by Ben Kane
Carbo nodded, feeling reassured. Despite the roasting he’d just been given, his memories of how Spartacus had saved him in the ludus, and of how he’d intervened to save Chloris, were always in his mind. He’d follow the Thracian anywhere. To hell. To Thrace. It didn’t matter.
‘Go on, be off with you. Get some food in your belly and have a rest. You’ve earned it.’
Carbo grinned at the change in Spartacus’ tone. ‘If I’m not to take part in the attack on the ballistae, I might go hunting this afternoon.’
‘Fine. One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Not a word to a soul about Lucullus. Tell Navio to keep his mouth shut too,’ Spartacus warned. ‘On pain of death.’
‘Of course,’ said Carbo, his heart thudding again. He walked off, unaware that he had added a mountain to Spartacus’ concerns.
Sending Atheas to fetch his cavalry commanders, Spartacus sat for a while in silence. Ariadne was not in their tent. For that, he was grateful. He wanted to think about the shocking news before having to talk it over with her. There was no way of knowing if the report of Lucullus’ victory was true, but he had to assume that it was. Why would a legionary make up something like that? It wasn’t as if the Thracians hadn’t been beaten by Rome before. It’s only a setback; we Thracians have inflicted plenty of humiliating defeats on the bastards too, he thought, remembering with satisfaction his own tribe’s stunning victory over Appius Claudius Pulcher, the proconsul of Macedonia, five years earlier. Deep down, however, Spartacus knew that the task he had set himself once they reached Thrace had just been made much harder. Was it even possible? Don’t think like that!
‘You’re in a different world. I can never usually get this close without you noticing.’
Ariadne’s voice dragged him back to reality. He smiled, burying the news of Lucullus. ‘It was a good idea to send Carbo and Navio to Mutina.’
Ariadne stiffened. ‘They’re back?’
‘Yes. Longinus has set a trap on the road north. His ballistae are hidden away, but ranged in so that they could rain down volleys on the army as it marched past. A perfect ambush.’
‘Damn Romans,’ said Ariadne angrily. ‘What will you do?’
‘Pinpoint the artillery’s exact location. Then the Gauls will destroy it tonight.’ He saw Ariadne’s surprise. ‘They were outraged that I had sent spies to Mutina without telling them. Letting them have this mission was a gesture to bring them around, but they’ll do a good job. Gannicus in particular is like a hound on a tight leash. We’ll march in the morning. Catch Longinus before he has had a chance to react.’
‘He only has two legions.’ Ariadne wanted to hear the small figure again. ‘We have more than fifty thousand men.’
‘That’s right, my love. We will win, have no fear.’
‘I know.’ Unconsciously, she placed a hand on her belly. ‘Our son will be born outside Italy.’
He put his arms around her to shove away the uncertainty that had flared up again in his mind. ‘I cannot wait to hold him.’
She gave him a fond glance, and saw something in his expression. ‘What are you not telling me?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Spartacus? What is it?’
His eyes regarded her steadily. ‘I’m not going to say right now. I need to think about it.’
A knot of fear clenched in her stomach. ‘Is there Roman another army nearby?’
‘It’s nothing like that.’
She searched his face for a clue.
‘Leave it, Ariadne. You will find out in due course.’
She didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t being open with her, but she did not probe further. This was no time to sow discord. There were ballistae to destroy and after that, another Roman army to defeat. She cast a longing look to the north, towards the Alps. When we stand at their foot, everything will seem much clearer. We will head eastwards. She did not want to entertain any other possibility. This hope was what had sustained her in the months since their breakout from the ludus. Yet Spartacus’ reticence had planted a seed of doubt in her mind.
Ariadne decided to seek Dionysus’ aid. It was not in the nature of any deity to answer requests directly, but it did happen on occasion. Her spirits rallied at the memory of the time they had been trapped at the top of Vesuvius by three thousand legionaries. In their hour of greatest need, Dionysus had shown Spartacus the wild vines that could be used to make ropes. Maybe he would help again now? While their situation was nowhere near as desperate as before, Ariadne felt in need of the peace of mind that divine guidance would grant. A welcome calm descended over her.
