Ariadne’s head turned, and she took in the man who hung from a simple wooden cross before her. Horror filled her. ‘Egbeo?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘Ariadne.’ The big Thracian’s voice was husky and dry. Far weaker than normal. ‘Help me.’
She took a step closer. The cross was a simple affair, little more than an upright two handsbreadth in width, and a crosspiece of similar size that stretched to either side. Ariadne saw that she could hack through the rope that bound Egbeo’s feet to the vertical, but the thick iron nails that had been driven through his wrists were beyond her. To prevent removal, their heads had been hammered flat on to the wood, pinning his hands in one agonising position. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thirsty. I’m so thirsty.’
Ariadne’s helplessness reached new heights. She had no water bag with her. Glancing up and down the road, she could see no well, no buildings. Just a line of occupied crosses, stretching away on either side as far as she could see. ‘How many men have been crucified?’ she whispered in horror. ‘It must be hundreds.’
‘Thousands,’ croaked Egbeo.
Suddenly, Ariadne knew why she was here. Terror twisted her stomach into a painful knot. ‘Spartacus – where is Spartacus?’
Egbeo didn’t answer.
‘Where is my husband?’ Desperation turned her voice shrill.
The lines on his haggard face grew even deeper. ‘He—’
A hand shook her shoulder. ‘Ariadne!’
Startled, she opened her eyes to find the midwife crouched over her. ‘You were having a nightmare—’ She was interrupted by a mewling sound from beside Ariadne. ‘And you woke the baby. I think he’s hungry.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Failing to clear her mind of the graphic images, Ariadne scooped up Maron, whose cry was growing louder. It cannot be coincidence that I’ve had the same hideous dream three times, can it? She kissed her son on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, my darling. Come here.’ Placing him on her breast with the help of the midwife, she lay down again. ‘My dream was terrible.’
The old woman cackled. ‘It’s the herbs. They often bring bizarre and unsettling images. Things that we do not want to happen, or things that we fear.’
‘Do the visions ever come true?’
‘Sometimes, but it’s almost impossible to know the real ones from the false. My advice is for you to forget all about it. You’ve got more important things to be doing than brooding over a nightmare.’
Ariadne nodded in agreement. That would be best. She busied herself by gazing at Maron, and imagining what he would look like as he grew up. Would he inherit Spartacus’ piercing grey eyes or her brown ones? Would he be compactly built, like his father, or take after her family, who were slighter framed? Soon though, her mind began to wander. Inevitably, it returned to her dream. With Spartacus in Rome, her natural reaction to it was to assume the worst for him. How can it be the herbs when I’ve had the same vision before? Could Spartacus be already dead? She took a deep breath. On the previous occasions that she had seen the lines of crosses, there had been no Egbeo, no conversation. Surely, the big Thracian’s presence in the nightmare meant that it could not be taking place in the present or the near future, because Egbeo was alive and well, and here with the army. That had to mean that Spartacus was not one of the crucified men.
The old woman coughed, and Ariadne glanced at her. Maybe none of it means anything. Her attempt to reassure herself lasted no more than a heartbeat. A dream so dramatic didn’t keep returning unless it was of some significance.
Maron stirred, and she caressed the back of his head. ‘Hush, my little one. It’s all right. It’s all right.’ Dionysus will look after us, as he always has. Spartacus was not one of the men I saw.
As she closed her eyes and tried to rest once more, Ariadne was haunted by one question. She could not make herself forget it.
What had Egbeo been trying to tell her?
On their way to the Esquiline, Spartacus had Tulla purchase two new tunics from a rundown clothes shop on a side street. Discarding their bloody ones on a dung heap and with their knives cleaned and sheathed, the trio were able to take to the main thoroughfares once more. There were parties of soldiers everywhere, but they were paying little heed to the passers-by. Despite this, Carbo’s heart was racing, but he swaggered along as if he were walking through Capua. Spartacus was careful to look at the ground. Finding a small open-fronted restaurant at the base of the hill, Carbo stood at the counter and ordered some food while Tulla went in search of Varus’ house. Both watched the passing patrols, but fortunately the soldiers seemed interested only in inns and taverns. Despite the fact that no one had challenged them, both were glad when the girl returned.
