Getas’ face darkened. ‘He didn’t make it.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of the guards at the gate was playing dead. He stabbed Seuthes from below.’ Getas’ fingers touched his groin. ‘Seuthes didn’t have a chance. He bled out as I watched.’ His face twitched with grief.
Spartacus’ gaze flickered back to the gate. Sleep well, brother. Then, out loud, ‘Time to move.’
He loped off. Ariadne ran beside him. Behind them came Getas, Carbo and his men. In a swarming tide, the remainder followed.
From the vegetable garden, the cock crowed again.
Spartacus forgot his sorrow for a moment. At least he’d never have to listen to the damn bird again.
Chapter X
MARCUS LICINIUS CRASSUS exited the great bronze doors that framed the entrance to the Curia, the building where the Senate met, and where he had just spent the morning listening to debates. Scores upon scores of toga-clad senators were also leaving. When they saw Crassus, the vast majority were careful to move deferentially out of his way. Many smiled; most murmured a respectful greeting as well. Keeping his expression genial, Crassus returned every salutation, no matter how lowly the politician who had made it. A friendly word of recognition today can become a new friend tomorrow. As always, his efforts bore rich fruit. In the time it took Crassus to reach the Curia’s front steps, he’d received the promise of two votes in his favour in the upcoming bill on slave ownership, been offered first refusal on the purchase of a newly discovered silver mine in Iberia and had a grovelling request for more time from someone whose debt to him was due the following week. Catching sight of Pompey Magnus nearby, accompanied only by his immediate coterie of followers, Crassus permitted himself a tiny, internal gloat. You might have come back to Rome on a flying visit to bask in the Senate’s adulation over your so-called victories in Iberia, but you’re still an arrogant young pup. Watch and learn, Pompey. This is how political success is achieved.
Crassus had been irritated by Pompey from the very time that his star had begun its meteoric rise to prominence. His initial reason was simple. Crassus had had a much harder climb to the top. His ancestors might have included those who had served as censor, consul, and pontifex maximus, the highest-ranking priest in Rome, but that hadn’t stopped Crassus’ family fortunes from plummeting during the reign of first Marius, and then Cinna. Times for those who had supported Sulla were bitterly hard for several years. Not for you to lose your father and a brother in the proscriptions, thought Crassus, eyeing Pompey sourly. Not for you to flee Italy with a handful of followers and slaves, there to live in a cave for eight months, like skulking beasts. No, you somehow escaped the Marian bastards’ attentions. Yet for all the way you raised three legions when Sulla returned, and your victories in Africa since, you weren’t the man whose forces won the battle at the Colline Gate; who, with one masterstroke, restored Sulla to power. I was!
Crassus flashed a practised, false smile at Pompey, who responded similarly. Like the misery of autumn rain, both of them had to accept the other’s presence on centre stage. That didn’t mean they had to like each other but it was important to remain decorous. To appear friendly, even when the direct opposite was the truth. Such is the way of politics, thought Crassus. It’s a way of life that I was born into, Pompey Magnus, while you’re nothing but an upstart provincial. He cast a jaundiced eye at the handful of army veterans who’d been waiting for Pompey to emerge. Raucous cheering broke out when they noticed him. It stung Crassus to see it. Few ex-soldiers of his sought him out to praise him to the skies, yet it happened for Pompey all the time.
‘Look at the scumbag! For all his vaunted military credentials, Pompey has made a dog’s dinner of sorting out Sertorius in Iberia. Three damn years it’s taken him so far,’ said a high-pitched voice in his ear.
Startled, Crassus looked around. Recognising Saenius, his major domo, he relaxed. Not many people knew his mind as Saenius did. Twenty years of faithful service meant Crassus trusted the thin, effeminate Latin as no other. ‘Yes, it’s been an overly long campaign,’ he replied acidly.
‘It only looks like ending now because Perperna recently assassinated Sertorius and assumed control of the Marian forces. Everyone knows that Perperna couldn’t organise a hunting party, let alone an army. If it hadn’t been for that piece of good luck, the fool Pompey would have been in Iberia for the rest of his life,’ Saenius hissed. ‘You would’ve finished it long since.’
‘I’d like to think so,’ said Crassus modestly, before adding, ‘I should have been given the command in the first place.’