It lasted for a few heartbeats. Then, like a sting in the tail, Ariadne thought of the munus that Spartacus had held. Had it been too bloody? As if that wasn’t enough to be worried about, she agonised over the occasion at Thurii when she had lied about the god’s will. She had told the entire army that Dionysus had sent her a dream in which they were to travel to the east under his protection, to lands that were unconquered by Rome. Ariadne had admitted her falsehood to no one, not even her husband. I did it for good reasons, she thought. To prevent Crixus trying to kill Spartacus. To win the troops over, and to stop them from splintering into many factions. Her inner demon answered at once. It doesn’t matter why you did it. To suit your own purpose, you pretended to speak with a divine voice. That shows a deep disrespect for the god.
Her guilt swelled immeasurably. ‘I must go and pray,’ she said in a tight voice.
‘A good idea.’ Troubled, Spartacus watched her go.
By early afternoon, the cavalry he had sent out had returned. They had located the most likely spot for the Roman ballistae to be hidden. Some five miles from their camp was a hollow behind a slight incline that was bounded on two sides by a dense arrangement of trees. His horsemen had seen figures moving in the copse, but as instructed, they had not investigated further. To maintain as much secrecy as possible, Spartacus ordered them to say nothing to their comrades.
Gannicus and Castus had picked a thousand of their best men for the mission. As well as barrels of olive oil and torches, they had armed their troops with every axe that could be found. The two Gauls, Spartacus and the cavalry officer who’d led the patrol conferred as the sun fell in the sky. There were hours to go before the chosen soldiers left. To prevent them being seen by Roman scouts, the force would not move out until it was dark.
Spartacus was pleased. Things augured well. On the spur of the moment, he decided to join Carbo. Hunting was something that he had always enjoyed, but there had been precious little time for it of recent months. He ignored the host of tasks that needed doing, and that it was a little rash to leave the camp without guards. It would do him good, he decided, to forget Longinus, Castus and Gannicus, and the damn Alps for a few hours. Nothing will happen. The Rider will look after me, as he always does.
‘Put your back into it!’ roared Julius, his face a handsbreadth from Marcion’s. ‘Just because we’re nearly done for the day, just because we’ve hammered the Romans both times that you’ve fought them, doesn’t mean you can start slacking. Training is training, and it goes on until I say so!’
Marcion’s mouth set into a scowl of concentration. He raised his shield and advanced towards Gaius, his tent mate. He wished that Julius would piss off and annoy one of the other soldiers in their unit, but there was little chance of that. Their centurion never moved on until he was satisfied.
He glanced to either side. Beyond his century, the rest of his cohort was also busy. Further on, many hundreds of men were being forced by their officers to run, to fight, as he was, with covered weapons, or to attack other groups in formation. Shouts and commands mixed with the clack, clack sound of swords hitting scuta and the deeper thump of shield bosses making contact with each other. In the distance, he could see the cavalry charging en masse, wheeling and turning in graceful but deadly arcs. It was the same as always, he thought wearily. If we aren’t marching or fighting, we’re bloody
training.
‘Move it!’ yelled Julius.
Marcion peered over the rim of his scutum as he shuffled forward. Gaius was about ten paces away. Marcion could only see his friend’s eyes, and his feet. The shield Gaius carried protected almost his entire body, as Marcion’s did his. It left precious little to attack. He still knew what to do. He darted forward, hoping to catch Gaius off guard. Marcion used all of his force, smashing his shield boss into Gaius’ scutum. Although Gaius had braced himself, the impact rocked him back on his heels, and he wasn’t able to dodge Marcion’s blade as it came sliding over the shield’s iron rim. ‘Damn you!’ he spat.
‘You’re dead,’ said Marcion with a smile.
‘You won’t get me like that again,’ Gaius swore.
‘Glad to hear it,’ came Julius’ sarcastic voice. ‘If this was real life, you’d be choking out your last breath by now. Do it again.’
The words had barely left the centurion’s lips when Gaius threw himself across the space that separated him from Marcion. This time, it was Marcion who went over, landing on his arse with his shield on top of him. Winded by the fall, he could do nothing to prevent Gaius ripping aside his scutum and pretend to skewer him through the neck.
