When the time came that day to search out a suitable place to set up camp, the pair were nowhere near a village, or even an inn. Carbo was glad. It had been a week since they’d left Rome. The high temperatures had meant that even when they climbed away from the fertile plain of Campania with its dense pattern of farms and estates and into the more mountainous region of Lucania, it was pleasant to sleep outdoors. Their solitude meant they could talk without the worry of being overheard. They had provisions, wine and blankets, and the horses they’d bought four days prior meant that they could ride in search of the most secluded sites with ease.
To Carbo’s chagrin, he’d had to continue wearing Varus’ toga each day. As Spartacus said, it gave him a wealthy air, which would explain, should anyone comment, why his ‘slave’ was astride a horse rather than walking. Having to bake daily in the thick woollen garment was another reason that Carbo preferred camping. Every evening, with Spartacus watching in amusement, he would strip off the toga and jump into the nearest stream to wash off the day’s accumulation of sweat. He shifted his shoulders unhappily, looking forward to doing the same again as soon as they’d stopped. After that, he could relax by the fire with a hunk of bread and cheese, and a beaker of wine.
He would try, for a while at least, to forget his sorrow over his parents. Even though Carbo had done what he’d thought was best at the time — entering the ludus to earn money — he was still racked by guilt over his decision. Guilt that he hadn’t stayed with his parents, and gone to Rome with them. Guilt that he hadn’t sent any money to them in the subsequent months, or tried harder to establish contact. Deep down, he knew these thoughts for fantasies, but that didn’t ease his pain. To cope, he stoked his hatred for Crassus into a white-hot flame. If it wasn’t for him, his parents would still be alive. Give me one more chance to kill Crassus before I die, he prayed repeatedly.
Carbo hoped that Spartacus would tell more tales of his youth in Thrace. He had been surprised and intrigued over the previous few nights as his leader had opened up more than he ever had. Carbo now knew the names of Spartacus’ father, mother and brother, as well as his childhood friends. He’d listened avidly to tales of hunting boar and wolves, of raiding horses and sheep from neighbouring tribes, and to dramatic legends about the Great Rider, the deity favoured by most Thracian warriors. Carbo didn’t realise it, but Spartacus’ stories were partially aimed at taking his mind off his parents. The Thracian had seen him brooding as they rode.
Spartacus made little or no mention of the war waged by his tribe on Rome, or of his time with the legions. Carbo had been content with that; he wanted no reminders of the reality of their own situation. Both men were enjoying the relative freedom from worry that their journey had granted them.
Behind him, Spartacus was thinking about Ariadne, and wondering if she had yet given birth. He made a silent request of the gods that she would have a straightforward labour. Women who didn’t often died, along with their infants. That grim thought made him wish that they had resolved their differences before he’d left. It would be the first thing to do upon their return, he decided. It was pointless letting arguments go on for this long, especially when danger — or death — lurked around every corner.
For the moment, though, they were still on the road. He might as well enjoy the loud churring of the cicadas from the oaks and chestnuts on each side. Relax to the clop, clop, clop of their mounts’ hooves off the basalt slabs. Relish the heat of the sun, which was slowly dropping towards the jagged-tipped mountains to the west. If he ignored the fact that the road was paved, he could almost be in the Thrace of his youth, an all-too-brief time when he had been utterly carefree.
The skin on the back of Spartacus’ neck prickled, and he turned his head. In the haze that shimmered over the road, he saw a small figure, approaching fast. Behind it thundered three more riders. ‘Company,’ he said quietly. ‘Four horsemen.’
With a start, Carbo came back to the present. He twisted around to see. ‘Are they messengers?’
‘More likely a messenger with an escort,’ said Spartacus.
‘His message must be important. They normally travel alone. Where are they heading? Pompeii and Paestum are behind us.’
‘Perhaps Crassus is sending word to Thurii, hoping it will reach the city before our army.’
Carbo took a mad notion. ‘Two to one isn’t bad odds, eh?’
‘Don’t go getting any ideas. They’ll be armed with swords. Whatever news they’re carrying isn’t worth risking our lives for.’
Carbo settled back on his horse. Spartacus was right.
They rode on, glancing regularly behind them. When the riders had drawn nearer, the pair guided their mounts into the shade of the trees on one side of the road. They watched as the lead horseman approached at the gallop, followed a short distance later by his three companions.
Any doubt about the man’s job vanished as he came closer. He was wearing typical military dress: a mail shirt over a padded tunic and a crested bronze-bowl helmet. A leather satchel bounced up and down off his right hip, and a long cavalry sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder. His mount was of fine quality, and it carried an ‘SPQR’ brand halfway down its neck.
Perhaps it would be worth finding out what message he was carrying, Spartacus thought with a flash of devilment. No. I’ve been in enough danger recently.
The rider gave them a haughty look as he drew level, but he didn’t check his steed.
‘Safe journey, friend,’ called Carbo.
All he got by way of reply was a grunt, and then the messenger was gone.
Carbo’s pulse increased as his gaze returned to the three horsemen to the rear. If there was to be any danger, it was from this trio, whose job was a fraction less urgent than the lead rider. The first two galloped past without as much as a glance at them, and he began to relax. Carbo barely saw the small stone that was sent flying by the back hooves of the lead horse. It shot up like a slingshot to strike the last horseman in the face. He bellowed in pain and did well not to lose his seat. With a savage tug on the reins, he brought his mount to a halt in front of Spartacus’ and Carbo’s position. Cursing, he fingered the deep cut on his right cheek, which was already bleeding heavily.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Carbo.
