Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter XIV

By now, Spartacus was sick of the view of the great island. Sicily filled the western horizon; the most prominent feature being the headland that was formed by the coming together of the isle’s northern and eastern coasts. Near it was Charybdis, the famous whirlpool that would suck ships and their crews down to a terrible, watery death. The island was near enough to make out some of the large houses on the high ground above the shore. Beyond them mountains rose steeply up, vanishing in a blue-purple haze when they met the sky. They reminded him of Thrace. A sour taste rose in his throat. It was only a mile to Sicily’s hinterland, but after more than two months of waiting, that distance felt as far as the moon. Even the merchant ships that sailed within a few hundred paces of the shore were wholly unreachable.

At first, the time had gone by easily. Thanks to the defensive screen of infantry that he’d thrown up across the peninsula, and the cavalry that kept the main road clear, Crassus’ legions had made no real effort to break through to his main force. Instead they had busied themselves building ramparts and ditches that sealed Spartacus’ troops into the isthmus that curved out towards Sicily. He hadn’t liked this one bit, but there was the consolation of knowing that Carbo had completed his mission successfully. The announcement that a number of pirate vessels would soon arrive had been an enormous boost to morale. Once his two thousand men had sailed over the strait and seized the grain ships, the evacuation of his army could begin. With the gods’ blessing, Crassus wouldn’t suspect a thing about it until it was too late.

The knowledge that a battle wasn’t imminent had eased Spartacus’ tension a fraction. Life had continued much as it had at Thurii the previous year. There had been stints of drilling his troops, or listening to reports from the officers who were monitoring the Roman forces. Hours in the company of his quartermasters, making sure that the rations were divided equally and with the smiths, ensuring that every house and farm in the area was stripped of everything useful. Some of his men were still not that well armed. Forging weapons had to continue every day. He’d had nothing to do with Castus and Gannicus, who had camped with their men some distance from the main force. In essence, the army had already split up. It didn’t matter. Crassus was unaware of the schism, and once they had reached Sicily, it would become immaterial. Spartacus tried to block the troublesome pair from his mind. He had wasted enough time on them. He had concentrated instead on his evenings, the favourite part of his days, which were spent with Ariadne and Maron, who was growing fast.

There had also been opportunities to walk the coastline, searching for the best place to embark when the pirate ships arrived. Spartacus had done this alone the first time, managing to give the Scythians the slip. He grinned. The roasting that Ariadne had given them on his return had ensured that had never happened again. While Castus and Gannicus appeared to be honouring their truce, he wouldn’t put it past them to make another attempt on his life. And actually he liked the tattooed Scythians’ company. They felt like old friends, even though he’d known them for less than two years. The pair were discreet, shadowing him from a distance, thereby allowing him the pretence of being on his own. As he walked, his mind had turned over every possibility a score of times. If things went on Sicily as he wished, he would be able to defend the island from Roman attack rather than just wait until they sent an expeditionary force against him.

Yet as the days had turned into weeks, it had become harder and harder not to let his thoughts become troubled. Autumn had come and gone. Winter had arrived, and with it, colder weather. The berries and nuts from the bushes that covered the mountain slopes had vanished. The area’s farms had long since been stripped of all their grain. Spartacus wondered if the pirate captain had played Carbo false, taken the money and sailed away, never to return. It seemed unlikely. Only a fool or a madman would turn down fifty times that amount of coin for what was a simple task. That belief was what seemed to be keeping his troops’ spirits up. His eyes turned to the south, searching the waves for a sail. For the thousandth time, he saw nothing. A scatter of gulls scudded overhead in the chill air, their sharp calls seeming to mock him. His mood darkened. If Heracleo was coming, where in the Great Rider’s name was he? How long did it take to find a few cursed vessels and sail around Italy’s tip?

He wondered again about climbing the high ground to the sacred cave opposite Charybdis, there to make another offering to Scylla, the monster with twelve feet and six heads that guarded the straits. No. Twice was enough. If the gods thought he was desperate, they could become even more capricious than they already were.

His stomach rumbled, reminding Spartacus that he hadn’t eaten since dawn. He had ordered rations to be reduced, but sixty thousand men still ate a vast amount of bread every day. Unless Heracleo appeared within the next couple of weeks, their grain would run out. Then they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. That wasn’t a prospect that he wanted to be forced into.