Gaius leered. ‘That’ll teach you, you pup!’ He backed off, allowing Marcion to get to his feet.
‘Better, Gaius,’ declared Julius. He threw a hard glance at Marcion. ‘Not as good as you think, are you?’
Stung, Marcion had the sense not to answer.
‘Right, that’ll do you for the day.’ Julius raised his voice. ‘DISMISSED! Same time tomorrow, you sacks of shit!’
With a relieved sigh, Marcion stripped the leather cover from his gladius and slid it back into its scabbard. He made sure that the centurion was out of earshot. ‘Julius is fucking annoying, but he’s right. We have to keep sharp, eh?’
Gaius hawked and spat. ‘Aye, true enough. A man needs Fortuna on his side every time he goes into battle. Even the best soldier can end up staring at a string of his own guts, or worse. Remember Hirtius?’
‘Of course.’ Marcion winced. Hirtius had been one of their tent mates. A short barrel of a man, he’d been prodigiously strong. That hadn’t stopped him taking a stray pilum in the eye during the fight against Gellius’ legions. His deafening screams had gone on until Zeuxis had done him a mercy by cutting his throat.
‘Who’s cooking tonight?’ asked a familiar deep voice.
‘It’s your bloody turn, Zeuxis!’ Gaius cried indignantly.
‘Is it?’ Zeuxis wiped the sheen of sweat from his pate and flicked it at Gaius, who dodged, cursing.
‘You know damn well it is!’
‘Don’t look at me!’ said Marcion as Zeuxis’ head turned. ‘I’d much rather have your tasteless offering than have to cook.’
‘Me too,’ declared Arphocras, who had been Zeuxis’ sparring mate. ‘You’re such a chancer! Every eight days, it’s the same.’
Zeuxis shrugged. ‘I can’t help it if my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Just as well that we remember for you, eh?’ jibed Marcion.
Despite Gaius besting him, Marcion’s mood was lifting. This was his favourite part of the day. Training was over. The hottest hours had passed, but it was still a good while until sunset. After he’d cleaned the dust off his equipment, there was time perhaps to fill a bucket from the river and to have a wash. Most of his tent mates weren’t bothered, but the love of small luxuries that Marcion had grown up with died hard. After a hard training session, he liked nothing better than to get clean. It was best to slope off on his own, however. If Zeuxis realised, he’d never hear the end of it. A desire to bathe regularly did not mean that he liked other men, he thought angrily, just that he had possessed some culture. It was Zeuxis who was the primitive, not him. He smiled.
His dreadful cooking proved it.
Carbo had been busy all day. After a hearty bowl of barley porridge and honey prepared by Arnax, he had slept for several hours. Then, as he would have done normally, Carbo had sought out the cohort of which he was second-in-command. His senior officer was Egbeo, a huge Thracian who was one of Spartacus’ most devoted followers, and whom Carbo had grown to trust implicitly. He’d found Egbeo training the men. ‘You might think that the Roman dogs are scared of us now, but they’re not! You can never take them for granted,’ the Thracian had roared over and over. ‘You still need to drill with each other. You have to know in your gut that when the order comes, every man around you will do exactly as you do. That he will advance. Form close order. Throw his javelins. Charge the enemy. Help to form a wedge. Even to retreat!’ Carbo had smiled at the guffaws this produced and, invigorated by Egbeo’s speech, had set to with a will. However, once the practice was over and he’d spent a little time chatting with his men, he found himself at a loose end. He remembered his idea of going hunting and when Navio had returned from training his own cohort, he suggested they went together.
‘Come on. It’ll be better than having to look at Gannicus’ men preening themselves before they leave.’
‘True enough,’ said Navio with a grimace. Although they were supposed to be keeping quiet about what they were to do, Gannicus’ troops were doing a poor job of it. ‘What do you fancy going after?’
‘I’ll take whatever we can find. Boar. Deer. A bird for the pot.’
‘Can I tag along?’
Arnax’s eager face made Carbo smile: he was becoming fond of the boy. ‘All right. We’re not likely to meet any Roman patrols.’
