Chapter XVI

Despite Crassus’ wealth, he was a man of moderate taste. It was a small weakness to like a comfortable bed. The mattress in his quarters was purportedly of good quality — gods, it was thick enough — but he hated it with a vengeance. At first, when they had left Rome, it had seemed fine. Now, though, it felt lumpier than a straw tick used by the poorest of the poor. It was the reason that he was already up, a good hour before dawn. A scowl twisted his handsome face. The damn thing would have to do for the moment. There was no chance of locating a better one around here. As far as he’d seen, no one lived in Bruttium but primitives and latrones. And Spartacus.

Crassus put the mattress from his mind, but felt no less irritated. He was sick of everything about this shithole. It felt laughable now, but he had been glad to enter Bruttium. He had enjoyed the sea breezes and the escape from the filthy heat that they had endured in Campania and Lucania. No one could deny that the wild, mountainous countryside was magnificent or that the views of Sicily were incredible. Yet as autumn had passed into winter, these pleasures had soon soured. Weeks of lowering grey cloud, damp cold air and frequent rain had worn him down.

Crassus longed to finish the campaign not just because he wanted to crush Spartacus, but so that he could go home. In the capital, he could bask in the winter sun and the adulation of the Roman public, who would rightfully revere him. He could finish the account of his campaign and the superb generalship that had given him victory over the slaves. He would be the talk of the bath houses and the markets, cheered wherever he went. Crassus glanced at the letter he had begun composing, and the momentary improvement in his mood vanished. Would he have time to end the affair before that golden-tongued, arrogant little shit Pompey arrived? When he’d first heard the news that the Roman assembly had recalled his biggest rival from Iberia, Crassus hadn’t believed it. The effrontery of it! Fucking plebeians.

Yet the senators, unhappy as they must have been at the thought of such a prominent general returning to Italy with his legions at his back, had approved the order. That wouldn’t have happened if I had been there, Crassus thought furiously. Like all sycophants, however, his supporters in the Senate wouldn’t have been organised or vocal enough to prevent the decree from being carried. They’re a shower of pompous, self-serving whoresons! Couldn’t they and the rest just leave a man to do a job properly? He had only been in command of the Republic’s armies for a few months.

In the biggest clash since, his troops had proved their mettle by standing up to the slaves. Yes, there had been the inglorious rout of Mummius’ legions, but he had dealt with that in the most vigorous fashion possible. The practice of decimation had not been used for more than a hundred years, and its effect had been dramatically successful. Subsequent to that, he had cornered Spartacus in the toe and denied him the chance of escape to Sicily! Best of all, his soldiers had yesterday thrown back the slaves’ attempt to break through his fortifications on the ridge. Caepio had reported enemy losses of more than ten thousand men, which was a sizeable chunk of Spartacus’ forces. The end was surely nigh.

Not that the Thracian would admit it! Remembering the filthy legionary who had been brought to him the night before, Crassus felt his face purple. He hadn’t wanted to believe the soldier’s story, but he had definitely been a prisoner of the enemy.

‘How dare he? How dare he ask for such a thing? Fides, for a savage such as he?’ Crassus ranted at the bronze mirror which stood to one side of his desk. ‘The fucking cheek of it!’

Calm yourself, he thought. This is just what the whoreson wanted. The request had been designed to goad him — and it had worked admirably. Crassus took a deep breath, remembering how through a supreme effort, he had not ordered the immediate execution of the unfortunate legionary who had carried the message. Let it go, as you did the soldier. After a moment, he felt more composed.

A tiny, devilish part of him couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to lead a combined force of over one hundred thousand men against Pompey, to seize control of Italy once and for all. The Republic was weak, and so too were most senators. As in the days of Sulla, a strong leader was needed. Crassus knew that he was the right man for the job. He had been born for it. Regrettably, this was not the time. The Roman people would never stand by and let an army of slaves help to take control of their destiny. Crassus’ lips twisted. He could never trust a man like Spartacus — a Thracian, a former gladiator? — anyway. It was beneath his dignity even to think of replying. The stony silence would tell Spartacus all that he wanted to say.

Crassus returned his attention to the campaign, and his frustration mounted. Pompey, it came back to fucking Pompey, and whether he could engineer total victory before the prick arrived with his legions. To end the rebellion, he would need to force a pitched battle with Spartacus’ army within days. Tactically, though, it would be foolish to do anything other than wait. His men were secure behind their defences; javelins and ammunition for the catapults had been stockpiled by the wall. The legions had plenty of grain and meat; fresh supplies arrived daily down the Via Annii. This while Spartacus’ followers were slowly starving on the bare ground that led down to Cape Caenys, the southernmost point of Italy. All he had to do was sit tight until Spartacus and his men had rallied their courage enough to essay another attempt at breaking the blockade. Weakened by hunger, demoralised by their previous failure, the slaves would be slaughtered. The matter could be ended in one fell stroke.

