As Spartacus and Crixus nodded grimly at each other, she redoubled her prayers.
Only time would tell, however, if the god had been angered by her fabrication.
Crassus was eating a breakfast of bread and olives when Saenius came sloping into the courtyard. Wiping his lips fastidiously, Crassus waited for the other to approach his table. ‘What is it?’
‘Publius Varinius is here.’
Before he has even explained himself to the Senate? This I had not expected. Crassus hid his surprise by dabbing at his mouth again. ‘What does he want?’ he asked offhandedly.
Seeing through his master’s charade, Saenius chuckled. ‘He’s here to see if you can save him!’
‘The man needs help, all right.’ News of the disaster that had overcome Varinius’ troops had taken barely three days to reach the capital. Varinius now follows in its wake – like a lost dog finds its way home, expecting a beating.
‘Shall I send him away?’
‘No. I want to hear what happened from his own lips.’
Saenius hurried off. He soon returned with a sheepish-looking Varinius in tow. ‘The praetor Publius Varinius,’ he announced.
Crassus waited for several moments before even acknowledging Varinius’ presence. When he did, it was with frosty surprise. ‘Ah, praetor. You have returned to us.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank the gods. It’s a great shame that so many of your men did not also survive,’ Crassus added in a tone of great sorrow.
‘Their deaths hang around my neck like a millstone,’ said Varinius miserably.
‘And so they should! Along with the loss of Furius’ and Cossinius’ men,’ Crassus snapped. ‘Virtually everything I have heard of your actions against Spartacus smacks of utter incompetence!’
Varinius did not dare to reply. He hung his head in shame.
‘Tell me what happened at Thurii. I want to understand it for myself.’
The words fell out of Varinius in a veritable tide. His withdrawal to Cumae after the surprise of Spartacus’ disappearance. The long hunt for new recruits. Issues with desertion, near mutiny, disease and finding enough equipment for his men. The search for Spartacus during the foul weather of autumn and winter. After weeks of fruitless marching, the unexpected good news that Spartacus had besieged Thurii. Varinius’ plan to crush the slaves between his infantry and cavalry. The shock of the ambush. The slaves’ overwhelming numbers. Galba’s charge, and his death at Spartacus’ hands. The rout that followed. The incredible appearance of enemy cavalry. Varinius’ attempts to rally his men for a counter-attack, and their total refusal to do so. Somehow pulling together the survivors. Organising treatment for the wounded and maimed, and then his return to Rome. Varinius looked exhausted by the time he’d finished.
He’s not a complete fool, thought Crassus with a twinge of conscience. Who could have predicted that the town was already in Spartacus’ hands? Naturally, he wasn’t going to admit that to Varinius. ‘Clearly, you are here to report this sorry tale to the Senate. I expected to see you there later this morning,’ Crassus said, softening his tone a fraction. ‘Why have you come to me before doing your duty?’
Varinius looked up. There was a desperate expression on his long face. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Republic. Whatever punishment is handed down to me, I will accept.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Crassus acerbically.
‘I thought – I wondered, after your letter, if you might see a way to lending me some support.’
‘Some support?’ Crassus’ voice was silky-smooth.
‘The senators will be out for my blood. If you were to speak for me, they could be swayed …’ Varinius went to say more, but stopped himself.
Crassus considered his options. Did he need the fealty of a failed fellow praetor? No. Would it look good to back a man who had lost repeatedly to a runaway gladiator? Most certainly not. He eyed Varinius sidelong, feeling a modicum of sympathy for the wretch. Was there any benefit at all in defending him? It only took Crassus a heartbeat to decide. ‘You have failed utterly in the mission entrusted to you by the Senate. Why in Hades’ name would I utter a word in your favour?’
‘I—’
‘I am not without heart, however. If, in the wake of your passing, your family needs a loan to carry them through the lean times ahead, I will be happy to oblige. I charge very little interest.’
A nerve twitched in Varinius’ cheek, and he swallowed hard. With an effort, he composed himself. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’
‘Very well. If that’s all, then …’ Crassus picked up an olive, and studied it carefully before popping it into his mouth. He did not look at Varinius again.