‘Eh?’ He only seemed to notice them now. ‘Yes, yes. It’s but a flesh wound.’ He dragged free a strip of cloth that was wound around his baldric and pressed it to his face.
‘Men such as you must be used to far worse,’ said Carbo, adopting an admiring tone.
‘True. It certainly won’t stop me getting to Messana.’
Spartacus pricked his ears at the last word. Messana is on Sicily.
The messenger gave them an appraising look. ‘You risk getting hurt yourself, young master, being out on the road with no one but your slave. Don’t you know about Spartacus and his rabble? They control much of southern Italy now. Come across any of them, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.’
‘I know all too well, but my family has few slaves left,’ said Carbo with a sigh. ‘They pillaged our farm a month or so ago; most of them ran off then to join Spartacus. The local militia wouldn’t do a thing about it, of course: they’re too damn scared. Father sent me to Rome, to ask for help at the Senate. I was there last week to hear Crassus speak. It was wonderful! Our suffering won’t last for ever, thank the gods. Ten legions he’s raising!’
‘That’s right,’ said the rider with a confident grin. ‘When they march south, the ground will tremble. Spartacus’ slaves will soil their pants at the sight of them.’
A shout echoed down the road, and the rider gave Carbo a friendly wink. ‘I’d best be off. May you reach your door safely. Tell your father to remain steadfast and to pray to Jupiter.’
A nerve twitched in Spartacus’ cheek, but the messenger didn’t notice.
‘How soon will Crassus march?’ asked Carbo.
‘That’s something only he knows. But it will be sooner than you think! The bastard slaves will get the shock of their lives when the legions come down this road! Farewell.’ With an evil laugh, he rode away.
‘Curse Fortuna for the old bitch that she is!’ Carbo spat under his breath. He glanced at Spartacus, whose face bore a black scowl. ‘How soon do you think he’s talking about?’
‘Who knows? It can’t be any quicker than three months, I wouldn’t have thought. The legions are only being raised now. The soldiers have to be trained before he can even consider fighting us. At least we heard it in advance. It gives us time to plan. Imagine if the first thing we’d heard was that Crassus’ army was ten or fifteen miles from Thurii.’
Carbo didn’t especially want to think about that. ‘What will we do?’
‘Do? We wait a while until those whoresons are gone, and we hightail it back to our camp, wherever that is.’
‘I meant when Crassus gets here.’ Carbo had avoided asking Spartacus about it until now.
Spartacus’ lips peeled back, revealing his teeth. ‘Why, then we fight. We fight!’ To the end, whatever that may be. Victory — or death! ‘Don’t think that I am out of tricks,’ he added. ‘I’m not. By a long way.’
Carbo nodded. Rallying his courage, he swore a silent oath to himself. If — when — that fight came, he would stand in the line with everyone else. With Spartacus. To the bitter end. Even if it meant his own death. Standing shoulder to shoulder with those whom he loved was all that mattered. That, and killing Crassus. He glanced at Spartacus, who was whistling a tuneless ditty under his breath. Gods, does nothing scare him? Carbo felt prouder than ever to follow the Thracian.
By the time the sun had set, they were sitting by a small fire, blankets around their shoulders and skins of wine in hand. The tethered horses watched them, happy now that they had been watered and fed. As usual, their camp was close to a stream and out of sight of the Via Annia. They had tracked uphill some quarter of a mile through the woods, coming upon a little dell that was dominated by a massive fallen beech. Placing its bulk between them and the road had been a natural choice. Although they’d had no indication that there had been any pursuit from Rome, it paid to be cautious.
‘That messenger mentioned that he was travelling to Messana,’ said Spartacus.
‘On Sicily, yes. What’s that got to do with us?’
‘Two slave rebellions took place there in the last hundred years, didn’t they? Do you know much about them?’
‘Only what my father told me when I was younger.’
‘Try to remember everything you can.’
Carbo’s curiosity grew. ‘The first one started sixty-odd years ago near the city of Enna. It was led by a slave called Eunus, a Syrian who was reputed to be able to predict the future thanks to messages sent to him by the gods.’
Spartacus thought of Ariadne, and a half-smile tugged its way on to his lips.
‘Eunus had been approached by some slaves who were being mistreated by their masters. Encouraged by his prophecies, several hundred of them fell upon the inhabitants of Enna. They slaughtered everyone, even the babies and the domestic animals.’ Carbo thought with repugnance of the carnage he’d seen in Forum Annii the day that they had attacked it. Of the violent end that Chloris had suffered. Yet thanks to Spartacus, the violence had not been as severe as it had in Enna. It was something to be grateful for, he supposed bitterly.
‘Go on.’
‘Hearing the news, many slaves ran away to join Eunus. Soon he had more than ten thousand men under his command, and he crowned himself king. In the subsequent weeks, he and his troops fought the local Roman forces several times and overwhelmed them by sheer weight of numbers. Before long, another uprising began elsewhere on the island. It was led by a Cilician by the name of Kleon. However, instead of fighting Eunus as the Romans hoped, he united with him. The slaves inflicted numerous more defeats on the Romans over the next three years. Finally, the Senate sent Publius Rupilius, one of the consuls, to deal with the uprising.’