He turned to study the land to his rear. Like much of the region’s coast, there was only a narrow area of flat ground bordering the sea. In some places it was as much as half a mile or a mile wide, but in others, it was little more than a strip of sand. The majority of the toe was formed by steep, rolling hills, the beech-covered tops of which were often shrouded in lowering grey clouds. With the Scythians in tow, he had traversed the highest peaks, his mission to inspect the legions at work. The Romans’ blockade had been constructed at one of the narrowest parts of the toe, some ten miles to the north. Thanks to the vertiginous terrain, there had been little need for Crassus’ soldiers to erect any defences at all, other than on the coastline. Dangerously steep wooded slopes, jagged peaks and fast-flowing rivers meant that the interior was only suitable for the deer, wild sheep and wolves whose territory it was. On a mountaintop ridge Spartacus had located one spot suitable to move north — but so had Crassus, who had spared no effort in the construction of the defences there. They were truly impressive. Slaves had laboured to build an inverted ‘V’-shaped earthen barrier that was topped by stone and twice the height of a man. Sharpened stakes bristled from the wall’s outer surface, and a deep ditch running in front of it had been lined with spiked pits. Catapults lined the ramparts, and large numbers of legionaries were on duty night and day. Only one approach had been left, a narrow path that would force any attackers into the point of the ‘V’, where they could be pummelled from both sides.

Watching from a distance, Spartacus had been quietly impressed. If they had to take it, the loss of life among his soldiers would be huge. It would be at less cost than a frontal assault on the flat ground, however. Seven legions were massed on the western side of the toe, near his army, and two guarded the eastern coast. There was no point marching to that point, hoping to overwhelm the enemy defences. Crassus’ scouts, of whom there were many in the area, would pass on the news. Wherever he led his men, thought Spartacus grimly, the Romans would be waiting. Except on the ridge. A single legion held that narrow section.

Trying to shift his thoughts from the bloody images that sprang to mind, he returned his gaze to the sea. Some distance out, a dolphin leaped out of the water. It was followed by another, and another. Soon Spartacus had counted eight. He grinned at their mischievous play, their clear pleasure at swimming together. They are truly free.

At first, the sail that came into sight beyond the dolphins didn’t register.

When it did, Spartacus’ heart leaped. Could the gods have answered his prayers?

Taxacis’ guttural voice broke the silence. ‘A ship!’

‘I see it,’ said Spartacus, keeping his voice calm.

‘Is it… merchant?’ asked Atheas.

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ replied Spartacus. He settled down on his haunches. Perhaps it was because of the dolphins, but he had a good feeling in his belly.

They waited for a long time. No one spoke, but the silence between them was companionable. There was plenty to watch. Drawn by the same shoal of fish as the dolphins, hundreds of gulls swooped and dived over the waves. Successful birds rose in triumph with a fish in their beaks, and screeched indignantly at any of their fellows that tried to steal their catch. Eventually, the vessel drew near enough for its shape to be determined. Spartacus eyed the long, predatory shape with undisguised glee. ‘If that’s a merchantman, my name’s Marcus Licinius Crassus!’

Atheas squinted at him. ‘No. You… still ugly… as ever.’

Taxacis chortled.

‘It’s not big enough to be a trireme,’ mused Spartacus. ‘It must be a bireme.’

The ship sailed closer to the shore. With increasing excitement, they waited until it was parallel with their position. As Spartacus had thought, there were two sets of oars, one above the other. It had a sharp prow and a typical rounded stern. A large rectangular sail billowed from a central mast. At a rough estimate, there were thirty to forty oarsmen a side. Other figures lined the sides. What drew Spartacus’ attention more than the crew, however, were the weapons on view.

‘Those are catapults on the deck!’ he cried, jumping up and down. ‘Here! Here!’ he roared.

The Scythians copied him, and a moment later, it was clear that they had been seen. A shouted command and the ship hove to. The oars were shipped, and an anchor thrown out. Several men scrambled into the little boat that was tied astern.

Spartacus glanced at Atheas, who was already fingering his sword. ‘Let’s play it friendly. We don’t want to scare them off. You too, Taxacis.’

Taxacis nodded, but Atheas adopted a false hurt expression, which made him look even fiercer. ‘I… always friendly!’

For the first time in weeks, Spartacus laughed.

