Spartacus: Rebellion

  ‘They’re mostly farm slaves, former herders and the like. They answer to me, not Spartacus, and every one of them would slit their own mothers’ throats for a purse of silver.’

  Suspicion flared in Castus’ eyes. ‘You’re not just sending your men. Not for something this big.’

  ‘Send a few of your lot as well,’ replied Gannicus, holding up his hands. ‘But make sure that they’re capable of getting the job done.’

  ‘If we pick five each, that will be plenty. Even Spartacus can’t kill ten men.’

  ‘He’s not alone, remember?’

  ‘Surely you’re not worried about that little sewer rat Carbo?’

  ‘Worried? No. But he can handle himself in a fight.’ Gannicus sucked in his moustache. ‘Ten men should be enough, though.’

  ‘They’d best leave tonight. Gods, but I’d love to go myself.’ Castus eyed Gannicus sidelong. ‘Make sure the job’s done properly.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Spartacus won’t tell any tales afterwards.’ He leered. ‘Neither will his little catamite.’

  ‘That Thracian has more lives than a cat. He might get away. Imagine that he does, and that he’s seen you. What’s the first thing he’d do?’

  ‘All right, I see what you’re getting at.’ Castus’ face soured. ‘We would lose any chance of uniting the army under our command.’

  ‘Precisely. But if we only send men whom we trust, who are not Gauls, there’s far less of a trail back to us if things go wrong. And even if this doesn’t work, we’ll find another opportunity,’ said Gannicus. ‘The slyest cat uses up its lives in the end, eh?’

  The next morning, Carbo and Spartacus rose early. Varus’ cook served the trio a hearty breakfast of bread, honey, nuts and cheese. The rest of the domestic slaves, a dozen or more, gathered in the doorway and windows of the kitchen and stared in awe at Spartacus. Feeling sorry for them, he said nothing. They had all asked to come with him when they left, and he’d had to refuse. What he needed were hardened agricultural slaves and herdsmen, men who were used to the outdoors and, if possible, to hunting. The frustrated slaves had then wanted to turn on Varus, and he’d had to forbid that as well. ‘You will only bring a sentence of death upon yourselves,’ he’d warned. It wasn’t uncommon for the authorities to execute every slave in a household in which the master had been murdered. For his own safety, therefore, and to ensure that he could make no attempt to escape, Varus, together with his major domo and doorman, had been locked overnight into an office.

  Spartacus had resolved to confine the household slaves before they left. That way, Varus would have no real reason to punish them for not raising the alarm. What he hadn’t yet decided was their best way of leaving the city. At dawn, he’d sent Tulla out to spy on the nearest gates. To Carbo’s evident relief and Spartacus’ amusement – he had judged the girl would honour her vow – she had soon returned. She reported that all the entrances were being heavily guarded. Many of those who sought to leave were being questioned. Not surprising, thought Spartacus.

  ‘We should split up,’ he said as they sat in the courtyard, listening to the muttered complaints issuing from Varus’ prison. ‘The guards will be looking for two men, not one.’

  ‘What if you get taken?’ asked Carbo.

  ‘If I do, I do. The gods will decide my fate.’ A wry shrug. ‘That’s why I’m giving you the gold. If I am captured, you are to find the army. As soon as the baby is strong enough to travel, you are to escort Ariadne away – as we previously discussed. The Scythians will go with you.’

  The memory of the dawn before they’d fought Lentulus – and what Spartacus had asked him to do – was etched in Carbo’s memory. He nodded miserably, feeling the loss of his parents even more. ‘What of Navio? Egbeo? Pulcher? The rest of the men?’

  ‘They can choose their own paths. It won’t be up to me any longer. But whatever may happen to me, my family will be safe.’

  ‘Of course. If the day should ever come, and I pray to the gods that it does not, I shall do everything in my power to save them.’

  Spartacus gripped his shoulder. ‘I know you will.’

  ‘And if I am captured?’ Carbo threw the words out to confront his fear. At least my pain would end.

