Bolmios snapped his large eyes from one face to another, comical in his scrutiny of those nearby. And then he dropped the expression. “Then let’s drink! Look, I brought wine if you don’t have any. We drink, and tomorrow we go there!” He pointed at Sicily. Today it was only a hazy outline in the mist, but it was no farther away than it was on clear days. “This wind will take us across. I know this wind. It won’t abandon us. More likely than not, you’ll be ill during the crossing. Right, Greek? We may as well have a good night to show for it.”
So they did. Amid blazing fires built up on the beach and toasting the morrow. It was a night that would come back to Philon in a scrambled collage of wine-splashed memories. Casting down his winter tunic and lying on it, eating just-roasted pork so hot he needed quick fingers to handle it. Skaris dancing naked to a fast rhythm beat out on some sort of drum, drunk, his dance impressive mostly for how dangerous it was, so near the fires, him teetering as if to fall into the flames at any moment, but always just managing not to. Bolmios telling tales of Verres’s follies that had them laughing until their bellies ached. Somebody blasting obscene notes on a horn, not music but more like the mating calls of some beast of old. Young, fool soldiers, lighting fire arrows and shooting them high into the sky, watching the pinpoint glow of them ascend, slow, turn, and then speed downward as even greater fools rushed to snatch them before they hit the earth.
A night of fools, Philon had thought. A glorious night of fools.
—
Sitting with Bolmios in the semiopen shelter at the stern of the ship, Philon asks, “What’s happened?” The waves rock him sickeningly. He needs to understand what has changed between the glorious night and this morning, which is wrong in ways he doesn’t have a grasp of yet. He doesn’t even have the shape of the questions he needs to ask. He feels them floating in the air, behind his head, unseen but ready to taunt. He just knows that things are not as they should be. He gasps, “Tell me what’s happened.”
Bolmios hands him a wineskin. Philon holds it a moment, until he understands what it is. He drops it to the deck. “You may want it,” the pirate says, “when you hear what I have to tell you.”
“Are we crossing? How could I have missed parting? You let me do that?” And then, after a pause in which he feels certain that none of those questions can be answered sensibly, he adds, “I don’t understand.”
“What’s happened is that I’ve saved your life.” The pirate says this in a surly tone, frowning like a parent addressing an ungrateful child. “You should thank me, but I bet you won’t see things as they are. You’re going to be stubborn, aren’t you?”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Look.” Bolmios points over the stern railing.
Philon doesn’t want to look, sure that the rolling swells out there will bring the sick up and out of him. The pirate takes him by the chin and turns his head. For a moment the scene is a sickening confusion. He grabs for the rail, slams it against his chest, and hurls vomit toward the churning water behind the boat.
Bolmios pats his back, a gesture that, from him, seems incongruously gentle. “Get it out. Get it out. You’ll need the space when you start drinking again.”
When Philon finally stops heaving and lifts his head, Bolmios says, “Now look again. See my fleet. We’re sailing for home.”
This time Philon makes out the other ships. Some near. Some far in the distance, hidden and revealed as they rise and fall on the waves. All of them sailing in the same direction as the vessel they’re on. That much is fine, but he can see the coast of Sicily, and they’re not turned toward it. He can see the coastline of what must be Italy, but it’s farther away than before, the distance between the two shores twice what it had been the night before.
“Sit down.” Bolmios guides the Greek back from the railing, pushing him, again gently, back onto the stool. Lifting the skin from the deck, he presses it into Philon’s hands. “Drink. It’ll fight back the sickness. Trust me.”
Before he properly thinks it through, Philon pulls the clip from the lip of the skin and drinks. The wine goes down more easily than he would’ve imagined. He runs a hand over his forehead, wiping away the hair sticking to his sweaty skin. “Just tell me plainly.”
This time the pirate does. “I had no intention of taking the gladiators to Sicily. Last night, in the dark hours, we pulled out. Took the chest and rowed back to our boats. We sailed before the dawn. The wine had been spiked, you see, to make it stronger.”
“Why?”