The rowing boat didn’t take long to reach the beach. As soon as it was in the shallows, three of the four heavily armed men within jumped out. Led by a short, dark-skinned figure, they waded ashore. They stopped a short distance away.

‘Well met,’ said Spartacus, his manner amiable.

‘Well met,’ replied the dark-skinned man suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

‘I could ask the same of you, my friend.’

‘You don’t have three catapults trained on you,’ retorted the pirate.

He didn’t bother checking. ‘Since you spoke first, I will answer. I am Spartacus the Thracian. You may have heard of me.’

The pirate’s composure slipped a little. ‘How can you prove this?’ he demanded. ‘Half the brigands in Italy probably claim the same thing.’

‘I have no need to demonstrate who I am. In the next bay sits an army sixty thousand strong. Ask any soldier in it who their leader is.’

The pirate’s manner changed at once. ‘It is an honour to meet you. I am Heracleo. Your messenger — Carbo, was it? — may have spoken of me. We met near Croton some time since.’

‘He did. You were to bring as many ships as you could. You brought but one,’ said Spartacus, showing none of his concern.

‘It was more difficult than I expected to recruit ships. The market at Delos is busier than ever, and all that most captains are concerned with is finding slaves to sell there. The reality of that is easier to believe in than my tale. But do not fear, everything is in order.’ Heracleo flashed a greasy smile. ‘Two captains of my acquaintance operate in this area. I sent word to them, arranging a meeting to the north of here. A couple of days, and I’ll return with at least one trireme and another bireme. Maybe more, if the word has gone out as I’ve hoped.’

Spartacus’ eyes held Heracleo’s for several moments, but the pirate did not look away. The dog is telling the truth, or he’s a damn good liar, he thought. ‘I had hoped for more vessels, but three should suffice. How many soldiers can each ship transport at a time?’

‘For a short crossing like this?’ Heracleo waved dismissively at Sicily. ‘The biremes can carry fifty, perhaps even sixty each. The trireme will take nearly a hundred.’

Spartacus did a quick mental calculation. ‘About a dozen trips should see my men on the other side then.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ agreed Heracleo. A greedy look entered his eyes. ‘And the price-’

‘It remains the same,’ interrupted Spartacus.

‘I was to be paid a hundred and twenty-five thousand denarii when I arrived.’

‘When you arrived with ships. I see only one.’

Heracleo licked his lips. ‘The other captains might need some evidence of your… goodwill.’

Spartacus didn’t trust the pirate, but the fact that Heracleo had turned up was a good indicator that he might honour his side of the bargain. It would be politic to keep him sweet. Like it or not, he had far more to lose than Heracleo. ‘You’ve been honourable thus far. As a friendly gesture, I’d be willing to give you twenty thousand denarii more. What captain wouldn’t be persuaded to help when you hand him some of that?’

Heracleo sucked in a breath, considering. Then he was all smiles. ‘Thank you. How soon could-’

‘Wait here. I’ll have a party of my men bring the money at once.’ Heracleo rubbed his hands together and Spartacus gave him a warning look. ‘Play me false, and I’ll hunt you down, even if it takes me the rest of my days. Do you understand?’

‘I will return. You have my word on it.’ Heracleo stuck out his hand.

Pleased, Spartacus accepted the grip. ‘Two days until you return, you say?’

‘Two, maybe three. No more than that.’

‘Good. We’ll be waiting for you here.’

Leaving Maron in the care of the midwife, Ariadne set off through the camp, the wicker basket containing her snake under one arm. Inside, she had carefully placed a small amphora of wine, a little sheaf of wheat and a bunch of grapes. Half a dozen soldiers — protection given her by Spartacus — dogged her footsteps, but they knew well enough to hang back. She didn’t know exactly where to go, but as long as she found solitude, it didn’t matter. Living in the midst of an enormous army felt like dwelling in a city. Ariadne didn’t like it, nor had she grown used to it. The villages in Thrace that she had grown up with contained no more than a few thousand inhabitants. Even Kabyle, the only city, had not been large. There she had prayed to her god in the temple, but had also been able to access wild places. Places where she could almost feel the otherworld, where Dionysus’ voice wasn’t drowned out by the sound of people.

More than anything, Ariadne longed for guidance. It had been too long since she felt the certainty of the god’s will in her actions. Spartacus’ purpose seemed as implacable as ever, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t also making mistakes. Since his return from Rome, they had resolved their differences, but there was a faint distance between them that hadn’t been there before. Spartacus sought out her opinion less than he had; she asked fewer questions about what he was doing.