‘I wonder if they took so long to react properly because Sicily is so far from Rome,’ mused Spartacus.
‘That’s what people say.’
‘And the second rebellion?’
‘It followed much the same path. Bad treatment of slaves. A charismatic leader, who was supposed to be able to talk to the gods. Widespread massacres of the local population.’
‘How long did it last for?’
‘Four years, until the Senate sent a senior general to deal with it.’
‘Were the leaders of either uprising trained soldiers?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Spartacus’ heart leaped. What could I do in a place like that then! ‘Why Sicily, though?’
‘My father always said that it was because of the density of its farms, and the huge number of agricultural slaves.’
‘They would provide us with thousands more recruits, eh?’
‘Two legions are stationed there.’
‘Two legions haven’t posed much problem for us before, have they?’
‘I suppose. But how would we get our soldiers across the straits?’
‘Simple. Sicily grows much of the grain that feeds Italy, doesn’t it? The ships that carry the grain are immense. I’ve seen them. We’d just need to get a thousand or so men over to the main merchant port, seize as many as we could, and sail them back to the mainland.’ Spartacus grimaced. ‘Our main worry would be the Roman navy.’
‘I doubt they’d be much problem. Since the last war with Carthage, the navy has been in decline. Pirates from Cilicia and Crete all but control the Mediterranean. They frequently take ships off the southern Italian coastline.’
‘Is that right?’ asked Spartacus, smacking one fist into the other with delight.
‘That’s what I’ve heard. The bastards even sail up the coast as far as Ostia. The Senate makes angry noises about them, but nothing much has been done since Publius Servilius Vatia’s campaign ended early three years ago. Any ships the Republic has have been busy in the war against Mithridates of Pontus.’
‘That’s excellent, Carbo. Maybe pirates can carry us over to attack the grain ships, eh?’
A slow smile spread across Carbo’s face. Spartacus’ plan sounded crazy, but they had succeeded so often before when the odds were stacked against them. Why couldn’t they one more time? ‘That sounds good.’
‘It’s time to get some rest,’ said Spartacus with a yawn. ‘Your turn to take first watch. Wake me in a few hours.’ Arranging his blanket, he lay down by the fire. He was asleep within moments.
Carbo placed another piece of wood on the flames. Then he sat back and listened and watched. The fire crackled and spat a stream of orange sparks into the air. Fifteen paces away, the horses were two large black shapes spotlit against the beeches. A gentle breeze carried up from the valley below, making the branches of the trees creak. Fallen leaves rustled nearby as a small creature went about its night-time business. An owl called. From the stream came the reassuring murmur of moving water. Carbo relaxed. Before he had moved to Capua, he had lived for years on the family’s farm outside the town. The sounds of nature were familiar, and comforting.
Soon his eyelids drooped. Carbo fought the creeping languor for a little while, but every time he roused himself, he heard and saw nothing of concern. It had been the same since they’d left Rome, he thought sleepily. What could it matter if he had a brief rest?
Some time later, he awoke with a start. He glanced around, heart pounding. A few paces away, Spartacus was sound asleep. The clearing was empty. The stream pattered down the slope, talking to itself. Far off, a wolf howled its loneliness at the sliver of moon that was just visible through the canopy. Everything was as it had been, apart from the fire, which had all but gone out. Carbo’s blanket had slipped off his shoulders, and he felt chilled to the bone. Gods, I must have been asleep for hours. Feeling guilty, he began poking at the ashes with a stick to see if there was any chance of rekindling the blaze. He was pleased to see that there were still some hot embers.
One of the horses nickered and shifted from foot to foot.
Carbo froze. Grateful now for the night vision that the fire’s absence gave him, he peered in the direction of their mounts. As before, he could only see their outline against the darker shadows of the trees.
Nothing happened for several moments, and his concern eased.
The horse nickered a second time.
Carbo tensed again. Pricking his ears, he stared at the beasts.
Nothing.
There was silence for a short while.
Then the horse stamped a hoof on the ground.
Now Carbo’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. Letting the blanket slip from his shoulders, he crept over to Spartacus. He placed a hand on the Thracian’s shoulder, praying that Spartacus wouldn’t make a noise.
To Carbo’s relief, he came awake instantly — and silently. He sat up.
Carbo placed his lips against Spartacus’ ear. ‘One of the horses isn’t happy.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I heard a wolf. Far off, though. That’s it.’
Spartacus nodded. He pointed with a finger around the dell and then put to a hand to his ear.
They sat side by side, waiting. Listening with all their might.
An owl hooted off to their right. The sound didn’t concern Carbo, but he felt Spartacus stiffen.
When the cry was answered from the trees to their left, Carbo was nearly sick. The horse being unsettled and two owls being so close could not be a coincidence. When a third call reached their ears, any doubts in his mind vanished. Shit.
Spartacus moved his face close to Carbo’s. His mouth framed the words ‘Let’s go.’
‘The horses?’
‘Leave them.’
