by Ben Kane
‘You reek,’ said Carbo, guffawing. He’d never seen Spartacus act so light-hearted.
‘Then the sooner we get there, the better, eh?’
Carbo strode out with new energy. Other than the wish to see his parents’ tomb one day, he had no reason to return to the capital, or Capua, where he’d grown up. He was with Spartacus. Carbo had always been loyal to the Thracian, but the discovery of his parents’ deaths had made that bond even stronger. It had also brought home to him the importance of his comrades. Men like Navio and Atheas, and even Arnax and Publipor, were his family now. The knowledge made his grief easier to bear.
Alerted by his major domo, Crassus turned from the half-circle of men around him. ‘Ah, Caepio! Welcome!’ he said genially. He beckoned to the veteran centurion who stood in the doorway of the tablinum, waiting to be called in.
Caepio marched in proudly. Sunlight entering from the square hole in the centre of the roof glinted off the phalerae on his chest. He came to a halt before Crassus and saluted. ‘I came as soon as I got your message, sir.’
‘Good. All well since yesterday?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir. As you know, I wasn’t hurt. I’m just sorry that I didn’t get to kill Spartacus.’
‘You did a fine job stopping his accomplice. If there had been two of them, things might have come to a different ending. For me at least!’
‘Thank the gods that you weren’t injured, sir, but I’d still be happier if I’d buried my blade in his guts.’
Crassus’ lips turned upwards. ‘See the mettle of this man? He is the embodiment of Roman virtus. This is what every soldier should aspire to.’
There was a polite murmur of assent.
‘Caepio, meet some of the legates who will command my legions. This is Gnaeus Tremelius Scrofa.’ A tall, thin man inclined his head in reply to Caepio’s salute. ‘Lucius Mummius Achaicus.’ A stocky officer with a haughty expression met Caepio’s salutation. ‘Quintus Marcius Rufus.’ There was a smile from a short man with spiky black hair. ‘Caius Pomptinus.’ This one was clearly a cavalryman, thought Caepio. He had bandier legs than an ape. ‘Lucius Quinctius.’ Older than the rest, he was the only one to half bow at the centurion. A commoner originally, like me, decided Caepio. ‘And last but definitely not least, Gaius Julius Caesar, one of my tribunes,’ said Crassus.
‘Honoured to meet you, sir.’ Caepio saluted for the sixth time. Like everyone, he’d heard the story about Caesar’s capture and imprisonment on Pharmacussa. Here was a man with real balls. ‘Ready to crucify a few slaves, as you did with those pirates, sir?’
‘More than ready, centurion.’
Caepio’s smile reminded Crassus of a wolf he’d seen cornered in the arena. His decision to recruit the veteran had been a good one. He wondered sometimes if Caepio fully approved of him – he wasn’t a career soldier after all – but he didn’t care that much. Caepio had seen how Crassus longed to destroy Spartacus, which, after his experience at the munus, was exactly what he wanted too. ‘Now that the introductions are over, let’s get down to business. I’ve called you here for a council of war. I know that you were not expecting to do more than assemble your units over the next couple of months, but yesterday’s events have changed everything. Spartacus cannot be allowed to strike at me – at Rome – with such impunity. We must respond swiftly!’
Caepio growled in approval. ‘Catch them unawares, that’s what we want to do!’
‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ asked Scrofa. ‘Increasing the number of troops at the gates?’
‘No,’ said Crassus as if to a child. ‘It was a slim hope that we would catch Spartacus leaving the city. We can safely assume that the whoreson has flown the coop by now.’ He gave Mummius a hard look.
‘My soldiers interrogated everyone whom they thought was suspicious, sir. More than a hundred men were detained.’
Crassus glanced at Caepio, who shook his head. ‘None of whom proved to be Spartacus.’
‘No, sir, but—’
‘Quiet, Mummius. You failed! If you had moved faster, we might be interrogating Spartacus right now, instead of planning our campaign against him.’ Crassus knew he was being hard on Mummius, but the man needed to know who was in charge. He – and the others – had to be sent a clear message from the start.
Mummius lapsed into a glowering silence.