For her, the root of it was the resentment that she still felt towards him for choosing his army over her and Maron. Ariadne had always tried to deny the feeling, but like the weeds that spring up between flagstones, it kept returning. She wanted direction not just on the best course to choose for the army, but the best one for her. Should she try to resolve her differences with Spartacus or would it be easier to do the unthinkable and walk away?

Ariadne stumbled as her sandal caught against a stone. She looked up, noticing with surprise that she had left the camp behind her and was standing at the foot of the rocky slope that led up to Scylla’s cave. An image of the monster popped into her mind, and she shuddered. She had seen the mouth of the cavern from the beach below. It was all too easy to imagine each of Scylla’s long necks darting out to seize unsuspecting fishermen, sailors or dolphins. Only a fool would look inside and see whether the legend was true. Ariadne was about to go somewhere else, but she stopped. She hadn’t been watching where she was walking. This was where her feet had led her. Who was she to turn away? Dionysus might have guided her here.

Steeling her nerves, she began to climb.

‘Where are you going?’ The nervous voice of one of her guards.

‘Where does it look like?’

‘It’s not safe up there. Please, come down.’

A mischievous mood seized Ariadne. ‘Are you frightened?’

‘N-no, of course not.’

She scanned their faces. Not one was happy; most seemed scared. ‘Stay here if you will.’

‘But Spartacus said that you were not to be left alone.’

‘I know what he said.’ Ariadne began climbing again. Hampered by her basket, she moved slowly.

The guard tried again. ‘He would not want you to visit the cave.’

‘I am my own mistress,’ retorted Ariadne, without looking back. ‘I do what I choose. No one is stopping you from accompanying me.’

She ignored the argument that began behind her. After a while, she glanced around. Just one of her guards, the man who’d protested, was following her. The rest were huddled at the bottom of the slope like a group of frightened sheep. She wasn’t surprised. Superstition ruled the minds of most men. If she, a priestess of Dionysus, was scared, then ordinary soldiers would be plain terrified of walking into the cave of a legendary monster. She set her jaw, forced herself to breathe, her legs to keep moving. With every step, she felt more confident that she was supposed to do this.

The view of the straits and of Sicily grew even more impressive as she climbed. Sunlight glittered off the water, turning it into a giant mirror, which meant that she missed the bireme setting out from the beach where Spartacus had been. Her eyes searched the south, but the haze prevented her from any sight of the famous volcano, Mount Aetna, whose eruptions were attributed to a fearsome giant who lived deep underneath it. Soon, she told herself, she would have the opportunity to see it with her own eyes.

Before Ariadne knew it, she had reached the top of the headland, which was covered in scrubby vegetation. A narrow trail beckoned. She wasn’t surprised when the lone soldier came to a halt. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder.

He gave her a nervous nod.

The man was probably as worried about what Spartacus would do to him afterwards as whether Scylla might eat him, she thought with a hint of amusement. There was no need for her husband to know, though. If she didn’t tell him, her guards surely wouldn’t.

The path meandered as it passed through the vegetation. Here and there, she could make out the print of a sandal in the dirt. She took heart. People had been here before, perhaps to make offerings in return for safe passage on the waters below. Her idea was confirmed as she reached the cliff top and saw a makeshift altar of stones. Miniature amphorae, votive lamps, coins and small cakes were arranged in front of it. Just a few steps beyond, a dizzying precipice overlooked the deep blue sea.

Ariadne was careful not to go too near. A gust of wind might carry her over the edge. There was a perilously narrow trail down to the cave itself, but she wasn’t about to start trying to climb down to it. That would be a step too far. Tempting the gods, as if it she hadn’t tempted them enough in the recent past. No, this was the right place to seek guidance.

