Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter II

By the time darkness fell, Spartacus’ orders had been carried out. Using fallen wood, captured Roman wagons and unwanted equipment, a huge bonfire had been lit at the edge of the army’s encampment. Its flames climbed high into the night sky, radiating a massive heat that kept the chilly mountain air at bay. Scores of sheep and cattle seized from Gellius’ abandoned camp had been slaughtered and butchered. Javelins were being used as makeshift roasting forks to cook bloody hunks of meat over the fire. The necks had been smashed off amphorae, allowing easy access to the wine within. Everywhere men were drinking, laughing, toasting each other. Some danced drunkenly to tunes from drums, whistles and lyres. The sounds of the different instruments clashed in a jangling cacophony but no one cared. It was time to celebrate. They had lived through another battle, and defeated the second Roman consul, setting his army to flight. Spartacus’ soldiers felt like the conquering heroes of legend, and their leader was the greatest of them all. Spontaneous chants of ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ kept bursting out. Whenever he was seen, men offered him drinks, clapped him on the back, and swore to him their undying loyalty.

Carbo had heard the rumours too. He didn’t quite believe them. Filled with unease, he stood with Navio, a stocky man with high cheekbones and two different coloured eyes. It’s odd, thought Carbo, watching the thousands of former slaves. They’re my comrades, yet I’m standing with another Roman. Made up half a dozen races, the men were every size and shape under the sun. Hard-faced gladiators, wiry shepherds and sunburned herdsmen. Long-haired Gauls, burly Germans and tattooed Thracians. They were still carrying their weapons, bloodied from the battle against Gellius’ army. Clad in Roman mail shirts and breastplates, in simple tunics, or even bare-chested, they made a fearsome, threatening spectacle. ‘Is he really going to do it?’

‘Be sure of it.’

‘It’s barbaric.’

Navio threw him a shrewd look. ‘Brutal or not, this is justice to Spartacus and his men.’

‘Does he have to sacrifice so many?’

‘It’s common practice for dozens of gladiators to fight at a munus commemorating the death of one person. You know that. Tonight Spartacus is remembering thousands of his comrades. It’s no surprise that he picked this number of legionaries.’

‘Don’t you care?’ hissed Carbo, jerking his head at the four hundred prisoners who were roped together nearby. Scores of Spartacus’ men ringed them on three sides, drawn swords in their hands. The fourth side lay open towards the fire. There a pile of gladii had been stacked up. ‘They’re our people.’

‘Whom you fought today. Whom you killed.’

‘That was different. It was a battle. This-’

‘I hate everything that the Republic stands for, remember?’ Navio interrupted. ‘My father and younger brother died fighting men like those over there. As far as I’m concerned, they can all go to Hades.’

Carbo fell silent before his ire. Navio and his family had followed Quintus Sertorius, a Marian supporter. After Marius’ death, the Senate had proscribed Sertorius. Betrayed, Navio had fought with Sertorius against the Republic for several years, but eventually their fortunes in Iberia had ebbed. But, Carbo thought, it was one thing taking on your own kind in a battle, when it was kill or be killed. It was quite another making prisoners fight each other to the death. The idea revolted him. He resolved to say something to Spartacus.

It wasn’t long before their leader appeared, accompanied by Ariadne, Castus and Gannicus. Behind him walked soldiers carrying four silver eagles and a large number of cohort standards. There were even several sets of fasces, the ceremonial bundles of rods carried by magistrates’ bodyguards and the symbols of Roman justice. An enormous cheer went up as the Thracian strode to stand by the heap of weapons. Despite his anger, Carbo was filled with awe at the sight of his leader with the battle trophies.

Unsurprisingly, the prisoners’ terrified eyes also focused on Spartacus. They knew who he was, even if they didn’t recognise him. The Thracian was renowned and vilified throughout the Republic as a monster, a man without morals, who defied all societal norms. Here he was, a crop-haired figure in Roman armour, his muscular arms and sword blade covered in their comrades’ blood. Unremarkable in many ways. Yet everything about him, from his emotionless expression to his bunched fists, inspired fear, and threatened death.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ the slaves chanted.

Spartacus raised his arms in recognition of his men’s acclaim.

Castus threw Gannicus a sour look, which was reciprocated. No one noticed.

Ignoring Navio’s cry of ‘Wait!’, Carbo trotted over to Spartacus. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Now?’ Spartacus’ voice was harsh. Cold.

‘Yes.’

‘Make it quick.’

‘Is it true that these men but one are to die fighting each other?’

Spartacus’ gaze pinned him to the spot. ‘Yes.’

‘Damn right it is!’ said Gannicus.

‘You got a problem with that?’ growled Castus, fingering the hilt of his sword.

Carbo stayed where he was. ‘They deserve better than this.’

‘Do they? Why?’ Suddenly, Spartacus’ face was right in his. ‘It is how gladiators up and down the length of Italy die every day of the year, for the amusement of your citizens. Many, if not most of those men, have committed no crime.’ Spartacus was aware of the Gauls’ rumbling agreement here. ‘What we’re about to see is just a turning of the tables.’

It was hard to deny the logic, but Carbo still felt disgusted. ‘I-’

‘Enough,’ Spartacus barked and Carbo bent his head. To say any more would threaten his friendship with the Thracian, never mind risk an attack from either one of the Gauls. He watched unhappily as Spartacus raised his hands again and a silence fell.

‘I have not called you here to congratulate you for your actions in the battle against Gellius today. You all know how much I admire your courage and loyalty.’ Spartacus let his followers cheer before continuing: ‘We are here for a different reason. A sad reason. Word has reached us of the death of Crixus, and two-thirds of his men. They were lost in a bitter fight against Gellius at Mount Garganus, about a month ago.’

