Spartacus: Rebellion

  Despite the warm glow from the wine, Carbo couldn’t fail to notice the pinched faces and ragged appearance of the town’s inhabitants. Squads of legionaries tramped to and fro, driven on by the shouts and vine canes of their officers. No one looked happy, especially the shopkeepers, who stood in the doorways of their empty establishments, regarding the passers-by with sour expressions. There were beggars everywhere, squatting on the rutted mud at the side of the street or working their way through the throng, dirty hands outstretched. Spartacus is responsible for this, Carbo thought, shocked yet proud. We all are.

  Their quest to eavesdrop on conversations proved more difficult than the pair had supposed. Wandering the thoroughfares, they found numerous inns of one kind or another. There were soldiers in all of them, but the confined spaces meant that it was difficult to secure a table near enough to have any chance of listening in. The friends had to be discreet about what they were doing and, more than once, they had to content themselves with standing at the bar, or sitting on the other side of the room to the men whose banter and complaints they wanted to hear. On the one occasion that they managed to settle down next to a party of legionaries, all they gathered was that no one wanted to be serving under Longinus, two of the men had the pox and that it was three months until the next payday. When Carbo let his gaze linger for too long on the group, he was told in no uncertain terms to mind his own business unless he wanted to be picking his teeth from the back of his throat. The pair quickly moved on.

  Although they only drank watered-down wine, they visited enough establishments in the subsequent hours for their senses to become dulled and their levels of frustration and anger to grow. The fifth tavern was the worst of the lot, a dingy hole down a side alley. It had rickety furniture, a couple of ancient whores and the foulest wine Carbo had ever tasted. He spat out the first mouthful, and just sat, furiously studying the contents of his clay cup as a soothsayer would. But he found no inspiration. When a drunk spilled his wine over him, the young Roman struggled not to beat the fool into a bloody pulp. Glad that he had mastered his temper, he then had to stop Navio from eyeballing a couple of legionaries who were challenging the other customers to a wrestling match. ‘Leave it. Don’t go looking for trouble.’

  Navio tore his eyes away from the soldiers, who had stripped to the waist and were parading around in circles, flexing their biceps and threatening to cripple all comers. ‘I could beat both of them,’ he said truculently. ‘At the same time.’

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ Carbo soothed. ‘But now is not the time. Remember why we’re here.’

  Navio shot him a sour glance. ‘Not having much luck, though, are we? That old bitch Fortuna must be in a really bad mood.’

  ‘Our luck will turn. Let’s find another drinking hole. That’ll be the one where we hear something useful,’ said Carbo with all the enthusiasm he could muster. ‘And simmer down. Remember where we are.’

  Navio grumbled but followed Carbo outside without further argument.

  Seeing a temple dedicated to Fortuna, the goddess of luck, Carbo led his friend over. He saw Navio’s incredulous look. ‘She might need placating. Wait here. Do not cause any trouble.’ Buying a small offering of a votive lamp from a wizened old man, he went inside, where he asked the goddess’s forgiveness for Navio’s words, and asked for her help with their mission. Carbo felt better after he’d made his offering, and he led his friend in search of another inn with renewed enthusiasm.

  They heard nothing of interest in the next place, however, nor at the busy restaurant where they each ate a plate of fried pork. Carbo’s spirits sank to match Navio’s. They sat miserably, watching yet another file of troops march past. ‘We could follow them,’ Carbo suggested.

  Navio’s withering look told him what he knew already. ‘Stupid idea.’

  Nothing was said for a while.

  ‘I don’t want to go back without any information,’ said Carbo at last.

  ‘Me neither, but what else can we do?’

  Carbo thought of the soldiers they’d spoken to earlier. His stomach clenched at the idea of actively seeking the company of two men who, if alerted to their identities, would kill them without even blinking. But if they were very drunk, they wouldn’t find out – and they might reveal something. It was a long shot, but Carbo couldn’t think of anything else. ‘There’s always Vulcan’s Anvil.’

  ‘I thought we’d decided it was too dangerous?’

