by Ben Kane
‘Are you still planning to run away?’ jibed Crixus.
If he’d been like this in the ludus, I never would have got the prick to agree to join us, Spartacus reflected, forcing himself to remain calm. All he needed was the chance to prove himself in battle. Now that he’s done that, men are prepared to follow him. But bravery only gets a soldier so far. Crixus has no tactical sense that I’ve seen. Out loud, he said, ‘I want to defeat Varinius too.’
Crixus’ brows lowered. ‘Have you come to your senses then?’
‘It’s what I’ve always aimed for,’ said Spartacus. ‘Just not right now.’
‘You want to wait. To move to another camp.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me how that’s not running away,’ cried Crixus. And he was off, ranting how he and his men would wreak havoc on the local countryside; how they would annihilate Varinius and his cowardly troops; how they didn’t need Spartacus and his snake-in-the-grass Roman friends. Soon Castus added his voice to the tirade. The pair were encouraged by the vigorous noises of approval made by the watching Gaulish gladiators. Gannicus stood watching the performance, his eyes as beady as an old vulture’s.
Carbo began to grow despondent. He’d known something of the rivalries between the various leaders, but he’d never guessed that it was this bad. To his surprise and disappointment, Spartacus said nothing. He just listened.
At last Crixus’ outburst came to an end. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ he asked Spartacus acidly.
Castus snickered.
That’s it, thought Carbo. It’s over. They’ll leave. The army will fragment. Varinius will have no problem crushing us.
Bizarrely, Spartacus smiled. ‘I’ve got one simple question for you, Crixus.’
Crixus’ top lip peeled back with contempt. ‘What?’
‘How many legionaries do you think Varinius has left?’
‘Eh? What do I care?’
‘How many?’ demanded Spartacus.
‘I don’t know.’ Crixus gave a casual shrug. ‘Three thousand? Three and a half thousand?’
‘A man arrived yesterday who’d been a body slave to one of Varinius’ senior officers.’ Spartacus was pleased to see Gannicus and Castus stiffen. Even Crixus’ face changed. Didn’t know that, did you? ‘He has close to four and a half thousand legionaries.’
‘A thousand extra troops will make no difference. Nor will fifteen hundred,’ blustered Crixus. ‘They’ll run just as fast as the rest.’
Time to spring the trap. ‘If you leave, how many men will follow you?’
‘Two and a half thousand, give or take,’ Crixus replied proudly.
‘And you, Castus?’
‘About the same.’
‘I know that approximately two thousand answer to you, Gannicus.’ He turned back to Crixus. ‘How many of your lot are ready to stand up to legionaries in open combat?’
Crixus’ expression grew thunderous.
‘Come on, you must have an idea. Every good general knows the disposition of his forces,’ cajoled Spartacus.
‘Less than half,’ Crixus muttered.
‘If that,’ retorted Spartacus sharply. ‘The same applies to your followers, Castus, or I’m no judge of a soldier.’
Castus glowered but did not reply.
Carbo’s spirits rose. Spartacus is a genius!
Spartacus caught first Crixus’ eye, and then that of Castus. He ignored Gannicus. I’ll pretend he’s with me, even if he isn’t. ‘So you’re going to take on Varinius and the guts of a legion with fewer than three thousand fighting men?’
‘So what if I am?’ snapped Crixus, going red.
‘Fair enough.’ Spartacus’ tone was light. Carbo ducked his head to hide his grin. Crixus had been made out to be at best a braggart, and at worst a fool. ‘Have you thought about whether Varinius might attack the camp?’ Spartacus went on.
Crixus gave a confident laugh. ‘After all we’ve done to them, they’re too shit scared to try.’
‘Maybe so,’ admitted Spartacus. ‘I think Varinius might feel differently, however, when he hears that more than ten thousand men have left with me and Gannicus.’ Great Rider, help me now. Let him have heard my words.
‘Gannicus?’ Crixus’ growl was furious. ‘You’re coming with us, aren’t you?’
Gannicus tugged at his moustache, but when he spoke his tone was crisp. ‘I’m not so sure it’s a wise idea to break up the army at the moment.’