Tulla was immune to their worries. ‘It’s two streets up,’ she announced breezily. ‘We’ll know it by the embroidered cushions on the benches outside.’
Carbo rolled his eyes.
‘What’s she talking about?’ demanded Spartacus.
‘There are seats outside the houses of the rich for their clients to sit on as they wait to be seen. My uncle has always been one for ostentation.’
Tulla led them up the flagged street, weaving her way through the traffic. She took a left at a fountain decorated with a central gilded statue of Neptune, and then the second right.
Carbo spotted the cushions first; he remembered his mother talking about them. ‘That’s it.’
They approached. Apart from the soft furnishings on the otherwise empty benches, Alfenus Varus’ house could have been one of thousands in Rome. As with many others in this part of the city, it stood alone, a rectangular building with a high outer wall whose only features were a massive studded door and a line of small glass windows. This feature was rare indeed. Carbo’s mother’s words echoed in his head. ‘He always has to have the latest fad, no matter how expensive it is.’ The fool. Already he was not looking forward to seeing his uncle again. Yet the thought of his parents drove him on. Somehow he would make them understand what he’d done.
Tulla sat down on the bench to the left of the door. Spartacus remained standing.
Carbo realised that they were both looking at him. He straightened his tunic and ran his hands through his hair. Then he stepped up and rapped the iron elephant trunk knocker off the timbers. It made a deep, thumping noise.
He waited for a long time, and was just about to knock again when a shutter at head height opened. A pair of eyes stared out suspiciously. ‘Yes?’
‘Is Alfenus Varus in?’
There was an audible Phhh of contempt. ‘Not to the likes of you.’ The shutter began to close.
This reaction to his scarred appearance was second nature to Carbo. Once, it would have cowed him. Now he took a step forward. ‘I think you’ll find that that’s not the case. I’m his nephew.’
The shutter stopped. ‘You’re who?’
‘Paullus Carbo, his nephew.’
‘The son of Julia, Alfenus’ sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait here.’
Carbo was about to ask if his parents were still living in the house, but the shutter had already slammed home. There was a faint sound of footsteps receding, and then silence.
‘That wasn’t exactly the warmest of welcomes,’ muttered Spartacus.
‘Alfenus thinks that Mother married below her station. He has always looked down on us. He’s a good man really.’ Carbo’s protest was automatic, and echoed his father’s words. For the first time in his life, however, the sentiment felt false. The few times he had met Varus, the man had been nothing but patronising and arrogant. It was as well that he’d left the family home, Carbo decided. Otherwise, his father would have sent him to live here under Varus’ supervision, to train as a lawyer.
A moment later, he heard someone returning down the hall. There was a metallic snick as the bolt was drawn back, and the door opened. A shrew-faced man with grey hair looked out. ‘You’re to come in.
’ His eyes moved distastefully from Spartacus to Tulla. ‘Your slave, and your . . . ?’
‘Guide.’ Good, thought Carbo. I didn’t even need to lie to him.
‘I see. They can remain outside.’
Carbo gave what he hoped was a reassuring glance to Spartacus, and crossed the threshold. The door was shut with an air of finality, making him uneasy, but he squared his shoulders. This was no time for weakness.
‘Leave the knife here.’ The slave indicated a recess to one side of the entrance. Inside it, a massive man sat on a stool with a club between his knees. He seemed dull-witted, but fully capable of braining someone if he was ordered to. Carbo handed over his dagger without protest.
‘Follow me.’ The slave walked off without looking to see if he obeyed.
They went straight into the tablinum, where a garish, painted statue of a dolphin decorated the impluvium. The scenes from classical myth that adorned the walls were portrayed in similarly gaudy fashion, and not to Carbo’s taste. He studied the death masks of Varus’ ancestors as he passed by the lararium. They had the same self-satisfied expression as he remembered his uncle wearing, a sort of ‘I’m superior to you’ look. He realised he’d been intimidated by it as a child. Now, he loathed it.
