by Ben Kane
There had also been opportunities to walk the coastline, searching for the best place to embark when the pirate ships arrived. Spartacus had done this alone the first time, managing to give the Scythians the slip. He grinned. The roasting that Ariadne had given them on his return had ensured that had never happened again. While Castus and Gannicus appeared to be honouring their truce, he wouldn’t put it past them to make another attempt on his life. And actually he liked the tattooed Scythians’ company. They felt like old friends, even though he’d known them for less than two years. The pair were discreet, shadowing him from a distance, thereby allowing him the pretence of being on his own. As he walked, his mind had turned over every possibility a score of times. If things went on Sicily as he wished, he would be able to defend the island from Roman attack rather than just wait until they sent an expeditionary force against him.
Yet as the days had turned into weeks, it had become harder and harder not to let his thoughts become troubled. Autumn had come and gone. Winter had arrived, and with it, colder weather. The berries and nuts from the bushes that covered the mountain slopes had vanished. The area’s farms had long since been stripped of all their grain. Spartacus wondered if the pirate captain had played Carbo false, taken the money and sailed away, never to return. It seemed unlikely. Only a fool or a madman would turn down fifty times that amount of coin for what was a simple task. That belief was what seemed to be keeping his troops’ spirits up. His eyes turned to the south, searching the waves for a sail. For the thousandth time, he saw nothing. A scatter of gulls scudded overhead in the chill air, their sharp calls seeming to mock him. His mood darkened. If Heracleo was coming, where in the Great Rider’s name was he? How long did it take to find a few cursed vessels and sail around Italy’s tip?
He wondered again about climbing the high ground to the sacred cave opposite Charybdis, there to make another offering to Scylla, the monster with twelve feet and six heads that guarded the straits. No. Twice was enough. If the gods thought he was desperate, they could become even more capricious than they already were.
His stomach rumbled, reminding Spartacus that he hadn’t eaten since dawn. He had ordered rations to be reduced, but sixty thousand men still ate a vast amount of bread every day. Unless Heracleo appeared within the next couple of weeks, their grain would run out. Then they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. That wasn’t a prospect that he wanted to be forced into.
He turned to study the land to his rear. Like much of the region’s coast, there was only a narrow area of flat ground bordering the sea. In some places it was as much as half a mile or a mile wide, but in others, it was little more than a strip of sand. The majority of the toe was formed by steep, rolling hills, the beech-covered tops of which were often shrouded in lowering grey clouds. With the Scythians in tow, he had traversed the highest peaks, his mission to inspect the legions at work. The Romans’ blockade had been constructed at one of the narrowest parts of the toe, some ten miles to the north. Thanks to the vertiginous terrain, there had been little need for Crassus’ soldiers to erect any defences at all, other than on the coastline. Dangerously steep wooded slopes, jagged peaks and fast-flowing rivers meant that the interior was only suitable for the deer, wild sheep and wolves whose territory it was. On a mountaintop ridge Spartacus had located one spot suitable to move north – but so had Crassus, who had spared no effort in the construction of the defences there. They were truly impressive. Slaves had laboured to build an inverted ‘V’-shaped earthen barrier that was topped by stone and twice the height of a man. Sharpened stakes bristled from the wall’s outer surface, and a deep ditch running in front of it had been lined with spiked pits. Catapults lined the ramparts, and large numbers of legionaries were on duty night and day. Only one approach had been left, a narrow path that would force any attackers into the point of the ‘V’, where they could be pummelled from both sides.
Watching from a distance, Spartacus had been quietly impressed. If they had to take it, the loss of life among his soldiers would be huge. It would be at less cost than a frontal assault on the flat ground, however. Seven legions were massed on the western side of the toe, near his army, and two guarded the eastern coast. There was no point marching to that point, hoping to overwhelm the enemy defences. Crassus’ scouts, of whom there were many in the area, would pass on the news. Wherever he led his men, thought Spartacus grimly, the Romans would be waiting. Except on the ridge. A single legion held that narrow section.