Hit Crixus with it now, thought Spartacus savagely. ‘Imagine four and a half thousand legionaries storming the camp. They’ll have catapults and bolt throwers to soften you up beforehand too. Will your men withstand that?’
Crixus’ face twisted with anger. He glanced at Castus, who now looked most unhappy, and then his eyes slid back to Spartacus. ‘I’m not running away!’
‘No one said anything about running away. Look, I know how brave you all are. Unless they’re deaf, dumb and blind, so does every damn man in the camp.’ At this, Gannicus and Castus grinned; Crixus’ mouth was still an unhappy gash, but he didn’t interrupt. Thank the Rider for that much. ‘Remember, I want to defeat Varinius too. Our followers are brave, but they’re slaves, not soldiers. Even the rawest legionary recruit is more than a match for the vast majority of our men. Our successes thus far have been thanks to the element of surprise. Varinius is no fool. He won’t fall into the same traps again. That’s not to say we can’t beat him. But we need more time to train the men. More weapons, or iron for the smiths to work. More food. You’ve seen how little remains in the way of provisions,’ Spartacus warned. ‘If we’re not to be crushed by Varinius, or die of starvation, we need to act.’
Gannicus spoke first. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘We give Varinius the slip. Head south, to where it’s warmer. Locate a secure camp, in a place where we can find enough supplies.’
‘We’ll need wine and women too.’
‘We will,’ agreed Spartacus, knowing that was a reality he had to live with. ‘Let’s spend the winter training and preparing for battle. In the spring, we’ll track down Varinius and his men, and put them to the sword.’ He glanced casually at Gannicus.
‘I’m with you!’
Castus said nothing. He eyed Crixus, who was chewing a fingernail.
‘You’ll give me your word about killing Varinius?’ Crixus rumbled.
‘I will.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll stay until then,’ said Crixus grudgingly.
‘Castus?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Me too. But there’d better be plenty of women.’
Can you do anything but think with your prick? Spartacus wondered. Out loud, he said, ‘I’m sure there will.’
They gripped arms to fasten the deal. In the background, Carbo grinned from ear to ear.
Spartacus allowed himself a brittle smile. He had done better than he’d expected to. The army would remain together for the moment.
Sooner or later, however, a split was inevitable.
That night, in what had become their daily custom, Carbo and Chloris retired to their tent as darkness fell. The urgency of their physical union was still undimmed. Whether Chloris was faking her desire for him, Carbo could not be sure, but he was certainly not acting. He could not get enough of her. Afterwards, they talked for an age. Lying under a thick layer of blankets with her, their limbs entwined, Carbo felt huge relief. Having Chloris around had removed a logjam from the dammed river of his conversation. Since the pox, he had lost all confidence in talking to anyone of the opposite sex. Now, he couldn’t shut up. He wanted Chloris to know everything about him. He’d told her what had happened to his family, and of Crassus’ involvement. How he’d not seen Paccius or his parents for months. Mentioning them again, he glanced into Chloris’ dark eyes, seeing a pain there that he had not previously noticed. Guilt filled him. ‘I’m sorry. At least I have some chance of seeing them again, whereas your father and mother…’
‘Are dead, yes. Nothing can be done about that.
’
‘Yet you must wish to return to Greece. To find your younger brother.’
She ignored what he’d said. ‘I like listening to you talk. Your voice is soothing.’ She traced his features with a finger.
Screamingly conscious of the pockmarks pitting his cheeks, he looked away.
‘You’re very handsome,’ she murmured, lifting a hand and turning his face to hers again.
Carbo still couldn’t meet her gaze.
‘I thought that the first time I saw you strip off in the ludus. Good-looking, with a nice body.’ She reached down to his prick and chuckled in her throat. ‘I found that this was the best bit, though.’
Her touch made him stiffen, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘And my scars?’
‘They give you character.’ She laid a blanket of kisses on his cheeks. ‘They’re part of you and you are a good man.’