What, however, if that battle didn’t take place for another month or more? The messengers recalling Pompey had been sent ten days before. They would have already reached him. With a curse, Crassus stabbed his stylus on to the desk so hard that the tip broke. Pompey could appear at the head of his army inside the next six to eight weeks.

There was nothing for it, he decided. He would have to move first. Force the slaves into open battle. Yet doing that wouldn’t be easy. Spartacus was a wily general, not a man prone to making mistakes. At last, a slow smile spread across Crassus’ face. A night attack might do it. The Thracian’s major strength was his cavalry. Crassus had fewer horsemen and, although he hated to admit it, they were of inferior quality to those of the enemy. A cohort of legionaries, whose sole mission was to panic and injure Spartacus’ horses, might succeed. It would be good to use the same trick on the Thracian as the dog had used on Glaber’s troops, thought Crassus with glee. He knew the men to use too. Some of Mummius’ disgraced soldiers would leap at the chance to redeem their honour. They wouldn’t have to shinny down a cliff on vine ropes, just make their way unseen to where the enemy’s horses were tethered. If they succeeded, the prospect of a pitched battle would be something to anticipate. After their recent losses, the slaves would be wary; spurred on by the threat of decimation, his legionaries were eager to fight. Without the advantage of their cavalry, victory would be there for the taking. Crassus could picture the scene already. Pompey would arrive too late.

The glory would all be his.

His gaze returned to his letter. Was it even worth finishing? He was on the verge of consigning it to his brazier, to erase even the idea of what he had been asking for. Then his more prudent side took control. The message had to be sent. By the time it had reached Rome and been acted upon, he would have crushed Spartacus as a man stamps on a scorpion. Crassus placed the letter back on the desk, smoothed it down and found another stylus before reading what he’d written.

‘To the Senate of Rome. I, Marcus Licinius Crassus, commander of the Republic’s armies, send loyal greetings.’ His lip curled. Given half a chance, he’d put the names of more than half of the senators on a proscription list. Instead, he had to pretend that he respected their decision to recall Pompey. He read on:

Word has reached me that the illustrious general Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is to return with his legions to Italy, his mission to assist me with the prompt quelling of Spartacus’ uprising. As ever, I submit to the Senate’s wishes. I shall be honoured to serve the Republic alongside another of its faithful servants.

Crassus mouthed a curse. He loathed every word on the parchment — yet he had to keep up the pretence. I will have the last laugh.

He dipped the stylus point into the glass pot that sat by his right hand, gently shook off the excess ink and prepared to write. His lips twitched with sardonic amusement. Pompey would hate what he was about to ask as much as he hated the idea of Pompey returning to Italy.

While recent days have seen Spartacus suffer a major setback at the hands of my troops, the outrages committed by his followers have continued for too long. His uprising must be crushed with all haste and with no effort spared. I therefore ask that the Senate recall not just Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, but also Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus, the governor of Macedonia. His recent successes against the Thracian Bessi have marked him out as a general of note. His skills and his experienced legions would add immeasurable strength to my forces, but also to those of Pompey. Spartacus and the vermin who follow him will have nowhere to turn, no sewer in which they can hide. Faced by the dedicated leadership of three of the Republic’s most able servants, this shameful uprising will soon be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory. Rome’s besmirched honour — and the reputation that was the envy of the Mediterranean — will have been restored.

I ask the gods that you see fit to agree to my request. Rest assured that as I humbly await your response, the campaign against Spartacus is being prosecuted with all the vigour and courage that Rome’s finest soldiers can bring to the conflict.

With filial piety, I remain your servant, Marcus Licinius Crassus

He reread the letter carefully, and was pleased with his efforts. His words contained just the right mix of humility, cajolery and flattery to win over most senators. They would no more be able to resist the idea of Lucullus also returning than a man with dysentery could stop himself from shitting. When Pompey found out, he would be incandescent. But he would be unable to do a thing about it.

Not that it mattered, thought Crassus in triumph as he rolled up the parchment and sealed it with wax. Before either Pompey and Lucullus had come upon the scene, he would have ended the rebellion. With a little bit of luck, he would be able to invite both of his fellow generals to his victory feast, the highlight of which would be to display the Thracian’s head on a silver platter.

