t remember the exact words. Then another misgiving surfaced. When the patrol had arrived at the Elysian Fields, a man had come out of the tavern, and nodded to the officer in charge. Had it been more than casual conversation? Carbo wasn’t sure. But when he put the two instances together with the comment by the soldier at the gate, he felt very suspicious indeed. Was it possible that Crassus had known that Spartacus was in Rome? His pace picked up. He had to tell Spartacus at once.

They had a spy in their midst.

It didn’t take Carbo long to reach the tomb. He found Spartacus sitting in the shade of a cypress tree that stood beside it.

Spartacus raised a hand in greeting. ‘You look hot.’

‘This damn toga,’ said Carbo, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. ‘It’s not the weather to be wearing it.’

‘But it got you out of Rome, and at least you didn’t have to cover yourself in piss.’

Carbo grinned. ‘True.’

‘Was Tulla still there when you left?’

‘Yes.’

‘You made a good call with her.’ He clapped Carbo on the arm.

He swallowed, remembering his leader’s tacit threat to kill him if Tulla should prove treacherous. ‘Thanks.’

Spartacus heaved himself to his feet. ‘Let’s start walking. I remember a well not far down the road; we can wash there.’

‘There’s something you need to know first.’

Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘What is it? Tell me as we go.’

Quickly, Carbo filled him in on his suspicions. When he had finished, Spartacus did not say anything for a long time. Carbo watched him nervously, wondering whether the Thracian thought he was crazy.

‘Interesting,’ said Spartacus.

A sense of relief crept over Carbo. Spartacus believed him.

‘We must have been followed out of the camp. So few people knew about it that there wouldn’t have been time to send word to Rome before we left.’

Carbo’s mouth went dry at the thought of a new possibility. ‘Do you think Castus or Gannicus would have done it?’

Spartacus frowned. ‘There’s no way that Gannicus would betray us like that. I doubt if even Castus would. He hates my guts, and he wouldn’t cry if I were killed, but he hates Rome as much as I do.’

‘Who then?’

‘It could be anyone, Carbo. In an army of sixty thousand men, not all of them are going to be happy. That’s without taking into account the women and hangers-on.’

‘Yes, but to betray you?’

Spartacus thumped him. ‘Not everyone is as loyal as you.’

‘Well they should be,’ muttered Carbo, blushing. ‘We have to find out who it is.’

‘That would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.’ Spartacus shrugged. ‘Atheas and Taxacis will watch my back. So will you.’ It’s just another enemy to add to the ones I already have. But he didn’t need to worry about being murdered for a few days. The journey south should be easy; they might as well make the most of it. ‘Where’s that well? I can’t pitch up at the camp stinking of piss. No one would take me seriously.’

Carbo’s tension eased, and he let out a chuckle. ‘Between my nerves as I went through the gate and this damn toga, I’ve sweated out half the bloody Tiber.’

Spartacus made a show of leaning over and inhaling. ‘No. I can’t smell a thing except piss.’

‘You reek,’ said Carbo, guffawing. He’d never seen Spartacus act so light-hearted.

‘Then the sooner we get there, the better, eh?’

Carbo strode out with new energy. Other than the wish to see his parents’ tomb one day, he had no reason to return to the capital, or Capua, where he’d grown up. He was with Spartacus. Carbo had always been loyal to the Thracian, but the discovery of his parents’ deaths had made that bond even stronger. It had also brought home to him the importance of his comrades. Men like Navio and Atheas, and even Arnax and Publipor, were his family now. The knowledge made his grief easier to bear.

Alerted by his major domo, Crassus turned from the half-circle of men around him. ‘Ah, Caepio! Welcome!’ he said genially. He beckoned to the veteran centurion who stood in the doorway of the tablinum, waiting to be called in.

Caepio marched in proudly. Sunlight entering from the square hole in the centre of the roof glinted off the phalerae on his chest. He came to a halt before Crassus and saluted. ‘I came as soon as I got your message, sir.’

‘Good. All well since yesterday?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. As you know, I wasn’t hurt. I’m just sorry that I didn’t get to kill Spartacus.’

‘You did a fine job stopping his accomplice. If there had been two of them, things might have come to a different ending. For me at least!’

‘Thank the gods that you weren’t injured, sir, but I’d still be happier if I’d buried my blade in his guts.’

Crassus’ lips turned upwards. ‘See the mettle of this man? He is the embodiment of Roman virtus. This is what every soldier should aspire to.’

There was a polite murmur of assent.

‘Caepio, meet some of the legates who will command my legions. This is Gnaeus Tremelius Scrofa.’ A tall, thin man inclined his head in reply to Caepio’s salute. ‘Lucius Mummius Achaicus.’ A stocky officer with a haughty expression met Caepio’s salutation. ‘Quintus Marcius Rufus.’ There was a smile from a short man with spiky black hair. ‘Caius Pomptinus.’ This one was clearly a cavalryman, thought Caepio. He had bandier legs than an ape. ‘Lucius Quinctius.’ Older than the rest, he was the only one to half bow at the centurion. A commoner originally, like me, decided Caepio. ‘And last but definitely not least, Gaius Julius Caesar, one of my tribunes,’ said Crassus.

‘Honoured to meet you, sir.’ Caepio saluted for the sixth time. Like everyone, he’d heard the story about Caesar’s capture and imprisonment on Pharmacussa. Here was a man with real balls. ‘Ready to crucify a few slaves, as you did with those pirates, sir?’