‘As you know, I had intended spending the autumn and winter filling our recruitment quotas, and in arming and training the men. Now I want to bring our plans forward. Significantly.’
‘The number of volunteers has been exceptional, sir,’ agreed Quinctius. ‘And the workshops are also turning out equipment at a great rate.’
‘I should bloody hope so. I’m paying twice the market rate for every item to all the smiths for a hundred miles!’ Crassus raised a hand, silencing the chuckles this produced. ‘My intention is that the army is to be ready to march in a month.’
‘A month?’ repeated Quinctius.
‘But the men won’t be ready, sir,’ said Scrofa. ‘Basic training takes at least eight weeks.’
‘I know that,’ replied Crassus acidly. ‘The ground to the south of Rome is flat. The recruits can train every day after we have finished marching.’ Ignoring his officers’ surprise, Crassus went on, ‘Up until now, Rome has been humiliated by Spartacus. That time has now gone! No doubt the slaves are expecting to have an easy few months while we prepare our forces. Well, they’re going to have none of that. We’re going to take the war to them straightaway. Isn’t that right, Caepio?’
‘Damn right, sir.’
‘I know that thousands of veterans have heard your call and joined up, sir, and that we have the remnants of the consuls’ legions, about fourteen thousand men, but over half the army is made up of new recruits,’ said Scrofa. ‘Would it not be wiser to wait until they have been fully trained until we move against Spartacus?’
‘Who is the commander here?’ barked Crassus. ‘I make the bloody decisions, not you. Or any of the rest of you! Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Scrofa muttered.
‘We move in four weeks. It takes more than a month to march to Thurii. That’s eight weeks in total. With veterans like Caepio on our side, I would suggest that that’s plenty of time to train the men.’
‘That’s sufficient time for my soldiers to be ready, sir,’ Mummius declared eagerly.
‘I should think so! Given that you and Rufus each command a legion formerly led by one of the consuls, you have the least number of raw recruits.’
Mummius coloured. Rufus also looked embarrassed.
‘My troops will be prepared, so help me Jupiter,’ said Scrofa.
The other officers hastily added their agreements.
Crassus studied their faces. Their resolve seemed genuine. It was a start. ‘Very well.’
‘What is your plan when we find Spartacus, sir?’ asked Scrofa.
‘It’s very simple. We bring him to bay like a boar on a hunt. Ready our legions. Soften his men up with catapults. Advance, and butcher the lot of them. And that will be that.’ His eyes roved challengingly over them. It was Scrofa, whom he’d already judged to be one of the most courageous, who spoke first.
‘You really think it will be that simple, sir?’
‘Yes, Scrofa, I do. The time has come to rid Italy of Spartacus and his filth. What better way to do it than in head-to-head battle? That has ever been the way of Rome’s magnificent legions.’ He glanced at Caepio, who rumbled his approval.
‘But the men who have fought Spartacus before, sir, they—’ Mummius hesitated.
‘We all know that they have run before,’ said Crassus in a silky tone. ‘And if it happens again, they will be punished so severely that none of them will ever think of running again.’
In the lull that followed, the only sounds were the voices of slaves who were tending the plants in the central courtyard.
Crassus pinned them one by one with his stare. ‘I am talking of decimation.’
>
Quinctius’ mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
‘Decimation, gentlemen. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ was the unanimous, shocked response.
‘That practice hasn’t been used for generations, sir,’ ventured Scrofa.
‘All the more reason to revive it then,’ said Crassus. ‘Anyone else?’
No one except Caepio and Caesar met his gaze.
‘Excellent.’ It was good that his officers were so horrified, thought Crassus. Anger was still coursing through his veins at the thought of how nearly Spartacus had come to killing him. ‘I meant every word that I said. I will do whatever it takes to defeat that Thracian son of a whore. Whatever it takes.’
I swear to you, great Jupiter, that I will not rest until he is – or I am – dead.
Chapter XI
WHEN THE TIME came that day to search out a suitable place to set up camp, the pair were nowhere near a village, or even an inn. Carbo was glad. It had been a week since they’d left Rome. The high temperatures had meant that even when they climbed away from the fertile plain of Campania with its dense pattern of farms and estates and into the more mountainous region of Lucania, it was pleasant to sleep outdoors. Their solitude meant they could talk without the worry of being overheard. They had provisions, wine and blankets, and the horses they’d bought four days prior meant that they could ride in search of the most secluded sites with ease.
