by Ben Kane
Spartacus stared at both men, flinty-eyed. They heard what I said. That’s enough. There’s no point mentioning Sicily yet. ‘One more thing. If either of you ever tries to harm me or my family again, I will not rest until you’ve been carved into a thousand pieces of meat. Do you understand?’
Gannicus nodded. Castus was too slow for Spartacus’ liking, so he jabbed his sword at the ruddy-haired Gaul, forcing him to jump backwards. ‘Do you fucking UNDERSTAND?’
‘Yes,’ Castus muttered.
‘Excellent.’ With a contemptuous look, Spartacus stepped away. ‘Atheas! Taxacis. We’re leaving.’
The Scythians moved away from Gannicus, who sat up, his face purple with rage.
A number of the Gauls’ men began to move towards them. Carbo tensed.
‘If I don’t return soon, Egbeo and Pulcher have orders to mobilise every soldier in the camp before coming here to look for me. You can choose whether that happens or not,’ said Spartacus loudly. ‘It doesn’t matter to me.’
Castus aimed an uncertain glance at Gannicus. ‘He’s lying.’
‘How would you know?’ retorted Gannicus. ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered, and the warriors halted.
The four walked backwards until they were some thirty paces from the Gauls. ‘Good work,’ said Spartacus. He would have to watch his back from now on, but he doubted that there would be any more attempts on his life – from the Gauls at least. How long Castus and Gannicus would stay with the army was by no means certain, but for now they had learned their lesson. He could focus on searching out new recruits and finding pirates who could transport them to Sicily.
Both Scythians had broad grins plastered on their faces. So did Carbo. ‘A convincing lie just there.’
Spartacus winked. ‘Time to see my son.’ My son!
Chapter XII
LEAVING CARBO OUTSIDE with the Scythians, Spartacus ducked inside the tent. His eyes adjusted fast to the dim light, and he was pleased with what he saw. Someone – Egbeo or Pulcher, he supposed – had taken care to decorate it well. There were thick rugs on the floor, a number of large bronze lamps, two ebony chests and a rosewood table and chairs. However, his attention moved rapidly to the unmade bedding along one wall, and the hand-carved wooden cot that stood nearby. He craned his neck, but couldn’t see into it. Ariadne was by the crib, her back towards him. She was quietly singing.
Spartacus padded further inside, but he didn’t interrupt. The tranquil scene was so at odds with the one he’d just left, with what had happened since he’d left for Rome, that he needed a moment to return to normality. To return to his family. For in the time that he had been absent, that is what they had become.
An aching joy began to replace the fury he’d felt towards the Gauls. Ariadne was well, and so too was his son. Maron. You will never be forgotten, my brother.
Ariadne’s song came to an end. She bent over the cot and planted a soft kiss on the baby’s head before she turned to Spartacus. Her face was cold. ‘Thank you for not making any noise,’ she said in a flat tone.
‘You heard me come in.’
‘Yes. I heard you arrive a while ago too – and then leave without seeing your wife and your newborn son. To talk with Castus and Gannicus.’ She had to make an effort to lower her voice. ‘How could you?’
He took a step towards her. ‘Ariadne, I—’
‘Don’t,’ she interrupted, boiling with fury. ‘Don’t even speak to me! Take a look at Maron. You owe him that much at least.’
Clenching his jaw, Spartacus moved to the cot and peered in. The sight that met his eyes instantly made his anger disappear. A little black-haired shape, lying on its front, swaddled in a blanket. Side-on, a tiny, scrunched-up face with a button nose. His heart swelled with love and pride. ‘He’s so small.’
‘Maron is big for a boy, the midwife says. He’s put on a lot of weight since he was born too.’
Spartacus nodded. He knew next to nothing about babies. He stared at his son, wanting to touch him but wary of waking him or doing the wrong thing.
Ariadne read his mind. ‘For now, just rub his head or his back. You can pick him up once he’s had his nap.’
Reassured, Spartacus reached into the cot and stroked the soft skin of Maron’s cheek. A huge grin split his face at the touch; he gently repeated it. ‘Welcome to the world, my son,’ he whispered. ‘It is good to meet you at last.’