Saenius materialised at Varinius’ elbow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir?’
‘Yes, I …’ Varinius’ voice faltered. ‘Of course.’ With slumped shoulders, he followed Saenius from the courtyard.
Crassus watched him go. When he has finished his report, the Senate will offer him only one choice, he thought. Varinius is a dead man walking. That was of little concern. What caused Crassus more disquiet was the fact that Spartacus – the gladiator he’d seen fight and with whom he’d spoken – had turned out to be a formidable foe. Spartacus’ successes could no longer just be put down to chance, ill-fortune or poor judgement on the Roman commanders’ part. There had been too many defeats, over too many legionaries.
Spartacus wasn’t lying when I talked with him, mused Crassus. He is a man to be reckoned with. What a shame he wasn’t the one to be defeated that day in Capua. He’d be maggot food now, instead of a thorn in Rome’s side.
Crassus hoped that his fellows in the Senate now recognised the danger posed by Spartacus. He would do his utmost to make sure that they did. The insult to the Republic’s honour could be tolerated no longer. Both consuls would have to go to war.
Spartacus has to die. And soon.
Chapter XX
The Apennine Mountains, north-east of Pisae, spring 72 BC
TYPICALLY, IT WAS Atheas who sensed that there was something wrong. Raising a hand, he stopped. Used to their routine, Carbo came to a halt. He was some twenty steps behind the bearded Scythian on a narrow game track that led northwards through the foothills of the Apennines, the mountains that formed Italy’s spine. Since the army had left the ruined city of Thurii behind them, they had followed similar paths. Carbo had soon grown bored of the drudgery and repetitive routine of marching day after day. Dark thoughts about Crixus, and the fact that he had not tried to kill him, had also dogged his every step. Desperate to shake the gloom that had coated him, Carbo had begged Spartacus to let him join one of the scouts on their solitary missions.
‘Why are you wanting to do that?’ the Thracian had asked.
‘To learn a new skill,’ Carbo had answered evasively. And so I can track down Crixus one day. It might have been pure fantasy, but he still longed to kill the big Gaul. In his tortured mind, for him to have any peace, Chloris had to be avenged.
‘There are no better trackers than Atheas and Taxacis,’ Spartacus had said. ‘But they won’t be interested in letting you tag along.’ Seeing the anger in Carbo’s eyes, he’d relented. ‘I’ll ask for you.’
To Carbo’s surprise, Atheas had agreed. Whether it was because Spartacus had insisted, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. Naturally enough, he had been very wary the first time the Scythian had led him from the camp. Since the time of the confrontation over Navio, their relationship had been one of extreme suspicion. Although Atheas had killed Lugurix, Carbo still feared his blade, and it seemed that despite all that Carbo had done for Spartacus, the Scythian distrusted him. Unsurprisingly, their relationship had got off to a difficult start.
Wanting to make as good a fist of his opportunity as possible, Carbo had aped Atheas’ every move and obeyed his orders without question. He was given no recognition for this; indeed Atheas had run him ragged, often covering upwards of twenty-five miles a day. The Scythian ate an
d drank sparingly, making Carbo wonder where he got his incredible stamina from. Biting his lip, he’d learned to get by on similarly small quantities of food and water. They lived in virtual silence, only talking when absolutely necessary.
Time passed, and Carbo became skilful at lighting campfires and gutting game. He could even bring down a deer with an arrow more times than he missed. To his surprise, he also gained some proficiency at the difficult art of tracking. Carbo wasn’t sure how or why, but he had eventually won Atheas’ approval. A nod here, a proffered piece of meat there, were the little indications he’d had, but those gestures had meant the world to him. Atheas’ tiny smile when Carbo had thanked him for killing Lugurix had meant even more. Fortunately, the hard scouting life had also lessened his grief over Chloris. Now it was just a dull ache, rather than the stabbing pain it had been before.
‘Pssst!’
He blinked and came back to reality.
Atheas was beckoning him closer.