A great, gusty sigh went up from the watching soldiers.

They chose their own fate, thought Carbo. They went with Crixus, the whoreson.

‘As well as our own dead, we must honour Crixus and his fallen men. Ask the gods not to forget them, and to allow every last one entrance to Elysium. What better way of doing that than by celebrating our own munus?’ As an animal growl rose from his followers, Spartacus indicated the pile of gladii. ‘Each prisoner is to pick up a sword. Pair yourself off with another, and walk around the fire until you are told to stop. At my command, you will fight in pairs to the death. The survivors will face each other and so on, until only one man remains.’

The deafening cheers that met Spartacus’ orders drowned out the Romans’ shocked cries. A dozen men moved among them, cutting the ropes that bound them together. None of the prisoners moved a step. Spartacus jerked his head and the guards began jabbing the legionaries with their swords. More than one drew blood, which drew jeers and catcalls down on the captives’ heads. This was better than the former slaves could have dreamed of.

Still no Roman moved to pick up a gladius.

Carbo felt a perverse pride in what he saw. Not all of their courage is gone.

‘Arm yourselves!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘I shall count to three.’

An officer wearing the transverse-crested helmet of a centurion shoved his way to the front of the mob of prisoners. His silver hair, grizzled appearance and the multiple ornate decorations strapped to his chest revealed the length of his career — and his bravery. ‘And if we refuse?’

‘You will be crucified one by one.’ Spartacus raised his voice for all to hear. ‘Right here, for the others to see.’

‘Citizens cannot be-’ The centurion’s face purpled, and his voice tailed away as he realised that Spartacus’ alternative had been carefully picked. Their choice was an ignoble yet redeeming death by the sword, or the most degrading fate possible for a Roman. The centurion thought for a moment, and then stepped forward to pick up a gladius. Straightening, he glared at Spartacus. Perhaps ten paces and half a dozen armed men separated them.

The Thracian grinned and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sica. ‘Should you choose it, there is a third option. While I would end your life quickly, I can’t guarantee the same of my men.’

‘Give me half a chance and I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him,’ snarled Castus. ‘And that’s just to get me started.’

Other men shouted what they’d like to do to the centurion, and all of his comrades. Carbo tried to harden his heart to the prisoners’ suggested fates, but failed. These soldiers were his enemies, but they did not deserve to be forced to slay one another, let alone to be tortured to death. He could not say a word, however. Spartacus’ patience had been worn too thin.

Spartacus was still eyeballing the centurion. ‘Well?’

The officer’s head bowed, and he shuffled to one side.

‘Next,’ called Spartacus.

Intimidated even further by the cowing of the centurion, the legionaries began miserably filing forward to pick up a sword.

Spartacus offered up a plea to Dionysus and to the Great Rider. Let the blood of these Romans be a suitable offering to you both, O Great Ones. May it ensure that Crixus and his men have a swift passage to the warrior’s paradise. It was nothing less than the Gaul deserved. Despite his faults, Crixus had been a mighty warrior.

Ariadne did not relish the idea of what was about to happen, but it was impossible to deny the magnitude of this offer to the gods. Few deities would remain unmoved by such a gift. And if that helped her and Spartacus to leave Italy for ever, she was prepared to live with it.

Soon two hundred pairs of legionaries stood facing each other around the fire. Some, like the centurion, stood proudly with their shoulders thrown back, but the majority were pleading to their gods. Some were even weeping.

Awestruck by the role reversal, Spartacus’ soldiers had again fallen silent.

Spartacus gave a short eulogy about Crixus. They would remember him for his leadership, his plain speaking, and his bravery. His men would also be remembered for their valiant efforts. Huge cheers met his words. Next, he addressed the Romans.

‘You have been taught today on the field of battle that every man here is your equal, or better! Now you are to learn it in another way. All of you will have witnessed gladiators fighting and dying to commemorate the dead. You have probably never considered that those men were forced to act as they did. Tonight you have that chance, because we slaves will watch you do the same.’ Spartacus scanned the terrified faces near him, his gaze lingering on the centurion. ‘It is a honourable death to choose and far worthier than crucifixion. For that I salute you. May you die well!’ He raised his sica high and held it there for a heartbeat, before letting it drop. ‘Begin!’

As the prisoners prepared to set upon each other, a baying cry rose from the watching crowd. It was the same bloodthirsty sound Spartacus had heard when fighting in the arena. He wished that every man in the Senate was about to battle one another before him instead of four hundred legionaries.

Carbo did not want to watch the slaughter, but his position beside Spartacus meant that he had to. If he closed his eyes, he risked being accused of at best squeamishness, or at worst, cowardice. Despite his misgivings, he soon found himself engrossed. The clash of metal upon metal, the grunts of effort and inevitable cries of pain were mesmerising. Many of the legionaries chose to die quickly, letting their opponents thrust them through or hew their heads from their necks. Carbo wasn’t surprised. Why bother trying to win a fight when victory meant a second combat, and yet more after that? What took him by surprise was the level of ferocity with which some of the prisoners went at one another. Their desire to live was great enough for them to slay a comrade without hesitation. Covered in blood, they stood with heaving chests, waiting for the other fights to end.

Carbo noted that the centurion who had addressed Spartacus was one of the two hundred ‘winners’. Perhaps because of his kindly face, the senior officer reminded him of his father, Jovian. That thought tore at his heart. Carbo hadn’t seen his family for more than a year, since he’d run away from home. A home that had been repossessed by Crassus, the man to whom his father had owed a fortune. Soon after he’d left, Jovian and his mother had travelled to Rome, there to throw themselves on the mercy of a rich relative. Carbo’s pride had not let him accompany his parents. For all he knew, they could both be dead. As the centurion will be soon.