“To make a fortune, that’s why. If someone will pay you a fortune to do something, it’s good. If another party will pay you a fortune to do nothing, that’s better. If both parties will pay you, that’s too divine an offer to refuse. I didn’t.”
“Who paid you?”
“Spartacus. But before him, Verres. He paid me well, my friend. It was easy for him; he had only to grab it from the poor bastards he governs. He is quite free with money that’s not his.”
Philon takes another long draft from the skin. He isn’t feeling nearly as confused, sick, or drunk anymore. Instead, he’s feeling the swell of clarity, with a great weight of anger fast behind it. “Verres? You betrayed us to Verres?”
“Not to Verres. He wanted that, but that would’ve been a messy business. Can you see me trying to hand those gladiators over to the Romans? Not easy work. No. Better just to take their coin and leave. No crossing. No invasion. Verres paid me for that.” He lets that sit a moment and then adds, “I’m rich now. Do I look different because of it?”
Philon stares at him, each breath hardening him.
“You will be angry now, but you’ll forgive me.”
Philon thinks of Spartacus and Skaris, Gaidres and Drenis and the Germani, standing there on the shore, staring out at a fleet receding into the distance. The thought brings tears to his eyes. He doesn’t even try to disguise them. “He was going to take the island! You son of a—”
“Maybe. It’s possible, I’ll admit. He could take it, but hold it? Never. The Romans would have come, eventually, and would have destroyed him. That’s what’s going to happen. No matter what, Spartacus cannot win this. The contest is rigged against him. He’s smart, but I think he believes that being better than other men counts for more than it actually does.”
“Turn around. Take me back. I’ll—”
“You think?” The idea amuses the pirate. “You want me to go back and stand before Spartacus. Before Skaris, yeah? And say what? ‘Just joking. Here, come now, let’s go get Sicily!’ No, that can’t happen. It’s done. Face it.”
Philon sits there, wineskin in hand, swaying with the rocking of the boat. He feels ready to explode. Dangerously so, like brittle grass long dried in the summer sun. Touch a flame to him, and nothing will stop him. There are shouts ready to burst from him. There are punches ready in the flex of his hands. He’ll get his hands around Bolmios’s neck and squeeze until his eyes pop out. He’ll hurl him over the deck, screaming so fiercely that leviathans will come to his call and devour the pirate. He’s on the verge of all of this, but there are other things that need to be aired as well. He says, “I believed in you.”
“First you didn’t. Then you did. I know. But you wouldn’t have, if things hadn’t gotten all mangled in Syracuse. That was all a roll of chance that came up in my favor. When I dropped you there, I didn’t sail on. I met with representatives of Verres to make our agreement. We did, but some fools at the garrison got word of us and gave the orders to have you captured. Me as well. That’s when things went ass up. Nearly got us all killed because of it. I got us away, though. Except for Kastor. My agreement with Verres was still binding, no matter what some stupid fucks tried to do. And you changed your opinion of me.”
“But I believed in you,” Philon says. “I told Spartacus you were true.”
The pirate sighs, ridges an eyebrow. “Aye, I know it. That’s why I couldn’t leave you.”
“Why didn’t you? Leave me. Leave me now. Ta
ke me near the shore. I’ll swim.”
“And what, go back to the Risen and explain it all? Chances are someone, seeing you, would split you open before you said a word on your behalf.”
“Because you took me against my will!”
“No, because I betrayed them, and you are the perfect person to blame.” Bolmios pulls on his nose with his fingers. “I like you. Kastor, I liked him too. Spartacus as well. Who wouldn’t like him? Ones like him don’t come along everyday. If I could’ve profited and helped him win his war, I would’ve. The Risen have done wonders! Truly, they screwed the Romans and it’s been music to my ears. But it will end badly. These Romans never admit defeat. They didn’t when that Greek, Pyrrhus, beat the crap out of them. They didn’t when Hannibal owned all of Italy for years. They didn’t even accept their fate after Cannae! If they didn’t bow down to those men who were giants, they won’t bow before Spartacus either. So I could not do what Spartacus wished. And I could not save Kastor from that arrow. But I can do something for you.”