A discreet cough brought him back to the present. Crassus turned his head. One of his guards stood in the doorway.

‘A centurion is here to see you, sir. He’s come from the ridge.’

A finger of unease tickled Crassus’ spine. ‘What does he want?’

‘He didn’t say, sir. Just that Caepio sent him,’ replied the soldier awkwardly. He wouldn’t have dared to ask such a senior officer his business, but he couldn’t say that to Crassus.

‘Send him in.’ It’s probably Caepio asking again for blankets, he thought irritably. The veteran had already mentioned that his soldiers on the ridge were suffering from exposure. Crassus had meant to do something about it, but it had slipped his mind. Damn Caepio for being impatient! A night or two in the cold would do the men good. It’d sharpen them up.

A middle-aged centurion with a sharply pointed nose and close-cut beard entered. He approached the desk and came to attention. ‘Sir!’

‘At ease.’ Crassus noted the spatters of mud that covered the officer’s legs and the pteryges protecting his groin. This wasn’t about blankets, he thought in surprise. The man had come in a hurry. ‘You’ve come from Caepio? From the ridge?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well?’ snapped Crassus. ‘Why are you here?’

‘There’s been another attack, sir.’

Scorn twisted Crassus’ face. ‘What, a morale-building exercise for Spartacus’ men after yesterday’s humiliation? One of our patrols ambushed, is it, or have the ditches been filled with burning branches again?’

‘It’s worse than that, sir.’ The centurion’s eyes flickered towards him, and then darted away.

‘Explain yourself, centurion,’ said Crassus in a wintry tone. ‘Quickly.’

‘It started before dawn, sir. At first we thought it was just a probing attack, something to keep us on our toes, but it soon became apparent that it was a full-scale assault.’

There had been no word from the spy about this, mused Crassus. ‘So soon? They must be even shorter of grain than I thought. It was fortunate that I ordered more ammunition to be carried up there after yesterday’s skirmish, eh?’

An unhappy grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘What is it, man? The ditches were cleared by last night, weren’t they?’

‘They were, sir, but Spartacus’ men filled them in a number of places.’

‘They’d need to chop down the entire forest to have enough wood. What did they use?’

‘Mules, sir. They didn’t have enough, though, so they led out about a hundred of our lads whom they’d taken prisoner. The poor bastards were executed in cold blood and then their bodies were thrown on top of the beasts, like so much carrion. It was as bad as the Esquiline Hill, sir,’ he said, referring to the place outside Rome where the corpses of slaves and criminals were disposed of alongside household rubbish and the carcases of animals.

‘That is monstrous, but Caepio didn’t send you here to tell me that. Did their attack come immediately afterwards?’

‘I wish it had, sir, but that savage Spartacus wanted to make an even bigger statement. He’d held one of our boys back in order to crucify him in front of his own men. The fuckers loved that.’

‘Are there no lows that these slaves will hold back from?’ Crassus was furious now. ‘So they attacked after that?’

‘Indeed, sir. They came on hard and fast.’

‘The artillerymen must have wreaked havoc.’ Crassus was pleased by the centurion’s nod of agreement. ‘Did the scum break and run as they did yesterday?’

Another dart of the eyes. ‘Not exactly, sir.’

‘ Not exactly,’ repeated Crassus.

The centurion straightened his shoulders. ‘Between the artillery, the slingers and the men’s javelins, they must have lost hundreds of men. It seemed to make no difference, sir. They were like wild beasts, or demons of the underworld.’

Crassus’ nostrils pinched white with fury. ‘What are you telling me, centurion? Has the wall been breached?’

‘It hadn’t when I left, sir, but things weren’t looking good. Caepio sent me to inform you, and to ask for reinforcements.’ The centurion hesitated, but didn’t have the courage to remind Crassus that it was he who had elected not to send any fresh soldiers up to the ridge after the previous day’s encounter. ‘He said to say that he would hold on as long as he could, sir.’

Crassus’ jaw clenched and unclenched. He clutched his fury to him as he would a lover, using it to fuel his loathing of Spartacus. He had underestimated the Thracian’s determination. It had been a reasonable decision not to send fresh troops to the ridge, he told himself. There had been no word from the spy. Besides, what enemy would mount such a daring attack so soon after a heavy defeat? Spartacus would, and did, his inner critic shot back. And now he had no chance of responding. Any reinforcements sent up the mountain would arrive too late. The battle would have been won or lost, the wall held or breached. Crassus knew in his gut that it would be the latter. Caepio, his best officer, would probably be among the dead. Even worse, his chances of ending the campaign before Pompey arrived had just vanished into thin air. The letter asking for Lucullus’ recall would have to be sent to Rome with all speed. Damn Spartacus to Hades and back!