  ‘Your comrades and I will never forget you. We shall make offerings to the gods, and hold a feast in your honour. Inside the next two months, I shall send a man to check on the progress of your parents’ tomb. If Varus hasn’t done what he said, he’ll lose a few fingers, and be warned that the next time, it will be his hands. That will hurry him along.’

  A lump rose in Carbo’s throat. ‘Thank you.’ It will not come to that, he told himself.

  ‘Enough miserable talk,’ declared Spartacus. ‘Since when are soldiers good at seeing through disguises? We will both get through. If you cut down one of Varus’ best togas, you can just act like a rich young noble.’

  ‘Very well. What will you do?’

  ‘Take the simplest option.’ Spartacus’ eyes let his eyes go vacant and his lower lip fall slackly. A trickle of spit dribbled down on to his chin. He made a noise halfway between a distressed animal and a man in pain. He shuffled across the courtyard, hunching his back and dragging one of his legs. All the while, he kept moaning.

  Carbo stared in amazement. Tulla looked horrified.

  Abruptly, Spartacus stood up. ‘Convinced?’ he asked with a smile.

  They both shook their heads in assent.

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ He eyed Tulla. ‘I’d wager that the busiest times are the first few hours of the day, and the last hour before the gate shuts.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’s no point waiting until sunset. We want to get as far from the city as possible today. We go now,’ declared Spartacus. Inside, he wasn’t quite so certain. Crassus would be sparing no effort to find him. The politician would suspect that if he was captured, the rebellion would soon be over. How right he would be. Castus and Gannicus were no generals. Navio was an able tactician, but because he was a Roman, many distrusted him. Egbeo and Pulcher were brave and capable enough, but they lacked the charisma necessary to hold together tens of thousands of men. I have to get out. Great Rider, watch over me. Dionysus, help me to return to my wife, your priestess. The prayers helped. Spartacus felt his inner calm return. ‘Tulla, you will leave us before the gate. I’ll pay you now.’ He reached for the purse around his neck.

  Dismay filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Now? But I might betray you!’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll do that, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I knew it. You’re a good girl.’ It had been the right decision not to kill her, thought Spartacus.

  Tulla’s chin wobbled. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Of course you don’t, but we must,’ said Spartacus in a kindly tone. ‘My army is waiting for me.’ And my wife and son.

  ‘Take me with you!’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Why?’ wailed Tulla.

  ‘You cannot fight.’

  ‘I can be a scout! I’ll clean and polish your equipment. There must be something I can do.’

  ‘Tulla, you have a stout heart, but you’re too young.’ Spartacus stooped to the girl’s level. ‘However, there is something you could do for me here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to hang around the Curia, the basilicae and the better classes of baths. You know, the places where senators tend to congregate. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. See what you can find out. Any information about Crassus or their legions could be very useful.’

  Tulla’s eyes shone. ‘I can do that!’

  ‘I’m relying on you.’ Spartacus clapped her on the arm. ‘I’ll send word to you at the Elysian Fields, on the ides of every month. You can tell the messenger everything that you’ve heard.’

  ‘I will!’

  Carbo admired Spartacus’ ability to make people believe in him. The day before, he’
d been on the point of killing the girl. Now she was eating out of his hand. Not only that, but he had neatly restored Tulla’s pride. Now she had a purpose. As he himself did, with his oath to protect Ariadne. In the depths of his grief, that knowledge gave him strength.

  Spartacus gave them both an encouraging nod. ‘Let’s move.’

  Carbo’s guts had turned to liquid by the time he came within thirty paces of the gate. The Thracian had opted to go ahead of Carbo. They had arranged to meet about a mile out of the city, by a tomb that they both remembered. Carbo and Tulla – who was still hanging around – had watched with bated breath as Spartacus had joined the queue that packed the street leading up to the gate. They had grinned at the loud exclamations of disgust and the way people had moved as far away from him as possible. Spartacus’ idea of grabbing a fuller’s bucket of urine and emptying it over himself had continued to pay off royally. The guards, supplemented by ten hard-faced legionaries, had begun to complain as soon as his ripe smell had hit their nostrils. When Spartacus had shuffled before them, dribbling, moaning and covered in piss, they had urged him out of the city with the butts of their pila.