Maron twitched, startling him. He lifted his arm.
‘It’s all right, you haven’t woken him.’
Spartacus put his hand back into the cot. ‘He’s got your hair.’
‘And your eyes. Although the midwife says that they might still change colour.’
‘I don’t mind. The main thing is that he’s here safely, and that you are well.’
‘You’ve seen that that’s the case. Do you need to leave again?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her lips twitched, and he saw that while she was talking, she was still furious. ‘Maron is a fine name. I couldn’t have thought of a better one myself. No doubt my brother is watching from the warrior’s paradise. He’ll be very proud. My father will also.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it means a lot, Ariadne. To me as well as to the dead. Thank you.’
She didn’t answer.
Spartacus had no desire for their argument to continue. Here at least, with his family, he wanted respite from conflict. ‘I did want to come in and see you both the moment I arrived. How can you doubt that?’
Her eyes searched his accusingly. ‘You’ve chosen your army over your family before. That I have forced myself to accept – almost – but to go and speak first with those pigs Castus and Gannicus? What kind of man are you?’
He was stung – and angered – by her comment. ‘You don’t understand!’
‘No, of course I don’t. I’m only a woman, eh?’ Maron stirred, and she frowned. ‘Step away, or we’ll wake him. He needs sleep. He had a restless night.’
Spartacus’ instant concern overrode his anger. ‘Is he ill?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘No. He’s just got a bit of colic.’
‘Colic? Like a horse gets?’
‘Yes, but not as serious. All babies get it from time to time. The midwife made up some fennel water this morning, and that has helped a lot.’
‘I took some of that once when I had bad gut cramp. It made me fart like my damn stallion!’ She didn’t smile at his joke. They stood in silence for a moment, and then he tried again. ‘I wanted to see you both, but I had to deal with something first.’
‘What could be more important than seeing your son?’ she hissed. ‘Did you want to boast to the Gauls about what you’d done, or found out?’
His irritation overflowed. ‘Be quiet, woman, and let me speak!’
Ariadne’s lips thinned, but she held her peace.
‘I’ll tell you what happened in Rome later. It’s important, but it’s not the reason that I didn’t come in here first.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Two nights ago, we were attacked in our camp by a group of men. If Carbo hadn’t heard them coming, we would both have been killed.’
Ariadne heard the truth in his words. Terrible images filled her mind. Remorse tore at her for being so presumptuous. ‘How did you get away?’
‘By running for our lives.’ Wryly, he indicated the rips in his tunic and the scratches on his arms and legs. ‘I’ve barely eaten or drunk since it happened. Not that I care. What mattered was getting back here, first to make sure that you hadn’t already been murdered, and second, to confront Castus and Gannicus.’
‘They were behind this? How do you know that the killers weren’t Roman?’
‘One of them spoke. Carbo said that he wasn’t a native Latin speaker. Besides, we had got out of Rome without difficulty. No one had followed us.’
‘So if it wasn’t Romans,’ she said, frowning, ‘it had to be someone who knew where you’d gone.’
<
br /> ‘That’s right. And there might be plenty of men in the army who aren’t fond of me, but Castus and Gannicus had to be the most likely candidates to want me dead.’
Thinking of the Gauls’ visit to her, Ariadne shuddered. Perhaps she had been more lucky than she’d realised. ‘Have you killed them?’
‘No.’
‘Why the hell not?’ she demanded. ‘It’s no less than they deserve! Maron and I would have been next.’
‘Quite likely.’ He was starting to enjoy her anger a little. It showed that she still cared about him. ‘But murdering them would be counterproductive.’ He filled her in on Crassus’ plans, and on what they’d heard from the messenger on the road.
‘Ten legions,’ said Ariadne in a monotone. She felt numb. ‘They’ll be here in three or four months, you say.’
‘Now you see why I didn’t get rid of the Gauls. If they left, we’d barely outnumber the Romans, and that’s not odds any general would want to start a battle with.’
