by Ben Kane
‘Ariadne — the priestess who revealed that I have Dionysus’ favour,’ Spartacus added for effect, ‘had a strange feeling this morning when she awoke. I’ve learned to pay attention when she tells me such things. As you know, the scouts have found sod all in the surrounding countryside, but we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the Romans for months now. Just because there’s no sign of the dogs doesn’t mean that nothing’s happening. I want you to head singly for the nearby towns and see what information you can glean. A man can find out a lot by hanging around a market place for a day or two.’ He saw Carbo’s questioning look. ‘You’re all native speakers. You’ll fit in far better than me, with my Thracian accent, or Atheas and Taxacis, who can barely order a cup of wine in Latin. No one will give you a second glance.’
‘And if anyone demands to know our business?’ asked Aventianus.
Spartacus reached down and picked up four little purses that lay by his feet. He tossed one to each man. ‘You’re a contract labourer who has finished his summer’s work, and is on his way home to his wife or his family. That’s your pay.’
Aventianus smiled. It was an entirely plausible story.
‘Where shall we go?’ enquired Carbo. Please don’t ask me to travel to Capua.
It was almost as if Spartacus sensed his reluctance. ‘You head for Neapolis, on the coast. The rest of you can decide where you want to go: north to Nola and Capua, on the Via Appia, and Nuceria, to the south. If there’s any gossip to be had, you’ll hear it in those towns.’ He held up a warning finger. ‘I don’t care if you spend all the money before you return, but be careful! Don’t get too drunk. Wine loosens men’s tongues. If you get found out, you’ll end your days nailed to a cross.’
They nodded grimly at him.
‘One more thing. Leave your swords behind. Take only a knife and a staff with you.’ He grinned at Carbo’s scowl. ‘I know you’ve grown used to being armed, but nothing will attract more attention than a peasant with a gladius.’ Spartacus waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Come back as fast as you can. May Dionysus and the Great Rider watch over you.’
Carbo went to fetch his sleeping roll and a water carrier. By leaving immediately, he could reach Neapolis before dark. How I’ve changed. Once, he’d have been insulted at being called a peasant and having the blessings of strange gods called down on him. Now he was more upset at not being allowed to carry a weapon.
Carbo knew which person he preferred.
Dusk was falling as Carbo neared Neapolis. He’d run some of the ten miles from Vesuvius to make sure that he arrived in time. Yet he’d cut it very close indeed. The three guards had already pushed one massive door to, and were moving towards the second. He broke into a sprint. ‘Wait!’
The sentries’ heads turned. They were typical city watchmen: two were middle-aged, with sagging paunches, and the other was a stripling youth with cheeks as smooth as a newborn’s bottom. ‘What have we here?’ cried one. The solitary silver phalera pinned to his tunic told Carbo that he’d once been a legionary. He’s the leader. Only brave men earned such decorations. ‘To be in that much of a rush, a man can only be searching for one of two things. Is it wine or a whore?’
‘Or both?’ added the second greybeard with a toothy leer.
‘You’re exactly right, friends. Both,’ lied Carbo, coming to a grateful halt. ‘I’ve been working on a latifundium for the last six weeks, existing on little more than acetum and stale bread. Not so much as a woman in sight. At least not one that it was safe to go near.’
‘The vilicus kept a close eye on you, eh? That’s often the way. You must have a hard-on like Priapus!’ The veteran gave him a wink. ‘I was the same when I was your age. Neleus here wishes he was like that too, but he’s so shy that he won’t even approach the whores by the market. And they’d straddle a corpse if it had a coin to spare!’ He chortled as the embarrassed youth hung his head.
Gods, thought Carbo with delight. They didn’t even look at my scars. And they took me at face value. Pride filled him. I’m a man now.
‘Pass, friend.’ With an expansive gesture, the veteran indicated that Carbo could enter. ‘Whoever you choose, give her one from me.’
‘I will.’ Carbo grinned. ‘Is there an inn where I could find a corner to sleep in?’
