Spartacus: Rebellion

  ‘Do you still think it’s a good idea to make contact with my parents?’

  ‘If there’s an opportunity, yes. You could be killed any time.’

  Carbo’s skin crawled. ‘I don’t think that the Esquiline is far from the Capena, the gate we’re heading for. It won’t be hard to find out.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Spartacus warned. ‘Let’s find a place to stay first. Check out the lie of the land. See what’s going on.’

  Carbo flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ll get your chance.’

  Contenting himself with that, Carbo strode on, determined to appreciate the sights of the city he’d heard so much about but never seen. He had grown up on tales of the capital and the Forum Romanum, the open space where citizens met to socialise, do business and to petition senators, and which was overlooked by the Capitoline Hill with its massive temple complex and immense statue of Jupiter. There wouldn’t be time, but he also longed to see the Circus Maximus, a natural stadium formed by the steep sides of the Aventine and Palatine Hills.

  His wonder soon turned to surprise. After they had passed under the mighty Servian wall, only the basalt road maintained its grandeur. It was still broad enough for two carts to pass abreast. On either side, however, the streets that led off up the hills were narrow and unpaved, and no different to Capua’s. The buildings towered higher than Carbo or Spartacus had ever seen – three, four and even five storeys tall, but for the most part, they looked poorly built. The air was thick with the smell of decaying rubbish, human waste and the acrid tang of urine from the fullers’ workshops that were clustered round the Capena Gate. And the people. There were more people than either man had imagined could be gathered in one place. They pushed and jostled, so intent on their business that they didn’t even look at the other passers-by.

  The crush was added to by the queues of wagons which filled the roadway. Loaded with vegetables, sides of pork, steeply piled terracotta vessels and every other merchant good imaginable, they were drawn by pairs or larger teams of oxen. Their drivers roared curses at one another and at the pedestrians, blaming everyone but themselves for the throng that slowed all traffic to a snail’s pace. Carbo made for the edge of the street, hoping to make better progress, but the open-fronted shops, restaurants and taverns there filled the ground before their premises with stalls, tables and items for sale. Any available space between was occupied by toothless beggars – a combination of lepers, amputees and scrawny children – or jugglers, snake charmers and other performers.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said in frustration. ‘It will take us all day to get anywhere if we stay on the Via Appia. I don’t know any of the side streets, though.’

  ‘That’s easy to sort out.’ Spartacus clicked his fingers at a snot-nosed girl in a threadbare tunic. ‘Want to earn an as?’

  The urchin was by Spartacus’ side in a heartbeat ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No need to call me “sir”. I’m a slave.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the girl with an uncaring shrug. ‘New to the city?’

  ‘Yes. My master here is looking for lodgings for a few nights. Central if possible. Nothing too flash, but not a dive either. Somewhere that the beds are clean and the food won’t poison you. And where the wine is actually drinkable.’

  ‘Do you need whores?’

  ‘Unless you can guarantee that they haven’t got the pox, no,’ said Carbo.

  This produced a smile and a mouthful of rotting teeth. ‘I know just the place. The Elysian Fields. It’s between the Esquiline and the Quirinal.’

  ‘Is that far?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘Not the way I’m going to take you. Follow me!’ The urchin darted off up an alleyway.

  Carbo eyed Spartacus uncertainly.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘She’s seen my cudgel, and the fact that we’ve both got knives. The child’ll know it would be foolish to betray us. My money says that she will take us straight to a decent enough inn.’

  Carbo wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t in charge – even if it looked as if he was. ‘All right.’ He sped after the girl. Spartacus followed.

  Not long after, they had arrived at The Elysian Fields, a nondescript premises just off the Vicus Patricius. A brief investigation by Carbo revealed that the girl had done as she was asked. The tavern was small but clean and well appointed, and the proprietor, a genial ex-soldier, seemed honest. Having paid the urchin, Carbo took a room on the first floor. Spartacus found the ostler and secured a spot on the floor of the stables. A short and casual conversation determined that the city was awash with the news of Crassus’ appointment to lead the Republic’s armies. ‘The consuls couldn’t argue with him any longer, could they?’ the ostler commented sourly. ‘Between them, the stupid fools had been whipped three times by Spartacus. Enough’s enough, eh?’