‘Of course you should.’
The discreet major domo didn’t mention the reason that the Senate had passed his master over, but Crassus brooded over it anyway. I didn’t have the standing army that Pompey had back then. The Senate could hardly deny the prick his demand to be sent to Iberia. Crassus wouldn’t admit it to a soul, not even Saenius, but when the next opportunity for serious military advancement presented itself, he needed to seize it. To be utterly ruthless.
Romans liked smooth politicians, who were friends to all. They honoured those who kept an open house, who feasted the people, and who donated a tenth of all they had to Hercules. Crassus knew that he fitted the bill well for all of those qualities, but he had not yet been the recipient, as Pompey had, of the greatest accolade that Rome could award to one of its citizens.
A triumph.
And the public adoration that, like the spring after winter, inevitably followed.
Crassus couldn’t help but feel jealous as he watched the veterans proudly salute Pompey, who responded with gracious nods. Ordering Saenius to follow, he prepared to stalk off into the Forum.
It was then that a man on a lathered horse came clattering across the cobblestones. Indignant cries rose into the air as people scattered to avoid being trampled. Crassus’ gaze fixed on the new arrival like that of a hawk. What in Hades’ name is going on? Dragging on the reins, the rider halted on the Graecostasis, the waiting area reserved for dignitaries who wished to address the Senate. Abandoning his mount, he darted forward towards the Curia. ‘Where are the consuls?’ he shouted. ‘Are they still within?’
The crowd of senators recoiled from the man, who was unshaven and wearing a sweat-soaked tunic. A corridor opened before the messenger and, with a curse, he sprinted up the steps. He looked exhausted, thought Crassus. And frightened. He must be carrying urgent news. Crassus stepped into the man’s path, forcing him to come to a juddering halt. ‘They are still inside, I believe,’ he said smoothly.
It took a heartbeat for his words to register. Then the other’s faded blue eyes took him in. ‘My thanks, sir,’ he said, and made to move past.
Turning nimbly, Crassus fell in with him. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Capua.’
‘And you bring important news from there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the terse reply.
‘What is it?’
The faded blue eyes regarded him again. ‘I don’t suppose it matters if you hear it first. A band of gladiators has broken out of the ludus in Capua.’
Crassus’ interest soared. ‘The ludus? I know it well. Did many escape?’
‘Only about seventy.’
‘That’s of little consequence,’ declared Crassus in a bluff voice. ‘Hardly a matter to trouble the consuls of Rome with, is it?’
The man gave him a nervous glance, but then his chin firmed. ‘I’d argue the opposite, sir. Within the day, we, the townspeople of Capua, sent a force of more than two hundred men after the bastards. A simple matter to deal with, you’d think. Yet our lads were virtually annihilated. Less than a quarter of them made it home.’
Crassus sucked in his surprise. ‘That’s remarkable,’ he said casually.
Looking vindicated, the messenger made to go.
A finger of recognition tickled at Crassus’ memory. ‘Wait. Do you by any chance know any of the renegades’ names?’
The man t
urned. He made the sign against evil. ‘Apparently, the leader is called Spartacus.’
‘Spartacus?’ echoed Crassus in real shock.
‘Yes, sir. He’s from Thrace.’
‘Who cares what the whoreson is called?’ growled a senator who’d overheard. ‘Get in there and tell the consuls. They’ll soon organise enough troops to go down there and butcher the lot of them.’
‘They will,’ purred Crassus. ‘Capua need not worry. Rome will seek vengeance for its troubles.’
With a grateful nod, the man hurried off.
The gladiator whom I saw fight has even more balls than I thought. A pity I did not order his death when I had the chance. Crassus put the matter from his mind. A few hundred legionaries under the command of one of the other praetors would sort it out. He had far bigger fish to fry.
Standing on the very lip of the cliff, Spartacus looked over the edge. He squinted into the brightness of the abyss, spotting a number of eagles and vultures hanging in the air at roughly the same dizzying height. Above was a turquoise sky, filled by a warm spring sun. Below, the view was stupendous. A dense carpet of holm oak, turpentine, beech and strawberry trees spilled down Vesuvius’ slopes from Spartacus’ fastness on the summit. He let out a long breath. No one lives up here but birds of prey, wild beasts – and us. I am truly a latro now, Phortis.
