The Gladiator

Chapter XX

The Apennine Mountains, north-east of Pisae, spring 72 BC

Typically, it was Atheas who sensed that there was something wrong. Raising a hand, he stopped. Used to their routine, Carbo came to a halt. He was some twenty steps behind the bearded Scythian on a narrow game track that led northwards through the foothills of the Apennines, the mountains that formed Italy’s spine. Since the army had left the ruined city of Thurii behind them, they had followed similar paths. Carbo had soon grown bored of the drudgery and repetitive routine of marching day after day. Dark thoughts about Crixus, and the fact that he had not tried to kill him, had also dogged his every step. Desperate to shake the gloom that had coated him, Carbo had begged Spartacus to let him join one of the scouts on their solitary missions.

‘Why are you wanting to do that?’ the Thracian had asked.

‘To learn a new skill,’ Carbo had answered evasively. And so I can track down Crixus one day. It might have been pure fantasy, but he still longed to kill the big Gaul. In his tortured mind, for him to have any peace, Chloris had to be avenged.

‘There are no better trackers than Atheas and Taxacis,’ Spartacus had said. ‘But they won’t be interested in letting you tag along.’ Seeing the anger in Carbo’s eyes, he’d relented. ‘I’ll ask for you.’

To Carbo’s surprise, Atheas had agreed. Whether it was because Spartacus had insisted, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. Naturally enough, he had been very wary the first time the Scythian had led him from the camp. Since the time of the confrontation over Navio, their relationship had been one of extreme suspicion. Although Atheas had killed Lugurix, Carbo still feared his blade, and it seemed that despite all that Carbo had done for Spartacus, the Scythian distrusted him. Unsurprisingly, their relationship had got off to a difficult start.

Wanting to make as good a fist of his opportunity as possible, Carbo had aped Atheas’ every move and obeyed his orders without question. He was given no recognition for this; indeed Atheas had run him ragged, often covering upwards of twenty-five miles a day. The Scythian ate and drank sparingly, making Carbo wonder where he got his incredible stamina from. Biting his lip, he’d learned to get by on similarly small quantities of food and water. They lived in virtual silence, only talking when absolutely necessary.

Time passed, and Carbo became skilful at lighting campfires and gutting game. He could even bring down a deer with an arrow more times than he missed. To his surprise, he also gained some proficiency at the difficult art of tracking. Carbo wasn’t sure how or why, but he had eventually won Atheas’ approval. A nod here, a proffered piece of meat there, were the little indications he’d had, but those gestures had meant the world to him. Atheas’ tiny smile when Carbo had thanked him for killing Lugurix had meant even more. Fortunately, the hard scouting life had also lessened his grief over Chloris. Now it was just a dull ache, rather than the stabbing pain it had been before.

‘Pssst!’

He blinked and came back to reality.

Atheas was beckoning him closer.

Sliding his feet over the ground as he’d been taught, Carbo advanced until he was at the Scythian’s shoulder.

Atheas pointed through a gap in the trees that lined the side of the track. Carbo peered between the leaves, down the steep slope that led to the bottom of the wooded valley, which ran in a north-south direction. At its floor was a small road, which led to Mutina, some twenty miles away. It was the flash of sunlight on metal that caught his eye. Adrenalin pumped through Carbo’s veins as he focused in on a large group of horsemen in bronze helmets, barely visible through the forest canopy. ‘Cavalry,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ hissed Atheas. ‘They… looking for us.’

Since word had come a month before that G. Cornelius Lentulus Clodianus, one of the consuls, was pursuing them with his two legions, Carbo had been expecting this moment. That didn’t stop a tide of bile washing up his throat. He’d hoped against hope that Spartacus would lead them straight to the Alps without encountering another Roman army. Of course that had been nothing but a foolish dream, he thought. The horsemen’s presence was proof that Lentulus’ legionaries must have caught up with and overtaken them. It wouldn’t have been hard. The progress of the fifty thousand slaves had been painfully slow. ‘What do we do?’