  ‘Indeed,’ muttered Spartacus, hiding his smile. ‘So Crassus is going to finish off the slaves, is he?’

  ‘So he promises. He’s in the process of raising six new legions. Using his own money too. Now that’s what I call devotion to the Republic.’

  Spartacus had expected to hear bad news but not quite so soon. He cursed savagely inside. Crassus was more of an organiser and leader than he looked then. When six new legions were added to the survivors of the consuls’ armies, he would have almost ten legions. Great Rider, I will need your help even more than ever. ‘That’s impressive. So it’s true that he is the richest man in Rome?’

  ‘Damn right it is! Made most of it during Sulla’s proscriptions, he did. Bought up the properties of those who’d been executed hand over fist.’ The ostler spat. ‘Another way he makes his money is to turn up wherever there’s a fire. He offers the owners of any burning buildings a tiny fee for the deeds. Nearly all accept. It’s either that or they get nothing. Crassus has his own private fire brigade. When he’s done the deal, they put out the blaze. Afterwards, he’s got the ground to erect a new building on – and for a steal.’

  ‘He sounds unpleasant.’

  ‘Yet they say that he’s as polite a man as you can meet. He contributes regularly to the plebs’ grain dole. Crassus is a real bull with hay on his horns.’ The ostler winked. ‘Tell your master that he could see him address the citizens this very afternoon if he wished.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Spartacus casually. ‘Where would that be?’

  The ostler’s eyebrows rose. ‘I forgot that you’re not from the city. In the Forum.’

  ‘My thanks. I’ll tell him.’ Chewing on a strand of hay, Spartacus sauntered off in search of Carbo.

  Carbo was dozing on the most comfortable bed of their journey yet when a loud knock shattered his reverie.

  ‘Master?’

  He sat up with a start. ‘Yes?’

  Spartacus was already halfway inside the low-ceilinged room. ‘They are indeed serving food downstairs, master. Roast pork or grilled fresh fish. Shall I order some for you?’ He closed the door. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happening this very afternoon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fucking Crassus is to address the people in the Forum.’

  Suddenly, Carbo was fully awake. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘The ostler. Six legions he’s raising, in addition to the remnants of Longinus’ and the consuls’ forces. In total, he will be leading close to ten legions.’

  Carbo felt sick. ‘That’s a lot of legionaries.’

  Spartacus’ grin was savage. ‘I told you it would get harder.’

  ‘Are we going to try and kill him?’ whispered Carbo.

  ‘That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?’

  Now adrenalin surged through Carbo. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gods, you look as if you want to kill him more than me!’ said Spartacus with a laugh.

  ‘He ruined my family, dragged my father’s good name into the mud, took the roof from over our heads. And for what? Three months’ missed payments on his stinking loan!’ Carbo
’s dagger jumped into his hand. ‘It would give me the most incredible pleasure to slit his scrawny throat.’

  ‘Steady on.’

  Spartacus’ hard stare unnerved him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry. You have good reason to hate the prick. But a situation like this demands a cool head. Who knows what protection the man will have? Rest assured that after his recent elevation in the world, he won’t be walking around with no one looking out for him. If we go rushing in like a pair of fools, the only person laughing afterwards will be Crassus – at our bloody corpses. You don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ muttered Carbo.

  ‘We’ll make a judgement once we’ve seen what’s going on, and who’s around. Not before.’ Spartacus had seen far too many men slain in battle because they had acted rashly. Now was not the time for recklessness. ‘It may well be that we get no chance to assassinate Crassus. If there isn’t, we will just walk away. Clear?’

  Carbo swallowed his resentment. If it wasn’t for the Thracian, he’d have long since been food for the worms in the ludus’ cemetery. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put that damn blade away then, and order me to follow you out for some food.’