  ‘Can you think of anything better?’

  Navio sucked in air between his teeth. ‘Other than walking up to an officer and asking what Longinus has planned, no,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, then.’ Now that he’d thought of a possible solution, Carbo wanted to go for it. ‘Anything’s better than trudging around every low-class watering hole in Mutina. We’ll end up with gut rot if this keeps on.’

  ‘True.’ Navio’s expression grew sly. ‘Remember the whores they told us about? They’re supposed to be the best in town.’

  ‘Forget that. Let’s see if our luck has turned, see if we can overhear anything.’

  ‘And after that, a good screw!’

  The idea was appealing. Carbo’s unfulfilled lust plagued him night and day. Telling himself that buying a whore would be just reward for finding out what Spartacus wanted to know, he headed in search of Vulcan’s Anvil.

  It wasn’t hard to find. A three-storey detached brick building with a large courtyard surrounded by stables, it was a grander enterprise than most. The ground-floor frontage was covered in stucco, which had been painted imaginatively with Greek columns covered in vines. Over the front door, which was manned by a pair of hulking doormen, hung a sign depicting the god of fire crouched over his anvil, hammer in hand.

  They swaggered up to the entrance. The noise emanating from the window openings – laughter, singing and the noise of women’s voices – was deafening. ‘Sounds promising, eh?’ said Navio, leering.

  Even as Carbo’s imagination ran riot, his skin crawled. They were about to walk into the lion’s den. He gritted his teeth. The shame of telling Spartacus that he’d failed would be worse than risking his neck. And if they were careful, things would go according to plan.

  The larger of the doormen, a colossus with a gaping socket where one of his eyes should have been, moved to block the doorway. ‘Can I help you?’ His tone didn’t imply that he wanted to be of any help whatsoever.

  ‘We were in search of a drink,’ said Carbo politely.

  The doorman sniffed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And perhaps a chat with some of your young ladies,’ added Navio.

  Now the giant laughed. ‘You two haven’t got the cash to afford one of our girls. Now why don’t you piss off before me and my mate break your arms?’

  ‘And legs,’ rumbled his companion.

  Carbo’s nerves jangled an alarm. He began to back away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Navio’s tone was jaunty.

  ‘To an inn where they’re less picky about their customers.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ Navio’s hand dipped into his purse. Carbo had no time to react. Gold flashed in his friend’s fingers as he stepped right up to the doorman. ‘Is this good enough for you?’

  The colossus’ face cracked into a gap-toothed smile. ‘Forgive my poor manners, sir. You are both most welcome to Vulcan’s Anvil. As everyone knows, we have the finest wines and women in Mutina.’ He stood aside and with a flourish of his meaty arm, bid them enter.

  ‘Come on.’

  Reluctantly, Carbo joined his friend.

  ‘This is more like it,’ said Navio as they stepped inside.

  The richly decorated interior was lit by half a dozen bronze candelabras suspended from the ceiling. The solid tables and benches were carved from hardwood, and the sawdust on the concrete and tiled floor was clean. The customers were mostly soldiers, a number of whom were officers.

  Navio’s smile faded before Carbo’s scowl. ‘What?’

  ‘You k
now how damn rare aurei are! Those doormen will be talking about us all night.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Navio in a confident tone. ‘What do they care how we came by our money? I’ll be sure to tip them on the way out, tell them to forget they ever saw us. We don’t want our wives to find out we’ve been here. You know the type of line.’ He winked.

  Carbo still wasn’t happy, but then he saw the quartet of women standing on a plinth behind the bar and all reason, all thought of their mission, left him. The four were more beautiful than his wildest dreams. His groin tightened as he realised that under their diaphanous robes, they were naked.

  ‘I thought you’d change your mind.’ Navio thumped him on the chest, bringing him back to reality. He handed over a gold coin. ‘Here. Spend it wisely. I’ll see you later for a drink. We can compare notes.’

  Carbo clutched the aureus tightly. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ Navio replied, nodding at the prostitutes. ‘We’ve got all night to find out what we need.’