Crassus rubbed his temples, trying to decide what to do. Carry on, he decided. ‘Have two of the legates assemble their legions and march them to the ridge. There may still be slaves trying to get across the wall.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion didn’t argue, which told Crassus that he also thought Spartacus had escaped. ‘Which ones, sir?’

‘I don’t fucking care! The remaining legates are to have their men strike camp. We march as soon as possible.’

‘Where are we heading, sir?’

‘Where do you think?’ shouted Crassus. ‘After fucking Spartacus of course!’

When the Romans had been driven back from a large enough section of the wall, Spartacus had had several thousand of his troops continue engaging them. Some of his soldiers had been ordered to set fire to the ballistae while the rest had begun tearing a hole in the fortifications. It wasn’t long before a gap wide enough for ten men to pass through abreast had been made.

Spartacus had immediately sent a messenger to Egbeo, ordering him to bring his cohort forward. The moment that had been done, and he had seen Ariadne and Maron were safe, he’d sent word for the rest of the army to advance. It had been an orderly enough procedure, oddly accompanied by the sound of fighting to either side, where the outnumbered Romans were retreating further.

It had been a wise decision to have the remainder of his men trail the footsteps of those who would lead the attack. In little more than two hours, the vast majority of his forces had crossed the wall. Even Castus and Gannicus had made it, skulking by without so much as a nod or wave. When word reached him that Roman reinforcements were making their way up to the ridge, only half the cavalry remained without the enemy fortifications. Cursing, Spartacus had ordered the mounts that could not be brought through in time to be set free. Riders were worth more to him than horses, more of which might be captured as they marched. The myriad of camp followers — tradesmen, whores, itinerant priests and hucksters of every hue who had trailed after his troops for months — were absent. Spartacus had ordered them, on pain of death, to stay behind. Their fate did not concern him. It was time to move fast.

Leaving five thousand men under the command of Pulcher and Navio to hold the passage to their rear, Spartacus had ordered his army to move out. They had taken the mountaintop road that snaked its way along Bruttium’s spine to join the Via Annia some fifty miles to the north. At first, it had been understandable that Castus and Gannicus had done the same thing. There were legions on both coastal plains but none at this altitude. After three days, however, Spartacus’ patience had worn thin.

He had wandered the camp each night, assessing his soldiers’ spirits, and had seen plenty of Gauls talking to men by their fires. They had sloped off at his approach, but there was little doubt that they returned when he’d gone. Much as he tried, he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Castus and Gannicus’ motives were obvious. Morale had been boosted by their audacious escape, but memories of the pirates’ failure to appear and of the defeat suffered at the wall were still raw. Men were also unhappy because they were hungrier than ever. Until they renewed their stores of grain, Spartacus had ordered that everyone was to receive one-third of his normal daily ration.

‘Those Gaulish bastards are like vultures picking over a corpse,’ he ranted to Ariadne. ‘They want to win over as many soldiers as possible before they split off.’

‘You can’t stop them.’

‘Oh yes, I fucking can! I’ll take a cohort over to their tents and kill the pair of them! It’s what I should have done a long time ago.’

Ariadne’s temper flared. ‘Do you think their followers would take that lying down? You’d set the entire army at each other’s throats. Crassus would piss his pants when he heard that you had done his job for him.’ Spartacus glowered at her, but she was determined to say her piece. ‘Do you really want to keep men who are so easily persuaded to leave?’

‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.

‘What do you care if Castus’ and Gannicus’ followers talk to the faint-hearts then?’ He didn’t answer, which encouraged her. ‘We know now that Crassus’ soldiers are wary of attacking us, but we didn’t at first. It’s been no harm having the Gauls at hand while the legions were only a few miles behind us.’

‘So I’m supposed to do nothing while they spread their poison?’

‘Did I say that? You need to be seen by as many of the troops as possible. Men love to see their commander appear among them. Your words help to give them courage. You know that as well as I do.’

Brooding, Spartacus stared into the fire. He knew that Ariadne was right, but that didn’t douse the fury he felt towards the Gauls. After all he’d done for them, this was how they repaid him? He longed to crucify both men, to smash their legs and arms in multiple places, to stand over them as they cried for their mothers and pleaded to die. Like the legionary on the ridge. But he wouldn’t do it. Any short-term satisfaction he gained from such an action would surely be lost by the benefit gained by Crassus.