‘Several. The Bull is the one where you’re least likely to be eaten alive by fleas and bedbugs. You’re less likely to be robbed there too. It’s off the street that leads from this gate. Third alley on the right. Don’t pay any more than an as for a bed in the stable.’
‘My thanks.’
With that, he’d passed under the great stone arch and into the city. Carbo had never been to Neapolis before. He glanced curiously at the fine buildings as they faded into the rapidly falling darkness. Most were newly built. After centuries of loyalty to Rome, Neapolis had been elevated to a municipium nearly two decades previously, but its fortunes had taken a real tumble during the brutal civil war just a few years later. Carbo could remember as a boy his father telling his mother in hushed tones about the city’s sacking. Under Sulla ‘the butcher’, an army had burned its large fleet at anchor, and killed many hundreds of civilians. Finally, they had set Neapolis ablaze. The residents’ crime had been to have opposed Sulla. And they call Spartacus a latro?
Carbo hurried to find the Bull. The narrow thoroughfare was emptying before his eyes; he had no desire to linger outside longer than necessary either. There was no street lighting. Lamps hung outside an occasional large house, but their glow did not extend far. The shadows were growing longer with every heartbeat. As he came alongside an alleyway, a shape moved in the gloom within. Carbo’s grip on the hilt of his dagger tightened. If Neapolis was anything like Capua, only a fool went abroad after dark. A fool, or a cutthroat.
He was relieved to find the inn soon after. The hum of loud conversation, shouts and out-of-tune singing led him in. The stench of manure, stale urine and human sweat filled his nostrils as he approached the open-fronted establishment. A wooden staircase ran up the side of the building to the flats above. Oil lamps decorated the graffiti-covered walls, inside and out. Their yellow-orange glare illuminated a jumble of rough tables and benches that spilled from the grimy interior on to the alley. Straw had been scattered everywhere; from its soggy appearance, it looked to have absorbed more than its fair share of wine. Or blood.
The place was thronged. I’m not the only one with a dry throat. It wasn’t a surprise. The harvest had recently been taken in, and although the Vinalia Rustica was over, the temperatures were still pleasantly warm. A man could do worse than drink a few cups of wine with his friends at night. Carbo took in the customers, a selection of merchants, travellers and locals. There were whores aplenty too, sitting on men’s laps, flashing their breasts at anyone showing interest, or working the tables for custom. Lowlifes were also numerous: shifty, poorly dressed men in ones and twos whose gaze flickered constantly over the gathering like hungry wolves eyeing a flock of sheep. Friends? I don’t have any. Not here anyway.
Pushing his way to the bar, Carbo spoke to the proprietor, a wall-eyed man with heavy stubble coating his long jaw. As promised by the guard at the gate, a bronze coin secured him a corner in one of the stables. Throwing down his sleeping roll, he returned to purchase a jug of wine and some bread and cheese. With his hands full, Carbo headed for an unoccupied table against one wall. The best — and safest — place to observe the goings on was one where he could sit with his back against cool brickwork. His belly grumbled noisily as he sat down, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since midday. Carbo forgot all about the other customers and set upon his food with purpose.
It didn’t take him long to clear his plate and throw back two cups of the watered-down wine. Feeling much better, Carbo belched. He filled his cup again and cast his gaze casually around the room. A couple of tables over, four traders were loudly playing dice. Ignoring the demands of those around him to shut up, a man with wine stains all down his tunic bawled an out-of-tu
ne ditty about Odysseus’ journey. A pair of greybeards argued over the pieces on a ‘Robbers’ board. Beside them, a florid-faced merchant pawed greedily at a whore’s crotch. Three watching veterans sniggered and made lewd suggestions about what the pair might get up to.
Carbo thought of Chloris and his groin throbbed. He felt the little purse, which hung from a thong around his neck, and considered taking one of the whores upstairs. It was commonplace for such women to use a room over taverns. He studied them all one by one, and decided against it. They’re cheap and nasty. I’ll catch some disease. A higher-class establishment would be far better. There at least they might wash between customers. Get a grip. That’s not what I’m here for. Carbo decided to finish the jug of wine and go to bed. Markets began trading at dawn, and he wanted to be there from the start.