  It took an instant for Carbo to register Spartacus’ meaning. Sheathing his knife, he grinned. ‘I fancy a stroll around the great city,’ he said loudly. ‘We can find somewhere to eat as we walk.’ He pulled the door wide. Although there was no reason to be suspicious, he was glad to find the corridor beyond empty. Carbo threw up as heartfelt a prayer as he’d ever made. Mighty Jupiter, O Greatest and Best, grant us the opportunity to kill Crassus. Guide my blade – and that of Spartacus.

  In his haste, he forgot that requests of the deities needed to be phrased with meticulous accuracy.

  Chapter VIII

  TAKING A DEEP breath, Ariadne crouched down and let the contraction wash over her.

  ‘That’s it,’ murmured the midwife. ‘Now push.’

  All thought left Ariadne as she obeyed. Her jaw clenched, and beads of sweat formed on her brow. An inarticulate moan left her lips. The pain was intense, but Ariadne did not let it better her. I will stay in control. Finally, her abdominal muscles relaxed and she sagged down on to her knees.

  ‘Good. I can see the head. It won’t be long now.’

  My son will be born soon, thought Ariadne with satisfaction. She hadn’t been overly surprised when her pains started while Spartacus was still away. She had told him that their baby wouldn’t be born until after his return to make it easier for him to go, but in her gut she had known it might well be sooner. In the event, her labour had begun the previous night. She was grateful that it started when it had because the army was camped, and in a good location by a mountain stream.

  She resumed her posture – crouching low, her back slightly curved and her knees bent. One of the women she was friendly with stood in front of her so that Ariadne could grip her hands for support. Another contraction took her. The time since the previous one had shortened.

  ‘Push,’ murmured the midwife. ‘You must push.’

  Ariadne groaned.

  ‘Is she . . . all right?’ Atheas’ voice, from outside the tent, was full of concern.

  ‘Yes, yes. Go and make yourself busy somewhere else,’ ordered the midwife.

  As the pain eased, Ariadne remembered how when she had woken Atheas, the tattooed warrior had looked genuinely worried. Despite her discomfort, Ariadne had smiled. One of the most ferocious warriors she had ever met, reduced to an awkward, mumbling shadow of himself. So it is with men. She had calmly told him to fetch the midwife, an old crone who had joined them months before. Next, Atheas had carried word to Castus and Gannicus. Ariadne could still remember the Scythian’s surprise when he told her what they’d said. ‘They didn’t argue at all. Both of them said that the army would stay put until the baby was born.’

  Of course they said that, she thought. If they had insisted the day’s march go ahead, it would place her at risk. A day here or there didn’t matter to their progress, and while both were brave men, she doubted that either would want to face Spartacus’ wrath if something went wrong.

  Her muscles tightened again, and Ariadne knew that this was it. She began to push as she’d never done before. The midwife, who was behind her, gave her an encouraging slap. ‘Come on, don’t let up. You’re nearly there.’

  Ariadne felt a rush of liquid spattering her lower legs, and heard the midwife make a soft exclamation of pleasure. In the same moment, the immense pressure on her lower abdomen eased. Her strength vanished, and if it hadn’t been for the woman holding her arms, Ariadne would have fallen. Anxiety gripped her.

  ‘You have a boy,’ said the midwife softly. ‘He seems healthy, thank the gods.’

  ‘A son. I knew it was a son. Show him to me.’

  ‘Lift your leg.’ As Ariadne obeyed, the midwife moved beneath her, taking care not to damage the cord.

  A small, red, mucus-covered bundle of limbs was handed to her. Ariadne thought her heart would break with the beauty of it. ‘Hello, my son,’ she whispered, enfolding the babe in her arms. ‘Welcome, oh welcome.’

  ‘Help her to the mattress,’ directed the midwife.