As if that whoreson needed any more advantage handed to him, he thought grimly. The cost of breaking out of the toe had been high. Nearly a thousand men had been killed, perhaps twice that number wounded. These were in addition to the eleven thousand lives lost during the first, failed assault. About half of the cavalry’s horses and a similar number of mules had been left behind. Of the sixty thousand or so soldiers who had hoped to sail to Sicily, about forty-six thousand able-bodied men remained. And that was before Castus and Gannicus were taken into account. They wouldn’t stick around for much longer. As soon as they reached the fertile lands of Campania and Samnium, Spartacus reckoned, they would leave.

There would be no fixed battles from now on if he could help it. Crassus’ soldiers now outnumbered his. The odds would lengthen once Pompey arrived. Spartacus knew the Roman war machine well, and one lesson stood out from all the others that he had learned during his time in its service. To have any chance of victory against the legions, it was imperative to have superior numbers of troops. Parity of forces was not enough. If his people, the warlike Thracians, had not been able to beat Rome that way, neither could those who had once been slaves. Spartacus grimaced. He hated having to think like this, but it was the brutal truth. Few men thought or acted as he, a trained warrior, did. Navio did; so too did those some of his soldiers who’d been born free, and who had fought for their living.

To expect the rest of his army to do so when faced with such an implacable enemy would be to court disaster. He had to work to his men’s strengths, and that did not include standing toe to toe with equal numbers of legionaries. Once again, they would have to act like latrones. Hide out in the wilderness, among the forested peaks that formed Italy’s backbone. From there he would send out word that hard men — agricultural slaves and herdsmen — were wanted. There, with the help of the Great Rider, he could rebuild his army. Until the time came to face Crassus once more.

Spartacus knew in his gut that that would happen one day. Crassus and he had become mortal enemies. Their struggle would go on until one of them was dead. He tried to stay focused on that outcome, but it was hard not to dwell on the fact that if Crassus defeated and killed him, the rebellion would be over, whereas if he did the same to Crassus, the war against Rome would merely enter another phase. Not for the first time, Spartacus compared the Republic to the Hydra. Each of that creature’s multiple heads breathed poisonous fumes, and if one was cut off, two grew in its place. It was like that with every damn legion that his men had destroyed. Yet the Hydra had not been invincible: only one of its heads had been immortal. Its end had come when the hero Hercules had cauterised the stumps of each head he’d chopped off, preventing them from regrowing and allowing him to find the head he really needed to remove. What was Rome’s invincible head? Spartacus wondered. And how could he sever it? Before the Great Rider, I swear that I will never stop searching for it as long as I live.

Spartacus had barely seen either Carbo or Navio since the breakout. They were uninjured, but more than that he did not know. Wanting some companionship as much as to hear their thoughts, he made his way to their tent later that night. There was no sign of either Roman. It wasn’t that late, thought Spartacus. Had they already gone to bed?

‘Carbo? Navio?’

‘Who is it?’ Carbo’s voice came from a short distance away. He sounded irritated.

‘It is I, Spartacus.’

A moment’s delay, and the flap on a nearby tent was thrown back. Carbo poked his head out.

‘What are you up to?’ Spartacus asked.

Carbo’s face clouded over. ‘It’s Publipor. He took a flesh wound on the ridge. At first, it didn’t look like much, but then it turned septic. The poor bastard has gone downhill fast since. The surgeon offered to take off his arm, but he’s too weak to survive the operation. I don’t think he’ll last more than another day or two.’

Another good man lost. Spartacus ducked past Carbo and entered the tent. The stench of rotting flesh and urine inside was overpowering. He choked back a cough and approached the pile of blankets upon which Publipor lay, clad in only an undergarment. Navio, who was sitting alongside, looked up with a rueful smile. ‘He’d be glad to see you, sir.’

Carbo was right, thought Spartacus grimly. Publipor’s pallor was terrible. His eyes were sunken, his forehead drenched in sweat, his ribs clapped to his backbone. The injury to his sword arm had been wrapped in bandages that did little to stop a green-brown liquid from oozing on to his bedding. ‘Is he conscious?’

‘From time to time,’ replied Navio. ‘Often he’s not lucid, though.’

Spartacus crouched down and took Publipor’s good hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you in this state.’

Publipor’s eyelids twitched and then opened. His rheumy eyes swivelled around the tent, falling eventually on Spartacus. A strange expression twisted his gaunt face. ‘You!’