Trying to shift his thoughts from the bloody images that sprang to mind, he returned his gaze to the sea. Some distance out, a dolphin leaped out of the water. It was followed by another, and another. Soon Spartacus had counted eight. He grinned at their mischievous play, their clear pleasure at swimming together. They are truly free.
At first, the sail that came into sight beyond the dolphins didn’t register.
When it did, Spartacus’ heart leaped. Could the gods have answered his prayers?
Taxacis’ guttural voice broke the silence. ‘A ship!’
‘I see it,’ said Spartacus, keeping his voice calm.
‘Is it . . . merchant?’ asked Atheas.
‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ replied Spartacus. He settled down on his haunches. Perhaps it was because of the dolphins, but he had a good feeling in his belly.
They waited for a long time. No one spoke, but the silence between them was companionable. There was plenty to watch. Drawn by the same shoal of fish as the dolphins, hundreds of gulls swooped and dived over the waves. Successful birds rose in triumph with a fish in their beaks, and screeched indignantly at any of their fellows that tried to steal their catch. Eventually, the vessel drew near enough for its shape to be determined. Spartacus eyed the long, predatory shape with undisguised glee. ‘If that’s a merchantman, my name’s Marcus Licinius Crassus!’
Atheas squinted at him. ‘No. You . . . still ugly . . . as ever.’
Taxacis chortled.
‘It’s not big enough to be a trireme,’ mused Spartacus. ‘It must be a bireme.’
The ship sailed closer to the shore. With increasing excitement, they waited until it was parallel with their position. As Spartacus had thought, there were two sets of oars, one above the other. It had a sharp prow and a typical rounded stern. A large rectangular sail billowed from a central mast. At a rough estimate, there were thirty to forty oarsmen a side. Other figures lined the sides. What drew Spartacus’ attention more than the crew, however, were the weapons on view.
‘Those are catapults on the deck!’ he cried, jumping up and down. ‘Here! Here!’ he roared.
The Scythians copied him, and a moment later, it was clear that they had been seen. A shouted command and the ship hove to. The oars were shipped, and an anchor thrown out. Several men scrambled into the little boat that was tied astern.
Spartacus glanced at Atheas, who was already fingering his sword. ‘Let’s play it friendly. We don’t want to scare them off. You too, Taxacis.’
Taxacis nodded, but Atheas adopted a false hurt expression, which made him look even fiercer. ‘I . . . always friendly!’
For the first time in weeks, Spartacus laughed.
The rowing boat didn’t take long to reach the beach. As soon as it was in the shallows, three of the four heavily armed men within jumped out. Led by a short, dark-skinned figure, they waded ashore. They stopped a short distance away.
‘Well met,’ said Spartacus, his manner amiable.
‘Well met,’ replied the dark-skinned man suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘I could ask the same of you, my friend.’
‘You don’t have three catapults trained on you,’ retorted the pirate.
He didn’t bother checking. ‘Since you spoke first, I will answer. I am Spartacus the Thracian. You may have heard of me.’
The pirate’s composure slipped a little. ‘How can you prove this?’ he demanded. ‘Half the brigands in Italy probably claim the same thing.’
; ‘I have no need to demonstrate who I am. In the next bay sits an army sixty thousand strong. Ask any soldier in it who their leader is.’
The pirate’s manner changed at once. ‘It is an honour to meet you. I am Heracleo. Your messenger – Carbo, was it? – may have spoken of me. We met near Croton some time since.’
‘He did. You were to bring as many ships as you could. You brought but one,’ said Spartacus, showing none of his concern.
‘It was more difficult than I expected to recruit ships. The market at Delos is busier than ever, and all that most captains are concerned with is finding slaves to sell there. The reality of that is easier to believe in than my tale. But do not fear, everything is in order.’ Heracleo flashed a greasy smile. ‘Two captains of my acquaintance operate in this area. I sent word to them, arranging a meeting to the north of here. A couple of days, and I’ll return with at least one trireme and another bireme. Maybe more, if the word has gone out as I’ve hoped.’