When the initial fights were over, Spartacus ordered his men to drag away the bodies of the losers. ‘Any men still breathing are to have their throats cut. Pile them in a heap over there. Meanwhile, the rest of you dogs can get on with it!’ A huge cheer met this announcement. Carbo felt sick. He was glad that Spartacus was ignoring him.

A short while later, five score more corpses lay sprawled amidst pools of blood. A hundred Romans remained, the centurion among them. Soon their number had been reduced to fifty, and after that twenty-five.

‘You fight well,’ Spartacus shouted at the centurion. ‘Stand aside while the remaining two dozen fight each other.’

Stony-faced, the officer did as he was told.

The twelve men who came through the fifth combat looked exhausted.

Six legionaries survived the next brutal set of clashes. They were so tired that they could barely hold up their gladii, but there was no time allowed to rest. ‘Keep fighting!’ shouted Spartacus. Anyone who faltered was threatened and shoved by the guards.

Spartacus ordered the centurion to take part again when there were a trio of legionaries remaining. Given that he’d had to fight three men fewer than his opponent, it wasn’t surprising that the experienced officer dispatched him with ease — nor that he won the final bout either. He stood with bowed head over the body of his last victim, his lips moving in silent prayer.

The raucous cheering that had accompanied the bloody combats died away. A strange quiet fell over the thousands of gathered men. Carbo felt his skin crawl. He glanced into the gathering darkness, almost expecting to see Charon, the ferryman, or even Hades himself, the god of the underworld, appearing to claim the great pile of dead legionaries.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Spartacus.

The centurion lifted eyes that were bleak with horror. ‘Gnaeus Servilius Caepio.’

‘You’re a veteran.’

‘Thirty years I’ve served. My first campaigns were with Marius, against the Teutones and the Cimbri. I don’t expect you know of them.’

‘Indeed I do. You look surprised, but I fought for Rome for many a year. I must have heard about every campaign since the Caudine Forks.’

Caepio’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s commonly said that you served in the legions. I dismissed it as rumour.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Rome is your enemy. Why did you do it?’

‘To learn your ways, so that I could defeat you. It seems so far that I was an apt pupil.’

His men roared with approval. Pride filled Ariadne.

Caepio glowered and muttered something.

‘What was that?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘I said that you haven’t yet faced the veteran legions from Asia Minor or Iberia. They’d soon sort you out.’

‘Is that so?’ Spartacus’ tone was silky. Deadly. The icy rage gripped him again, in part because the centurion’s words had an element of truth to them. Many of the soldiers whom they had faced had been newly recruited.

‘Damn right it is.’ Caepio spat on the ground. Spartacus’ troops jeered and he made an obscene gesture in their direction. Their response, a simmering cry of rage, shattered the silence. Dozens of men drew their weapons and moved towards him.

‘Hold!’ Spartacus barked. He stared at Caepio. ‘My soldiers would slay you.’

‘That’s no surprise! Scum do not honour their promises.’ Caepio threw down his sword and raised his hands in the air. ‘Let them do what they will. It matters not. I’m damned for what I have done here tonight.’

‘Maybe you are, and maybe you’re not. Before you die, however, I have a task for you. A message to take to your masters in the Senate.’

‘You want me to carry word of this so-called munus.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘I thought you would,’ sneered Castus.

‘Not because of your threats. I do not fear death,’ said Caepio, the pride returning to his voice. ‘I accept because it is my duty to tell Rome of the depths to which you savages have sunk. Of the barbarity which you forced me and my comrades to inflict on each other.’

A furious roar met his words.

‘We’re no savages!’ cried Gannicus. ‘What happened here is no different to the way you treat slaves.’

‘Slaves,’ Caepio repeated. ‘Not free men.’

‘Rome lives by double standards,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘During the war against Hannibal, when its need was great, it liberated enough slaves to raise two new legions. They were freed in return for fighting for the Republic. Those men proved that they were the equal of any citizen.’

‘I cannot deny what you say, but I also know how my people’s leaders will respond when they hear about this munus. This is not really about the rights and wrongs of who is made a slave and who is not, about who fights and who does not. It is about humiliating Rome, and that you have done, by defeating both consuls, by taking four silver eagles and, last of all, by putting on this display. Am I not right?’ Caepio met Spartacus’ stare and held it.

‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted, as his men howled with glee.

‘It will not be forgotten, I can promise you.’

Spartacus raised a hand, halting Castus, who looked as if he was about to attack Caepio. ‘Good. Because that was my intent! Tell them that Spartacus the Thracian and his men can fight as well as any of your legionaries, and by defeating the consular armies we have proved it twice.’ This time, Spartacus caught the sour look that Castus gave Gannicus. ‘Tell the Senate that I am not the only general here. These men, Gannicus and Castus’ — he indicated them — ‘played pivotal roles in the defeats of Lentulus and Gellius. Rome had best look to its security! The next army it sends our way will suffer an even greater defeat. More eagles will be lost.’ Spartacus was pleased to see broad grins spread across the Gauls’ faces. He had lied — neither of them were tacticians as he was — but thousands of men looked to them as leaders. He had to keep them on board.

‘I shall tell the Senate everything you said. Am I free to go?’

‘You are. Give him enough food to last him to Rome! He is to have no weapons,’ Spartacus ordered.

‘And the bodies of my comrades?’

‘You expect me to say that they will be left in the open air for the carrion birds to pick on, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘They died the deaths of brave men, so they will be buried with honour. You have my word on that. I cannot say the same of the soldiers who were slain on the field, however. Many of them were cowards.’