‘Come far?’
To the right, a man was sitting with his back to the wall, as Carbo was. He had brown hair, cut in the military style, two differently coloured eyes, and high, wide cheekbones. He was perhaps a decade older than Carbo.
‘Are you talking to me?’
‘Yes. I saw you come in. It looked as if you’d been on the road. You must have barely made it before they closed the gate.’ His accent was well educated, at odds with the other clientele.
He’s only being friendly. ‘You have the right of it. Another few moments and I would have been left outside for the night. I’m damn glad that didn’t happen.’
The other pointed to his jug. ‘You’d get none of this piss for a start!’
Carbo chuckled. ‘No.’
‘Tempted to try one of the whores as well?’
‘Not the ones in here. They’re pox-ridden for sure.’
‘You’re not wrong there. I’m Navio.’ He leaned over and clinked his cup off Carbo’s. The movement revealed his waist, which was encircled by a gilded belt. Navio saw Carbo’s eyes take it in. ‘Yes, I’m a soldier.’ His expression soured. ‘Or I was.’
‘My name’s Carbo.’ He waited, but no more information was offered.
‘You must be a farmer’s son, eh? Come to seek out the city’s fleshpots?’
Carbo shot Navio a wary look.
Navio smiled. ‘Come on. Your tunic might be homespun and your knife cheaply made, but your accent is not that of a labourer. You’re from a good family, like me.’
Alarm filled Carbo. Gods, I hadn’t thought of the way I sound. He scanned Navio’s tanned face, but could see no suspicion in it. One story’s as good as another. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Yes.’ Navio took a mouthful of wine.
Wanting to fit into his new role better, Carbo adopted a sullen tone. ‘I’ve been working on the farm all summer without a break. No thanks from my father, of course. I decided to have a few days off. It’s been well earned.’
‘Is that all you have to complain of? Do you know how lucky you are?’ asked Navio sourly.
‘I’ve got plenty more to worry about,’ replied Carbo sharply, thinking of his mission. ‘As no doubt you have.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Navio, with an embarrassed look. ‘Things haven’t gone well for me recently.’
‘Were you discharged?’
Navio’s lips twisted with bitterness. ‘It was a bit more permanent than that.’ Noticing Carbo’s interest, a shutter came down across his face. ‘It’s none of your business, though.’
‘No,’ said Carbo stiffly. He must have been thrown out of the army. ‘As you please.’
‘Forgive my rudeness. Have some of my wine.’ Navio filled Carbo’s cup to the brim before raising his own. ‘To new friends and good company!’
Relenting, Carbo repeated the toast.
‘The landlord told me about a whorehouse one street over,’ confided Navio with a wink. ‘The women there are veritable Venuses compared to the ones here, he said. Clean too. Fancy trying it in a bit?’
Carbo suddenly pictured a woman different to Chloris, with her Greek looks. A large-breasted, creamy-skinned beauty, lying on her back, urging him to fuck her. Where’s the harm in that? ‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘Let’s drink to that!’
They both drained their cups. Carbo poured more wine for both of them, and they fell into a more neutral conversation, bantering with each other about the inn’s other customers. Which of the four merchants would win the next dice game. Whether someone would eventually silence the caterwauling singer. Which prostitute would snare a customer first. Whether an argument between a pair of men would turn into a fight. It passed the time admirably.
Two jugs of wine later, Carbo was viewing the world with much more benevolence. A warm, fuzzy feeling filled his head. The whores had even become appealing. Navio caught him ogling the youngest one, and laughed. ‘It’s time to find that brothel. Come on!’
They threaded their way unsteadily between the tables. Carbo took the opportunity to squeeze a prostitute’s buttocks as he passed, grinning as she squealed in mock horror. She immediately turned and lifted her skirt, revealing the dark triangle of hair in her groin. ‘Fancy a bit of this? Two sestertii and it’s yours for an hour.’
‘An hour? He’d only need two or three thrusts to finish!’ Navio cried. He was nearly in the alley. ‘Come on, Carbo. Let’s go.’
Reluctantly, Carbo tore his eyes from the whore’s crotch and headed for the entrance.