Sliding his feet over the ground as he’d been taught, Carbo advanced until he was at the Scythian’s shoulder.
Atheas pointed through a gap in the trees that lined the side of the track. Carbo peered between the leaves, down the steep slope that led to the bottom of the wooded valley, which ran in a north–south direction. At its floor was a small road, which led to Mutina, some twenty miles away. It was the flash of sunlight on metal that caught his eye. Adrenalin pumped through Carbo’s veins as he focused in on a large group of horsemen in bronze helmets, barely visible through the forest canopy. ‘Cavalry,’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ hissed Atheas. ‘They … looking for us.’
Since word had come a month before that G. Cornelius Lentulus Clodianus, one of the consuls, was pursuing them with his two legions, Carbo had been expecting this moment. That didn’t stop a tide of bile washing up his throat. He’d hoped against hope that Spartacus would lead them straight to the Alps without encountering another Roman army. Of course that had been nothing but a foolish dream, he thought. The horsemen’s presence was proof that Lentulus’ legionaries must have caught up with and overtaken them. It wouldn’t have been hard. The progress of the fifty thousand slaves had been painfully slow. ‘What do we do?’
‘Can’t … fight.’ Atheas glanced at Carbo with an evil grin. ‘Unless … you want … die still?’
He hadn’t hidden his misery that well then. Carbo grimaced. ‘No. It would be a complete waste. Spartacus needs to hear about this.’
‘He does. But first … we head north. Search for … main force.’
‘There could be enemy scouts on these paths.’
‘Yes. We must be … ghosts. Or we end up …’ Making a low, guttural sound, Atheas drew a finger across his throat.
Carbo’s eyes flashed in the direction of their camp.
Atheas pounced on his reaction. ‘You want … go back? Tell Spartacus about … cavalry?’
‘No.’ They’d seen nothing for weeks. He wasn’t going to miss out on this.
‘Sure?’ Atheas’ voice had gone hard.
‘Yes,’ replied Carbo firmly.
A curt nod. The Scythian unslung his bow from his back. Bending his knee, he slipped the gut string into place. Carbo copied him at once. When he’d nocked an arrow to his own string, he looked up. ‘Follow me,’ whispered Atheas. ‘We go quick.’
Then they were off, trotting down the path, passing through the strips of sunlight like two dancing shadows. The game path looped and twisted its way along the side of the valley for some four or five miles, and they followed its undulations as fast as was humanly possible. The pair travelled in silence, maintaining a keen eye out for enemy scouts. Through great fortune, they did not come across anything for upwards of an hour. When they finally did, it was not another human, but a wild boar. Startled by their rapid approach, the creature squealed and fled in the opposite direction, its tail raised high with indignation.
Carbo smiled at its reaction, but Atheas frowned and came to a halt. ‘We move slow now.’
Carbo’s lips began to frame the word ‘Why?’ when he realised. ‘If someone is on the track, they’ll wonder what scared the pig?’
‘Yes.’ Atheas pulled back his bow to half-draw and jabbed the arrow tip around him. ‘Look everywhere. If you see something … don’t ask. Just loose.’
‘All right.’ Suddenly, Carbo’s mouth was as dry as tinder. He wasn’t going anywhere, though, except forward. Spartacus had placed his trust in him, and he could not betray that.
They crept along the path, around a bend and then another, without seeing a thing. Atheas paused, and Carbo readied himself to let fly. But the Scythian indicated a freshly trampled way off into the scrubby vegetation that lined the forest floor. ‘Boar went … this way. Good.’
Carbo nodded.
A few moments later, Atheas suddenly stopped dead again. Before them, the track burst out of the cover of the trees, on to a huge area filled with blackened stumps and charred branches. This in itself was not unusual. Fires commonly swept through the forests in summertime. The aftermath scarred the landscape for years, until the vegetation grew back and concealed the evidence. They moved carefully to the edge of the living trees. It wasn’t the vista provided by the gaping hole in the forest that set Carbo’s heart thumping in his chest, but what he could see because of it.