Caepio’s face hardened, but he did not argue. ‘I pray to the gods that this is not the last time we meet.’

‘I shall not be merciful the next time.’

‘Nor shall I.’

‘Then we understand each other.’ Spartacus watched Caepio walk away. Another brave man, he thought. He spoke the truth too. Rome would not let this humiliation go unanswered. It made sense, therefore, to cross the Alps and go beyond the legions’ reach. A sneaking doubt crept into his mind. What if the Senate sends armies after us? It is not as if they don’t know where Thrace is. He shoved the disquieting idea away. That will never happen. Deep in his guts, though, Spartacus knew that the possibility, even the likelihood, was there. Rome would not forgive, or as Caepio had said, forget, this many defeats.

Little did he know that Ariadne was thinking similar thoughts. When Hannibal Barca was forced to leave Carthage, he was pursued for the rest of his life by Roman agents. She clenched her fists. Stop it. Dionysus, let us escape Italy, I beg you. Watch over us always and keep us safe.

Carbo too was watching the centurion; then, almost before he’d realised what he’d done, he had set off after Caepio. Hearing his tread, the centurion spun around.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to stab you in the back.’

Caepio looked even more suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

Carbo suddenly felt embarrassed. This close, Caepio did not resemble his father in any way. ‘I–I just wanted to say that you’re a brave man.’

‘You’re Roman?’ Complete disbelief filled Caepio’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘What in the name of sacred Jupiter are you doing with this rabble? Have you no pride?’

‘Of course I have.’ Carbo was furious to feel his cheeks going red.

‘You make me sick.’ Caepio began to walk away.

‘Hey! I would not have made you fight each other that way.’

Caepio turned again. The contempt on his face was writ large. ‘Really? Yet you’ve chosen to ally yourself with a host of murdering, raping slaves. Scum who have ravaged towns and cities the length and breadth of Italy, who have massacred thousands of innocent citizens and brave legionaries. In my mind, that makes you a latro of the worst type.’ He hawked and spat at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s for being a traitor to your own kind.’

Anger flared in Carbo’s belly. ‘Piss off, before I gut you!’

Caepio didn’t bother replying. He stalked off, muttering insults.

So that’s how it is. There can be no going back now. Ever. Why did I even think it was possible? It had been naive to approach Caepio, but he had wanted to express his kinship with him. He had been unprepared for the level of the centurion’s scorn. Yet an odd feeling — was it satisfaction? — filled him. I am a latro after all. The slaves have become my family. And Spartacus is my leader. Despite the fact that he would never see his parents again, the emotion was oddly comforting.

Gannicus took a long pull from the small amphora. He smacked his thick lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s a good vintage, or I’m no judge.’

Castus lifted an arse cheek and let loose a thundering fart. ‘You’re no judge! It’s only entered your thick skull that it’s quality wine because we took it from Gellius’ tent.’ He ducked, chuckling, as the clay vessel flew at his head. It landed a few steps beyond his position by the fire. He leaned over and picked it up before its entire contents leaked out. ‘You know I’m right. Ten denarii says that you grew up on vinegar-flavoured, watered-down piss. Like me, like every farm slave that ever was. The best we could hope for every year was the dregs of the master’s mulsum at the Vinalia Rustica. How would we know what tastes good and what doesn’t?’

Gannicus cracked a sour smile by way of agreement; his moon face was less jovial that usual.

‘I couldn’t tell a Falernian from donkey piss most of the time, but if one thing’s certain, every bloody drop taken from the Romans tastes like nectar!’ Castus swigged from the amphora and tossed it back. ‘To be fair, that does have good flavour.’

Gannicus’ irritated expression eased. ‘I told you so.’

‘Look at us! We who were slaves, gladiators, the lowest of the low, living like kings!’ Castus’ wave incorporated the grand Roman tent that he’d insisted his men take from Gellius’ camp, and the glittering gilt standards that had been stabbed into the earth before it. ‘If that prick Gellius wasn’t so scrawny, I’d be wearing his armour too!’

Gannicus laughed. ‘It’s quite something to own the breastplate of a Roman consul, eh? Even if it doesn’t fit!’

‘I wish I’d taken it from his corpse,’ growled Castus. ‘Next time the dog won’t be so lucky.’

‘If he has the balls to come back for another bout.’

They sat and savoured the memories of their victory, which had come in no small part from their own personal bravery.

‘That was a fine spectacle that Spartacus put on earlier,’ said Castus in a grudging voice.

‘True. The men loved it.’

‘He’s got such a way with them, damn his eyes.’ Castus didn’t try to hide his jealousy. Gannicus knew how he felt about the Thracian. So too did the few warriors, Gauls all, who lounged nearby. ‘Time was that being courageous in battle and able to drink any other man under the table was good enough, eh?’

‘That and being able to hump a woman all night long,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘That’s why you and I have got to where we are. And we’ve done well! Thousands of men are loyal to each of us.’

‘Not nearly as many as are devoted to Spartacus,’ Castus retorted. ‘Did you see him fight today? He’s fearless, and skilled with it. The prick is a good general too. Tricking Lentulus into leading his army through the defile was a masterstroke. It’s no surprise that they fucking love him.’ His reddened face twisted with the bitterness of the man who knows he is lesser.

‘What I don’t like is the way he expects us to do what he wants. He used to ask our opinion. Now he just does whatever he pleases,’ said Gannicus, brooding.

‘That might be good enough for arselickers like Egbeo and Pulcher, but not for us. Gauls have pride!’

Resentment held them silent for a while. The logs in the fire crackled and spat as the resin within poured out. The noise of the celebrating soldiers rose into the starry night sky, where their challenge vanished into the immense silence.