The large colonnaded garden beyond was just as grand as Carbo could have imagined. It was overdone: all coy nymphs peeping from behind ornamental bushes and grandiose mosaic patterns on the floor. Everything shouted wealth but not class. Varus was sitting in a chair that was shaded by a large lemon tree. A fine blue glass full of wine sat before him, on a table inlaid with gilt. Behind him, a slave used a palm leaf to fan the air. His uncle had once been handsome, thought Carbo, but years of good living had weighed down his big frame with rolls of fat, and given him a jowl worthy of a prize boar. His straight nose was the only feature in which Carbo could see a resemblance to his mother. Varus was studying a half-unrolled parchment, pursing his plump lips as he read. Although he must have heard them approach, he gave no immediate acknowledgement.
The slave waited. Carbo waited too, a well of anger bubbling within him. With an effort, he controlled his temper. Stay polite. We need his help.
After a little while, Varus lifted his gaze.
‘Your nephew, master.’ The slave took a few steps back.
A well-feigned expression of surprise crossed Varus’ fleshy features. ‘Can it be true? Are you really Paullus Carbo?’
‘Yes, Uncle. It is I,’ said Carbo in as humble a tone as he could manage.
‘There is a certain resemblance to your mother, I suppose.’ Varus’ tone was dubious. ‘The severe scarring from the pox makes it hard to see, however. Not the most good-looking of men, are you?’
It took a great effort for Carbo not to leap forward on to Varus, fists pummelling. ‘I am honoured to meet you at last, Uncle,’ he said, ignoring the question.
The jowls rose and fell in response. ‘You have long since been given up for dead. After a year without so much as a word as to your whereabouts, your parents concluded that you had died, or been killed. And now you return, unannounced? What kind of son does that make you?’
‘I was going to send a letter—’
‘A letter? When?’
‘About three months ago.’
‘It never arrived.’
‘I decided not to send it.’
‘You don’t have much of a conscience, eh? Nothing changes,’ thundered Varus. ‘Did you know that after you abandoned your parents without a word, they delayed leaving Capua for two weeks? They lived in a garret as they searched everywhere for you. But you had vanished, as if you had gone down to Hades itself.’ He glared at Carbo.
Guilt hammered at Carbo’s temples. They didn’t check the ludus. They didn’t think I’d stoop so low. ‘I left the city, went to the coast. Took service with a merchant who was sailing for Asia Minor and Judaea.’
Varus’ eyes bulged. ‘That, when you could have been learning to become a lawyer?’
‘I did not wish to enter that profession,’ replied Carbo stiffly. I didn’t want to live here, with you ordering me about like a slave.
Varus made a contemptuous gesture. ‘You should have obeyed your father’s wishes and my recommendation! There would have been none of the heartache.’
It’s all Crassus’ fault. But for him, I wouldn’t have had to run away from home, or to come here. Their failure to assassinate the politician hit Carbo even harder.
‘As for your poor mother, well, she did nothing but grieve for you. I’m sure that’s half the reason the fever took her so easily.’ He adopted a grieving expression that screamed its falsity. ‘Oh yes, she’s dead.’
His uncle’s face swam in and out of focus. ‘W-when?’
‘Let me see,’ mused Varus. ‘About three months ago, I think it was.’
Even if his letter had arrived, it would have been too late. Carbo’s grief tore at him with renewed savagery. ‘It was a fever, you say?’
‘Yes, yes. Even though they have drained the swamps, the bad airs linger over the city at various times. No one is immune. I myself was lucky to survive a bout several years ago.’
You self-centred pig! thought Carbo furiously.
‘Her death quite took away your father’s will to live. If he had known that his only child was living, perhaps he would have taken better care of himself. As it was, well . . .’
No, Carbo screamed silently, Great Jupiter, do not let this be happening! ‘Father is dead too?’
‘Yes. Not a week since.’
‘A week,’ repeated Carbo like a fool. Seven days.
‘That’s right. If you had thought to make amends just a little sooner, he might have seen you.’