Arnax’s face fell. ‘How can you be sure?’
There was a familiar laugh. ‘Because they’re too damn scared to come anywhere near my army.’
Arnax goggled. ‘Oh,’ he said in a small voice.
‘Spartacus!’ Carbo took in his leader’s hunting weapons. ‘Have you come to join us?’
‘I haven’t been on a hunt in months.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Carbo, thinking about what might happen if they did meet a Roman patrol.
‘I am.’ Ariadne is worried about nothing.
Spartacus’ tone brooked no argument. Carbo shrugged. Navio grinned. ‘Another bow increases our chance of success.’
Spartacus nodded a friendly greeting at Arnax, who looked even more frightened. ‘So this is the lad who helped you out in Mutina?’
‘That’s him,’ said Carbo.
‘You did well to aid my men, boy. What do they call you?’
‘A-Arnax, sir.’
‘A strong name.’
Arnax said nothing.
‘I don’t bite.’
Arnax glanced at Carbo, who gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he ventured.
Spartacus cocked his head. ‘What is it? You’ve heard terrible things about me?’
‘Y-y-yes, sir.’
‘What have you heard?’
No reply.
‘Tell me,’ Spartacus commanded.
Again Arnax looked to Carbo, who said, ‘Tell him.’
‘Apparently, you eat babies.’
Spartacus’ mouth twitched. ‘Really?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Who said that?’
‘My master. People in the forum,’ muttered Arnax.
‘He’s not your master any more. You’re free now.’
Arnax’s fearful expression eased a little.
‘I can also tell you that I am an ordinary man like Carbo or Navio. I don’t eat babies, nor do I breathe fire. As I said, I am grateful that you saved my men. You are welcome here.’ Arnax said nothing, and he frowned. ‘Still not happy?’
To Carbo’s shock, Arnax blurted, ‘You killed all those legionaries. The ones who had to fight each other to the death.’
‘Arnax!’ hissed Carbo.
Spartacus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Spirited, isn’t he?’
Arnax’s momentary courage fled him, and his eyes lowered.
‘Do you know why munera have historically been held?’
‘To commemorate the death of someone rich or famous,’ Arnax replied.
‘That’s right,’ said Spartacus. ‘Nowadays, of course, they’re held any time some high-and-mighty or up-and-coming noble wants to impress the masses. Men fight and sometimes die in those munera, don’t they? Slaves, who have no choice in the matter.’
Arnax nodded.
‘My munus was to mark the death of thousands of my former comrades in battle. In my mind, that makes it far more valid than the entertainment that is laid on for the populations of towns the length and breadth of Italy every month or two. I had every damn right to do what I did.’ He pinned Arnax with a hard stare. ‘Understand?’
In the silence that followed, Carbo was surprised to find himself in agreement with Spartacus. The munus had upset him badly at the time, but for months now, he had trained and fought alongside former slaves. They were his trusted comrades. If it was acceptable to force men such as they to fight as gladiators, then it was permissible to do the same to Roman prisoners. He watched Arnax, pleased, surprised and a little worried by the way he’d stood up to Spartacus. Agree with him.
‘Yes,’ the boy said at last.
‘A real fighter you’ve got there, Carbo. I think I can understand now why a slip of a lad like him saved your lives at the risk of his own. He’ll make a good soldier one day – as long as he learns to watch his tongue.’
‘He will,’ replied Carbo.
‘Ever been hunting?’ Spartacus asked Arnax.
‘No.’
‘This can be your first time. We take bows and arrows for deer and birds, and these in case we meet a boar.’ He handed over his heavy hunting spear. ‘You can carry that.’
Arnax beamed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Carbo?’ asked Spartacus.
‘There are plenty of tracks in the woods to the north of the camp. I thought that would be a good place to start.’
‘If we want to have a chance of killing anything, we’d best get moving, eh?’ Navio slapped his mail shirt. ‘Help me take this off,’ he said to Arnax.
Aided by Spartacus, Carbo also removed his. Although it made sense to leave the heavy shirt behind, he felt naked without it. Talk of the meat that they’d be roasting over their fire that night soon put his concerns to rest, however.