‘I don’t know that you’re right,’ said Gannicus, tugging on his moustache.

‘Eh? About what?’

‘About how much the men love Spartacus. They adore him while he leads them to victory after victory, and when he lets them plunder farms and latifundia with abandon. But when they’re faced with crossing a huge range of mountains, out of Italy, I think that the majority of them will suddenly have a change of heart.’

‘They know that that’s where we’re heading. Spartacus told them at Thurii.’

‘There’s a big difference between “knowing” something and understanding it, Castus. All the men have had to think about since then is marching, raping, and pillaging whatever homestead they happen upon. Fighting the consular armies — and beating them — will have kept their minds off much else too. I’d wager that until recently, not one man in ten has given serious thought to leaving Italy. The grumbling that’s been going on is very real.’

Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’

‘That’s exactly what I think.’

‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’

‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’

In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’

‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.

‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’

‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’

Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’

‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’

‘Even better — that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’

‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’

They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.

A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’

‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity.’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’

‘Damn right I am!’

‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed — where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’

Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.

Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.

One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’ army had been camped near Thurii for some months. Rumours about how easy it was to join had been rife among the discontented farm slaves. In the dark of an autumn night, Marcion had stolen away into the hills. It had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.

Marcion had completed his initial training long since. He had fought in the battles against Lentulus and Gellius, which made him a veteran. In the eyes of the original gladiators who had escaped from the ludus with Spartacus, however, or the men who had fought in the initial battles against the likes of Publius Varinius at Thurii, Marcion and his comrades were nothing but wet-behind-the-ears rookies. He’d grown sick of their jibes, which filled his ears any time their hard-nosed centurion made them train. The old-timers liked nothing better than to stand by and make sarcastic comments. Marching was hard on Marcion’s legs, but at least he was surrounded by his own, more recently recruited cohort. Zeuxis’ grumbling started up again from the rank in front, reminding him that it wasn’t all roses here either. The bald-headed man was older than him, and had joined a week before Marcion had. Zeuxis had the loudest voice in their contubernium, which he thought gave him the right to dictate to everyone. Mostly, the other soldiers in the eight-man tent group let him get on with it. Marcion found that hard.

‘We do nothing but fucking march!’

‘Shut it,’ said Gaius, a broad-shouldered man who lived to fight. He was marching beside Marcion. ‘Try not to think about it. You’ll get there sooner that way.’

Zeuxis ignored him. ‘How many hundred miles is it from Thurii?’

‘I heard it was close to four,’ said Arphocras, Marcion’s favourite member of the contubernium.

‘Is that all? It feels as if we’re halfway to Hades.’

Arphocras winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, Zeuxis, it’s not much further to the Alps.’

‘The Alps! How hard will it be to cross them?’

‘It will be summer by the time we get there. The journey won’t be any different to what we’ve experienced in the Apennines,’ said Marcion, repeating what he’d overheard his centurion saying.

‘As if you’d know, Greek boy,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘You’re like the rest of us. Never set foot outside Bruttium until Spartacus led us away from there.’

The others laughed, and Marcion flushed with anger. ‘That’s according to Spartacus, not me!’

‘Been talking to him recently, have you?’

More laughter. Marcion buttoned his lip. He would try to get Zeuxis back later.

‘Spartacus — the great man. Huh! If we’re lucky, he might ride by our position every day or two, but that’s it,’ complained Zeuxis. ‘The rest of the time, we’re stuck in the column, without a damn clue about what’s going on. Just following the men in front like shitting ants. No wonder it takes three hours for us even to leave the camp each morning — which means we’re always the last damn soldiers to reach the new one every day.’ Encouraged by the others’ nods and mutters, he went on, ‘Getting our grain ration takes an age, never mind about the wine. And as for spare equipment-’

Marcion gave up his intention of keeping silent. Everything Zeuxis said was true, but it was part of life when one served in such a vast army. They could no more change it than force the sun to rise in the west and set in the east. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’

‘I’ll talk if I want to. Men are interested in what I’ve got to say,’ retorted Zeuxis over his shoulder.

‘No, they’re not. They just can’t compete with your bloody monotone.’

Hoots of laughter rang out, and Zeuxis scowled. He swung around, nearly braining Gaius with the pole carrying his gear. ‘You cheeky bastard!’

Gaius gave him an almighty shove back into his rank. ‘Why don’t you do as Marcion asked, eh? Give us all a break. Enjoy the scenery. Look up the blue sky. Sing us a song, even. Anything but more of your grumbling!’

Marcion grinned as everyone within earshot loudly agreed.

Frowning, Zeuxis subsided.

‘Thanks,’ muttered Marcion to Gaius.

‘S’all right. It won’t keep him quiet for long.’

‘Nothing ever does,’ said Marcion, rolling his eyes. ‘Better just enjoy the moment.’

Taking a deep breath, Gaius began to sing.

Recognising the bawdy tune, Marcion and the rest joined in with gusto.

The miles went by far faster when thinking about wine, women and song.

Ten days later…

Rome

Marcus Licinius Crassus was tired and hungry. Seeing his house in the distance, he sighed with relief. Soon he’d be home. He had spent a long day in the Senate, listening to, and taking part in, the most interminable debate about building new sewers on the Aventine Hill. The fools spout enough shit as it is without literally having to talk about it, he thought, smiling at his own joke. It was incredible. Despite the recent defeat of both consuls by the renegade Spartacus, the sewerage needs of the plebs were being addressed as a matter of urgency.