She was concealing something from him, thought Carbo. He did not know what, however, and as she rolled on top of him, all coherent thought left his head.
Three weeks went by, and Spartacus had put the confrontation with the Gauls from the front of his mind. Instead it lingered in the recesses of his memory like a bad smell over an open sewer. Overall, however, things had gone well. Varinius had been neatly tricked on the night that he and the army had withdrawn from Glaber’s old encampment. Spartacus had insisted on meticulous planning beforehand. Patrols sent out in the late afternoon had scoured the area to make sure that there were no legionaries spying on the camp. Then, under the cover of darkness, their sentries at the front gate had been replaced by corpses dressed in mail and armed with bent or useless swords. By the light of dozens of campfires, every last tent had been taken down and packed, along with other heavy equipment such as Pulcher’s anvils, on to hundreds of mules. In the hour before midnight, every man, woman and child had filed away, eastwards, to the towering Picentini Mountains.
Everyone but Carbo, who was armed with a captured Roman trumpet.
It had been a dangerous duty to volunteer for, but Carbo had been most insistent. Seeing the burning desire in his eyes, Spartacus had acquiesced. The young Roman’s job had been to stay awake all night, listening out for the enemy. At dawn he was to sound his instrument, in mockery of Rome’s customary way of waking its soldiers, and wait to see what happened next.
Spartacus smiled at the memory of Carbo’s report. It had been a real morale booster for everyone to discover that some two hours later, when Varinius had become aware that the rebels’ camp was far quieter than normal, he had not dared to send a patrol to search it. Instead, one of his newly arrived cavalry units had ridden to the top of a nearby hill to look down on it from a height. Disconcerted by the slaves’ disappearance, Varinius had withdrawn his forces to the north-west. Rather than having to creep away from the camp, Carbo had simply trotted after the slave host. Delighted by his report, Spartacus had called for a gathering that night. ‘That’s how respectful the bastards are of us now,’ he had cried to the thousands who had assembled to hear him speak. ‘They are too damn scared even to come after us!’ In the rousing cheer that met his words, he hadn’t been surprised to be challenged by Crixus again.
‘If the shitbags are that frightened, why in hell’s name aren’t we pursuing them?’ he’d growled.
‘Varinius fearing us is a good thing,’ Spartacus had replied robustly. ‘But it does not mean that we would win an open fight with him. In addition to his legionaries, he has four hundred cavalry. We have none. None! Imagine what those horsemen would do if they came hammering in to our rear in the midst of a battle. Have you ever seen a cavalry charge strike an unprepared enemy?’ Crixus had glowered then, because everyone present had known that only Spartacus had witnessed such a thing. It had shut the Gaul up, though. ‘They smash the formation into smithereens! It’s like watching a gust of wind pick up a pile of leaves and scatter it to the four ends of the earth. The fight would be lost with that one strike.’ No one had argued any further, which had pleased Spartacus. Of course, his approach wouldn’t work forever, but his dire prediction had at least ensured that their forces had moved out of harm’s way. Varinius’ cavalry would be useless on steep mountainsides.
Besides, he’d withdrawn to the safety of Cumae, a city some twenty-five miles from Vesuvius. The rebels had therefore reached the Picentini Mountains without incident, and had made a temporary camp for several nights. Meanwhile, guided by Carbo, five hundred handpicked men under Gannicus had raided the town of Nola. They had returned in triumph to the accolades of their comrades, with enough grain to feed everyone for two weeks, as well as large quantities of warm clothing and footwear and close to a thousand new recruits. An attack on the town of Nuceria had yielded similar returns. Carbo had been elated by their success. It was remarkable, he realised, that his new vocation troubled him less and less. Yet the idea of becoming a lawyer now seemed positively laughable. Life with Spartacus was dangerous, but Carbo had authority, the respect of his comrades and last but not least, he had Chloris.