“You’ve destroyed me.”
“No, I offer you life. That’s why you have a decision to make.”
“You’ve taken all my decisions from me.”
“Gods, you’re such a Greek! I know you would rather have stayed! You’re in love with Spartacus. You’d die for him. I know, I know. But”—his face looks pained from the difficulty of finding the right words—“I thought maybe, someday, when you can look back, you’d be glad that I did this. Philon, I’ve saved you from certain death. Enslavement. Torture. I’ve taken away those things, and I’m giving you something even Spartacus never can have. Tell me where you want to go. Greece. North Africa. Illyria. My own country—Cilicia. I know all these places. I will take you there. I’ll have papers drawn up for you. Free papers, Philon. Without them, you’ll ever be a slave. That brand on your arm. It’s not going anywhere. You’re a slave so long as you have that arm swinging at your side. You need papers to explain it. I’ll buy them for you. You’ll be able to live someplace quietly. You’re a medicus; practice your trade. Live to hear the news, not to be it. This is what I offer you.” He rises, steps out of the shelter, and looks at whatever is happening on the deck ahead of them.
“Why?” Philon asks. “Why destroy me this way, then offer freedom? Why?”
“Because I want you to have been right to mistrust me at the start, and I want you to have been right to trust me later. Both. Does that make sense? To me it does. Accept what I offer. Control your guilt. Think about where you want to go. What you want to do. If it’s in my power, I’ll give it to you. As I said, I’m a rich man now. And you are my friend.”
He walks away. Philon sits feeling the movement of the ship, smelling the salt brush across him in the spray, hearing the voices of the ship’s crew. He wishes he weren’t here. If he had it in his power, he’d go back to the beach and rejoin Spartacus. He’d explain everything. He’d drop to his knees and beg to be forgiven. If he had it in his power, he would go to whatever destiny awaited them all. Who does he owe more than Spartacus?
No one. No one. No one.
He looks out at the fleet pressing through the waves behind him. Again he thinks, No one.
But he’s not sure it’s true.
Castus
Castus pulls the hair on top of his head up and binds it with a leather thong. It’s finally long enough to do so, and it makes him feel more Germani, more as he’d been when he was young and knew only the world he’d been born into. The sides and back of his head are shaved, recently enough that he feels the cool touch of the breeze on his sensitive skin. He makes himself look at ease, as a leader should. In his head, though, he reaches for his god.
Wodanaz, help us do this thing, he prays. Not all these men know you, but I do. I swear to you, these men have become brothers to me. Look at them, and you will see warriors worthy of you. Steady our vessels. If you do, we will take boats from Sicily and use them. Many more will cross, and then we will offer souls to you. A great sacrifice of Roman souls, all to honor you. We don’t need pirates. We have courage enough to do this, with your blessing.
He’s speaking of the crossing that they’ve been preparing since the day the pirates sailed away. A week of work, of scavenging and thievery. They looked to the local fishermen, offering them pay for the service that the pirates had spurned. They refused. So the Risen began to take what boats they could from up and down the coast. These weren’t many, though. Word of what they were doing spread among the locals. Most of them took their vessels to sea and kept them out of the Risen’s reach. Spartacus ordered their homes burned for this, but that did nothing to bring them back. He ordered the villagers rounded up in great numbers and held captive, but the boats didn’t return. Some men, it seems, prefer their boats to their homes, and sea nymphs to their wives and children.
No matter, Spartacus said. They would make do with skiffs and rowboats. They could make those vessels work for them. The shock and surprise on Sicily would be all the greater. They scavenged from derelict crafts, ripped planks of wood from barns and fences and villagers’ homes. They went inland and chopped down trees and carried them back. Those who knew boats drew diagrams in the sand, instructions for how to lash smaller vessels together to make larger, stabler rafts. They created a cobbled-together flotilla much more motley than the one Bolmios had teased them with. But, Spartacus said, wasn’t that as it should be? Weren’t they themselves a motley, cobbled-together army? And were they not strong despite it? He made it sound as if this were his chosen course, his first plan, and not a scramble after a setback.