To Carbo’s chagrin, he’d had to continue wearing Varus’ toga each day. As Spartacus said, it gave him a wealthy air, which would explain, should anyone comment, why his ‘slave’ was astride a horse rather than walking. Having to bake daily in the thick woollen garment was another reason that Carbo preferred camping. Every evening, with Spartacus watching in amusement, he would strip off the toga and jump into the nearest stream to wash off the day’s accumulation of sweat. He shifted his shoulders unhappily, looking forward to doing the same again as soon as they’d stopped. After that, he could relax by the fire with a hunk of bread and cheese, and a beaker of wine.
He would try, for a while at least, to forget his sorrow over his parents. Even though Carbo had done what he’d thought was best at the time – entering the ludus to earn money – he was still racked by guilt over his decision. Guilt that he hadn’t stayed with his parents, and gone to Rome with them. Guilt that he hadn’t sent any money to them in the subsequent months, or tried harder to establish contact. Deep down, he knew these thoughts for fantasies, but that didn’t ease his pain. To cope, he stoked his hatred for Crassus into a white-hot flame. If it wasn’t for him, his parents would still be alive. Give me one more chance to kill Crassus before I die, he prayed repeatedly.
Carbo hoped that Spartacus would tell more tales of his youth in Thrace. He had been surprised and intrigued over the previous few nights as his leader had opened up more than he ever had. Carbo now knew the names of Spartacus’ father, mother and brother, as well as his childhood friends. He’d listened avidly to tales of hunting boar and wolves, of raiding horses and sheep from neighbouring tribes, and to dramatic legends about the Great Rider, the deity favoured by most Thracian warriors. Carbo didn’t realise it, but Spartacus’ stories were partially aimed at taking his mind off his parents. The Thracian had seen him brooding as they rode.
Spartacus made little or no mention of the war waged by his tribe on Rome, or of his time with the legions. Carbo had been content with that; he wanted no reminders of the reality of their own situation. Both men were enjoying the relative freedom from worry that their journey had granted them.
Behind him, Spartacus was thinking about Ariadne, and wondering if she had yet given birth. He made a silent request of the gods that she would have a straightforward labour. Women who didn’t often died, along with their infants. That grim thought made him wish that they had resolved their differences before he’d left. It would be the first thing to do upon their return, he decided. It was pointless letting arguments go on for this long, especially when danger – or death – lurked around every corner.
For the moment, though, they were still on the road. He might as well enjoy the loud churring of the cicadas from the oaks and chestnuts on each side. Relax to the clop, clop, clop of their mounts’ hooves off the basalt slabs. Relish the heat of the sun, which was slowly dropping towards the jagged-tipped mountains to the west. If he ignored the fact that the road was paved, he could almost be in the Thrace of his youth, an all-too-brief time when he had been utterly carefree.
The skin on the back of Spartacus’ neck prickled, and he turned his head. In the haze that shimmered over the road, he saw a small figure, approaching fast. Behind it thundered three more riders. ‘Company,’ he said quietly. ‘Four horsemen.’
With a start, Carbo came back to the present. He twisted around to see. ‘Are they messengers?’
‘More likely a messenger with an escort,’ said Spartacus.
‘His message must be important. They normally travel alone. Where are they heading? Pompeii and Paestum are behind us.’
‘Perhaps Crassus is sending word to Thurii, hoping it will reach the city before our army.’
Carbo took a mad notion. ‘Two to one isn’t bad odds, eh?’
‘Don’t go getting any ideas. They’ll be armed with swords. Whatever news they’re carrying isn’t worth risking our lives for.’
Carbo settled back on his horse. Spartacus was right.
They rode on, glancing regularly behind them. When the riders had drawn nearer, the pair guided their mounts into the shade of the trees on one side of the road. They watched as the lead horseman approached at the gallop, followed a short distance later by his three companions.
Any doubt about the man’s job vanished as he came closer. He was wearing typical military dress: a mail shirt over a padded tunic and a crested bronze-bowl helmet. A leather satchel bounced up and down off his right hip, and a long cavalry sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder. His mount was of fine quality, and it carried an ‘SPQR’ brand halfway down its neck.