‘I know. So what did you do to Castus and Gannicus?’
‘We surprised them. The savages got the shock of their lives to see me appear. The look on Castus’ face told me all I wanted to know. He and Gannicus sent those men.’
‘The treacherous dogs!’ Ariadne’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Spartacus was reminded of a wild beast defending its young. ‘Now that they know about the ten legions, will they stay?’
‘Who knows? Let’s hope so. Until we can recruit and train more men at least.’ It’s going to be a race against time to do that while trying to move the army and organise transport to Sicily.
She still wasn’t happy. ‘How do you know that they won’t make another attempt?’
‘I don’t. But they know damn well what will happen if they try. Prometheus’ pain will be as nothing to what they endure.’
‘I’d like to watch them scream,’ she spat. ‘I’d even wield the knife.’
‘Quite the lioness, aren’t you?’ He touched her cheek, and was astonished by her reaction.
Her coldness melted, and tears formed in her eyes. ‘Thank the gods for Carbo,’ she whispered. ‘Thank them for concealing you as you ran, and for bringing you back safely.’
Spartacus opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. He held her very tight.
‘I’ve missed you so much.’ Ariadne thought of the road lined with crosses, and did her best to shove the brutal image away. ‘I thought you might never return.’
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ he lied, glad at that moment that she could not see his face. ‘Not like fighting a battle. And I’m back now, with you and Maron.’
She looked up at him, pulling a smile. ‘So it was worth going?’
‘Definitely. I told you what I heard about the legions that are being raised. And we nearly killed Crassus, the politician who’s been put in charge of the Roman armies.’ He scowled. ‘If only I’d had Atheas and Taxacis with me, or a dozen of the gladiators. We would have sliced him up with ease.’
Ariadne was intrigued. ‘Tell me.’
It all poured out and she shook her head in a mixture of amazement and exasperation. ‘And you say what happened wasn’t dangerous? You lead a charmed life, Spartacus.’
His frivolous mood vanished. ‘I know, and I thank the Rider for it every day. Tomorrow I will offer him a ram, or better still, a bull.’
‘And then? What do we do next?’
‘There was an official messenger on the road the afternoon before we were attacked. He was taking orders to Messana, on Sicily. There have been two large-scale slave rebellions on that island in the last sixty years.’
Ariadne smiled at his enthusiasm, but she was confused.
‘We’re going to seize some grain ships and use them to transport the army over to Sicily. When the slaves on the island hear of our arrival, they will flock to my banner. The two legions over there probably haven’t had to fight in years. We’ll have time to gather an army twice the size of the one that’s camped here before Rome reacts properly. With a host like that behind me, the war can start in earnest.’
Ariadne refused to get excited. ‘How will you get enough men over to Sicily to take the grain ships?’
‘By paying a pirate captain his own weight in silver and gold.’
‘You’ve got an answer to everything.’
‘For the moment, yes. Convinced?’
Even with Maron occupying all of her time, Ariadne had been racked by worry over their future. But this plan seemed feasible. She offered up a silent prayer. Dionysus, I ask you to help us again, as you have so many times before. ‘It sounds a lot better than sitting around waiting for the legions to arrive.’
‘That was my thought too. First I’ll need to find out where the best anchorages are, and in which ports the officials turn a blind eye to pirate vessels.’ A grimace, then a confident smile. ‘The gods will help us.’
Ariadne nodded. ‘Whom will you send?’
‘Carbo.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘One of the best. He saved my damn life, you know. If he hadn’t heard—’
She raised a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t, please. I live with the knowledge every day that I might never see you again. Today, I want to rejoice in the fact that you’ve returned to me, and to Maron. That you’re alive. Whole.’ She took away her hand and lifting her face to his, kissed him.
Spartacus had one last coherent thought before passion overtook him.
Thank you, Great Rider, for guiding me back to my army, my wife and my son.
Six weeks pass . . .