  It had been as easy as that, thought Carbo enviously. Great Jupiter, let it be the same for me. His prayer did little to ease his concerns, or to propel his feet forwards. Yet he couldn’t hang around for much longer without starting to attract attention. Wealthy young men didn’t loiter on street corners. Already he had had some strange looks.

  Since the Thracian had left, Carbo had seen one man – a foreigner, maybe Greek or Dacian – accused of being Spartacus. Protesting his innocence in poor Latin, the man had been hammered to the ground in a flurry of blows, trussed up like a hen for the pot, and dragged off to be interrogated. After that, Carbo had hoped that the guards’ vigilance would lapse a little, but it was not to be. They continued their aggressive questioning of all men of fighting age, as well as stabbing their pila into any carts loaded with merchandise.

  Gods above, facing death in battle is easier than this.

  ‘Good luck!’ hissed Tulla from her spot against a wall a dozen paces away.

  Carbo gave her a terse nod, and walked to join the line. He forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nostrils, counting his heartbeat as he exhaled. After he had done that several times, he felt calmer. A wagon drawn by two oxen pulled up behind him. Carbo half turned. One of the beasts sniffed at him, and then tried to lick his arm. Normally, he liked the way cattle did that, but now he recoiled from its long tongue and threw the carter a poisonous look. The man glared at him. ‘It’s what oxen do, isn’t it? Won’t do you no harm. Anyone who’d ever been around livestock would know that. Bloody city folk!’

  Carbo sniffed haughtily and turned his back.

  The man in front shuffled forward a few steps. He did the same.

  And so it went for what seemed an eternity.

  As he edged closer, Carbo strained his ears to pick out what the soldiers were saying. Most of the conversations were short.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Julius Clodianus.’

  ‘Trade?’

  ‘Stonemason.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To a new tomb about two miles out.’

  There was a snort of laughter. ‘Not your own then, I take it?’

  ‘No,’ the mason replied sourly. ‘It’s that of a rich lawyer. He requested that the family mausoleum be enlarged before his funeral. New brickwork, marble floor, expensive Greek statues: you name it, he wanted it. A dozen of us have been working on it fit to burst for a week now.’

  ‘Trying to take it all with him, is he? It won’t work!’ The soldier jerked his head. ‘On your way.’

  The next man was a sailor on shore leave who was going to visit relations living in the countryside. He was ushered out with loud good wishes. The woman following was a villager who had been to Rome to seek Minerva’s help at the temple on the Capitoline Hill. She called down the blessings of the goddess on the guards as they waved her through. Then there were only two more people in front of Carbo. Sweat oozed down the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Varus’ toga had been cut down, but the wool was still heavy and over warm for the time of year. He shuffled forward, the barrage of shouted questions and answers merging into one.

  ‘Next!’

  Carbo blinked. The man ahead of him was already walking under the archway of the gate.

  ‘Come on, young sir! We don’t have all day.’

  A second soldier leered. ‘Daydreaming about your favourite whore?’

  Carbo’s anger made his flush grow deeper, and the legionaries, thinking he was embarrassed, roared with laughter.

  ‘The lad must have been doing just that,’ said the first man. He turned back to Carbo. ‘Name?’

  ‘Paullus Carbo,’ he said proudly. He’d considered lying, but there was no need.

  The soldier caught his regional accent. ‘Not from Rome, are you?’

  ‘No. I’m from Capua.’

  ‘Been here for business or pleasure?’ He winked at his companions.

  Carbo scowled. ‘Business.’ If only you knew what. ‘For my father.’

  ‘Heading back to Capua?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On foot? The likes of you normally ride or travel in a litter.’

  Fortunately, Carbo had thought of the answer to this question. He looked down. ‘My horse is gone.’

  ‘Stolen from the inn’s stables, was it?’

  ‘No. I wagered it.’