‘Can’t… fight.’ Atheas glanced at Carbo with an evil grin. ‘Unless… you want… die still?’

He hadn’t hidden his misery that well then. Carbo grimaced. ‘No. It would be a complete waste. Spartacus needs to hear about this.’

‘He does. But first… we head north. Search for… main force.’

‘There could be enemy scouts on these paths.’

‘Yes. We must be… ghosts. Or we end up…’ Making a low, guttural sound, Atheas drew a finger across his throat.

Carbo’s eyes flashed in the direction of their camp.

Atheas pounced on his reaction. ‘You want… go back? Tell Spartacus about… cavalry?’

‘No.’ They’d seen nothing for weeks. He wasn’t going to miss out on this.

‘Sure?’ Atheas’ voice had gone hard.

‘Yes,’ replied Carbo firmly.

A curt nod. The Scythian unslung his bow from his back. Bending his knee, he slipped the gut string into place. Carbo copied him at once. When he’d nocked an arrow to his own string, he looked up. ‘Follow me,’ whispered Atheas. ‘We go quick.’

Then they were off, trotting down the path, passing through the strips of sunlight like two dancing shadows. The game path looped and twisted its way along the side of the valley for some four or five miles, and they followed its undulations as fast as was humanly possible. The pair travelled in silence, maintaining a keen eye out for enemy scouts. Through great fortune, they did not come across anything for upwards of an hour. When they finally did, it was not another human, but a wild boar. Startled by their rapid approach, the creature squealed and fled in the opposite direction, its tail raised high with indignation.

Carbo smiled at its reaction, but Atheas frowned and came to a halt. ‘We move slow now.’

Carbo’s lips began to frame the word ‘Why?’ when he realised. ‘If someone is on the track, they’ll wonder what scared the pig?’

‘Yes.’ Atheas pulled back his bow to half-draw and jabbed the arrow tip around him. ‘Look everywhere. If you see something… don’t ask. Just loose.’

‘All right.’ Suddenly, Carbo’s mouth was as dry as tinder. He wasn’t going anywhere, though, except forward. Spartacus had placed his trust in him, and he could not betray that.

They crept along the path, around a bend and then another, without seeing a thing. Atheas paused, and Carbo readied himself to let fly. But the Scythian indicated a freshly trampled way off into the scrubby vegetation that lined the forest floor. ‘Boar went… this way. Good.’

Carbo nodded.

A few moments later, Atheas suddenly stopped dead again. Before them, the track burst out of the cover of the trees, on to a huge area filled with blackened stumps and charred branches. This in itself was not unusual. Fires commonly swept through the forests in summertime. The aftermath scarred the landscape for years, until the vegetation grew back and concealed the evidence. They moved carefully to the edge of the living trees. It wasn’t the vista provided by the gaping hole in the forest that set Carbo’s heart thumping in his chest, but what he could see because of it.

The valley broadened at this, its northern end, revealing an area of flatter farmland that spilled down towards Mutina. The road here was wider, and it was filled as far as the eye could see. With legionaries — thousands of them, marching in line like so many ants. Here and there in the column, Carbo could also see groups of horsemen.

‘The consular army. It can’t be anything else.’ There was a sickening feeling in Carbo’s gut. ‘They outflanked us.’

‘How many men?’ Atheas’ gaze was flickering to and fro like a that of a hawk on its prey.

‘Ten thousand legionaries. Six hundred cavalry, maybe more.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Each consul commands two legions. That force isn’t big enough for Gellius, the second consul, to be here as well.’ A black mood took Carbo. ‘He’s probably on our arse.’

Atheas threw him a rebuking look. ‘Taxacis seen… nothing. With gods’ help… other whoreson… hunting Crixus.’

‘Let it be so,’ breathed Carbo. May Gellius find him and shred the bastard into little pieces. What of the rest? his conscience screamed. Fuck them, his rage shouted back. Their fate is their own. They followed Crixus, not Spartacus.

