by Ben Kane
Gannicus cracked a sour smile by way of agreement; his moon face was less jovial that usual.
‘I couldn’t tell a Falernian from donkey piss most of the time, but if one thing’s certain, every bloody drop taken from the Romans tastes like nectar!’ Castus swigged from the amphora and tossed it back. ‘To be fair, that does have good flavour.’
Gannicus’ irritated expression eased. ‘I told you so.’
‘Look at us! We who were slaves, gladiators, the lowest of the low, living like kings!’ Castus’ wave incorporated the grand Roman tent that he’d insisted his men take from Gellius’ camp, and the glittering gilt standards that had been stabbed into the earth before it. ‘If that prick Gellius wasn’t so scrawny, I’d be wearing his armour too!’
Gannicus laughed. ‘It’s quite something to own the breastplate of a Roman consul, eh? Even if it doesn’t fit!’
‘I wish I’d taken it from his corpse,’ growled Castus. ‘Next time the dog won’t be so lucky.’
‘If he has the balls to come back for another bout.’
They sat and savoured the memories of their victory, which had come in no small part from their own personal bravery.
‘That was a fine spectacle that Spartacus put on earlier,’ said Castus in a grudging voice.
‘True. The men loved it.’
‘He’s got such a way with them, damn his eyes.’ Castus didn’t try to hide his jealousy. Gannicus knew how he felt about the Thracian. So too did the few warriors, Gauls all, who lounged nearby. ‘Time was that being courageous in battle and able to drink any other man under the table was good enough, eh?’
‘That and being able to hump a woman all night long,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘That’s why you and I have got to where we are. And we’ve done well! Thousands of men are loyal to each of us.’
‘Not nearly as many as are devoted to Spartacus,’ Castus retorted. ‘Did you see him fight today? He’s fearless, and skilled with it. The prick is a good general too. Tricking Lentulus into leading his army through the defile was a masterstroke. It’s no surprise that they fucking love him.’ His reddened face twisted with the bitterness of the man who knows he is lesser.
‘What I don’t like is the way he expects us to do what he wants. He used to ask our opinion. Now he just does whatever he pleases,’ said Gannicus, brooding.
‘That might be good enough for arselickers like Egbeo and Pulcher, but not for us. Gauls have pride!’
Resentment held them silent for a while. The logs in the fire crackled and spat as the resin within poured out. The noise of the celebrating soldiers rose into the starry night sky, where their challenge vanished into the immense silence.
‘I don’t know that you’re right,’ said Gannicus, tugging on his moustache.
‘Eh? About what?’
‘About how much the men love Spartacus. They adore him while he leads them to victory after victory, and when he lets them plunder farms and latifundia with abandon. But when they’re faced with crossing a huge range of mountains, out of Italy, I think that the majority of them will suddenly have a change of heart.’
‘They know that that’s where we’re heading. Spartacus told them at Thurii.’
‘There’s a big difference between “knowing” something and understanding it, Castus. All the men have had to think about since then is marching, raping, and pillaging whatever homestead they happen upon. Fighting the consular armies – and beating them – will have kept their minds off much else too. I’d wager that until recently, not one man in ten has given serious thought to leaving Italy. The grumbling that’s been going on is very real.’
Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’
‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’
In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’
‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.
‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’
‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’
Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’
‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’
‘Even better – that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’
‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’
They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.
A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’
‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity .’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’
‘Damn right I am!’
‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed – where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’
Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.
Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.
One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’ army had been camped near Thurii for some months. Rumours about how easy it was to join had been rife among the discontented farm slaves. In the dark of an autumn night, Marcion had stolen away into the hills. It had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.
Marcion had completed his initial training long since. He had fought in the battles against Lentulus and Gellius, which made him a veteran. In the e
yes of the original gladiators who had escaped from the ludus with Spartacus, however, or the men who had fought in the initial battles against the likes of Publius Varinius at Thurii, Marcion and his comrades were nothing but wet-behind-the-ears rookies. He’d grown sick of their jibes, which filled his ears any time their hard-nosed centurion made them train. The old-timers liked nothing better than to stand by and make sarcastic comments. Marching was hard on Marcion’s legs, but at least he was surrounded by his own, more recently recruited cohort. Zeuxis’ grumbling started up again from the rank in front, reminding him that it wasn’t all roses here either. The bald-headed man was older than him, and had joined a week before Marcion had. Zeuxis had the loudest voice in their contubernium, which he thought gave him the right to dictate to everyone. Mostly, the other soldiers in the eight-man tent group let him get on with it. Marcion found that hard.