  ‘Fortuna’s tits! And you lost it?’

  More hoots of amusement.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So now you have to walk back to Capua?’

  Carbo nodded, making his expression as sulky as when he’d been a boy.

  The legionary pulled a face. ‘A hundred miles is a long way to walk.’

  ‘And don’t we know it?’ added his comrade, chortling. ‘We have to do it while carrying half our bodyweight in equipment!’

  ‘Can I go?’ asked Carbo resentfully.

  ‘Eh? Yes, you can go,’ the soldier replied. ‘Have a safe journey. There are plenty of latrones about between here and Capua.’

  ‘If you’re really unlucky, you might even meet Spartacus,’ said the second man. ‘That is, if he’s—’

  ‘Shut it!’ barked the first legionary.

  His companion turned away with a scowl.

  ‘On your way,’ ordered the legionary.

  Muttering his thanks, Carbo made his way out of the gate. The soldier’s words had made his mind race back to their attack on Crassus. Caepio had shouted something. What had it been? ‘It is them!’ To his frustration, Carbo couldn’t remember the exact words. Then another misgiving surfaced. When the patrol had arrived at the Elysian Fields, a man had come out of the tavern, and nodded to the officer in charge. Had it been more than casual conversation? Carbo wasn’t sure. But when he put the two instances together with the comment by the soldier at the gate, he felt very suspicious indeed. Was it possible that Crassus had known that Spartacus was in Rome? His pace picked up. He had to tell Spartacus at once.

  They had a spy in their midst.

  It didn’t take Carbo long to reach the tomb. He found Spartacus sitting in the shade of a cypress tree that stood beside it.

  Spartacus raised a hand in greeting. ‘You look hot.’

  ‘This damn toga,’ said Carbo, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. ‘It’s not the weather to be wearing it.’

  ‘But it got you out of Rome, and at least you didn’t have to cover yourself in piss.’

  Carbo grinned. ‘True.’

  ‘Was Tulla still there when you left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You made a good call with her.’ He clapped Carbo on the arm.

  He swallowed, remembering his leader’s tacit threat to kill him if Tulla should prove treacherous. ‘Thanks.’

  Spartacus heaved himself to his feet. ‘Let’s start walking. I remember a well n
ot far down the road; we can wash there.’

  ‘There’s something you need to know first.’

  Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘What is it? Tell me as we go.’

  Quickly, Carbo filled him in on his suspicions. When he had finished, Spartacus did not say anything for a long time. Carbo watched him nervously, wondering whether the Thracian thought he was crazy.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Spartacus.

  A sense of relief crept over Carbo. Spartacus believed him.

  ‘We must have been followed out of the camp. So few people knew about it that there wouldn’t have been time to send word to Rome before we left.’

  Carbo’s mouth went dry at the thought of a new possibility. ‘Do you think Castus or Gannicus would have done it?’

  Spartacus frowned. ‘There’s no way that Gannicus would betray us like that. I doubt if even Castus would. He hates my guts, and he wouldn’t cry if I were killed, but he hates Rome as much as I do.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘It could be anyone, Carbo. In an army of sixty thousand men, not all of them are going to be happy. That’s without taking into account the women and hangers-on.’

  ‘Yes, but to betray you?’

  Spartacus thumped him. ‘Not everyone is as loyal as you.’

  ‘Well they should be,’ muttered Carbo, blushing. ‘We have to find out who it is.’

  ‘That would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.’ Spartacus shrugged. ‘Atheas and Taxacis will watch my back. So will you.’ It’s just another enemy to add to the ones I already have. But he didn’t need to worry about being murdered for a few days. The journey south should be easy; they might as well make the most of it. ‘Where’s that well? I can’t pitch up at the camp stinking of piss. No one would take me seriously.’

  Carbo’s tension eased, and he let out a chuckle. ‘Between my nerves as I went through the gate and this damn toga, I’ve sweated out half the bloody Tiber.’

  Spartacus made a show of leaning over and inhaling. ‘No. I can’t smell a thing except piss.’