Atheas touched Carbo’s arm, bringing him back to the present. ‘No need… see more. We go back. Fast.’ With that, he’d pushed past and was off down the track as if Cerberus were after him.

Carbo followed, a surge of adrenalin giving him extra speed. The sooner Spartacus knew about this, the better. What will he do? Carbo wasn’t sure. One thing was for certain, though. They couldn’t march around Lentulus and escape. The legions were capable of covering up to twenty miles a day. A battle was inevitable now, and when it came, it would put all their previous clashes in the shade.

Carbo felt traitorous for again asking Jupiter to support Spartacus against his own kind, but he did so anyway. Even with their superiority in numbers, they would need all the help they could get. Facing a full-strength consular army was a very different proposition to every other force they’d come up against. Despite the fact that the troops were only newly raised, this would be Rome close to its deadliest.

Carbo felt uneasy at the mere idea of it. Have faith in Spartacus, he told himself. He’ll have a plan. What, though? Most of our men won’t stand up to a line of armoured soldiers two legions wide. They will turn and run. Gritting his teeth, Carbo concentrated on keeping up with Atheas.

But the horror of what could easily happen kept flashing into his mind.

By the time they reached the rebel camp, which sprawled over several large clearings in the forest, the sun was falling in the sky. When they were spotted, questions flew at the pair thick and fast. Atheas pretended not to understand. Carbo just ducked his head and kept walking. There was no way he was saying a word to anyone but Spartacus. News like this could cause panic.

They found their leader sitting with Ariadne and Taxacis by a small fire in front of his tent. An iron tripod suspended a pot over the flames, and a delicious smell laced the air. Carbo’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten since the morning. Forget about it. There’ll be time for food later.

Spartacus smiled as he saw them approach. ‘Perfect timing. The stew is ready.’

‘We bring… urgent news,’ Atheas began.

‘It can wait, surely?’

‘I-’ protested Carbo.

‘When was the last time you ate?’ interjected Spartacus.

‘Dawn,’ admitted Carbo.

‘Then your stomach must be clapped to your backbone,’ said Ariadne. ‘Come. Sit.’ She produced a blanket.

Shrugging, Atheas sat down opposite Spartacus. Still worried, but silenced by Spartacus’ insistence, Carbo joined him. Spoons, bowls of steaming stew and lumps of flat bread were handed out, and a silence fell that was broken only by the sound of chewing and appreciative grunts.

Ariadne watched Carbo and Atheas with a keen eye and tried hard not to let her worries consume her. It’s got to be bad news. Why else would Carbo have a face like thunder? Atheas was harder to read, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. Ariadne wanted to shake Spartacus and tell him to ask them what they’d seen, but she held back, instead smiling and offering more stew. He’ll have his reasons.

When Carbo and Atheas were finished, Spartacus lifted a small amphora that had been lying by his side. ‘Some wine?’

‘Yes,’ Atheas growled happily.

Carbo nodded. He was burning to reveal their news, but he had to wait until Spartacus ordered them to speak. He swilled the wine around his mouth, enjoying it despite himself.

‘So it’s true! They’re back,’ cried Gannicus, closing in on the fire. Castus was two steps behind him. Both men’s faces were set with worry. ‘What news?’ He threw the question at Spartacus, not Carbo or Atheas.

‘I don’t know yet,’ came the reply.

‘Eh?’ barked Castus. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Look at them. They’re filthy. Tired. They haven’t eaten for twelve hours or more. I fed them first. Looking after my men comes before anything else.’

Respect and a little awe flared in both Gauls’ eyes. ‘Of course,’ muttered Castus.

Ariadne nearly laughed out loud at the beauty, and simplicity, of it. Spartacus had known all along that the other leaders would hear of the scouts’ return, and come hurrying to hear what they’d seen. No doubt he wanted to know just as much as they did, but waiting was real proof that he was cool under pressure. That he was not frightened of what was to come. She glanced at Carbo, seeing he had come to the same realisation.