Yet there was no doubt in Crassus’ mind which was the more pressing matter. Spartacus. The man and his slave rabble had become a festering sore in the Republic’s side. Lentulus, the first consul to be disgraced, had presented himself to the senators some weeks before. His attempt to explain his actions had not gone down well, but after a severe reprimand he had been left in command of what remained of his army. Gellius, his colleague, had appeared in the capital just a few days prior. Like Lentulus, he was a self-made man, and lacked the support of a major faction in the Senate. Like Lentulus, he had suffered considerable casualties at Spartacus’ hands; he had also lost both his legions’ eagles. What had brought the senators’ opprobrium raining down on him, however, had not been these factors. It had been the presence of Caepio, the only surviving witness to the humiliation and killing of four hundred Roman prisoners.

Crassus’ lips pinched at the memory of Caepio’s testimony. Few men in the Republic could demand more respect than he, a centurion with thirty years of loyal service under his gilded belt. Everyone in the Curia had been riveted as he’d spoken. The wave of sheer outrage that had swept through the hallowed building when he’d finished had been greater than any Crassus had ever seen. He had been no less affected. The idea of slaves holding a munus, forcing Roman legionaries — citizens — to fight to the death was outrageous. Unforgivable. Vengeance had to be obtained, and fast. Crassus’ fury and frustration mounted even further. At that moment, revenge seemed unlikely. If the rumours were to be believed, Spartacus was leading his men north, to the Alps. Only Gaius Cassius Longinus, the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, who commanded two legions, stood in his way, and it was hard to see how he would succeed where his superiors had failed. If Longinus were defeated, they would discover if Spartacus really was thinking the unthinkable: would he leave Italy?

Even if Lentulus or Gellius were granted the opportunity of fighting Spartacus again, Crassus didn’t think that either consul was capable of crushing the slave army. Both of them, especially Gellius, had seemed cowed by the senators’ furious reaction. That was just three hundred angry politicians — not fifty thousand armed slaves. Although the pair had now joined forces, in Crassus’ mind they lacked the initiative — and the balls — to bring the insurrection to a swift and successful conclusion. He had brought some of his fellow senators around to his point of view that change was needed. Getting them to agree to anything further was another matter, however. The traditions surrounding high office that had evolved over half a millennium were set in stone. For the twelve months of their office, the two consuls were the most senior magistrates in the Republic, and its effective rulers. Understandably, their positions were revered. To unseat them or to force them to allow another to lead their armies during their tenure was unheard of. Undeterred, Crassus had mooted such ideas twice now. On both occasions, his suggestions had been shouted down.

Fools. They will come to regret their decision. Longinus will fail. If they are sent after him, Lentulus and Gellius will fail. Crassus knew it in his bones. Of all the politicians in Rome, he alone had met Spartacus, and gauged his mettle. He had encountered the Thracian gladiator by chance, on a visit to Capua a year before. Crassus had paid for a mortal combat in the ludus there. Despite being wounded early on, Spartacus had overcome his skilled opponent. Intrigued by the Thracian, Crassus had struck up a conversation with him afterwards. At the time, he’d taken Spartacus’ confident manner as pure arrogance. Since then, in the aftermath of repeated Roman defeats, he had realised his mistake. The man wasn’t just a brave and skilful fighter. He possessed charisma, ability and generalship in plenty. Not since Hannibal has anyone posed such a real threat to the Republic, Crassus brooded. And the two fools who are supposed to bring him to heel are Lentulus and Gellius, whose best plan is hunt Spartacus down and confront him in battle once more. Why am I the only one to see that they’ll be unsuccessful?

I have to do something.

And he knew exactly what. It might take months, but he would win the Senate around. Scores of politicians owed him favours, money or both. He just needed some more influential allies. With their support, he could achieve a majority in the Senate. The consuls would be forced to relinquish command of their legions to someone else. To me, he thought happily. I, Crassus, will lead the legions in pursuit of Spartacus, wherever he may be. I will save the Republic. How the plebs will love me!

His litter creaked to a halt and his slaves set it down gently. Crassus waited as one of them hammered on the front door, demanding entry for their master. Rather than the hulking doorman he expected, the portal was opened by Saenius, his effeminate major domo. Alighting, Crassus lifted his eyebrows. ‘You’re back. I hadn’t expected you so soon.’

‘My business in the south took less time than I thought.’ Saenius stepped on to the street, deferentially ushering his master inside.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crassus was careful to place his right foot over the threshold first. His belly grumbled as the smell of frying garlic reached his nostrils from the kitchen. He could eat later, however. Weeks before, he had sent Saenius on a mission. ‘Tell me what you discovered.’

Saenius looked up and down the corridor. Two household slaves were approaching.

Crassus had no wish for anyone else to hear either. ‘Later.’

Saenius relaxed. ‘I am not the only surprise for you today. You have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘The Pontifex Maximus.’

Crassus blinked in surprise. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar?’

‘The same.’

‘What in the name of all the gods does the “Queen of Bithynia” want with me?’

‘He wouldn’t say.’ Saenius snickered. Everyone in Rome knew the rumours. Since Caesar’s sojourn a few years before at the court of Nicomedes, the elderly ruler of Bithynia, he had been dogged by the rumour that he had been intimate with his host. ‘He’s not dressed in fine purple robes. Nor is he reclining on a golden couch as he waits for you.’

The image made Crassus smile. ‘Caesar might have done that for Nicomedes, but I think he knows better than to try it on with me.’

Caesar was the highest-ranking priest in Rome. While his post had real importance, membership of the priesthood was also a stepping-stone for those young nobles with a promising career in politics. Caesar was already one of the rising stars on that scene. This won’t just be a social visit, that’s for sure.