Spartacus’ gaze followed the gradient as it flattened far below. There the land changed. An intricate network of farms, resembling a crazy mosaic pattern, extended out on to the Campanian plain as far as the eye could see. The vineyards were innumerable. Between them were vast fields of young wheat. Beyond, twenty miles away, lay Capua and the ludus. To the west and south-west were the towns of Neapolis and Pompeii, and the sea. The Via Annia, a minor road linking Rome with the south, was situated east of Vesuvius, along with the town of Nuceria. Beyond those lay the Picentini Mountains, a tall range of peaks which could serve as a refuge if needs be.
Memories of the events three days prior filled Spartacus’ mind. It hadn’t surprised him, or any of the gladiators, that a strong force had immediately been dispatched from Capua to crush them. Arrogant and sure of success, the ten-score veterans and townspeople had been easy to ambush. The gladiators had fallen upon them like howling wraiths. Only a fraction of the ragtag militia had escaped to tell the tale. Despite this, Spartacus’ sour mood deepened. The matter wouldn’t end there. Rome doesn’t work like that. Ever. Already the message would have reached the Senate in Rome. Already the plans for reprisal would be in train.
He glanced around at the massive crater that formed the top of the mountain. Its enclosing walls were covered in wild grapevines, and the green space was filled with vegetation: twisted juniper trees towered over spurge olive bushes, myrtle and sage plants. A number of large pools provided ample rainwater to drink. The gladiators’ camp was spread out over a wide area. It comprised a dozen or so tents – seized the previous day – and the same number of makeshift wooden lean-tos. Spartacus scowled. Seventy-three of us escaped the ludus. When the four women are taken into account, that’s sixty-nine fighters. Just over a third of Batiatus’ men. Hardly even a decent-sized war band. His gut instinct replied at once. The Senate won’t look at us in that light. Not only did we arm ourselves with the gladiator weapons from that wagon train heading for Nola, but we’ve smashed a superior military force. If there was ever a time to strike out for Thrace, it was now. Ariadne had mentioned this possibility, but so far Spartacus had resisted it. He hadn’t admitted it to Ariadne, but he liked having men follow him. He liked being a leader. If he left for Thrace, only a few loyal supporters would go with him.
A man by one of the lean-tos lifted his hand in greeting, and Spartacus returned the gesture. At least new recruits are starting to trickle in. So far it was only a handful of agricultural slaves. That number had to grow, and fast. If it didn’t, any troops sent against them would crush them as a man swats a fly. Spartacus’ fists bunched. Even if their numbers did increase, what real difference would it make? It took weeks – no, months – of training to turn men who were used to pushing a plough into soldiers who could stand against Roman legionaries. They’d be lucky if even a fraction of that time was granted to them. Seeing Crixus wrestling with one of his comrades, Spartacus’ frustration grew.
Any semblance of unity among the gladiators had dissolved the moment that they’d reached Vesuvius. Like oil separating from vinegar, the different groups had re-formed under their original leaders. They camped apart too: three parties of Gauls; the Germans under Oenomaus, and the Thracians and other nationalities with Spartacus. The physical separation had increased their differences even further. From the word go, Spartacus had struggled to get enough sentries. Unsurprisingly, his men weren’t too happy standing watch while the others relaxed in the crater. But at least they followed their orders, he reflected.
Intoxicated by their newfound freedom, Crixus, Castus and Gannicus had laughed in his face when he’d confronted them over it the previous evening. ‘We’re free now! Relax and enjoy it, why don’t you?’ Gannicus had said. Castus had simply shrugged and pointed to his men, who were guzzling down the wine they’d taken from the dead after the ambush. ‘What need have we of sentries?’ Crixus had roared. ‘Look what we did to those whoresons from Capua! No one is going to come near us in a hurry. Unless they want to commit suicide, of course.’ He grinned at his supporters, who guffawed in approval.
It had taken all of Spartacus’ self-control not to leap on top of Crixus again, fists pounding. But he’d done nothing. While the Gaulish leaders were infuriating, ill-disciplined and prone to drunkenness, they and their men represented a sizeable – and vital – chunk of their forces. There were twenty-five Gauls, of whom one was a woman. Spartacus could not alienate them totally. With the recent addition of some runaway agricultural slaves, he had twenty-nine men and two women, including Ariadne and himself. If it came to a real fight, however, he could only rely on the seventeen of his followers who were gladiators. Oenomaus had a few more followers than the total number of Gauls: twenty-six men and two women, but the Germans’ unity gave him the most powerful grouping by far.