  Ariadne felt herself being turned. Hands at her back lightly supported her as she took the few steps to the blankets. She lay down, clasping the newborn to her. A specially prepared wool blanket appeared, her son’s swaddling cloth. It was laid over her chest. Ariadne stroked the tiny head, which was covered in downy black hair. ‘You’re a handsome boy, just like your father. All the girls will want to chase you.’

  ‘What are you going to call him?’ asked the midwife.

  ‘Maron. After Spartacus’ brother, who was killed fighting the Romans.’

  There was a nod of approval. ‘It’s a powerful name.’

  Ariadne heard her friend protesting, and then there was someone else in the tent. She looked up to see Atheas crouched over her, a reverent expression on his normally hard face.

  ‘He is . . . boy?’

  Ariadne smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Healthy?’

  She shook her head in assent. ‘Maron is his name.’

  ‘It is . . . well.’ Atheas’ teeth glinted white in the gloom. ‘The gods must be . . . thanked. The Great Rider . . . especially. I . . . see . . . it done.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ariadne. Offering her own gratitude to Dionysus could wait until later.

  Grinning like a fool, Atheas retreated.

  Ariadne closed her eyes. She was more tired than she had ever been.

  The midwife prodded her. ‘Drink this. It’s a tonic. There’s a herb in there to help you pass the afterbirth, and others to help you sleep and replenish your energy. And the baby must feed. You can rest when he’s on the breast.’

  With the old woman’s help, Ariadne coaxed Maron on to one of her nipples. He sucked at it with gusto, bringing a smile to her lips. ‘He likes his food.’

  ‘That is good,’ pronounced the midwife, peering at him with satisfaction. ‘He’ll thrive.’

  He will do even better when Spartacus returns, thought Ariadne, trying to ignore the pangs of worry that she had been feeling ever since his departure. Nor had she had any messages from the god about her husband. At least there had been no repeat of the dreadful nightmare in which she could not find his body among hundreds of crucified men.

  I will see him again. I must, because he has to meet his son.

  She glanced down at Maron, and a smile traced its way across her lips. ‘Your father will be so proud when he sees you.’

  The baby sucked even harder, as if in reply.

  Within a few moments, sleep took her.

  When they emerged from the inn, Carbo was surprised to see the urchin lounging against the wall of a building opposite. Irritated, he pretended not to notice her, but that didn’t stop the girl from darting over.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Carbo snapped.


  ‘Thought you might need a guide.’

  ‘Well I don’t. Clear off.’ Carbo headed down the Vicus Patricius, pretending he knew where he was going.

  The urchin skipped alongside, whistling tunelessly.

  Carbo could sense Spartacus smiling behind him. ‘I thought I told you to beat it!’

  ‘I’m a free citizen,’ replied the girl. ‘You can’t stop me from goin’ this way too.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Carbo’s tone was acid.

  ‘No,’ came the bold reply.

  Carbo increased his pace, leaving the girl trailing in his wake. His speed made little difference. A couple of hundred paces later, the Vicus Patricius was joined from the left by the Via Labicana, and the press grew as just as great as before. Carbo came to an abrupt halt. The junction was packed with carts, litters and people on foot.

  ‘Get a move on, boys!’ A group of soldiers led by an optio shoved their way out of the crowd, and marched in the direction of the Elysian Fields. Behind them shuffled a file of slaves led by a hard-faced man carrying a whip. Hollow-cheeked, clad in rags, chained to each other by the neck, the slaves were clearly bound for the market. There was a funeral procession, the corpse wrapped in fine linen sheets borne aloft on a couch by male relations. Following ancient tradition, slaves carried burning torches. In front, a party of musicians played a dirge over and over, as if that would part the crowds. Carbo glanced around, helpless and frustrated.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a guide?’ piped a familiar voice.

  Carbo half turned, as if to look at the urchin, but also throwing a silent enquiry at Spartacus. Catching the Thracian’s almost imperceptible nod, he barked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tertulla. Tulla for short.’

  ‘How many summers have you seen?’

  ‘Seven or eight. I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Don’t know for sure. I’ve been on my own since I can remember.’