Carbo saw Spartacus draw his dagger, and quickly did the same. On hands and knees, and making as little noise as possible, they crawled uphill, away from the fire. Twenty paces on, Carbo heard more owl calls to their rear. His skin crawled. They were closer this time. Expecting to feel a blade sinking into his spine with every step, he followed the Thracian.
Spartacus didn’t look back. He increased his speed, aware that they had to get out of the clearing fast. Every instinct was screaming that there were men out there who had come to kill him. There were three at least, but that wouldn’t be all of them. Anyone who wanted to slay Spartacus would send no less than six to eight men, perhaps more. He ripped open his knee against a protruding root, and had to bite his lip against the pain of it. He crawled on, cursing the fact that there was almost no undergrowth. Although there was little to impede their progress, it also meant that there were far fewer places to hide.
More owl calls. Spartacus counted them. One. Two. Three. Four. He thanked the Great Rider that none originated in front of their position. They hadn’t been surrounded — yet.
Finally, he reached the dell’s edge, and a large oak tree with a split trunk. He stood up. Carbo bundled in beside him and without speaking, they both looked back towards their fire, which was discernible by the faint orange light of the last glowing embers.
Show yourselves, you bastards, thought Spartacus.
Carbo felt as if he were in a nightmare. It was his fault for falling asleep. Who in the name of Hades was hunting them?
Nothing happened for the space of thirty heartbeats. ‘They’re making sure that we’re asleep before they move,’ Spartacus hissed.
First one horse, then the other whinnied.
All at once, four shadows emerged into sight, three spilling over the fallen beech and one rushing in from its far end. They could just make out the spears gripped in each figure’s right fist. The men ran straight at the piles of discarded bedding. A brief, frenzied flurry of blows rained down on the blankets, but the assassins soon realised that their quarry had vanished. Muttered curses filled the air, and one man growled, ‘The bastards have gone!’
A hefty cuff round the head from one of his companions silenced him. Another owl call rang out, more urgent this time. The men spread out, moving on the balls of their feet across the clearing. Towards Spartacus and Carbo.
‘Time to go,’ whispered Spartacus.
‘Which way?’ asked Carbo, desperation tearing at him.
‘Up. We’ll go slowly at first, but when I say, we run like the wind. That is, if you want to live!’ Spartacus’ teeth glinted in the moonlight, and Carbo wished again that he had his leader’s courage. Jamming his knife back into its sheath — he didn’t want to drop it — he nodded grimly.
‘I’m ready.’
‘Good lad.’ Spartacus turned and padded away as silently as a wolf.
Carbo’s memories of that night would stay with him for ever. He had never had the need to travel in the mountains at night before, and hoped that he never had to again. At least not when he was being pursued by an unknown number of armed men, when all he had was a measly dagger. At first, the going was easy enough, but soon Spartacus began loping up the slope with long, ground-covering strides. How the hell can he see where he’s going? Carbo wondered, following as fast as he could. His heart hammered in his chest, not from the effort of running, but from fear. He felt as if he were a deer being pursued by a group of hunters. Behind every tree and bush lurked a potential enemy, and with each step he risked breaking his ankle on a jutting root or a piece of deadwood. He had previously thought that he had a good sense of direction, but their journey changed his opinion. The dense canopy overhead afforded only the occasional glance at the night sky, which confused him even more. Spartacus, on the other hand, sped onwards and upwards as if Hermes, the messenger of the gods, was guiding his every step.
Every so often, they halted to listen out for sounds of pursuit. On the first occasion, they could discern the faint noise of men moving below them, but these had receded by the time they paused a second time. After that, to Spartacus’ satisfaction and Carbo’s immense relief, they heard nothing else. Carbo hoped that the Thracian might slow down after this, but he was sadly disappointed. Spartacus began to move even faster, his feet flying over the ground as if they had wings. It was hard for Carbo to keep up, and to avoid having his eyes taken out by the whipping recoil of the branches that Spartacus pushed aside.
Perhaps an hour had elapsed when they reached the crest of a ridge. Moving along it for a short distance, they came to a clearing. For the first time, they had a good view of the sky, which was illuminated by a myriad of glittering stars. The moon’s position overhead told them that there were still many hours until daybreak. Spartacus peered into the open space for a moment before he entered it, cat soft on his feet. Carbo followed, casting frequent uneasy glances to their rear. He heard nothing. For the first time, his unease settled a fraction.
‘If there was any light, we’d have a good view from here.’ Spartacus pointed out into the blackness.
‘Where in Hades are we?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Spartacus with a grin. ‘But I think this ridge is the same one that flanks the Via Appia, which means it runs roughly in a north-south direction. We’ll just follow it.’
‘We could end up miles off course.’ Carbo instantly felt like a fool. ‘But we don’t really have an alternative, eh?’
‘No,’ replied Spartacus grimly. ‘Those whoresons will be on our trail the moment it gets light, so we have to travel as far as we can before then. Gods, but I’d love to stay behind, though. Lay an ambush for them, maybe take a prisoner.’
‘Find out who they are?’
‘Yes!’
‘I don’t think they were Roman.’
‘Nor do I. If we’d been followed from Rome, they would have already attacked us. It’s nothing to do with the messenger whom we spoke with either. He wasn’t interested in us.’
‘It’s not just that. The man who spoke had a strong accent. There’s no way that he was a native Latin speaker.’