Spartacus carefully poured wine for Castus and Gannicus, and refilled Carbo and Atheas’ cups, Ariadne’s and his own. He raised it in the air, and waited until everyone else had done the same. ‘To the victories we have won! To the bonds of comradeship we have forged! To Dionysus and the Great Rider!’

‘Dionysus and the Great Rider!’ They all drank deeply.

‘Now.’ Spartacus fixed Atheas with a gimlet stare. ‘Tell me everything.’

There was a reverent silence as the Scythian began to speak. He threw an occasional glance at Carbo for confirmation, which pleased the young Roman greatly. Despite Atheas’ accented words and poor Latin, he drew a vivid picture of the legions blocking their path. When he was done, he simply folded his hands in his lap and waited for Spartacus to speak.

‘So there can be no doubt,’ said the Thracian, raising an eyebrow at Carbo.

‘No.’

‘What of the other consular army?’ asked Gannicus at once.

Atheas shrugged. ‘We did not see it.’

Maybe it’s already behind us,’ said Castus uneasily, ‘and they’re planning on squeezing us between them.’

‘No. Our mounted scouts are always some twenty miles behind the main force. Taxacis has been busy too. We would have had word by now if we were being followed. Who knows where Gellius is, but he’s not immediately to the south of here.’ Spartacus eyed Carbo again. ‘The legions are how far ahead of us?’

‘It’s as Atheas says. Four or five miles.’

‘We’ll come upon them tomorrow then,’ said Castus with a curse. ‘I knew we wouldn’t reach the Alps!’

‘It was always going to be a long shot for us to do that,’ reproved Spartacus. ‘We’ve done well to get here without having to fight.’ He did not voice the dark joy that had flared within him. All his life, he had dreamed of taking on a consular army. Of avenging his dead brother while teaching Rome a bloody lesson. Now the gods had granted him that opportunity.

‘So near, and yet so far!’ moaned Castus. ‘The damn mountains might as well be a thousand miles away.’

‘Peace,’ said Gannicus. ‘Things aren’t that bad. We have nearly five men for every Roman, and these legions are brand new. They’re untested in battle.’

‘Aye, but our soldiers aren’t Roman citizens, who are weaned on stories of war and conquest. They’re not all wearing a mail coat. Barely half of them have decent swords, and even fewer than that possess a shield.’ There was a discernible note of fear in Castus’ voice. ‘D’you really think they’ll stand against a legionary shield wall?’

‘Of course they will,’ Gannicus grumbled, but he couldn’t hide his uncertainty.

Ariadne wanted to speak, but she held her tongue. This was down to the men. To Spartacus.

Carbo tried to ignore Castus’ unsettling words. Yet the Gaul had a point. He worried that the slaves’ newfound confidence would not be enough. We can’t get away, and we can’t fight them in open battle. He glanced at Atheas, but got no reassurance there. The Scythian’s face was a cold, unreadable mask; Taxacis’ features were a mirror image of this. Carbo wished that he could be so inscrutable.

‘The men might not have the martial background you describe, Castus. They aren’t as well equipped as the Romans either. But what they do have’ — Spartacus looked at each of them in turn — ‘is the burning desire to be free! They won’t suffer the ignominy of being enslaved again. Am I not right?’

‘You are,’ said Gannicus.

‘Yes!’ cried Taxacis.

‘Anything… better than ludus,’ growled Atheas. ‘I… die before go back… that shithole.’

‘I suppose you could be right,’ Castus admitted.

‘That is our secret weapon,’ said Spartacus, feeling encouraged. ‘That is what will win the day for us.’

‘But we can’t take on two legions in open battle. Can we?’ cried Carbo, desperate to believe.