‘We do nothing but fucking march!’
‘Shut it,’ said Gaius, a broad-shouldered man who lived to fight. He was marching beside Marcion. ‘Try not to think about it. You’ll get there sooner that way.’
Zeuxis ignored him. ‘How many hundred miles is it from Thurii?’
‘I heard it was close to four,’ said Arphocras, Marcion’s favourite member of the contubernium.
‘Is that all? It feels as if we’re halfway to Hades.’
Arphocras winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, Zeuxis, it’s not much further to the Alps.’
‘The Alps! How hard will it be to cross them?’
‘It will be summer by the time we get there. The journey won’t be any different to what we’ve experienced in the Apennines,’ said Marcion, repeating what he’d overheard his centurion saying.
‘As if you’d know, Greek boy,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘You’re like the rest of us. Never set foot outside Bruttium until Spartacus led us away from there.’
The others laughed, and Marcion flushed with anger. ‘That’s according to Spartacus, not me!’
‘Been talking to him recently, have you?’
More laughter. Marcion buttoned his lip. He would try to get Zeuxis back later.
‘Spartacus – the great man. Huh! If we’re lucky, he might ride by our position every day or two, but that’s it,’ complained Zeuxis. ‘The rest of the time, we’re stuck in the column, without a damn clue about what’s going on. Just following the men in front like shitting ants. No wonder it takes three hours for us even to leave the camp each morning – which means we’re always the last damn soldiers to reach the new one every day.’ Encouraged by the others’ nods and mutters, he went on, ‘Getting our grain ration takes an age, never mind about the wine. And as for spare equipment—’
Marcion gave up his intention of keeping silent. Everything Zeuxis said was true, but it was part of life when one served in such a vast army. They could no more change it than force the sun to rise in the west and set in the east. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’
‘I’ll talk if I want to. Men are interested in what I’ve got to say,’ retorted Zeuxis over his shoulder.
‘No, they’re not. They just can’t compete with your bloody monotone.’
Hoots of laughter rang out, and Zeuxis scowled. He swung around, nearly braining Gaius with the pole carrying his gear. ‘You cheeky bastard!’
Gaius gave him an almighty shove back into his rank. ‘Why don’t you do as Marcion asked, eh? Give us all a break. Enjoy the scenery. Look up the blue sky. Sing us a song, even. Anything but more of your grumbling!’
Marcion grinned as everyone within earshot loudly agreed.
Frowning, Zeuxis subsided.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Marcion to Gaius.
‘S’all right. It won’t keep him quiet for long.’
‘Nothing ever does,’ said Marcion, rolling his eyes. ‘Better just enjoy the moment.’
Taking a deep breath, Gaius began to sing.
Recognising the bawdy tune, Marcion and the rest joined in with gusto.
The miles went by far faster when thinking about wine, women and song.
Ten days later . . .
Rome
Marcus Licinius Crassus was tired and hungry. Seeing his house in the distance, he sighed with relief. Soon he’d be home. He had spent a long day in the Senate, listening to, and taking part in, the most interminable debate about building new sewers on the Aventine Hill. The fools spout enough shit as it is without literally having to talk about it, he thought, smiling at his own joke. It was incredible. Despite the recent defeat of both consuls by the renegade Spartacus, the sewerage needs of the plebs were being addressed as a matter of urgency.
Yet there was no doubt in Crassus’ mind which was the more pressing matter. Spartacus. The man and his slave rabble had become a festering sore in the Republic’s side. Lentulus, the first consul to be disgraced, had presented himself to the senators some weeks before. His attempt to explain his actions had not gone down well, but after a severe reprimand he had been left in command of what remained of his army. Gellius, his colleague, had appeared in the capital just a few days prior. Like Lentulus, he was a self-made man, and lacked the support of a major faction in the Senate. Like Lentulus, he had suffered considerable casualties at Spartacus’ hands; he had also lost both his legions’ eagles. What had brought the senators’ opprobrium raining down on him, however, had not been these factors. It had been the presence of Caepio, the only surviving witness to the humiliation and killing of four hundred Roman prisoners.