‘Yes,’ said Spartacus gently. ‘Can I get you anything?’

A hiss of pain. ‘How about my family?’

Spartacus glanced at Carbo, who mouthed the word ‘fever’. ‘That’s not within my power. But I can get you some wine if you like. A piece of ham.’ He winked. ‘Even a woman if you’re up to it?’

‘Go to Hades.’

Spartacus waved Navio and Carbo back. ‘You’re feverish, Publipor. I’ll have the surgeon make up something that will help.’ He turned to go.

‘The fever didn’t make me say that, you cocksucker.’

Spartacus’ lips thinned. ‘I see. Why would you insult me then?’

‘Because you’re responsible for the deaths of my family.’ His voice cracked. ‘My wife. My beautiful children.’

‘I thought they died of cholera,’ said Carbo in confusion.

‘No.’ A weak cough as he sat up. ‘They were murdered at Forum Annii.’

Spartacus frowned. ‘If that’s where you’re from, why didn’t you say so before?’

It was as if Publipor hadn’t heard. ‘May the gods forgive me, I was away hunting in the mountains. I got back when the slaughter was over.’ Tears dribbled down his unshaven cheeks. ‘I returned to find them in my master’s house, all dead. Butchered!’

‘Publipor, I am deeply sorry for what happened to your family,’ said Spartacus. ‘I did my best to prevent atrocities from happening, you have to believe that.’

‘Clearly, you didn’t do enough!’ Spittle flew from Publipor’s mouth. ‘My children were aged three, five and eight. They were innocent! Defenceless!’

‘That’s terrible,’ Spartacus acknowledged, but then his face hardened. ‘So you joined my army to get your revenge, is that it?’

A half-smile. ‘Something like that.’

‘Did you have ought to do with the Gauls’ attempt on my life?’

‘That? No. I knew nothing of it. I had a different master.’

Suspicion tickled Spartacus’ spine. He saw the same doubt in Carbo and Navio’s faces. ‘Who would that be?’

‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

White-hot fury lanced through Spartacus. In a heartbeat, his dagger was at Publipor’s chin. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘You can’t scare me. I’m dying.’

Spartacus’ chuckle was evil. ‘How would you like five men to haul on a rope that’s been tied to your bad wrist?’

Publipor swallowed.

‘Just tell me what happened, and I’ll give you a swift death.’

A tiny nod. ‘Months after the massacre, I was still living in the ruins of Forum Annii. I had no reason to go anywhere else. One day, a man came snooping about. He began asking me questions, and when I’d told him my story, he offered me money and the chance of revenge on you. He explained that his master was Crassus, who wanted an inside man in your army. All I had to do was become one of your soldiers, and to find out whatever I could.’

‘You were being hunted by Roman cavalry when we found you!’ cried Carbo.

‘That was staged. My companions were both to be killed to make it look more authentic. It was a mistake that Kineas survived.’ A grimace. ‘He nearly gave the game away too.’

Spartacus’ memory snaked back to the fight in the woods, and the way that Kineas had tried so hard to speak before he died. It all made sense now. ‘You were the one who told Crassus that I was in Rome.’

A proud nod. ‘I spoke to a rich farmer near the camp. He sent word to the capital.’

‘What else did you do?’

‘I told Crassus when you were going to march to the toe, and about the pirates. He didn’t believe me about them, though. The best thing I did was to let him know that you were going to attack the ridge.’

‘You dirty rat,’ Spartacus snarled. ‘Thousands of your comrades died there.’

‘They were never my comrades! They were murdering bastards of the worst kind. I wish that every last one had been killed. And you as well!’ Publipor’s mouth opened to throw more insults, but the sound never came. He gasped a little, and looked down at Spartacus’ dagger, which was buried to the hilt in his chest.

‘That’s more than you deserve, you traitorous piece of shit.’ Spartacus savagely twisted the blade to and fro before pulling it free. His eyes already glazing over, Publipor slumped backwards on to his bed and lay still. A hot tide of blood began saturating the blankets.

Spartacus regarded him without emotion. He wished that he’d never gone hunting that day. Never set eyes on Publipor. Never taken him into his trust. But it was too late for that. Too late for so many things. ‘At least we know who the spy was,’ he said in a dry tone.

‘I should have seen through his story,’ said Carbo angrily.

‘How? It was entirely feasible. There could be a score of others like him in the army, with different motives, but the same desire to do me harm. That’s why I trust only a handful of men, such as you two.’ Spartacus stood up and walked outside.