Laying her basket on the ground, she knelt before the shrine. First, to placate the creature whose territory this was. Great Scylla, she prayed, I ask for your forgiveness in even approaching your home. I do so with reverence, and with great respect. Next, she opened her basket. At once, the snake raised its head. She spoke reassuringly to it, and it allowed her to lift out the amphora, wheat and grapes. Ariadne was so eager to present her gifts that she neglected to fasten the basket shut. ‘Scylla, I offer you wine in acknowledgement of your power and your right to prey on those who pass by this point.’ Removing the stopper, she poured a stream of wine on to the ground. The ruby liquid soaked into the earth, leaving only a stain behind. ‘Accept this libation as a mark of my veneration. I also pray that you are not angered by my speaking to a god here.’ Lowering the amphora, Ariadne closed her eyes and waited. Her ears filled with the whistle of the wind, the occasional screech of a gull and, from far below, the crash of the waves against the rocks at the cliff’s base.

A little time passed, and there was no response. No monster had appeared to devour her; the ground had not opened up beneath her feet. The wine had been accepted, Ariadne decided. Hopefully, that also meant that Scylla did not object to her asking Dionysus for help. She opened her eyes again. Taking the sheaf in one hand and the grapes in the other, she gazed up at the sky. ‘Dionysus, I am always your humble servant, even when it does not appear so. Of late, I have not spent enough time honouring you. Having given birth to a child is no excuse. I beg for your understanding and your forgiveness. I bring you tokens of my devotion, objects that I know you find pleasing.’ With great care, she laid the wheat and grapes on the ground before her.

Another respectful silence; again no response.

Trusting this meant that Dionysus was in a generous mood, Ariadne picked up the amphora for the second time. ‘I bring you some of the finest vintage wine. Accept this as a token of my commitment to you.’

She closed her eyes, and waited for a sign. Anything that would help her decide what to do. Should she go to Sicily with Spartacus? As if that plan will ever work, she thought bitterly. She had been wary of the idea of recruiting pirates from the beginning, but as time dragged on without any sign of a ship, Ariadne’s doubts had solidified. To leave this place, they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. And what then? Again she saw the road lined with crucifixes. Was that the end that awaited Spartacus? She prayed that it was not, but the haunting image would not leave her. Would it not be better to leave now, she wondered, before the same or worse happened to her and Maron? There would be no Roman mercy for Spartacus’ woman or child. Yet to run would be to betray her husband. Guilt racked her.

Too late she heard the rush of movement behind her; too late she tried to rise.

A heavy blow across the back of her head sent Ariadne sprawling forward. She landed hard, knocking her forehead off a stone at the altar’s base. Stars burst across her vision, and she struggled to draw in a breath. Someone grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her upright. Even as she opened her mouth to cry for help, a hand was clamped across her mouth.

‘Try to scream, bitch, and I’ll toss you over the edge,’ hissed a voice. ‘Do you understand?’

Terrified, furious, Ariadne nodded. Who in Hades is it?

‘No one would hear anyway. Your guard is a dead man.’ The hand was removed, and she was pulled over to lie on her back. She stared up at Castus’ leering face with utter revulsion. ‘Seeking the help of your god is all very well, but doing it on your own? I thought you’d know better than that by now.’ He reached down and squeezed her breasts. ‘Nice. They’re bigger than they were.’

Ariadne’s guts roiled with fear. He’s going to rape me and then throw me off the cliff anyway.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He cuffed her across the head. ‘Answer me, whore!’

‘I was seeking guidance from my god. W-what brought you to this place?’ she mumbled, playing for time.

‘I wanted to placate Scylla. If we’re to sail across that stretch of open water’ — he waved a hand at the straits — ‘we’ll need all the help we can get.’

He was terrified, Ariadne realised. It wasn’t that surprising. Like most of the army, Castus would never have set foot in a boat. ‘Did you receive an answer?’

A curt laugh. ‘Of course not.’ He shrugged off the baldric that suspended his sword and laid it to one side. Using both hands, he ripped her dress to the waist. ‘But who cares? Even if I drown, I’ll go down to Neptune knowing that I fucked Spartacus’ woman.’

Ariadne tried to push him off. He laughed and slapped her hands away. She kicked frantically, but Castus was more than twice her weight. She watched in horror as he bent to nuzzle her breasts with his mouth. Savage memories of what her father’s abuse, of what Phortis the Capuan had done to her, came rushing back. Now it was about to happen again. Think! Think! Her head twisted. On one side, all she could see was the outline of Sicily, which she would never reach. On the other, the offerings left before the altar. Nothing she could reach would stop Castus. His sword was several steps away.

He reached down and his hand groped for her groin. She could feel his hardness pressing against her thigh. Waves of nausea mixed with the pain from her head. Ariadne wanted to die. She wished he had just tossed her over the edge.