  With a pounding heart, Carbo watched his friend work his way to the bar, catch the eye of a stunning brunette and gesture to her. When she approached, their heads bent together for a moment. Long enough for the beauty to see the aureus, thought Carbo. The next time he looked, Navio was heading up the stairs with his arm around her. He didn’t look back.

  A man carrying two jugs of wine collided with Carbo, taking his attention away from the whores. For some reason, he thought of his parents. The letter! If there was ever a good time to have it written, it was now. He’d be back within the blink of an eye. Navio wouldn’t even know that he had gone. Once it was done, he could have a drink and listen in to the loud chatter around him. With so many soldiers in the inn, it would be impossible not to hear some useful information. Then he could decide which one of the women he wanted. Excited by the prospect of completing Spartacus’ mission as well as his own, Carbo slipped outside again. In the failing light, the doormen were talking to a block-headed soldier.

  Sensing Carbo’s presence, the colossus turned with an obsequious smile. ‘Leaving so soon, sir?’

  ‘I have a quick errand to run. Before I drink too much and forget, you see. Where’s the forum?’

  ‘That way.’ The colossus pointed northwards. ‘All the streets heading in that direction reach it.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘No more than a quarter of a mile.’

  Nodding his thanks, Carbo walked off.

  The legionary waited until he had gone some distance up the alley before sidling after him.

  The doorman proved to be correct. Carbo found the forum with ease. Although he’d never visited the town before, the large rectangular space felt familiar. Like most Roman centres of population, the forum was the beating heart of Mutina. Stalls packed the area, selling everything from tools, clothing, pots and pans to bread, meat, vegetables and love charms. It was bordered by a large number of temples – to Jupiter, Minerva, Juno and the Dioscuri, the twins Castor and Pollux – in addition to government buildings such as the court and the tax office. There were also basilicae, covered markets where lawyers, scribes, surgeons and pharmacists plied their trades.

  Carbo headed straight for these. His eagerness waned as he crossed the threshold, however. What he was about to do was even more risky than entering Vulcan’s Anvil. If the scribe got even the slightest inkling that Carbo was one of Spartacus’ men, he would be arrested on the spot. He sauntered up and down the stalls, ignoring offers of a bargain price to read his fortune, to have his teeth examined and to write his will that very instant, in case the gods suddenly struck him down. His gaze settled on a portly figure sitting under a sign that read: LETTERS COMPOSED. NEAT SCRIPT. REASONABLE PRICES. Catching Carbo’s eye, the scribe gave him an amiable nod. Pleased that the man hadn’t verbally assaulted him as his neighbours had, Carbo nodded back. ‘I need a letter written,’ he blurted, feeling his resolve weaken.

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘It won’t be long. No more than a few lines.’

  ‘Four asses.’

  ‘Fine. Can you have it sent as well?’

  ‘That will cost more. Where does it need to go?’

  ‘Rome.’

  There was a frown. ‘The road south isn’t safe at the moment, as you know.’

  ‘Because of Spartacus and his men?’

  A tight, angry nod. ‘They say that he’s advancing on the town. The proconsul is sure to act within the next day or so. His two legions are ready for a fight. With the blessings of Jupiter, Greatest and Best, we will soon rid be of the Thracian murderer and the scum who follow in his wake.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ Carbo replied blithely. ‘Can you have it sent anyway?’

  ‘I should be able to find someone. It will cost you, mind.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Call it an even denarius.’

  Carbo made a rueful face, but he would have paid far more if he’d had to. He fumbled in his purse and handed over a silver coin.

  Selecting a small piece of parchment, the scribe placed it on his stained desk and weighed its corners down with pieces of lead. Dipping his stylus into a pot of ink, he looked enquiringly at Carbo.

  ‘“Honoured Father and Mother, I live in hope that this reaches you both healthy and well.”’

  The scribe pursed his lips with concentration as he finished the line. ‘Yes?’