‘It’s as I thought. Only someone who knew that we’d gone to Rome could be responsible.’
Alarm filled Carbo. ‘You mean Castus or Gannicus?’
‘Yes, or someone else with a grudge against me.’ The bastards. How dare they, after all I’ve done for them? If the pair had appeared at that moment, Spartacus would have torn them apart limb from limb.
‘Damn traitors!’
‘It’s to be expected. Many men don’t like following one leader. If it had been in Thrace, it could have happened before now,’ said Spartacus, glad that he’d stayed.
‘Maybe we could grab one,’ Carbo began.
‘No! We saw four of them, and I’d wager that was less than half their number.’
‘Then we’ll have no way of finding out who sent the treacherous bastards,’ protested Carbo.
‘Sometimes you have to live with uncertainty.’ Spartacus nudged him. ‘It keeps a man on his toes!’
Carbo pulled a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
‘We’ll find out more when we get back,’ Spartacus declared. ‘You did well to wake me when you did. I don’t think it’s too much to say that I owe you my life. Thank you.’
Pride filled Carbo. Then, remembering how he’d only woken from his nap by chance, his throat closed with guilt. He could never admit to it. ‘A-any time,’ he managed to mumble. ‘It’s no more than you’ve done for me.’
Spartacus flashed him a confident grin. ‘Come on. It’s a long way until we reach safety.’ He didn’t voice the worry that had been gnawing at him since he’d had time to consider who might have sent out the killers. Great Rider, I ask you to keep Ariadne — and our baby — safe. He turned and sped towards the far side of the clearing.
Dusk was falling the next day when they reached the army’s camp. Carbo was footsore, thirsty and more hungry than he ever could remember being, but he was alive. He wanted to cheer. ‘We’ve made it.’
‘Not yet, we haven’t.’
He stared at Spartacus in shock. ‘But that’s our army. It won’t take long to go down the slope.’
‘We’ve been gone more than two weeks. Who knows what’s happened in that time?’ If Castus and Gannicus were capable of sending assassins after him, what else might they have done?
‘What shall we do then? Do you want to’ — Carbo swallowed the word hide — ‘stay here while I check things out?’
Spartacus chuckled. ‘I’m not scared — I’m just being cautious. We’ll aim for the larger tents in the middle. That’s where Ariadne and the Scythians will be.’
‘What are your plans after that? Are we going to round up a few cohorts and kill the Gauls?’
‘There’s nothing I’d like to do more if it’s they who are responsible,’ snarled Spartacus. ‘But they’ve been hard at work ensuring the loyalty of their followers. If they were killed, upwards of ten thousand men might desert. That’s a loss I can’t afford right now.’
‘So you’re going to let them get away with it?’
‘That’s not what I said at all,’ replied Spartacus with a small smile. ‘Let’s go. Keep your head down as you walk. Most men won’t even notice us.’
‘If you say so.’ Carbo nervously touched the hilt of his dagger for reassurance.
‘I do. You go first. I’ll follow.’
Praying that Spartacus was right, Carbo led the way. It wasn’t long before they started meeting soldiers: men who were returning from an afternoon hunting, a tryst with a woman in the privacy of the woods, or simply those who needed a place to void their bowels. Carbo ignored everyone he met. If a greeting was thrown in his direction, he grunted a reply and moved on. Spartacus kept close behind him, his gaze aimed at the ground.
They reached the camp without incident. Rather than walking in the avenues that regularly split up the tents, Carbo opted to walk in the narrow gaps between them. It meant having continually to step over guy ropes, but there was far less chance of anyone noticing them. As he soon realised, it was also a good way of eavesdropping on conversations.
‘How much further is Thurii anyway?’
‘Not more than fifty miles, my officer says.’
From another tent, ‘Hades below, who farted? It stinks worse than a rotting corpse.’
A snort of laughter. ‘You shouldn’t have fed us all those greens for dinner!’
Carbo smiled, looking forward to renewing his banter with Navio and Arnax.
‘Where the fuck is Spartacus?’ asked a deep voice from outside the next tent. ‘He’s been gone how long now?’
Carbo felt a tap on his back from the Thracian. He stopped.
‘Nearly three weeks.’
‘Not coming back then, is he?’
‘You don’t know that,’ argued the second voice. ‘Who are we to know when he’ll return? He’s the leader of this army. He does what he thinks best.’
‘Pah! He’s either not coming back, or he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. What was the prick thinking? Leaving us with only those filthy Gauls to lead us?’
‘Egbeo and Pulcher are in charge too, you know. Many men also listen to Ariadne. She has Dionysus’ ear, remember,’ said a third man.
‘For the moment, maybe. But you mark my words,’ growled the deep voice. ‘It won’t be long before they’re all murdered. You know what Castus and Gannicus are like. They’re a pair of sewer rats. They won’t lose any sleep over killing a woman and child.’
Carbo’s mouth opened and closed. He turned to the Thracian, whose face was twisted in a combination of delight and rage. ‘Wait,’ mouthed Spartacus.
‘Come on, things aren’t that bad. We’ve nearly reached Thurii. There hasn’t been a sign of any Roman forces for weeks. Spartacus will appear any day now, and all will be well again.’