Castus almost believes him. He certainly wants to believe him, but he’s begun to feel something he hasn’t ever felt in connection to Spartacus before. Doubt.
—
It started with a glance he wished he hadn’t taken. Just a glance.
A few days earlier Castus rode his mare. She was solid, warm, and strong beneath him, her hooves clopping on the stones of the road, making discordant music with the other horses. The day was crisp, the air damp with the rain that had fallen through the night. Along with him: Gannicus and Goban, Ullio, Gaidres and Drenis and Skaris. They were accompanying Spartacus. They moved north along the Via Popilia, following a handful of scouts who had ridden in that morning, bringing with them a Roman soldier who claimed to have deserted his army. A dark, wiry little man who looked familiar, though all Romans looked alike to Castus. Spartacus would question this deserter later.
First, though, the scouts wanted to show them something, some sort of fortification, Castus gleaned, that they needed to see. Apparently Crassus had been doing something while the Risen had been intent on Sicily. It would be good to know what. Castus had found the Roman’s apparent lack of interest in their efforts impossible to understand. Why wasn’t Crassus pressing them? Offering battle? He hadn’t even seemed interested in the fate of his own captured soldiers. Late in the fall, Spartacus had sent one of the prisoners, a man of high birth, to the Romans bearing the message that he was willing to release the nobles among them back to Rome. He offered to come to an agreement wherein they traded prisoners from any future engagements. The legion that destroyed Crixus had taken no prisoners. They’d just killed every man, woman, or child they captured. Shouldn’t they, in future, both behave with more restraint than that? Apparently not. The messenger returned with Crassus’s refusal. No explanation or counteroffer. Just a refusal.
“What do you think this fortification is?” Gannicus asked. He rode beside Castus, the two of them near the others but not part of the conversation they were having. “A fort?”
Castus shrugged. A midsize dog trotted along with them, weaving through the horses as if he thought himself one of them. “We’ll soon see.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Gannicus didn’t sound happy about it. “Look at us. The commander and his senior officers. We are a smaller group than we were.”
“There’s no need to talk about it,” Castus said, curtly enough that he hoped Gannicus
would leave off the topic. Indeed, they were a smaller group than before. No Crixus or Bricca. Oenomaus was a distant memory. There was no Kastor or Nico, and Dolmos wasn’t with them either. He would be sitting, mute, back in the camp. Likely he would be agitated at being out of sight of Spartacus. That was the one thing that seemed to bring up emotion in him. It would have been better if the blow to the back of his head had killed him. That way it would’ve been a warrior’s death. Pity that this was denied him.
One of the scouts pointed ahead, at plumes of smoke in the sky to the north. “See? It’s like that everywhere. All throughout the south.”
“It’s the Romans’ doing?” Skaris asked.
The scout nodded. His name, Castus recalled, was Hustus. He was one of the shepherds from Vesuvius. He was little more than a boy, but he’d grown into his body and into this new role. Though he was not Germani, he wore his hair in a Germani style quite similar to Castus’s, but with dark hair instead of blond. He spoke with a confidence beyond his years. “They do it whether the people protest or not. Burn everything. Destroy what they can. Everywhere we saw deserted villages, storehouses burned or emptied. Animals were either absent, or they’d been slaughtered and left rotting on the road.”
“Even olive groves were not spared,” another youth said, then seemed embarrassed by his statement.
“They shat in wells,” Hustus went on. “They clogged streams with the corpses of livestock. They slit their bellies to corrupt the water. Everything that can be eaten or drunk has either been removed or tainted. It’s as if they hate their own people.”
“It’s us they hate,” Spartacus said. “Did you have encounters with Roman horsemen?”
“They tried to catch us,” Hustus boasted, “but couldn’t. We’re faster.”
“You’re lighter,” Skaris teased, poking a finger at the scout’s shoulder. “You’re no weight at all on your mount.”
The Risen Page 41