  ‘“I can only apologise for the lack of communication since I left home. I departed because I wished to” . . .’ Carbo paused, wondering what he should say. ‘. . . “help the family’s financial problems in my own way, rather than doing as Father wished. I know that this makes me an undutiful son, but I could not bear the thought of becoming a lawyer.”’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said the scribe, scowling at the stallholder opposite, a tall man with oiled hair and an imperious manner. ‘Liars and thieves, the lot of them.’

  Even more aware of the need to choose his words with care, Carbo smiled.

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘“I still hope to help with regard to Father’s obligations in the future. For the moment, however, that will have to wait. I am about to embark on a long and dangerous journey, one from which I may never return.”’ May? Will. But he couldn’t say that, in case the scribe got too curious. His letter was surely odd enough as it was. ‘“Before my departure, I wished to let you know that I pray for you both daily. May the gods watch over and protect you. Your loving son, Carbo.”’

  The scribe signed off the letter with a flourish. ‘Thinking of seeking your fortune abroad?’

  ‘Yes.’ You cannot even imagine.

  ‘With a merchant?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Gaul, or somewhere even further afield?’

  ‘I have to meet a man in Placentia who is heading for Gaul and then Britannia,’ lied Carbo.

  ‘You’re a braver man than me,’ said the scribe with a shudder. ‘They say that the seas around Britannia are full of terrible monsters. Its natives live under the malign influence of the druids. Their warriors fight naked, eat the flesh of their enemies, and make drinking cups out of their skulls.’ He took Carbo’s feigned horror at face value. ‘Of course I didn’t mean that you would come to any harm. No doubt you’ll be home within the year, a wealthy man.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Real grief gripped Carbo. Despite the lie about his intentions, his imminent departure was no less final. If only he could turn up on his uncle’s doorstep and say goodbye to his parents in person, instead of sending them a coded letter. Be content. It’s the best you can do.

  ‘To whom should the letter be sent?’ asked the scribe, folding the parchment into a little square.

  Carbo’s mouth opened and closed. He wanted to say, ‘Jovian Carbo, at the house of the lawyer Alfenus Varus, who lives on the Esquiline Hill in Rome,’ but his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. What am I doing? This is insane.

  ‘Well?’

  Still
Carbo said nothing.

  ‘The letter’s no good without a name and address.’

  ‘Leave it. I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Change of heart?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carbo muttered. ‘My prayers will have to suffice.’

  ‘Family are always hard to deal with.’ The scribe’s tone was sympathetic.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Carbo gruffly. ‘I want my denarius.’

  ‘Give me four asses, and it’s yours. I have to be paid for my time,’ said the scribe with a frown.

  Carbo rummaged in his purse and handed over the small coins. In return, the scribe tossed him the denarius. Carbo nodded his thanks and left. He had to concentrate on his real mission and find out what he could about Longinus’ plans. After that, he could drown his sorrows. In the morning, they’d return to their camp, where Spartacus would be waiting. He walked past a druggist’s stall, vaguely noticing a legionary who was engrossed by he bottles and lotions on display without discerning it was the same individual who had been talking to the doormen outside the inn. He also missed the man hurrying over to the scribe.

  By the time he’d reached Vulcan’s Anvil again, it was nearly dark. He was ushered inside with more greasy smiles. Carbo scanned the room, but there was no sign of Navio. His eyes were drawn to the women behind the bar. A raven-haired temptress now stood where the brunette had been. She was even more gorgeous than the others, and Carbo knew that she was the one he’d pick. But before that, he had work to do. Ordering a jug of Campanian, he found a space on a long bench that ran along one wall, which fortuitously afforded a good view of the door as well as the stairs to the floor above.

  Casual glances revealed that his neighbours were soldiers. Carbo’s guts churned, but he slurped at his wine, eager for the confidence that its effects would bring, and listened to every word he could.

  To his left, three junior officers were bitching about their centurion. ‘All he cares about is spit and polish,’ moaned one, a fresh-faced tesserarius.

  ‘I know,’ agreed the signifer, who was a decade or so older. ‘That bullshit has its time and place, but when we’re facing the fight of our lives, you’d think he could concentrate on other things.’