Perhaps it would be worth finding out what message he was carrying, Spartacus thought with a flash of devilment. No. I’ve been in enough danger recently.
The rider gave them a haughty look as he drew level, but he didn’t check his steed.
‘Safe journey, friend,’ called Carbo.
All he got by way of reply was a grunt, and then the messenger was gone.
Carbo’s pulse increased as his gaze returned to the three horsemen to the rear. If there was to be any danger, it was from this trio, whose job was a fraction less urgent than the lead rider. The first two galloped past without as much as a glance at them, and he began to relax. Carbo barely saw the small stone that was sent flying by the back hooves of the lead horse. It shot up like a slingshot to strike the last horseman in the face. He bellowed in pain and did well not to lose his seat. With a savage tug on the reins, he brought his mount to a halt in front of Spartacus’ and Carbo’s position. Cursing, he fingered the deep cut on his right cheek, which was already bleeding heavily.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Carbo.
‘Eh?’ He only seemed to notice them now. ‘Yes, yes. It’s but a flesh wound.’ He dragged free a strip of cloth that was wound around his baldric and pressed it to his face.
‘Men such as you must be used to far worse,’ said Carbo, adopting an admiring tone.
‘True. It certainly won’t stop me getting to Messana.’
Spartacus pricked his ears at the last word. Messana is on Sicily.
The messenger gave them an appraising look. ‘You risk getting hurt yourself, young master, being out on the road with no one but your slave. Don’t you know about Spartacus and his rabble? They control much of southern Italy now. Come across any of them, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.’
‘I know all too well, but my family has few slaves left,’ said Carbo with a sigh. ‘They pillaged our farm a month or so ago; most of them ran off then to join
Spartacus. The local militia wouldn’t do a thing about it, of course: they’re too damn scared. Father sent me to Rome, to ask for help at the Senate. I was there last week to hear Crassus speak. It was wonderful! Our suffering won’t last for ever, thank the gods. Ten legions he’s raising!’
‘That’s right,’ said the rider with a confident grin. ‘When they march south, the ground will tremble. Spartacus’ slaves will soil their pants at the sight of them.’
A shout echoed down the road, and the rider gave Carbo a friendly wink. ‘I’d best be off. May you reach your door safely. Tell your father to remain steadfast and to pray to Jupiter.’
A nerve twitched in Spartacus’ cheek, but the messenger didn’t notice.
‘How soon will Crassus march?’ asked Carbo.
‘That’s something only he knows. But it will be sooner than you think! The bastard slaves will get the shock of their lives when the legions come down this road! Farewell.’ With an evil laugh, he rode away.
‘Curse Fortuna for the old bitch that she is!’ Carbo spat under his breath. He glanced at Spartacus, whose face bore a black scowl. ‘How soon do you think he’s talking about?’
‘Who knows? It can’t be any quicker than three months, I wouldn’t have thought. The legions are only being raised now. The soldiers have to be trained before he can even consider fighting us. At least we heard it in advance. It gives us time to plan. Imagine if the first thing we’d heard was that Crassus’ army was ten or fifteen miles from Thurii.’
Carbo didn’t especially want to think about that. ‘What will we do?’
‘Do? We wait a while until those whoresons are gone, and we hightail it back to our camp, wherever that is.’
‘I meant when Crassus gets here.’ Carbo had avoided asking Spartacus about it until now.
Spartacus’ lips peeled back, revealing his teeth. ‘Why, then we fight. We fight!’ To the end, whatever that may be. Victory – or death! ‘Don’t think that I am out of tricks,’ he added. ‘I’m not. By a long way.’
Carbo nodded. Rallying his courage, he swore a silent oath to himself. If – when – that fight came, he would stand in the line with everyone else. With Spartacus. To the bitter end. Even if it meant his own death. Standing shoulder to shoulder with those whom he loved was all that mattered. That, and killing Crassus. He glanced at Spartacus, who was whistling a tuneless ditty under his breath. Gods, does nothing scare him? Carbo felt prouder than ever to follow the Thracian.