‘If he does, I’ll eat my bloody sandals,’ declared the first voice. ‘And when the Gauls take charge, I’m not hanging about to see what happens.’
There was a rumble of assent from some of their comrades.
To Carbo’s surprise, he felt Spartacus shove past him, around the corner of the tent. Gripping his knife hilt, he followed.
They found a group of six men sitting around a small fire upon which sat a bronze pot full of bubbling stew. The group were dressed in roughly spun cream, red or brown tunics. All of them had knives, but only two were wearing baldrics and sheathed gladii. A stack of weapons — spears, pila and swords — lay a few steps away, along with a heap of scuta.
Spartacus curled his lip at the ring of surprised faces. ‘Greetings.’
‘Who in damnation are you?’ demanded a bald man with a strong chin.
His was the deep voice, thought Carbo.
‘Smelt our dinner, did you?’ asked a younger soldier with deep-set eyes and thick black hair. ‘Well, you can’t have any! Piss off and cook your own.’
His companions laughed. The sound was amiable enough, but there was an edge to it that Carbo didn’t like. It wouldn’t take much for the situation to get ugly. Squaring his shoulders, he moved to stand beside Spartacus.
‘Who’s the one mouthing off about Spartacus?’ barked the Thracian.
‘That’d be me.’ The bald man got slowly to his feet. ‘Got a problem with what I said?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
At this, all but the young soldier who’d spoken stood up. Any trace of friendliness had left their faces. Meaningful hands were laid on the hilts of knives and swords.
‘I’d advise you to walk away now,’ snarled the bald man, stepping forward. ‘Before you get badly hurt.’
‘Or killed,’ added one of his fellows with a toothy leer.
‘Is that a threat?’ growled Spartacus.
‘Take it how you will.’ The bald man moved even closer.
Good. Spartacus darted forward, grabbed the bald man by the front of his tunic and shoved him backwards. He landed on his arse in the fire. With a bawl of pain, he leaped up, clutching his rear end. Several of his companions — most notably the young man who was still seated — sniggered.
Carbo laughed out loud, but then the rest of the soldiers drew their weapons. Shit, he thought, pulling out his own knife. It would have been better to walk away.
‘Think very carefully before you attack your leader,’ cried the Thracian.
The bald man stopped yelling. A trace of fear entered his eyes. ‘Eh? You’re not Spartacus!’
‘Am I not? Do I need to be wearing my mail and carrying my sica for you to know me?’ Spartacus stepped forward, raising a fist. ‘Who wants the glory of saying that he took a Roman eagle in battle and, by doing so, shamed an entire legion?’ he roared.
All around them, men’s heads turned.
It was the same cry that Spartacus had used to encourage his army the day that they had fought Gellius, remembered Carbo with delight.
The bald man’s anger had been replaced by pure dread. ‘N-no, sir. I recognise you now.’
His companions shared incredulous stares with one another before quickly shoving their weapons away. ‘We’re sorry, sir. We didn’t realise,’ mumbled one. There was a rapid chorus of agreement, and Carbo relaxed a little.
Spartacus’ flinty eyes bored into the soldiers one by one.
‘Gods above, Zeuxis, you’re a bloody idiot! We’ll all be executed now, because of your big mouth,’ said a thickset soldier with cropped hair.
The balding man’s face crumpled. ‘Please forgive me, sir. I didn’t know who you were.’
‘A moment ago, you were complaining about how long I’d been away. Dead in a ditch, you said.’
‘I didn’t really think that, sir, I-’
‘Don’t lie to me, fool. I heard what you said.’
‘You had been gone for an age, sir. I know I wasn’t alone in worrying about what would happen to the army. To all of us. Without you, sir, we would have filth like Castus and Gannicus trying to take charge. That’s what everyone’s saying.’ Zeuxis glanced at his companions for support, but none would meet his eye. Resigned and unsurprised, he turned back to Spartacus. ‘Thank the gods that you have returned, though!’
‘Is what he said true?’
No one answered.
They’re too damn scared, thought Carbo, amazed at Spartacus’ ability to instil awe with his sheer confidence.
‘You!’ Spartacus barked at the young soldier with deep-set eyes.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is your comrade right?’
‘There is something to what he says, sir,’ came the awkward reply. ‘But it’s only talk. You know what men are like.’
‘You didn’t agree with Zeuxis, however.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Why didn’t you try to attack me as well?’
‘I don’t pick fights for no reason, sir.’
‘Hmmm. You seem to be the most steady one here. What’s your name?’
‘Marcion, sir.’
Spartacus made a snap decision. ‘So, Marcion, do you vouch for these men?’
A sharp tang of fear tinged the already tense atmosphere. Everyone had caught the underlying meaning in their leader’s words.
‘Yes, sir. I do. They are all good soldiers. They’ve fought bravely in every battle I’ve seen. Zeuxis might have a big mouth, but he killed a Roman officer in Picenum, and Arphocras there’ — he indicated a man with a bushy beard — ‘helped to capture a standard the day we fought Gellius.’
Spartacus glared at Zeuxis, who was rubbing gingerly at his burned arse. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir, it is!’ He pointed at the pile of weapons. ‘I can show you his sword.’
‘There’s no need. I believe you.’
Zeuxis fell silent. He watched Spartacus fearfully. So did his companions.