‘More than ready, centurion.’

Caepio’s smile reminded Crassus of a wolf he’d seen cornered in the arena. His decision to recruit the veteran had been a good one. He wondered sometimes if Caepio fully approved of him — he wasn’t a career soldier after all — but he didn’t care that much. Caepio had seen how Crassus longed to destroy Spartacus, which, after his experience at the munus, was exactly what he wanted too. ‘Now that the introductions are over, let’s get down to business. I’ve called you here for a council of war. I know that you were not expecting to do more than assemble your units over the next couple of months, but yesterday’s events have changed everything. Spartacus cannot be allowed to strike at me — at Rome — with such impunity. We must respond swiftly!’

Caepio growled in approval. ‘Catch them unawares, that’s what we want to do!’

‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ asked Scrofa. ‘Increasing the number of troops at the gates?’

‘No,’ said Crassus as if to a child. ‘It was a slim hope that we would catch Spartacus leaving the city. We can safely assume that the whoreson has flown the coop by now.’ He gave Mummius a hard look.

‘My soldiers interrogated everyone whom they thought was suspicious, sir. More than a hundred men were detained.’

Crassus glanced at Caepio, who shook his head. ‘None of whom proved to be Spartacus.’

‘No, sir, but-’

‘Quiet, Mummius. You failed! If you had moved faster, we might be interrogating Spartacus right now, instead of planning our campaign against him.’ Crassus knew he was being hard on Mummius, but the man needed to know who was in charge. He — and the others — had to be sent a clear message from the start.

Mummius lapsed into a glowering silence.

‘As you know, I had intended spending the autumn and winter filling our recruitment quotas, and in arming and training the men. Now I want to bring our plans forward. Significantly.’

‘The number of volunteers has been exceptional, sir,’ agreed Quinctius. ‘And the workshops are also turning out equipment at a great rate.’

‘I should bloody hope so. I’m paying twice the market rate for every item to all the smiths for a hundred miles!’ Crassus raised a hand, silencing the chuckles this produced. ‘My intention is that the army is to be ready to march in a month.’

‘A month?’ repeated Quinctius.

‘But the men won’t be ready, sir,’ said Scrofa. ‘Basic training takes at least eight weeks.’

‘I know that,’ replied Crassus acidly. ‘The ground to the south of Rome is flat. The recruits can train every day after we have finished marching.’ Ignoring his officers’ surprise, Crassus went on, ‘Up until now, Rome has been humiliated by Spartacus. That time has now gone! No doubt the slaves are expecting to have an easy few months while we prepare our forces. Well, they’re going to have none of that. We’re going to take the war to them straightaway. Isn’t that right, Caepio?’

‘Damn right, sir.’

‘I know that thousands of veterans have heard your call and joined up, sir, and that we have the remnants of the consuls’ legions, about fourteen thousand men, but over half the army is made up of new recruits,’ said Scrofa. ‘Would it not be wiser to wait until they have been fully trained until we move against Spartacus?’

‘Who is the commander here?’ barked Crassus. ‘I make the bloody decisions, not you. Or any of the rest of you! Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Scrofa muttered.

‘We move in four weeks. It takes more than a month to march to Thurii. That’s eight weeks in total. With veterans like Caepio on our side, I would suggest that that’s plenty of time to train the men.’

‘That’s sufficient time for my soldiers to be ready, sir,’ Mummius declared eagerly.

‘I should think so! Given that you and Rufus each command a legion formerly led by one of the consuls, you have the least number of raw recruits.’

Mummius coloured. Rufus also looked embarrassed.

‘My troops will be prepared, so help me Jupiter,’ said Scrofa.

The other officers hastily added their agreements.

Crassus studied their faces. Their resolve seemed genuine. It was a start. ‘Very well.’

‘What is your plan when we find Spartacus, sir?’ asked Scrofa.

‘It’s very simple. We bring him to bay like a boar on a hunt. Ready our legions. Soften his men up with catapults. Advance, and butcher the lot of them. And that will be that.’ His eyes roved challengingly over them. It was Scrofa, whom he’d already judged to be one of the most courageous, who spoke first.

‘You really think it will be that simple, sir?’

‘Yes, Scrofa, I do. The time has come to rid Italy of Spartacus and his filth. What better way to do it than in head-to-head battle? That has ever been the way of Rome’s magnificent legions.’ He glanced at Caepio, who rumbled his approval.

‘But the men who have fought Spartacus before, sir, they-’ Mummius hesitated.

‘We all know that they have run before,’ said Crassus in a silky tone. ‘And if it happens again, they will be punished so severely that none of them will ever think of running again.’

In the lull that followed, the only sounds were the voices of slaves who were tending the plants in the central courtyard.

Crassus pinned them one by one with his stare. ‘I am talking of decimation.’

Quinctius’ mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

‘Decimation, gentlemen. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ was the unanimous, shocked response.

‘That practice hasn’t been used for generations, sir,’ ventured Scrofa.

‘All the more reason to revive it then,’ said Crassus. ‘Anyone else?’

No one except Caepio and Caesar met his gaze.

‘Excellent.’ It was good that his officers were so horrified, thought Crassus. Anger was still coursing through his veins at the thought of how nearly Spartacus had come to killing him. ‘I meant every word that I said. I will do whatever it takes to defeat that Thracian son of a whore. Whatever it takes.’

I swear to you, great Jupiter, that I will not rest until he is — or I am — dead.

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