‘What shall we do with him?’ called Carbo.

‘Leave him out for the wolves. He shouldn’t have any better treatment than any of those who died at the ridge.’

The fractured army spent two weeks on the march, passing from Bruttium to Lucania. Spartacus was aiming for Campania, one of the most fertile regions of Italy and the birthplace of the rebellion. Keen to get a head start on Crassus, he had driven his men harder than ever before; unencumbered by baggage or supplies, and free of their previous raggle-taggle of followers, they were able to cover twenty-five miles per day. Spartacus had taken charge of a shaggy white stallion, one of the largest horses belonging to any his cavalrymen. Riding up and down the column made it far easier to encourage his men. Realising what he was doing, Castus’ and Gannicus’ soldiers had matched the furious pace. The tactic worked. Soon his scouts were reporting that the legions were more than thirty miles behind them, and marching at a slower speed.

Spartacus took heart from this, and allowed his men a much-needed day off. Before moving to Samnium, he hoped to lure new recruits to his cause. He began the process by sending raiding parties to the biggest latifundia, their mission not just to find grain and supplies, but to win over the slaves they encountered there. Upwards of 250 men joined from the first two estates; after a few weeks Spartacus was sure that number would turn to thousands. Navio would soon whip them into shape. All they had to do was avoid confrontation with Crassus’ legions until the recruits had been trained, and in the mountains of Samnium, that would not prove too difficult. Spring had arrived and, with it, better weather. In the coming days, the countryside would start yielding its own bounty of plants, nuts and berries. They wouldn’t have to rely exclusively on raiding homesteads and farms.

When word came one morning that Castus and Gannicus were leaving, Spartacus was oddly surprised. As a man learns to live with his lice, he had grown used to the Gauls and their followers shadowing his army. It was hard not to be pleased, however, like a man who exchanges his infested tunic for a new one. Keen to see their departure for himself, he took Carbo, the Scythians and a century of soldiers. Even at this late stage, there was no point laying himself open to attack. Ariadne insisted on coming with him. She was carrying the basket containing her snake, so Spartacus did not object. The god might have spoken to her.

He found the troublesome pair marshalling their troops outside the camp. It was difficult to tell how many there were, but Spartacus guessed that it was somewhere in the region of ten thousand. Five eagles and nearly thirty Roman standards provided the proud focal point for the men, the badges of their achievements thus far. Spartacus wasn’t worried about losing the Roman emblems; he was grateful instead that there were few horsemen among them.

‘Come to make sure we’re leaving?’ shouted Castus.

‘I thought you’d decided to stay,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘It’s been a while since my men broke through the blockade.’

Castus’ lips twisted. ‘Our soldiers would have done it as easily as yours. Seeing as you wanted to take the glory — again — we didn’t see any point in arguing over it.’ He winked at Gannicus, who smirked.

Spartacus felt his anger swell. It had been a shrewd move by the Gauls. His troops had taken all the casualties while theirs had remained unscathed. He let out a slow breath. Just let them leave. ‘ Where will you go?’

‘Who knows?’ answered Gannicus with a shrug. ‘Wherever the pickings are richest.’

‘Wherever the best-looking women are to be found,’ added Castus.

A cheer from their men.

Animals. Spartacus didn’t probe further. Even if they knew, the Gauls wouldn’t tell him. ‘Watch your step. As the weaker group, Crassus will target you first.’

‘Screw you,’ roared Castus. ‘We have nearly thirteen thousand men here!’

It was a larger number than Spartacus had expected, but he was careful not to show his displeasure. ‘You’ve got about the same number of troops as in two and a half legions, but almost no horse. Sadly, Crassus has four times that number of men, and plenty of cavalry. In my mind, that’s not wonderful odds.’ He was gratified by the unhappy expressions that appeared on some of the faces opposite.

Castus’ mouth worked furiously, but Gannicus got in first. ‘We’re no fools, Spartacus. Crassus won’t find us easy to find, or to defeat.’

They glared at one another for a moment.

‘If you hadn’t proved to be so treacherous, I’d wish you well. As it is, I’ll be glad to see the back of you.’

‘The feeling is mutual,’ jeered Castus. ‘I’ll see you in Hades sometime.’

Before Spartacus could answer, Ariadne had swept forward, her snake prominent in her right hand. Castus paled. Although he was nowhere near, he moved back a pace.

‘Thus far, you have escaped paying for your crimes, Castus,’ said Ariadne loudly. ‘The gods deemed that it should be so. Do not think that you will enjoy their protection for ever.’