Spartacus’ eyes held Heracleo’s for several moments, but the pirate did not look away. The dog is telling the truth, or he’s a damn good liar, he thought. ‘I had hoped for more vessels, but three should suffice. How many soldiers can each ship transport at a time?’
‘For a short crossing like this?’ Heracleo waved dismissively at Sicily. ‘The biremes can carry fifty, perhaps even sixty each. The trireme will take nearly a hundred.’
Spartacus did a quick mental calculation. ‘About a dozen trips should see my men on the other side then.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ agreed Heracleo. A greedy look entered his eyes. ‘And the price—’
‘It remains the same,’ interrupted Spartacus.
‘I was to be paid a hundred and twenty-five thousand denarii when I arrived.’
‘When you arrived with ships. I see only one.’
Heracleo licked his lips. ‘The other captains might need some evidence of your . . . goodwill.’
Spartacus didn’t trust the pirate, but the fact that Heracleo had turned up was a good indicator that he might honour his side of the bargain. It would be politic to keep him sweet. Like it or not, he had far more to lose than Heracleo. ‘You’ve been honourable thus far. As a friendly gesture, I’d be willing to give you twenty thousand denarii more. What captain wouldn’t be persuaded to help when you hand him some of that?’
Heracleo sucked in a breath, considering. Then he was all smiles. ‘Thank you. How soon could—’
‘Wait here. I’ll have a party of my men bring the money at once.’ Heracleo rubbed his hands together and Spartacus gave him a warning look. ‘Play me false, and I’ll hunt you down, even if it takes me the rest of my days. Do you understand?’
‘I will return. You have my word on it.’ Heracleo stuck out his hand.
Pleased, Spartacus accepted the grip. ‘Two days until you return, you say?’
‘Two, maybe three. No more than that.’
‘Good. We’ll be waiting for you here.’
Leaving Maron in the care of the midwife, Ariadne set off through the camp, the wicker basket containing her snake under one arm. Inside, she had carefully placed a small amphora of wine, a little sheaf of wheat and a bunch of grapes. Half a dozen soldiers – protection given her by Spartacus – dogged her footsteps, but they knew well enough to hang back. She didn’t know exactly where to go, but as long as she found solitude, it didn’t matter. Living in the midst of an enormous army felt like dwelling in a city. Ariadne didn’t like it, nor had she grown used to it. The villages in Thrace that she had grown up with contained no more than a few thousand inhabitants. Even Kabyle, the only city, had not been large. There she had prayed to her god in the temple, but had also been able to access wild places. Places where she could almost feel the otherworld, where Dionysus’ voice wasn’t drowned out by the sound of people.
More than anything, Ariadne longed for guidance. It had been too long since she felt the certainty of the god’s will in her actions. Spartacus’ purpose seemed as implacable as ever, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t also making mistakes. Since his return from Rome, they had resolved their differences, but there was a faint distance between them that hadn’t been there before. Spartacus sought out her opinion less than he had; she asked fewer questions about what he was doing.
For her, the root of it was the resentment that she still felt towards him for choosing his army over her and Maron. Ariadne had always tried to deny the feeling, but like the weeds that spring up between flagstones, it kept returning. She wanted direction not just on the best course to choose for the army, but the best one for her. Should she try to resolve her differences with Spartacus or would it be easier to do the unthinkable and walk away?
Ariadne stumbled as her sandal caught against a stone. She looked up, noticing with surprise that she had left the camp behind her and was standing at the foot of the rocky slope that led up to Scylla’s cave. An image of the monster popped into her mind, and she shuddered. She had seen the mouth of the cavern from the beach below. It was all too easy to imagine each of Scylla’s long necks darting out to seize unsuspecting fishermen, sailors or dolphins. Only a fool would look inside and see whether the legend was true. Ariadne was about to go somewhere else, but she stopped. She hadn’t been watching where she was walking. This was where her feet had led her. Who was she to turn away? Dionysus might have guided her here.
Steeling her nerves, she began to climb.
‘Where are you going?’ The nervous voice of one of her guards.
‘Where does it look like?’
‘It’s not safe up there. Please, come down.’
A mischievous mood seized Ariadne. ‘Are you frightened?’