Fortunately, Oenomaus also had more sense than the others. He’d listened to Spartacus’ complaints about the sentries, and immediately agreed that his men should share the duty. His goodwill had not extended further, however. When Spartacus had mentioned weapons drill, Oenomaus had frowned. ‘We had enough of that in the damn ludus.’ Spartacus’ argument about facing legionaries had met with simple indifference. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,’ the German had said.
When we come to it. A grim sense of foreboding filled Spartacus and he turned his eyes back to the Campanian plain. The roads he could see were as small as the ribbons on a doll’s dress, but he could still make out the tiny shapes of wagons and oxen. For now. As sure as the wheat ripened at summer’s end, one day he’d see the distinctive column of a Roman army, marching towards Vesuvius. Even if it only comprised a thousand men, it would look the same as the ones Spartacus had grown used to during the conquest of Thrace. Scouts and skirmishers to the front. Cavalry, and then the main body of infantry. The camp surveyors and their equipment, followed by the commander and his bodyguards. More cavalry. The senior officers with their escort. The rearguard. And after them, the raggle-taggle that trailed in the wake of every army since the dawn of time. Whores, traders of every description, soothsayers, shysters, entertainers and slave traders. Perhaps even the man appointed in Phortis’ place, sent by Batiatus to bring back those unfortunate enough to be captured alive.
I won’t be among them. Nor will Ariadne, Spartacus thought grimly. Death was far more attractive than returning to captivity, especially when it was achieved by hacking apart as many legionaries as he could. While that end appealed, it was impossible to deny that it was futile. Why not just leave?
‘Was this the mountain you dreamed of?’
Ariadne’s voice by his ear made Spartacus jump. ‘Yo
u crept up on me!’ he muttered, a trifle embarrassed. He studied his surroundings more closely. In the adrenalin rush of events since their escape, he hadn’t had the leisure to reconsider his dream. ‘Possibly. It’s certainly remote enough.’
‘And you have a sica.’ She tapped the sheathed weapon hanging from his baldric.
‘True.’ He’d been delighted to find a Thracian sword in the consignment that they’d chanced upon on the road from Capua.
‘You’re at altitude.’
‘Yes, but I’m not alone.’ He gestured at the camp below.
‘Not everything about a dream has to be accurate.’
Spartacus’ stomach tightened, and he scanned her face for clues. She spent much of her time praying to Dionysus. Maybe her prayers had been answered at last. ‘Have you gained an understanding of what I saw?’ He saw the regret flare in Ariadne’s eyes, and once again, he felt the snake wrapped around his throat. Does it represent the soldiers sent by Rome? Or the fate that awaits me if I try to return to Thrace? He lifted his eyes balefully to the heavens. What end have you planned for us, Great Rider?
‘It might not mean what you think.’
‘It’s hard to see how it doesn’t.’ Patting his flat belly, Spartacus changed the subject. ‘I’ve a mind to fill this with meat. Any meat will do. Beef. Pork. Lamb. Even goat. We need supplies too – particularly blankets and leather for making sandals. I’ll round up the men and search out an easy farm to raid. I’ll take everyone except Getas. He will stay here with you.’
Ariadne knew better than to ask if she could come. As a priestess, her value to the gladiators was incalculable. Besides, she didn’t want to see the casual slaughter and rape that would be an integral part of the expedition.
Spartacus slipped to Carbo’s side as they followed the game trail downwards through the forest. Atheas and Taxacis, the two Scythians, followed him silently, barely moving the thick bushes as they passed. Atheas was the one with the bushy black beard, while Taxacis had a broken nose like a squashed sausage. Since escaping the ludus, the pair had become his shadows. They even slept outside his tent, like faithful hunting dogs. Spartacus didn’t know why the skilled warriors had chosen to become his bodyguards, but he rested easier because of them. Getas couldn’t do it all on his own. Having to contend first with the fearsome Scythians would make any disgruntled gladiators think twice before trying to kill him.