With enough supplies to last for a month or more, the entire army had headed south. It was guided by slaves who had worked as shepherds locally. These men kept the host at altitude because enduring the harsh weather of autumn was preferable to encountering any Roman troops. Yet, apart from the inhabitants of the small farming settlement of Abella, who had been surprised in their fields, the only company the slaves had had since was that of the creatures that lived in the forested mountains. Eagles and vultures that hung on the air overhead, surveying the long column with lofty disdain. Small birds that chattered angrily from the safety of trees at the invaders of their territory. Wolves that howled their mournful cries at dusk every night, adding to the sense of isolation and freedom. Deer and wild boar that hid from sight, leaving only their trail as evidence of their existence. Bears and lynxes lived here too, but they were only occasionally sighted by the scouts.
Spartacus had counted himself fortunate to see one lynx with his own eyes. It was a magnificent male, which had stood quite still when it had spotted him, regarding him for several moments from its slitted yellow eyes. It was the gently moving tufts on the tops of its ears that had told him it was not a statue, carved by a genius or a god. And then it had vanished, simply melting away into the undergrowth.
That is how we shall be to the Romans, thought Spartacus with some satisfaction. They will never know we’re there, unless we want them to.
Two days before, they had crossed the River Silarus, using a little-known ford instead of the bridge on the Via Annia, the main road south to Rhegium. Since it lay near to the paved way with its heavy traffic, Spartacus had sent the two Scythians ahead to watch it day and night. By the time he arrived, they had been monitoring it for the guts of a week. They had seen neither hide nor hair of an enemy soldier. Spartacus had promptly convened with the other leaders. For once, they had come to a unanimous decision: to travel on the Via Annia. Moving much faster than previously, they had swept through the long, narrow plain that was the Campus Atinas, a fertile upland valley fed by the River Tanager. All travellers on the road and inhabitants of the large latifundia on either side of it had been freed, seized, or killed. No one in Forum Annii, the town they were aiming for, could be aware of their presence.
Until we walk into their houses, empty their storehouses, free their slaves. And kill them.
Spartacus had wanted to leave all this behind when he left the Roman army. But it was not to be. Fate had stepped in when Kotys had played him false, and Phortis had taken him to Italy and the ludus in Capua. Then a god had sent him a dream about a snake. Who was he to ignore such an opportunity when it was placed in his path? And yet — as in life — it was not quite that simple. Innocents always died.
Spartacus glanced around. The tree line to either side of him was packed with hundreds — no, thousands — of spectral figures. Everyone fit to bear arms was here. Even some of the women were to take part. He could sense the slaves’ hunger, could reach out an
d touch it. The staring faces, the tightly gripped weapons, the fierce whispering reminded him of similar ambushes that he had taken part in, a lifetime ago in Thrace. The men were like starving wolves, about to fall on a flock of unsuspecting sheep in the fold. Except their prey was not animal, but human.
Spartacus stared down bleakly at the empty Via Annia, which was coated by thin tendrils of morning mist. It led through recently ploughed fields for perhaps a quarter of a mile to the jumble of red-tiled roofs that was Forum Annii. He watched the trickles of smoke rising from fires that had been kept in overnight. Listened to the crowing of cocks in petulant rivalry with each other, and the fierce barking of dogs that know they will never have to back up their threats to each other. Not a figure moved in the fields below Spartacus’ position, or on the streets of the town. Not a voice could be heard. It was incredibly tranquil. Peaceful, even beautiful. And so very similar to the village in Thrace that he had once called home.
His jaw clenched. That will soon change.
At dawn, Spartacus had spoken to the other leaders about the need for restraint. The need to limit the amount of rape and killing that would go on once their attack on Forum Annii began. His words had fallen if not on deaf ears, then on ears that would no longer listen.
‘My men have been marching for more than three stinking weeks,’ Crixus had snarled. ‘It’s been cold and damp and miserable. All they’ve had to fill their bellies is porridge and bread that’s been burned over a fire. Now we’ve reached somewhere that is completely undefended. There isn’t a legionary for fifty miles. My lads want meat and wine. They want beds and women to fuck in them. All of those things are lying down there in Forum Annii, and I’m not going to deny them the pleasure of having the lot. No one is.’ A tiny, challenging smile had traced its way across Crixus’ lips.