They entered the atrium, the grand, airy room that led off the entrance hall. Beautifully painted scenes decorated the stucco walls: the exposure of the infants Romulus and Remus on the banks of the River Tiber, the consecration of Rhea Silvia as Vestal Virgin and the founding of the ancient city of Alba Longa. The death masks of Crassus’ ancestors adorned the rear wall, which also contained the lararium, an alcove set aside as a shrine to the household gods. Crassus bent his head in respect as he passed.

‘Where is he then?’

‘Don’t you wish to change, or to eat something first?’

‘Come now, Saenius,’ chuckled Crassus. ‘I ought to see him at once.’ He brushed a speck of imaginary dirt from the front of his own still immaculate toga. ‘Caesar may be a dandy, but my appearance will suffice.’

‘Of course. He’s waiting in the reception room off the courtyard.’

It was his most imposing office, decorated only the week before. It could not fail to impress. Pleased by Saenius’ shrewdness, Crassus followed his major domo through the tablinum, the large chamber that led on to the colonnaded garden beyond. Staying under the portico, they skirted the rows of vines and lemon trees, and the carefully placed colourful Greek statues. Saenius tapped on the open door of the first room they reached. ‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

Crassus glided past, smiling a welcome at the clean-shaven, thin man seated within. ‘Pontifex! I am honoured by your presence.’ He made a shallow obeisance, enough to show respect, but not enough to indicate any real inferiority.

‘Crassus,’ said Caesar, standing and returning the bow. As ever, his well-cut dark red robe had barely a crease. ‘How wonderful to see you.’

Crassus hid his delight at the deference just shown him. Family connections might have won Caesar the position of Pontifex, but there was still no need for him to rise for Crassus. The fact that he had done so showed that he recognised Crassus’ importance. It wasn’t that surprising. I am, after all, richer, more powerful and better connected. What Crassus did not like to admit was that he possessed little of Caesar’s elan.

Few other men — apart from Pompey — could win the love of the public as Caesar had. Winning a corona civica, Rome’s highest award for bravery, at nineteen. Choosing to become an advocate in the courts and robustly prosecuting Dolabella, a former consul, at twenty-three. Gaining notoriety as a lover of numerous men’s wives. However, the plebs’ favourite story about Caesar — if Crassus had heard it being told on a street corner once, he’d heard it a hundred times — involved his capture by pirates and imprisonment on the island of Pharmacussa off the coast of Asia Minor. Crassus hated the tale. Not only had Caesar laughed at the pirates’ ransom demand of twenty talents of silver, telling them that they should ask instead for fifty, but he had repeatedly told them that when he was freed, he would crucify them all. Some weeks later, when the larger amount had been paid, Caesar had indeed been released. Despite the fact that he was a civilian, he had persuaded the provincials who had paid his ransom to give him the command of several warships. True to his word, he had captured the pirates and, soon afterwards, crucified every single one of them. This display of Roman virtus, or manliness, had given Caesar an enduring appeal with the Roman public. Crassus longed for such recognition. He smiled at his guest. Prick. ‘Some wine?’

‘Thank you, that would be welcome.’

‘My throat’s dry too.’ Crassus glanced at Saenius, but the Latin was already on his way out of the door.

‘A long day in the Senate?’

‘Yes. Hours of talking about shit.’

Caesar’s eyebrows arched.

‘New sewers are planned for the Aventine Hill.’

‘I see. It sounds a reasonable suggestion.’

‘So you’d think. It’s never that easy in the Senate, though, is it? But you didn’t come here to talk about sanitation.’

‘No.’ Caesar paused as Saenius returned with a flask of wine.

‘You may speak freely. My major domo has been with me for more than twenty years. I trust him as I do my own son.’

‘Very well,’ said Caesar with obvious reluctance. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, the costs of living in the capital, of maintaining appearances when in high office, can be prohibitive.’

I knew it, Crassus gloated silently. He’s here for a loan. Aren’t they all? ‘They can be. Public entertainment of any kind can be expensive.’

‘A number of my friends have mentioned that you can be most accommodating when it comes to securing more… funds.’

‘I have been known to lend money on occasion.’ Crassus paused, savouring his power. ‘Is that why you are here?’

Caesar hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘In a word, yes.’

‘I see.’ Crassus rolled some wine around his mouth, enjoying the taste, and the awkward expression on Caesar’s face. ‘How much money do you need?’

‘Three million denarii.’

Saenius let out a tiny gasp, which he quickly converted to a cough.

The pup has balls, thought Crassus. No mincing around when it comes to it. ‘That’s quite a sum.’

Caesar’s shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. ‘I want to hold a munus in the next few months. That alone will cost me five hundred thousand at least. Then there are the costs of running a household-’

‘You don’t have to justify your spending to me. How precisely would you pay me back?’

‘From the booty I will take on campaign.’

‘Campaign?’ asked Crassus, frowning. ‘Where? Pontus?’

‘Perhaps. Or somewhere else,’ replied Caesar with his typical confidence.

Crassus thought for a moment. Rome was perennially at war. Caesar could be sure of finding a conflict to fight in if he wished, but there was no guarantee that he would return with such huge wealth. That’s not why I lend men money, though, is it? It’s to have them in my power. So that when I need a favour, I know that I will receive it. He smiled. Caesar was already popular with many senators. Having him as a debtor would be advantageous. ‘Fine.’

Caesar’s composure slipped, reducing him to the young man he really was. ‘You’ll lend it to me?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Of course,’ said Crassus in an expansive tone. ‘As you may have heard, my interest rate is reasonable. Five denarii in every hundred, charged yearly. Saenius can have my scribe draw up the paperwork at once. The parchment guaranteeing you the money will be delivered to your house in the morning.’

‘Thank you.’ Caesar grinned. ‘I will offer a bull to Jupiter in gratitude later.’

‘There is one small condition.’

‘I see.’