‘Spartacus’ wife?’ he panted. ‘Who’d have thought I’d get to screw her, eh?’

It was if a lightning bolt had hit her. Spartacus’ wife. That is who I am. I cannot run away from that. The thought gave Ariadne new energy to live. To survive.

Castus paused to lick at her breasts again. He looked up at her, his face full of lust. His fetid breath washed over her. Ariadne wanted to vomit, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. Anything to delay what was about to happen. ‘You’ve wanted me for a long time?’

‘Gods, yes! What man wouldn’t?’ he panted, tugging down his trousers. ‘Ready for a decent-sized cock, not the sausage you’ve been used to? You’ve probably wanted me all along.’ He shoved forward with his hips, trying to enter her.

Ariadne couldn’t look at him any longer. She rolled her head to the left. Gods, let it be over quickly. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Her heart almost stopped. Her snake! It had got out of the basket, and had slithered on to a large stone at the altar’s foot. If only she could reach it!

Fortune intervened. Grunting with irritation, Castus released her left arm. He spat on his fingers and moved them down to rub at her crotch. ‘You’ll be as wet as a whore during Saturnalia when I’m finished with you,’ he growled, nudging forward once more.

Ariadne moved her freed hand out towards the snake. Never had she wanted it to do as she wished so much. Never had she needed it more.

Its head moved; its forked tongue flickered out towards her outstretched fingers.

Castus’ prick touched her labia, and she flinched. He laughed.

With a few twists of its body, the snake slid forward on to her palm. Yes! There was a risk of it biting her if she moved fast, but Ariadne was beyond caring. Her arm flashed up; alarmed, the serpent arched its neck and opened its mouth in threat. Ariadne aimed it at Castus’ neck.

The Gaul reacted with preternatural speed. It was the speed born of desperation, of years spent fighting as a gladiator, and it saved him from being bitten. He reared away from Ariadne, his mouth open in an ‘O’ of horror. As he fell to the ground, she rolled away and scrambled up. A muttered word to her snake, and it calmed a fraction. Spinning around, she found Castus already on his feet. Grim satisfaction filled her. The cliff edge was only a couple of steps behind him.

Holding the snake out before her, she advanced. ‘Ready to die, you filth?’

Castus’ face twisted with fear. He had nowhere to go. ‘That thing might bite me, but I’ll take you with me, you whore! We’ll both dine with Neptune tonight!’ He made a grab at her arm, but she swept the snake at his face and he had to dodge back out of the way. One of his sandals skidded; his foot shot out into nothingness and it took all of his effort not to fall backwards.

Ariadne was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘How do you like it, you bastard? Which way would you rather die — from poison or by tumbling on to the rocks?’ She rammed the snake at him again. Angry now, it tried to sink its teeth into his arm. By some miracle, he moved out of its way. Ariadne didn’t mind. There was no way he could get out of this. ‘You choose!’

Castus didn’t answer. He just prepared himself for her next attack.

Ariadne would never say it, but he was a brave man. It was time to end it, though. ‘Do this for Dionysus,’ she whispered to the snake. Unsettled, it writhed within her grasp. ‘Patience. Your prey is ready.’ She looked up, expecting to see a trace of fear in Castus’ face. What she saw was very different; he was trying to hide it, but there was triumph in his gaze. His eyes flickered; Ariadne sensed movement behind her. Instinct made her dodge to her right, towards the altar. As she struggled not to lose her balance, there was a muffled curse and Ariadne saw a thickset man carrying a sword — one of Castus’ followers — hurtle into the space where she’d been. With a despairing cry, he shot over the cliff edge and disappeared from sight.

By the time she had righted herself, Castus had darted past her to safety. He swept up his weapon. Panic filled Ariadne, and she prepared to take him on with only the snake. To her surprise, however, he backed away. ‘You’re a crazy bitch!’

Taking a step towards him, she let out a cracked laugh. ‘That’s right, you piece of shit, I am mad! I am also one of Dionysus’ chosen ones!’ Right on cue, the snake opened its mouth, revealing its lethal fangs.

Castus’ face went grey. Muttering a prayer, he shuffled backwards on to the path. Then he turned and was gone.