Satisfied, Navio strode off.
‘Hold on, I need a piss.’ But Navio didn’t hear his mumble. By the time Carbo had emerged, the soldier was already twenty paces away. ‘Screw him, I can’t wait.’ Carbo fumbled his way to the nearest wall and pulled up his tunic. After some difficulty with his licium, he freed himself. With a sigh of relief, he watched his stream of urine splashing off the bricks.
When he turned back, the alleyway that led back to the main street was empty. Cursing under his breath, Carbo hurried after Navio. He was about to call out, telling his new friend to wait, when he heard a soft thud, as a body makes when it hits the ground. Carbo’s words dried in his throat. That was how I was attacked after leaving the tavern in Capua. He reached for his dagger, and was reassured by the cool bone of its hilt. Pausing for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the Stygian gloom, Carbo slid his feet along the dusty ground as quietly as he could.
Two score paces on, against the faint light of a lamp on a house’s wall, he made out a man’s shape crouching over a motionless form. Navio! White-hot rage washed away the fuzziness in Carbo’s head. He didn’t even consider returning to the safety of the inn. Instead, he drew his knife, gripping it in his fist with the blade pointed towards the ground. It was the method taught to him by Spartacus. ‘This way, no bastard can knock the weapon out of your hand, and you can still stick it wherever you like.’
Navio’s assailant rolled him over and began pawing through his clothes. ‘Where’s the fucking purse?’
Navio groaned and Carbo’s heart leaped. He’s not dead then. Squinting, he judged that the distance between them had closed to perhaps fifteen steps. There was no sign that the lowlife had any companions, but Carbo still wasn’t near enough.
Coins clinked, and the thief made a pleased sound. ‘Anything else?’ he muttered, stooping over Navio again.
Thanking the gods for the lowlife’s greed, Carbo hurried forward.
Ten paces. Eight. Six. Four.
Undoing Navio’s gilded belt, the thief tugged it from around his waist. ‘This’ll fetch a tidy sum.’ His hand reached out and picked up a club, and then he straightened.
There was a click as one of Carbo’s sandals scuffed a stone.
The thief half turned in surprise. ‘What-’
It was the last thing he said. Carbo hammered his knife down into the side of the thief’s neck. He drove it so hard that it went in right to the hilt. Carbo ripped it out savagely, setting free a gout of blood that splattered his face. Uncaring, he stabbed the thief once, twice, three times in the chest. The blade grated off ribs and into the chest cavity, shearing the vital tissues
into pieces. Carbo twisted it for good measure each time. It was when the thief slumped into him, unmoving, and the club dropped from his nerveless fingers, that Carbo realised that he was dead, or dying. Just what you deserve, you bastard. With a satisfied grunt, he heaved the thief to one side.
He crouched in the darkness, his knife ready, listening for anyone else.
The only sound was Navio’s laboured breathing.
Carbo dropped to his knees. ‘Navio! Can you hear me?’
There was no answer. How hard did the whoreson hit him? Carbo reached out, feeling Navio’s face and scalp for signs of damage. Finding a sticky mat of hair, he lifted his hand, peering at it in the dim twilight. The fluid on his fingers was dark. Blood. Carbo returned to the spot, pressing down gently as he’d seen the surgeon in the ludus doing.
‘Hades, that fucking hurts!’ Navio growled. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’
Carbo let out a long breath of relief. ‘Sorry.’
‘As if that sewer rat didn’t hit me hard enough,’ complained Navio.
‘Can you sit up?’
‘I think so. Help me.’
Carbo put a hand around Navio’s shoulders and lifted. ‘Why the hell didn’t you wait for me? I was only having a piss.’
‘I thought you were going to waste your money on that mule-faced whore.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘I’ll know better next time.’ Navio locked eyes with him. ‘I owe you. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ replied Carbo, mollified.
‘Now, where’s the brothel? It can’t be far.’ Navio twisted his head to see, and then he groaned.
‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ warned Carbo. ‘Can you even stand, never mind ask your prick to do so?’
Navio chuckled throatily. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Let’s go back to the inn.’