‘No one asked you to speak.’ Spartacus’ tone was stern. Carbo coloured. ‘For myself, I think that we could fight the whoresons face to face. However, I’ve got a far better idea than that.’

‘Tell us,’ urged Gannicus.

‘Do you want to know, Castus?’

‘By Taranis, I do!’

‘While Atheas and Carbo were making their way back, I was checking out the lie of the land around the camp.’ Spartacus winked. ‘It’s a little habit that my father taught me.’

‘What did you find?’ asked Carbo eagerly.

‘A spot where the road narrows as it passes between two sheer rock faces. At the southern end of the defile is a flattish area that is large enough to hold at least ten thousand troops. I’m going to position our best men there. Another fifteen thousand, under Egbeo and Pulcher, will be hidden in a pair of side valleys. When the enemy scouts arrive in the morning, as surely they must, they’ll go haring back to tell Lentulus the good news that their forces “equal” ours. When the Romans return, we’ll let their cavalry and one legion pass through, but then the men who are waiting on the cliff tops will roll down boulders, killing as many of the scumbags as they can. Their main purpose, however, will be to split Lentulus’ forces in two. Once that happens, the remainder of the army and all of our cavalry will fall on the second legion from behind.’ A feral grin creased Spartacus’ face.

‘Where will they hide?’ asked Gannicus.

‘In the broken ground on either side of the road. There are hundreds of places to stay out of sight.’

‘By all the gods, that sounds good!’ bellowed Gannicus. ‘We’ll give those bastards a surprise they’ll never forget.’

Carbo was thrilled. Spartacus always has a plan!

Even Castus looked slightly less dubious.

Ariadne’s smile was bright, but her nerves were in tatters. The trap was decidedly risky. What if the Roman cavalry got wind of the hidden slaves, or spotted those lying in wait above the defile? Even if the ambush worked, the fighting on either side of the blockage would be absolutely savage. Thousands of men would die. She closed her eyes, asking for Dionysus’ protection, and feverishly hoping that her previous transgressions would continue to go unnoticed. Unpunished. Let Spartacus survive at least.

‘Where will you stand?’ enquired Gannicus.

‘I shall lead the men who serve as bait for Lentulus,’ answered Spartacus.

The Gauls looked unsurprised, but a little disappointed.

‘Destroying the second legion is just as important as taking on the first. Would you do me that honour?’

Pride restored, they grinned their acknowledgement.

Spartacus glanced at Carbo. ‘I need a reliable man to take charge of rolling down the rocks.’

Carbo couldn’t hide his disappointment that he hadn’t been selected to fight. ‘If you’re sure…’

‘I am,’ observed Spartacus firmly. ‘It’s critical that the pass is entirely blocked. Think you can do it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Carbo fiercely. ‘I’ll do it if it kills me.’ He felt a tinge of panic. ‘When do you want me to begin the barrage?’

‘As soon as half the Roman force has come through.’

‘How will I know that?’

‘Do a rough headcount as they pass below you.’

‘Right.’ Carbo’s stomach twisted. The task before him was huge.

Spartacus appeared not to notice. He gave each man an encouraging smile. ‘Then we have a plan. May the Great Rider ensure its success.’

As the men drank a toast, Ariadne threw up a fervent prayer, for the favour of one god was not enough. May Dionysus lend his aid too. Even when Ariadne had finished, she felt little better. The deity she followed was renowned for his capricious nature. One tiny slip-up in the morning and the whole ambush could fail.

For some reason, she couldn’t put that possibility from her mind.

When Carbo retired that night, he barely slept a wink. The day he’d entered the ludus, he could never have imagined that his path would involve following a runaway gladiator. Yet fate had led to that very end. Since their dramatic escape, events had taken on a life of their own. Spartacus’ growing trust in him had engendered in Carbo a fierce loyalty. It had enabled him to override his worries about fighting his own countrymen. Nonetheless, the idea of ambushing a consul — one of the two most powerful men in the Republic — was still shocking. Carbo tossed and turned on his blanket, trying to reconcile the irreconcilable, and failing. In the dark before dawn, he finally confided in Navio, with whom he was again sharing a tent. ‘If I do this, I can never return to normal life. To simply being a Roman.’