With a thumping heart, Ariadne waited, but he did not reappear. She calmed the snake, placed it back in the basket and fastened the lid. With her torn dress rearranged as best she could, she poured the rest of the wine on the ground, thanking her god with even greater fervency than before. Long moments passed, but nothing came to her. No vision, no words of wisdom. Ariadne felt no anger, just an overwhelming gratitude to be alive. More than anything, she wanted to see Spartacus.

His name triggered a memory. Castus had called her ‘Spartacus’ wife’. Ariadne smiled.

Dionysus had sent her a message after all. Two messages, in fact.

First, she was going nowhere. Standing by Spartacus was what counted — whatever the consequences. Second, Castus was not to be harmed. By rights, he should have just died. The fact that he had not told her that the gods still favoured him. It was not for her, or Spartacus, to intervene further.

To Ariadne’s relief, the soldier who had followed her was not dead, as Castus had said. He’d been knocked half-senseless by a blow from behind, but he came to when she ministered to him. Having decided that Spartacus was to be kept in the dark, she swore the man to secrecy. His injury was to have come from a fall. He was only too glad to agree to her demand. His leader’s fearsome temper was well known; the soldier who failed in his duty to guard Ariadne could not expect to live long.

The guards at the bottom were mightily relieved when the pair returned. They showed no sign of having seen Castus, who must have skulked down the far side of the headland. Ariadne ignored the sidelong looks aimed at her torn dress and dust-covered hair. They probably assumed that she had been taken by ritual mania, the trance-like state beloved of Dionysus’ female adherents.

Reaching her tent, she found Maron asleep in his cot, with the old midwife dozing alongside. Ariadne quietly changed her clothes and combed out her hair. She washed her face and applied a little ground chalk to her face. It would conceal the swelling bruise on her forehead. After the horror of what had happened, it felt odd being back in normality. She drank a little wine to steady her nerves. No one could know about Castus, especially Spartacus.

Soon after, she was startled to see her husband appear in the entrance. ‘They’ve arrived!’ he cried.

Maron stirred, and Ariadne’s instincts took over. ‘Shhhh.’

‘Sorry.’ He reached her side, grinning. Happy that Maron was still asleep, she met his gaze. He wouldn’t notice anything. He was visibly delighted.

‘You’re not talking about the Romans?’ she whispered.

He gave her a surprised look. ‘No! I’ve talked with the pirate captain whom Carbo met. He’ll be back in a couple of days with two, if not three other ships. A dozen journeys will see the men on the other side. If all goes well, we could have the grain ships here inside a week.’

Ariadne gaped at him. This — a way out of their situation — she hadn’t expected. ‘A week,’ she said slowly.

‘It’s wonderful, eh? Crassus hasn’t got any ships. The prune-faced whoreson won’t have a clue what’s going on until we’ve gone! By the time he reacts, we’ll have control of Sicily.’ He kissed her on the lips. ‘The first thing I’ll do on the island is to set up a system of watchtowers along the coastline. The Romans won’t be able to land without us being there to throw them back into the sea.’

Ariadne’s worries dissolved before the burning belief in his eyes. This too had to be a message from the gods, she thought. From Dionysus, whose snake had saved her life. The pirates would return. They would escape to Sicily. Her heart leaped with joy, and she pulled his face down to hers. ‘I always knew you could do it,’ she said.

A day later…

Hearing raised voices, Crassus raised his head. A frown creased his brow. He’d given his guards specific orders that he was not to be disturbed. By all the gods, could the fools understand nothing? he wondered angrily.

‘I don’t give a damn! I have to talk to Crassus!’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘Get out of my way, you fool, or I’ll have you digging trenches for the rest of your miserable life!’

‘Is that you, Caepio?’ Crassus put down the scroll on military tactics that he’d been composing and stood up. He found the whole process of writing a terrible bore, but this campaign was a golden opportunity for him to record his thoughts. They would be publicised and aggrandised afterwards, he could make sure of that. It wouldn’t be long before every man in Italy knew of the expert methods with which he had defeated Spartacus.

The flap to his private quarters was drawn back and the veteran centurion stepped into the richly decorated room. He came to attention and saluted, meeting Crassus’ icy stare stolidly, which angered but didn’t surprise Crassus. ‘This had better be good.’

‘I think it is, sir,’ came the measured reply.

‘Let me guess. You’ve captured Spartacus.’

Caepio’s lined face cracked into a semblance of a smile. ‘It’s not that good, sir.’