‘The reason I went away was not as you thought, to scout out our route. I went to Rome.’ He smiled at their surprise.
‘Why, sir?’ asked Marcion.
‘To find out what the Romans have planned for us, and to assassinate the new general who will lead their army.’
More shock on their faces.
‘Did you succeed, sir?’ Zeuxis ventured.
‘Partially. I learned that the legions will not wait until the spring to march against us. Two of us weren’t enough to kill Crassus, but we put the fear of Hades into him, that’s for sure.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll slay the whoreson the next time I meet him.’
Now the soldiers looked awed.
‘Would you like to hack down another Roman officer, Zeuxis? Are the rest of you ready to fight another battle against the legions? Because that’s what we’re going to have to do — sooner or later.’
‘If you’re leading us, sir, I’ll fight anyone — even the Minotaur!’ cried Zeuxis.
‘What of you, Marcion?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Count me in, sir.’
‘Me too!’ shouted Arphocras.
Their companions roared their agreement. Around them, men began chanting, ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Carbo was amazed at how the situation had been reversed. A group of unhappy soldiers, many of them ready to desert, had become fervent believers in Spartacus.
A smile of approval flickered across the Thracian’s lips, and he raised his hands for silence. ‘You are brave men, all of you. And although you’re a pain in the arse sometimes’ — here, he eyed the embarrassed Zeuxis — ‘I wouldn’t ever be without you!’
The air filled with yells of delight.
‘Everything that you suffer, every hardship and tribulation, I also endure.’ Spartacus turned to regard the larger crowd of onlookers. ‘I may have gone away, but I was always going to come back. Always! As the Great Rider is my witness, I will never leave you, my brave soldiers. NEVER!’
This time, Carbo joined in. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
‘I will see you again soon,’ Spartacus said to Zeuxis. ‘You might have had time to chew on your sandals by that stage.’
Zeuxis’ flush grew even deeper; his companions fell about laughing.
Spartacus clapped Zeuxis on the arm. Then he turned to Carbo with a wicked grin. ‘It’s time to sort out Castus and Gannicus.’ And see my child!
With the soldiers’ cheers ringing in their ears, they walked off.
This time, it was down the main avenue between the tents.
The camp filled with happy cries as men saw that their leader had returned. Spartacus waved and smiled, and kept walking. Inside, he was delighted that so few faces seemed disappointed by his reappearance. They were seeing only a tiny fraction of the army, but it boded well for the rest. Castus and Gannicus’ poison hadn’t spread that far. It wasn’t long until they reached Ariadne’s tent. Atheas and Taxacis were on guard outside. Recognising Spartacus, they sprang forward, fierce grins splitting their faces.
Spartacus raised a hand to his lips. ‘Quiet,’ he whispered.
The Scythians glanced at each other in surprise, but they obeyed.
‘Want… to see… your son?’ muttered Atheas.
‘My son?’ Thank the gods — it’s a boy! His resolve wavered for a moment, but he held it in place with an iron will. The Gauls had to be dealt with at once, before they heard he was back.
‘Yes. Maron.’
‘She named him after my brother,’ said Spartacus softly. ‘That is a good name. Is he well?’
‘He… fine.’ Atheas beamed. ‘He… like you.’
A tight smile. ‘I’ll see him later.’
Carbo was stunned. ‘Later?’
Spartacus ignored him. Then, to Atheas, ‘Do you have a couple of spare swords?’
The Scythian nodded.
‘Get them.’ Spartacus tapped a foot against the ground as Atheas hurried off. He looked furious. Carbo didn’t dare say a word.
Atheas returned with two plain but serviceable gladii, each of which was attached to a leather baldric. He handed one to each of them.
Spartacus slung his over his right shoulder. ‘Take me to Castus and Gannicus.’
Atheas led off, but he was clearly concerned. ‘Why?’
‘We were attacked two nights ago. It wasn’t Romans. They had to be men from our camp. Who would have the best reasons for wanting me dead?’
‘Castus. Gannicus. The bastards!’ snarled Taxacis. ‘We… kill them?’
Spartacus showed his teeth. ‘Sadly, we need the cocksuckers. Ten legions are being raised. They could be here within three to four months. That might not be enough time to raise and train replacements for the soldiers who would follow the Gauls if they left.’
Carbo’s nerves were wire taut now. What can four of us do? ‘How are you going to play this?’
‘I want to see their faces when they see that I’m alive. That will tell us if they’re guilty or not. We’ll scare the shit out of the dogs. Show them that they can be got at too.’
‘They’ll have dozens of warriors.’
‘What of it?’ spat Spartacus. ‘They have to see that I’m not scared of them, not even a little bit, and to understand that if they order my death, they will die first. We’d manage that before they cut us down, eh?’
‘Yes!’ cried the Scythians fiercely.
Carbo gritted his teeth against his fear. It almost worked. ‘I’m with you.’
‘I knew you would be,’ Spartacus declared. He threw Carbo a wink. ‘As long as the gods are with us, it won’t come to that. Lead on, Atheas.’
Wondering how in Hades Spartacus would prevent them being massacred, Carbo followed his leader.
The Gauls’ tents weren’t far away. They were surrounded by those of their closest supporters, which meant that the small group soon began to attract attention. Those soldiers who didn’t recognise Spartacus knew the Scythians or Carbo by sight. Men stared hostilely and pointed. A few insults were thrown, but no one obstructed their passage. Yet.