‘N-no, of course not.’
She scanned their faces. Not one was happy; most seemed scared. ‘Stay here if you will.’
‘But Spartacus said that you were not to be left alone.’
‘I know what he said.’ Ariadne began climbing again. Hampered by her basket, she moved slowly.
The guard tried again. ‘He would not want you to visit the cave.’
‘I am my own mistress,’ retorted Ariadne, without looking back. ‘I do what I choose. No one is stopping you from accompanying me.’
She ignored the argument that began behind her. After a while, she glanced around. Just one of her guards, the man who’d protested, was following her. The rest were huddled at the bottom of the slope like a group of frightened sheep. She wasn’t surprised. Superstition ruled the minds of most men. If she, a priestess of Dionysus, was scared, then ordinary soldiers would be plain terrified of walking into the cave of a legendary monster. She set her jaw, forced herself to breathe, her legs to keep moving. With every step, she felt more confident that she was supposed to do this.
The view of the straits and of Sicily grew even more impressive as she climbed. Sunlight glittered off the water, turning it into a giant mirror, which meant that she missed the bireme setting out from the beach where Spartacus had been. Her eyes searched the south, but the haze prevented her from any sight of the famous volcano, Mount Aetna, whose eruptions were attributed to a fearsome giant who lived deep underneath it. Soon, she told herself, she would have the opportunity to see it with her own eyes.
Before Ariadne knew it, she had reached the top of the headland, which was covered in scrubby vegetation. A narrow trail beckoned. She wasn’t surprised when the lone soldier came to a halt. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder.
He gave her a nervous nod.
The man was probably as worried about what Spartacus would do to him afterwards as whether Scylla might eat him, she thought with a hint of amusement. There was no need for her husband to know, though. If she didn’t tell him, her guards surely wouldn’t.
The path meandered as it passed through the vegetation. Here and there, she could make out the print of a sandal in the dirt. She took heart. People had been here before, perhaps to make offerings in return for safe passage on the waters below. Her idea was confirmed as
she reached the cliff top and saw a makeshift altar of stones. Miniature amphorae, votive lamps, coins and small cakes were arranged in front of it. Just a few steps beyond, a dizzying precipice overlooked the deep blue sea.
Ariadne was careful not to go too near. A gust of wind might carry her over the edge. There was a perilously narrow trail down to the cave itself, but she wasn’t about to start trying to climb down to it. That would be a step too far. Tempting the gods, as if it she hadn’t tempted them enough in the recent past. No, this was the right place to seek guidance.
Laying her basket on the ground, she knelt before the shrine. First, to placate the creature whose territory this was. Great Scylla, she prayed, I ask for your forgiveness in even approaching your home. I do so with reverence, and with great respect. Next, she opened her basket. At once, the snake raised its head. She spoke reassuringly to it, and it allowed her to lift out the amphora, wheat and grapes. Ariadne was so eager to present her gifts that she neglected to fasten the basket shut. ‘Scylla, I offer you wine in acknowledgement of your power and your right to prey on those who pass by this point.’ Removing the stopper, she poured a stream of wine on to the ground. The ruby liquid soaked into the earth, leaving only a stain behind. ‘Accept this libation as a mark of my veneration. I also pray that you are not angered by my speaking to a god here.’ Lowering the amphora, Ariadne closed her eyes and waited. Her ears filled with the whistle of the wind, the occasional screech of a gull and, from far below, the crash of the waves against the rocks at the cliff’s base.
A little time passed, and there was no response. No monster had appeared to devour her; the ground had not opened up beneath her feet. The wine had been accepted, Ariadne decided. Hopefully, that also meant that Scylla did not object to her asking Dionysus for help. She opened her eyes again. Taking the sheaf in one hand and the grapes in the other, she gazed up at the sky. ‘Dionysus, I am always your humble servant, even when it does not appear so. Of late, I have not spent enough time honouring you. Having given birth to a child is no excuse. I beg for your understanding and your forgiveness. I bring you tokens of my devotion, objects that I know you find pleasing.’ With great care, she laid the wheat and grapes on the ground before her.