The valley broadened at this, its northern end, revealing an area of flatter farmland that spilled down towards Mutina. The road here was wider, and it was filled as far as the eye could see. With legionaries – thousands of them, marching in line like so many ants. Here and there in the column, Carbo could also see groups of horsemen.
‘The consular army. It can’t be anything else.’ There was a sickening feeling in Carbo’s gut. ‘They outflanked us.’
‘How many men?’ Atheas’ gaze was flickering to and fro like a that of a hawk on its prey.
‘Ten thousand legionaries. Six hundred cavalry, maybe more.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Each consul commands two legions. That force isn’t big enough for Gellius, the second consul, to be here as well.’ A black mood took Carbo. ‘He’s probably on our arse.’
Atheas threw him a rebuking look. ‘Taxacis seen … nothing. With gods’ help … other whoreson … hunting Crixus.’
‘Let it be so,’ breathed Carbo. May Gellius find him and shred the bastard into little pieces. What of the rest? his conscience screamed. Fuck them, his rage shouted back. Their fate is their own. They followed Crixus, not Spartacus.
Atheas touched Carbo’s arm, bringing him back to the present. ‘No need … see more. We go back. Fast.’ With that, he’d pushed past and was off down the track as if Cerberus were after him.
Carbo followed, a surge of adrenalin giving him extra speed. The sooner Spartacus knew about this, the better. What will he do? Carbo wasn’t sure. One thing was for certain, though. They couldn’t march around Lentulus and escape. The legions were capable of covering up to twenty miles a day. A battle was inevitable now, and when it came, it would put all their previous clashes in the shade.
Carbo felt traitorous for again asking Jupiter to support Spartacus against his own kind, but he did so anyway. Even with their superiority in numbers, they would need all the help they could get. Facing a full-strength consular army was a very different proposition to every other force they’d come up against. Despite the fact that the troops were only newly raised, this would be Rome close to its deadliest.
Carbo felt uneasy at the mere idea of it. Have faith in Spartacus, he told himself. He’ll have a plan. What, though? Most of our men won’t stand up to a line of armoured soldiers two legions wide. They will turn and run. Gritting his teeth, Carbo concentrated on keeping up with Atheas.
But the horror of what could easily happen kept flashing into his mind.
By the time they reached the rebel camp, which sprawled over several large clearings in the forest, the sun was falling in the sky. When they were spotted, ques
tions flew at the pair thick and fast. Atheas pretended not to understand. Carbo just ducked his head and kept walking. There was no way he was saying a word to anyone but Spartacus. News like this could cause panic.
They found their leader sitting with Ariadne and Taxacis by a small fire in front of his tent. An iron tripod suspended a pot over the flames, and a delicious smell laced the air. Carbo’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten since the morning. Forget about it. There’ll be time for food later.
Spartacus smiled as he saw them approach. ‘Perfect timing. The stew is ready.’
‘We bring … urgent news,’ Atheas began.
‘It can wait, surely?’
‘I—’ protested Carbo.
‘When was the last time you ate?’ interjected Spartacus.
‘Dawn,’ admitted Carbo.
‘Then your stomach must be clapped to your backbone,’ said Ariadne. ‘Come. Sit.’ She produced a blanket.
Shrugging, Atheas sat down opposite Spartacus. Still worried, but silenced by Spartacus’ insistence, Carbo joined him. Spoons, bowls of steaming stew and lumps of flat bread were handed out, and a silence fell that was broken only by the sound of chewing and appreciative grunts.
Ariadne watched Carbo and Atheas with a keen eye and tried hard not to let her worries consume her. It’s got to be bad news. Why else would Carbo have a face like thunder? Atheas was harder to read, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. Ariadne wanted to shake Spartacus and tell him to ask them what they’d seen, but she held back, instead smiling and offering more stew. He’ll have his reasons.
When Carbo and Atheas were finished, Spartacus lifted a small amphora that had been lying by his side. ‘Some wine?’
‘Yes,’ Atheas growled happily.
Carbo nodded. He was burning to reveal their news, but he had to wait until Spartacus ordered them to speak. He swilled the wine around his mouth, enjoying it despite himself.