‘Crimes? Piss off, woman! Peddle your lies elsewhere!’ cried Castus, but his voice was a tone higher than normal.

‘I predict that you will have a violent end.’

‘Ha! Nothing wrong with that!’ roared Castus.

Some of his men shouted in agreement. Gannicus even laughed. ‘That’s what every warrior wants.’

‘It will be soon, however,’ intoned Ariadne. ‘In a matter of days. And it will come at the hands of the Romans.’

Gannicus scowled, but Castus’ confidence oozed out of him like piss out of a pricked bladder. ‘You’re lying!’

Ariadne raised her snake high. The gesture was met by a hushed, reverential Ahhhhh. ‘This is Dionysus’ sacred creature, and I am one of his priestesses! I do not lie about such things. Best hope that someone is left to bury your body, Castus! Otherwise your tormented soul will be cursed to wander the earth for ever.’

‘That kind of superstitious claptrap doesn’t scare me, you stupid bitch!’

Ariadne was delighted. Castus’ bluster couldn’t conceal the fact that he was severely rattled. Most of the men within earshot looked unhappy, including Gannicus.

‘Unless you want to head for Hades right now, watch your mouth, cocksucker,’ roared Spartacus. Sure that Castus wouldn’t take up his challenge, he took a few steps forwards.

‘Shit for brains! You’re outnumbered a hundred to one!’ snapped Castus.

‘That wouldn’t stop me killing you, and taking great pleasure as I did so,’ hissed Spartacus. Ariadne touched his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Just say the word and we can get down to it.’

Castus held Spartacus’ eye for a moment before his gaze dropped away. ‘Time to move,’ he growled.

Coward! thought Spartacus. You know I’d kill you. His risk-taking side wished that the Gaul had taken his challenge, but the rest of him knew it would have led to pointless bloodshed, and possibly his own death. A stupid way to die.

‘If you’ve stopped quarrelling,’ said Gannicus sourly, ‘are you ready?’

‘Yes, yes!’ Castus shouted a command to his officers and stalked off.

Gannicus didn’t immediately follow. He glanced at Spartacus and gave him a respectful nod, as if to say, ‘In other circumstances, things might have been different.’ Then he too walked away.

Spartacus’ shoulders relaxed a fraction. ‘May they kill thousands of legionaries, wherever they go. And may Crassus never catch them,’ he said quietly. He looked at Ariadne. ‘How many days will it be before he dies?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you said-’

‘I know what I said,’ she retorted. ‘That doesn’t mean I saw it. It’s true that he’ll die in a matter of days anyway. One day. A hundred days, a thousand, what does it matter? I didn’t state the number.’

‘Did the god really send you a message?’

She glared at him. Her anger at Castus had overflowed at last. Spartacus happened to be in the way. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to make men think that the gods have decided their path. As when you told the soldiers that you were marching to the Alps, and I said it was Dionysus’ will.’

‘You made that up?’

‘Of course I did. Don’t tell me that you didn’t have some inkling that I might have. Most likely you didn’t ask because it suited you to think that your mission had divine backing.’

He looked taken aback, and then angry. ‘And your interpretation of my dream with the snake? Did you invent that too?’

‘No,’ she said, sorry now that her temper had got the better of her. ‘I would never lie about something so serious.’

His eyes probed hers. Spartacus was relieved to see no sign of deceit. He probably would have acted in the same way, but thinking that his mission had divine approval had helped to fuel his convictions. He hoped that her falsehood hadn’t angered the gods. That possibility was one more thing he didn’t need weighing down on his shoulders.

A doubt nagged at him. ‘Have you seen ought about my future lately?’

An image of Egbeo on the cross flashed before Ariadne’s eyes. She’d had the nightmare enough times — thankfully, though, not in recent weeks — to place some store in it. Spartacus hadn’t been in it, but that didn’t mean he would be safe if the horror came to pass. Should she tell him? Her gut answered at once. No. It took all of Ariadne’s self-control to meet his gaze. ‘Sadly, not a thing,’ she lied.

His trusting grin relieved her. ‘Good. I’m not sure I want to know what the gods hold in store for me. Better to make my own way in life rather than always be looking over my shoulder to see what might happen.’

‘You do that anyway!’

A lopsided grin twisted his face. ‘I suppose I do. And you love me for it, don’t you?’ He pulled her to him, and she did not resist. He was right, she thought, relishing the feel of his body against hers. Despite his faults, she loved him. It was why she would stand by him, come what might.

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