A gob of phlegm landed by Carbo’s feet, and his guts churned. Normally, he would have challenged such an insult, but not now.
‘Keep moving,’ muttered Spartacus.
Atheas’ pace picked up.
They found Castus and Gannicus before a pavilion that must have once belonged to a Roman general. A large number of gilt standards had been stabbed into the ground by it, including five silver eagles. Castus was sitting on a log with a half-naked woman kneeling between his open knees. As her head moved up and down, he groaned softly. Gannicus lay on his back nearby, swallowing a stream of wine that fell from a jug held by a dull-eyed, semi-dressed woman. More than a score of armed soldiers lounged about, chatting idly, drinking or fondling yet more fearful-looking girls. A few noticed as the group approached, but they were far too late to prevent what happened next.
‘Cover Gannicus,’ Spartacus hissed at the Scythians. ‘When you see me act, pour the whole jug over the bastard.’
With evil expressions, Atheas and Taxacis stole off.
‘Carbo, you stay with me.’ He strode right up to the woman who was pleasuring Castus.
Carbo stared at the Gaul with disgust. He fucks in public, like an animal.
Castus’ eyes were still closed with pleasure when Spartacus gave the woman a hefty kick in the arse. She fell forward and made a horrible choking sound. With a roar of pain, Castus shoved her away. She lurched to one side, gagging.
Spartacus’ gladius flashed into his hand.
Fifteen paces away, Atheas grabbed the jug from Gannicus’ woman and emptied it over his head. There was an indignant roar, but when the Gaul saw who was crouched over him, he didn’t resist. He lay there, shouting. ‘You mad barbarian bastards! I’ll have you strangled with your own guts for this!’
‘You!’ Castus had sprung up, his face the picture of shock.
Now there was no doubt in Spartacus’ mind. White-hot rage splintered his vision for an instant.
Castus’ eyes darted towards the sword that lay at his feet.
‘Go on, limp prick!’ roared Spartacus. ‘Pick it up.’
‘My men will cut you to pieces!’
‘They can try, but you’ll never see what happens, because you’ll be dead before your fingers close on the hilt.’ Spartacus glared at the Gaul, daring him to move.
Castus licked his lips, and didn’t budge.
Carbo had never heard such anger in his leader’s voice. Castus had heard it too. He knew if he reacted, he would die. Then the Scythians would kill Gannicus, and the surrounding warriors would fall upon them. Carbo gripped his own gladius with white knuckles. Great Jupiter, let me die well.
Spartacus’ rage eased a fraction. ‘Can you see me, Gannicus, or are your eyes still stinging?’
The Gaul lifted his head. ‘I can see you,’ he growled.
‘Are you as surprised to see me as your friend here?’
‘I suppose. We didn’t know when you’d come back. There’s been no word.’
‘You’re a bad liar, Gannicus. That and the disbelief on Castus’ face when he saw me are all the evidence I need. You both thought I was dead, eh?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ blustered Castus, awkwardly tugging up his trousers.
‘Shut your filthy mouth, you,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘Understand that the only reason you’re both not choking to death on your own blood is that it’s still in all of our interests to stay together.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Gannicus.
‘Ten damn legions is what I’m talking about! Ten legions which will march south before winter. That’s what I found out in Rome. Do you fancy fighting them without my men?’
His words were met with a shocked silence.
‘I didn’t think so. Maybe from now on you could spend more time finding new recruits and training them up instead of behaving as if you’re at an orgy.’
Again neither Gaul replied.
Spartacus stared at both men, flinty-eyed. They heard what I said. That’s enough. There’s no point mentioning Sicily yet. ‘One more thing. If either of you ever tries to harm me or my family again, I will not rest until you’ve been carved into a thousand pieces of meat. Do you understand?’
Gannicus nodded. Castus was too slow for Spartacus’ liking, so he jabbed his sword at the ruddy-haired Gaul, forcing him to jump backwards. ‘Do you fucking UNDERSTAND?’
‘Yes,’ Castus muttered.
‘Excellent.’ With a contemptuous look, Spartacus stepped away. ‘Atheas! Taxacis. We’re leaving.’
The Scythians moved away from Gannicus, who sat up, his face purple with rage.
A number of the Gauls’ men began to move towards them. Carbo tensed.
‘If I don’t return soon, Egbeo and Pulcher have orders to mobilise every soldier in the camp before coming here to look for me. You can choose whether that happens or not,’ said Spartacus loudly. ‘It doesn’t matter to me.’
Castus aimed an uncertain glance at Gannicus. ‘He’s lying.’
‘How would you know?’ retorted Gannicus. ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered, and the warriors halted.
The four walked backwards until they were some thirty paces from the Gauls. ‘Good work,’ said Spartacus. He would have to watch his back from now on, but he doubted that there would be any more attempts on his life — from the Gauls at least. How long Castus and Gannicus would stay with the army was by no means certain, but for now they had learned their lesson. He could focus on searching out new recruits and finding pirates who could transport them to Sicily.
Both Scythians had broad grins plastered on their faces. So did Carbo. ‘A convincing lie just there.’
Spartacus winked. ‘Time to see my son.’ My son!