‘Eh?’ Navio glanced at him as if he was mad. ‘You can never do that anyway. No more than I can!’

‘Why not?’ Carbo didn’t want to admit that he’d already gone too far.

‘Think about it.’

He knew that Navio was right. Nothing would ever be the same again. Even the idea of travelling to Rome in search of his family had palled. His parents would be overjoyed, but he would never be able to reveal to them what he’d done. How could he now become a lawyer, like his self-important uncle? Returning to civilian life anywhere in Italy, which was not that appealing, would also be laced with danger. If anyone got the tiniest whiff of what he’d got up to with Spartacus, he’d be exiled, or worse. Carbo frowned. Where else could he go, but with Spartacus? He gazed at Navio through the gloom. ‘What would we do in Thrace?’

‘Who knows? Serve Spartacus. It wouldn’t take him long to carve out a kingdom for himself. I can think of worse things than being part of something like that. It’d beat being ground down by those whoresons in Rome.’

‘Leave Italy?’ It felt strange questioning it, given that that had been their aim for months. Yet it was only now beginning to feel real.

‘Why would I do anything else?’ hissed Navio. ‘There’s nothing left here for me!’

‘I’ll never get my revenge on Crixus.’

‘Come on. You knew that when you didn’t attack him at Thurii.’

Carbo tried to come up with another argument in favour of staying, and failed. ‘You’re right. I’ll go with Spartacus, wherever he leads us.’

‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,’ warned Navio, punching him on the shoulder. ‘We have a battle to win first! So while there’s time, get some more sleep.’ Pulling up his blanket, he rolled over and was snoring within moments.

Carbo was envious of Navio’s ability to fall asleep no matter what was going on. There was still little light visible through the leather, but he knew that he wasn’t going to get any more rest. It wasn’t just him, though. He could hear noises from other tents: coughing, snuffling, men whispering to each other. Carbo threw off his blankets. He might as well check over his equipment one last time. No doubt his sword could do with an even keener edge. Tugging up the flap, he was startled to see a figure standing by the remains of their fire. He blinked in surprise. It was Spartacus. He raised a finger to his lips, and so Carbo approached without saying a word.

‘Can’t sleep? Neither can I,’ said Spartacus in a low voice.

‘What brings you here?’

‘I wanted to talk to you.’

Carbo smiled as if it were the most normal thing in the world for his leader to come to his tent in secret. ‘About what?’

‘I need to ask you a favour.’

A favour? Carbo’s heart began to pound.

‘There was a reason that I picked you to be in charge of the stones.’

‘You think I’m a coward,’ accused Carbo hotly. ‘That I won’t stand and fight.’

‘No!’ Spartacus gripped his shoulder. ‘That is so far from the truth. I have seen your courage enough times not to doubt it. And I trust you as I do few others.’ Yet he’s a Roman. The irony was not lost on him.

‘Really?’ Carbo’s eyes searched his leader’s.

‘Yes. I want you to do something for me. A thing that I would ask no one else. Will you do it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Carbo instantly.

‘If we lose today-’

‘We won’t,’ Carbo burst in.

‘Your faith in me is encouraging, yet my plan is full of risk. So many things have to fall into place. If just one detail goes wrong, everything will fall apart. If that happens, defeat will lie around the corner. I know this.’

The truth of Spartacus’ words hung in the air like the stink of a rotting carcass.

Carbo couldn’t bring himself to argue, so he just nodded.

‘If the worst happens, it will be very clear. The moment that you’re sure the battle is lost, I want you to leave your men and return to the camp. Go to my tent, and find Ariadne. Atheas will be there, guarding her. He knows that you’re to take charge. You’re to lead her away from here. To safety.’