Crassus’ lips pinched at the memory of Caepio’s testimony. Few men in the Republic could demand more respect than he, a centurion with thirty years of loyal service under his gilded belt. Everyone in the Curia had been riveted as he’d spoken. The wave of sheer outrage that had swept through the hallowed building when he’d finished had been greater than any Crassus had ever seen. He had been no less affected. The idea of slaves holding a munus, forcing Roman legionaries – citizens – to fight to the death was outrageous. Unforgivable. Vengeance had to be obtained, and fast. Crassus’ fury and frustration mounted even further. At that moment, revenge seemed unlikely. If the rumours were to be believed, Spartacus was leading his men north, to the Alps. Only Gaius Cassius Longinus, the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, who commanded two legions, stood in his way, and it was hard to see how he would succeed where his superiors had failed. If Longinus were defeated, they would discover if Spartacus really was thinking the unthinkable: would he leave Italy?
Even if Lentulus or Gellius were granted the opportunity of fighting Spartacus again, Crassus didn’t think that either consul was capable of crushing the slave army. Both of them, especially Gellius, had seemed cowed by the senators’ furious reaction. That was just three hundred angry politicians – not fifty thousand armed slaves. Although the pair had now joined forces, in Crassus’ mind they lacked the initiative – and the balls – to bring the insurrection to a swift and successful conclusion. He had brought some of his fellow senators around to his point of view that change was needed. Getting them to agree to anything further was another matter, however. The traditions surrounding high office that had evolved over half a millennium were set in stone. For the twelve months of their office, the two consuls were the most senior magistrates in the Republic, and its effective rulers. Understandably, their positions were revered. To unseat them or to force them to allow another to lead their armies during their tenure was unheard of. Undeterred, Crassus had mooted such ideas twice now. On both occasions, his suggestions had been shouted down.
Fools. They will come to regret their decision. Longinus will fail. If they are sent after him, Lentulus and Gellius will fail. Crassus knew it in his bones. Of all the politicians in Rome, he alone had met Spartacus, and gauged his mettle. He had encountered the Thracian gladiator by chance, on a visit to Capua a year before. Crassus had paid for a mortal combat in the ludus there. Despite being wounded early on, Spartacus had overcome his skilled opponent. Intrigued by the Thracian, Crassus had struck up a conversation with him afterwards. At the time
, he’d taken Spartacus’ confident manner as pure arrogance. Since then, in the aftermath of repeated Roman defeats, he had realised his mistake. The man wasn’t just a brave and skilful fighter. He possessed charisma, ability and generalship in plenty. Not since Hannibal has anyone posed such a real threat to the Republic, Crassus brooded. And the two fools who are supposed to bring him to heel are Lentulus and Gellius, whose best plan is hunt Spartacus down and confront him in battle once more. Why am I the only one to see that they’ll be unsuccessful?
I have to do something.
And he knew exactly what. It might take months, but he would win the Senate around. Scores of politicians owed him favours, money or both. He just needed some more influential allies. With their support, he could achieve a majority in the Senate. The consuls would be forced to relinquish command of their legions to someone else. To me, he thought happily. I, Crassus, will lead the legions in pursuit of Spartacus, wherever he may be. I will save the Republic. How the plebs will love me!
His litter creaked to a halt and his slaves set it down gently. Crassus waited as one of them hammered on the front door, demanding entry for their master. Rather than the hulking doorman he expected, the portal was opened by Saenius, his effeminate major domo. Alighting, Crassus lifted his eyebrows. ‘You’re back. I hadn’t expected you so soon.’
‘My business in the south took less time than I thought.’ Saenius stepped on to the street, deferentially ushering his master inside.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crassus was careful to place his right foot over the threshold first. His belly grumbled as the smell of frying garlic reached his nostrils from the kitchen. He could eat later, however. Weeks before, he had sent Saenius on a mission. ‘Tell me what you discovered.’
Saenius looked up and down the corridor. Two household slaves were approaching.
Crassus had no wish for anyone else to hear either. ‘Later.’
Saenius relaxed. ‘I am not the only surprise for you today. You have a visitor.’