‘Will you agree to it?’

‘Do I have to?’

‘If you want the money, yes.’

Caesar’s smile slipped a little. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to kill my mother, I imagine that I will be able to help.’

Crassus hid his delight. He’s swallowed the hook! ‘You’ve probably been aware in recent days of my impatience with our consuls, Lentulus and Gellius.’

‘Yes,’ replied Caesar cagily.

‘I say impatient? That’s being kind. To put it simply, Lentulus is a fool. He walked into an ambush that a blind man would have seen. Marching his army into a narrow defile without checking the heights first? I ask you!’

Caesar rubbed his long, aquiline nose, wondering whether to mention the fact that the ‘all clear’ signal had apparently been given. In retrospect, it was clear Lentulus’ scouts must have been killed, allowing one of Spartacus’ men to give the signal that lulled the consul into a false sense of security. He decided not to mention it. ‘A rash decision.’

‘And Gellius? He’s nothing but an old man who thought that winning a battle against a disorganised mob of slaves led by a savage would guarantee him a victory over Spartacus.’

‘Strong words.’

‘Maybe so, but they’re true.’ Crassus stuck out his jaw belligerently.

‘Thus far I have not said so in public, but I agree with you,’ admitted Caesar.

Encouraged, Crassus continued: ‘The praetors who went before the consuls were no better. Glaber, Varinius and Cossinius were supposed to be high-ranking magistrates. Pah! The legate Furius was another idiot!’

‘You could have done better yourself.’

Crassus paused, eyeing Caesar with suspicion. ‘Eh?’

‘As the man whose victory in a desperate battle at the Colline Gate won the day for Sulla, you would have undoubtedly cleared up the whole affair by now.’

‘With the gods’ help, perhaps,’ said Crassus modestly. He wasn’t going to admit that such thoughts had occupied his every waking moment. In reality, however, things were not quite so black and white. The mistake made by Glaber of not having enough sentries could have happened to anyone. Who in their right mind could have imagined that seventy-odd gladiators would make a bold night-time attack on three thousand men? If Furius’ account of what had happened to him was to be believed, he too had been cleverly ambushed. So had Cossinius, caught naked as he bathed in a swimming pool. It was Varinius alone who had made repeated poor judgements, the last of which had culminated in his complete defeat by Spartacus at the city of Thurii. Crassus remembered how upon Varinius’ return to Rome, the disgraced praetor had pleaded with him to help. Naturally, he had refused. Varinius had brought his destruction upon his own head, he thought harshly. To have allied himself with such an abject failure would have been tantamount to political suicide. He’d been decent enough to Varinius — hadn’t he offered to lend the praetor’s family money at lower than normal rates after Varinius was dead? ‘But I was not chosen by the Senate,’ he added.

‘You did not put yourself forward as a candidate.’

‘Why would I ask to lead soldiers against a raggle-taggle of runaway gladiators?’ Crassus couldn’t keep his irritation from showing. ‘Besides, Glaber would suffer the job to no other.’

‘That’s true,’ replied Caesar mildly. ‘But now it has become something far more. We’re talking about a full-scale rebellion.’

‘Indeed we are! And the two consuls have failed us. Failed the Republic. Can you imagine what they are saying about Rome in Pontus? In Iberia? We must be the laughing stock of the Mediterranean. An army of slaves marches up and down Italy, thrashing every force of troops sent against it? It’s an absolute scandal! Now we are depending on the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, to succeed where no one else has been able to. With but two legions, I do not envy Gaius Cassius Longinus. It’s an insurmountable task.’

‘Quite so.’

‘I therefore intend to gain the support of the majority of the senators in the Curia. When I have done that, I will force the consuls to resign or, more likely, to surrender the command of their legions to me.’

Despite the magnitude of what he was hearing, Caesar’s eyebrows rose only a fraction. ‘Pompey Magnus will not be pleased if you do that.’ A thin smile traced his lips. ‘But that’s a good thing. He loves power too much as it is.’

‘The windbag has his hands full in Iberia anyway. He might have defeated Perperna, but there are plenty of tribes who still fancy a fight with Rome.’

‘As always. Assuming that you succeed, what will you do next?’

‘I will raise more legions in addition to the four consular ones, before taking the war to Spartacus. Aggressively. If he is still in Italy, so much the better. If he has left it, I will pursue him by land or by sea. I will not rest until he and his rabble have been trampled into the mud, and the stain on the Republic’s honour has been washed away for ever.’ Crassus fixed his eyes on Caesar. ‘Will you join me?’

Caesar did not answer immediately, which angered Crassus. ‘If you do not, there can be no question of lending you the money,’ he reiterated curtly.

‘I would be honoured to help.’

‘Excellent. Saenius, tell the scribe to draw up the usual credit agreement. For three million denarii.’ Crassus poured more wine for them himself. ‘To a long-lasting friendship.’

Caesar echoed the toast, and they both drank.

‘I have another request to make,’ said Caesar a moment later.

What else can he want? ‘Really?’

‘When you are in charge of the legions, I would very much like to be one of your tribunes.’

Crassus’ ego swelled. ‘It would be a good opportunity for you to gain military experience.’

‘Will you have me?’

‘Any man who has won the corona civica would be welcome on my staff.’ Crassus raised his glass in salute.

A more companionable silence fell. Outside in the courtyard, the scratch of the scribe’s stylus mixed with the sound of Saenius’ voice dictating the terms of the loan.

Crassus reflected on the day’s end with some satisfaction. He had barely come up with his plan to gain control of the legions in Italy when Caesar had fallen into his lap. In gaining the Pontifex’s support, he had also recruited a valuable staff officer. And he hadn’t even heard Saenius’ news yet.