In his baking command tent, Crassus was preparing for his appearance of the day. Sweating slaves stood by, doing their best to ignore the buzzing flies as they held out the accoutrements of his office. The red tunic of a general. The polished, muscled bronze cuirass. The helmet with the scarlet horsehair crest. The gilt-plated belt with the studded pteryges that protected his groin and the red sash that circled his waist. The ivory-handled gladius with its ornate scabbard and bejewelled baldric. The calf-high, open-toed boots.
Gods, I’m glad that I don’t have to wear this all day. Crassus beckoned to the slaves, eager to get on with his duty, which was to show himself to his troops. To raise their spirits. To tell them how brave they were. To let them know that they were engaged in a task sent by the gods: to rid Italy, and the Republic, of the blight that was Spartacus and his slave rabble. And of course, he thought slyly, to make him more popular than Pompey Magnus.
He shrugged on the tunic, trying to ignore the way that it stuck at once to his clammy back.
Pompey! The young upstart. Crassus hated that his rival had more of a public name for martial prowess than he had. In his mind, it was totally unjustified. Had he not been the man who saved the day for Sulla at the Colline Gate? But for him, Marius would have been dictator. All Pompey had done in the civil war was to raise three legions that had won a couple of trifling victories for Sulla. If the man was such an amazing bloody tactician, why had he taken so long to quell Sertorius’ rebellion in Iberia? It still wasn’t over. I would have dealt with it long since. As Jupiter is my witness, I will mop up Spartacus’ unrest in similar fashion.
A slave helped him into his breastplate. Another slave crouched beside him to fasten the sash around his middle.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was tracing a bloody path towards the horizon. The army had left Rome two weeks before, seven days later than he’d wished. Despite this, they had travelled over two hundred sun-drenched, cloudless miles in that time. Thurii, the rebels’ reported base, was now less than a third of that distance away. As his skin prickled with the heat, Crassus tried to be grateful for their remarkable progress, and for the fact that the dreadful daytime heat had begun to abate. It was difficult, however. It was still as hot as an oven in his tent, and riding a horse for nearly eight hours daily was exhausting work. He was glad not to be one of the ordinary soldiers, who’d marched twenty miles since dawn – in full armour. Hal
f of them were currently erecting a temporary marching camp while their exhausted but grateful comrades stood watch.
When that was done, all but the veterans had two hours of drill to look forward to before they could rest or eat. But it’s what they signed up for, he thought ruthlessly. They had done it every afternoon since they had left Rome, and so they would every damn day until the campaign ended. He would not relax the pressure on his new soldiers, not even for a moment. Not until Spartacus was dead.
Crassus lifted one foot and then the other, allowing his slaves to pull on his boots. More beads of sweat trickled down his back. I can’t wait for autumn to come. No doubt the prolonged hot spell had the farmers thanking Saturnus, Ops, Ceres and Lactans for their munificence, but Crassus didn’t give a shit about the harvest. What he wanted was for the unseasonably warm weather to end. He was sick of his officers whingeing about men who had dropped by the wayside each day. Casualties from heat exhaustion and lack of water were not the same as deaths through combat!
Yet Crassus knew that he couldn’t ignore such losses. And so he had had Caepio organise a number of special units whose specific duty it was to travel up and down sections of the hugely long column that was his army – all twenty-odd miles of it – providing assistance and water to those who needed it. That way, hundreds of men who would otherwise have died would continue to march south, towards their target. Spartacus.
The flea-ridden, Thracian bastard. Crassus’ memory of how close Spartacus had come to killing him was ever present. If it hadn’t been for the information provided by his spy, the attempt might have succeeded. Saenius had done well in recruiting the man. With luck, they would hear from the spy again. Crassus had every confidence in his ability to end the Thracian’s reign of terror with his ten legions. When it comes to it, he thought confidently, they won’t stand up against Roman courage. Roman virtus. Roman discipline. But he wasn’t averse to subterfuge if it brought the matter to a swifter conclusion.
‘Liner.’
At once a tightly fitting piece of felt was proffered. Crassus eyed it askance before pulling it on. It would make him sweat worse than a smith at his anvil, but he wouldn’t get bruised by the unforgiving inner surface of his helmet.