Carbo closed his eyes. ‘Did an illness take him as well?’
‘No. I had my major domo make some enquiries afterwards. It seems that he was attacked one night outside the cenacula where he lived. According to those who saw it happen, it was a case of simple robbery. The scum who killed him didn’t know that he had little more than two asses to rub together, nor did they care. He was drunk and alone. They stabbed him, rifled him for any valuables and then left his body in the gutter like so much rubbish.’
His mother’s death would have hit his father very hard, thought Carbo. Jovian would have thought himself abandoned in the world once she had gone. It was easy to see how he might have turned to drink in solace. ‘You said he was living in a cenacula. I thought that my parents were staying here with you.’
‘After my sister’s death, tragic though it was, all obligations I had towards Jovian disappeared. He left the day after Julia’s funeral.’
‘He left, or you asked him to go?’
‘I asked him. It was better for everyone concerned.’ Varus’ smile was as practised as a whore’s.
Carbo could scarcely believe what he was hearing. ‘So my mother was barely in her tomb when you put my father out on the street. Have you no heart?’
Varus gave him an offended look. ‘It wasn’t as if he had no money for rent or food. At the time, he was working for a local merchant.’
‘And that made it acceptable, I suppose?’
‘How dare you take that tone with me, you impudent pup!’ snapped Varus. ‘Where were you when your family needed you? I was the one who took them in, who gave them a roof over their heads and put food in their bellies, who listened to their tragic tale over and over. I – not you.’
A wave of shame subsumed Carbo. ‘I was trying to earn the money to help with Father’s debts,’ he muttered. At least that’s how it started out. Once they had broken out of the ludus, there had been no opportunities – other than theft – to make any money, and Carbo wasn’t a thief. Spartacus had also banned the use of gold and silver in his army. The only metals of use, he said, were iron and bronze, for making weapons. I was going to do so much. Yet I have done none of it, and now my parents are dead. Tears pricked his eyes.
Varus was oblivious. ‘Clearly, you haven’t met with much succes
s. Look at you, dressed like the poorest kind of pleb.’ His lip curled. ‘I wonder how you even managed to save the money to buy a slave.’
The sheer level of his uncle’s contempt helped Carbo to swallow his grief. He would deal with it later. What mattered right now was securing a safe place to hide until the next day. Where could be better than here? he thought with black amusement. ‘He’s not a slave.’
‘Eh?’ Varus’ pudgy forehead creased into a frown. ‘Who is he, then?’
‘He’s a friend.’ Carbo took the few steps that separated him from his uncle at speed. Picking up the glass by its stem, he smashed it off the edge of the table. As Varus gaped, he swept around to the rear of his chair. A great shove sent the slave with the palm leaf stumbling backwards. Carbo threw his left arm around Varus’ neck in a choke hold. Gripping the jagged stump of the glass like a knife, he touched it to his uncle’s throat. ‘Up.’
‘What are you doing?’ Spittle flew from Varus’ lips as he stood. ‘Have you gone entirely mad?’
‘Not quite. Tell your major domo to get the brute at the entrance to surrender his club. He is to open the front door and allow my companions in. My friend is to tie up the brute, and then return here with the girl.’
‘You are insane,’ hissed Varus.
‘Maybe I am.’ Carbo pushed the broken glass against his uncle’s skin until it drew blood. There was a loud squawk of pain. ‘I will happily shove this in all the way,’ he murmured. ‘Just keep answering me back.’
‘Y-you heard him,’ Varus wheezed at the major domo, whose complexion had gone pasty. ‘Do as he says! Quickly!’
The grey-haired slave hurried off.
‘C-can I sit down?’ asked Varus. ‘I feel faint.’
‘Fine.’ Carbo released his grip and let his uncle slide, shaking, back on to his chair. ‘Don’t move.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Carbo—’
‘I said, shut your fat mouth! It would give me extreme pleasure to see you bleed out, you overblown piece of offal.’ Carbo’s mind was full of images of his parents, and his heart was full of sorrow and shame. Killing his uncle might not make that pain go away, but it would help.