‘How long are you going to keep me waiting? Spit it out!’

‘One of our patrols happened upon a pirate ship anchored off a cove some miles to the north, sir. The crew were on the beach, replenishing its provisions, water and the like. The centurion in charge ordered an attack. Our men captured not just the pirates onshore, but the vessel as well.’

‘That’s very good, Caepio,’ grated Crassus from between clenched teeth. ‘Pirates are the scourge of the Mediterranean. The loss in merchant shipping each year is bleeding Rome white. But why would I care about that right now? We have bigger fish to fry than one leaky ship full of louse-ridden scum!’

‘A search of the vessel revealed bags of coin, sir,’ said Caepio with great patience. ‘In total, it was more than ten thousand denarii. The centurion asked the captain where he’d come by such an amount. The whoreson wasn’t forthcoming, so the centurion had his lads build a nice fire. When his feet were shoved into it, the pirate sang like a canary.’ He paused, eyeing Crassus for any signs of interest.

Damn him, thought Crassus, his curiosity aroused. He adopted his most offhand look. ‘Didn’t the spy mention something of this?’

‘He did, sir.’ Caepio was far too shrewd to mention how at the time his general had dismissed the man’s story as fantasy.

‘Go on,’ ordered Crassus brusquely.

‘He was approached some time ago by one of Spartacus’ men. A young Roman, he said. Made me think of the traitor at the munus whom I told you about. The one who was with Spartacus when he attacked you in Rome, sir.’

‘I remember.’ Crassus’ interest was growing by the moment. ‘Go on.’

‘The pirate was offered more than a million denarii to carry two thousand of Spartacus’ troops over to Sicily. He had to gather as many large ships together as he could, and sail them to meet the slaves.’

This time, Crassus couldn’t conceal his shock. His spy hadn’t been lying after all. ‘By Jupiter, are you serious?’

‘Yes, sir. There aren’t too many men who can lie when the flesh is melting from their bones.’

‘I don’t suppose there are,’ admitted Crassus. Sicily — that’s clever. He must know about the slave rebellions there. ‘Why so few soldiers, though? There are two legions on the island. What in hell’s name was he planning?’

‘I wondered if he had the idea of seizing some vessels, sir. Spartacus is a daring bastard; we know that. If he’s heard what disarray the place is in over there, he might have thought it possible.’

Crassus pursed his lips in concentration. Gaius Verres, the governor of Sicily, was notoriously corrupt. ‘Even if Spartacus doesn’t know, he’d still try something that crazy. What’s he got to lose? So what was the sewer rat of a pirate doing in the cove?’

‘Waiting for two captains whom he knew, sir. Another day, and they would have arrived. Sailed off, and we’d have been none the wiser. Now, it will never happen. The other pirates won’t understand why their friend never turned up, nor will they know about Spartacus’ offer.’

‘Excellent work, Caepio, excellent!’ Crassus bestowed a dazzling smile upon the centurion. His day had just got much better. ‘And the captain? I take it that he died under interrogation?’

‘Indeed, sir. The centurion had his men crucify his entire crew, burn the ship and seize the prisoners as slaves. The money has been brought back to be put at your disposal. I hope that is satisfactory.’

‘Most satisfactory,’ Crassus purred. ‘See to it that the centurion and his soldiers are each given a suitable cash reward.’

Caepio gave an approving nod. ‘Very good, sir. Once again, I apologise for disturbing you.’

His bad mood forgotten, Crassus waved a forgiving hand.

‘Was there anything else, sir?’

‘Yes. Do we have any idea how much food the slaves have?’

‘Last I heard from our man in their camp’ — here Caepio winked — ‘was that they had about a month’s worth of grain left. That was about two weeks ago.’

‘Damn his eyes, I told him to report more often than that!’

‘It’s very dangerous now, sir. Everywhere that we’ve built fortifications, Spartacus’ men are like fleas on a dog. They’re on watch day and night.’

Crassus bridled, but he knew Caepio was right. ‘If the fool was correct, the slaves have fourteen days’ provisions remaining. That’s more good news. Even if they comb through every farm building, they won’t find enough to last much longer.’

‘That’s right, sir. The land here is poor. It’s better for cultivating olives than grain. There will be little in the way of stores on most farms.’

‘We had best prepare for them to attempt a breakout soon then, eh?’

Spartacus, your days are numbered.