Carbo was awestruck by the responsibility he’d just asked to accept. Grief thickened his throat at the mere idea of it. If this duty ever came to pass, Spartacus would be dead. Dead. Like Chloris.

‘Here.’

Numbly, Carbo accepted the heavy leather pouch Spartacus handed him.

‘There’s enough in there to keep you all for a year, maybe longer.’

‘Where do you want me to go?’

Spartacus gave a bitter chuckle. ‘Anywhere, as long as it’s safe. Find a little town on the coast of Illyria, or maybe in Greece. Live a quiet life. I want to know that my son grew up under your guidance and Atheas’ protection.’

‘Your son? Ariadne is…’

‘Yes, she’s with child. Do you understand now why your task is so important?’

‘Yes,’ Carbo whispered.

‘So, will you do it?’

Carbo was staggered by the tone of humility in Spartacus’ voice. This was no order, but a heartfelt request from one man to another. ‘Of course! If the worst happens, Ariadne will be saved. I swear it!’

‘Thank you. That makes my load lighter.’ Spartacus squeezed his shoulder once, hard. ‘Tell no one of this, obviously.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good.’ His teeth flashed in the darkness. ‘Now, we’d best get ready, eh? There will be many thousands of Romans to kill. I’ll see you when it’s all over.’

‘Yes.’

With that, Spartacus was gone, slipping off into the gloom like a wraith.

Gods, let us meet again.

‘Who was that?’ Navio’s head popped out of the tent.

‘Egbeo,’ Carbo lied. ‘He wanted to know how many men I was taking to the cliffs.’

‘Rather you than me,’ grunted Navio. ‘It’s more bloody, but I’d rather stick a sword in a man’s guts than crush him like a beetle underfoot.’

Carbo smiled, but all his thoughts were on his secret mission. By choosing him, Spartacus had shown him great honour. Yet it was a duty that he did not want, because if it came to pass, the man he idolised would be dead. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he prayed desperately. Whatever happens, let us win. Grant us victory!

Carbo was used to the silence that met his requests of the gods, but this time it resounded in his head like the emptiness of a stone dropped into a bottomless well.

They moved out soon after, while the sun was still below the horizon. Clouds of exhaled breath filled the cold air as Carbo’s troops tramped through the darkness. It wasn’t more than a mile to the spot that Spartacus had ordered them to, which lent a palpable air of anticipation to the march. Although there was no pressing need yet to remain quiet, the men’s conversations were held in muttered tones. Working from the description he’d been given, Carbo led his force, some two hundred strong, northwards up a slope between groups of twisted junipers and sturdy holm oak trees. The vegetation gradually died away, leaving exposed great slabs of rock that were covered in rosettes of grey-green lichen.

They had climbed a short distance when the stone opened up in a gaping chasm. It stretched from left to right for some distance and was about twenty score paces across. Carbo walked up to the edge, and looked down. The drop was precipitous. Cursing, he took a step backwards. The wind that gusted to and fro here could easily sweep a man to his death. Lying down, he crawled to the lip with a great deal more caution. The view was breathtaking. At least five hundred paces below, the thin ribbon that was the road threaded its way along the valley floor. The only sign of life was a pair of ravens that were chattering noisily to each other as they banked and turned on the early-morning air currents.

Carbo’s gaze flickered from side to side, assessing the best spot for the ambush. Unsurprisingly, his eyes focused on the narrowest part of the gorge. There the two sides were little more than a good spear’s throw apart. He made his mind up at once. Anything that was dropped from that point could not fail to strike anyone on the road. A roseate glow to the east told him that dawn was approaching. Time was of the essence. Carbo began issuing orders.

The physical labour that followed filled him with relief. Finally, he was able to put what he’d been asked to do from his mind. Even the thought of killing hundreds of his fellow countrymen was better than thinking about Spartacus lying bloodied and still on the field below. If he died, Carbo did not know how he would bear it.