Spartacus: Rebellion (22 page)

Spartacus gave him a hard look. ‘Ariadne informs me that she won’t go into labour for another three weeks. I believe her. Women know about these things.’

‘I understand,’ muttered Carbo.

‘We’ll leave tomorrow, and reach Rome in little over a week and a half. If we can buy horses, it will be even quicker. Two or three days there should be sufficient. The horses will make the return journey faster too.’ He glanced at Navio. ‘You will have had just enough time at Thurii to erect a hut for Ariadne before we arrive.’

‘It’ll be the first thing we do.’

‘If you’re sure . . .’ said Carbo doubtfully. He hadn’t ever ridden that much.

‘I am.’ Spartacus said nothing of the fierce argument he’d had with Ariadne over it. She had totally opposed his going, not, she said, because he might miss the birth, but because of the dangers that he would face. ‘What if you are recognised in Rome?’ she had uttered repeatedly. Spartacus had laughed. ‘Who will recognise me? The likelihood of seeing someone who knows me are less than a icicle surviving the midday sun.’ Then he’d taken her hand. ‘I have to find out what the cursed Romans are planning. This chance to kill Crassus will only be there once.’

‘And if you get caught?’

He’d laughed. ‘That won’t happen. I’m going to take Carbo with me. He’s a native. I’ll act as his slave. We’ll be on a short business trip to Rome, just two men in a crowd of thousands. What could go wrong with that?’ Ariadne had finally acquiesced, because she’d seen that he would not be swayed, but there was now a further tension between them. It can be resolved when I return, thought Spartacus.

‘So, will you come?’

As with the first time Spartacus had made such a request of him, man to man rather than from leader to a follower, Carbo was touched. He was also secretly pleased, because in Rome, the opportunity to meet his parents might arise. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Spartacus got to his feet.

‘Won’t you have some warmed wine?’ Carbo made a gesture that sent Arnax scrambling for the amphora in their tent.

‘No. I want a clear head in the morning. We’ll need to cover more than twenty miles a day.’

‘I understand. Arnax, leave it.’

‘Heat some up anyway,’ ordered Navio. ‘I’ll have a cup even if Carbo’s not going to. I’ll raise a toast to your success, and more importantly, safe return.’

‘Thank you.’ Spartacus cast them a warning glance. ‘It goes without saying that no one is to speak of this. To anyone.’

Carbo and Navio nodded.

‘I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, I—’ blurted Arnax, looking mortified.

‘It’s all right. I know you won’t talk.’ With a curt nod, Spartacus disappeared into the darkness.

Navio jerked his head after the Thracian. ‘Gods, I’d wager you didn’t see that coming.’

‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘Neither can I. Didn’t your parents end up in Rome?’

Carbo had told Navio his whole story after the fuss over his letter. ‘Yes.’

‘Tempted to see them?’

‘I don’t know. I might not have the chance.’

‘When will a better opportunity come your way?’

‘Leave it,’ muttered Carbo.

Navio raised his hands, palm outwards. ‘Fair enough.’

Carbo stared into the flames, brooding. If the truth be known, he was wary of meeting his parents again. What would he say to them about where he’d been for the last year and more? He would have to lie about absolutely everything. Despite this, his heart ached at the thought of them.

Carbo woke long before dawn. Moving carefully so he didn’t disturb Navio and Arnax, he threw off his blankets. He rolled them up, placing them in his pack, which was lying ready by his side. He had gone to bed fully dressed, so all he had to do was slip on his sandals, grab his dagger and creep outside. Although Carbo half expected to see Spartacus, he gave a start at the figure which loomed out of the semi-darkness. ‘Been here long?’ he whispered.

‘A little while.’

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

‘Something like that.’
I was tired of the disapproval radiating from Ariadne.
Spartacus regretted not saying goodbye, but the cool between them had hardened overnight to a thick frost.

It was strange seeing his leader without his sword, helmet and mail shirt, thought Carbo. Spartacus was dressed in a simple wool tunic and sandals. He was carrying a pack and a stout cudgel. A sheathed knife hung from a leather strap over one shoulder. He looked like any agricultural slave.

‘I’m ready,’ said Carbo.

‘Give me your bag.’

‘Eh?’

‘If you’re the master and I’m the slave, then I have to carry both our packs. From the start. Only the gods know whom we’ll meet on the road. No point arousing suspicions, is there?’

‘But—’

‘Hand it over.’

Feeling awkward, Carbo did as he was told.

‘You’ve got no weapons?’

‘Just this.’ He tapped his dagger.

‘Fine. Let’s go. It’s a long way to Rome.’

Carbo cast a last glance at his tent. His guts lurched at the thought of never seeing Navio and Arnax again. I’ll be back before they know it, he told himself. Pushing back his shoulders, he set off, with Spartacus a step behind.

‘May the gods go with you!’ called a low voice.

Turning, Carbo saw Navio’s head sticking out of their tent. He grinned. ‘Thank you.’

Nodding farewell, the two men strode off between the lines of tents. It took a long time to work their way to the edge of the huge camp, which was situated in a flat area between two forested peaks. Nearing the perimeter, they passed several sentries, who smiled and waved them on. ‘They think we’re just going on a reconnaissance of the local area,’ muttered Spartacus. ‘I had Pulcher send out the word last night.’

‘What will they say when we don’t come back?’

‘If anyone asks, Pulcher is to say that we may have gone south ahead of the army, to check the lie of the land. It doesn’t matter too much if the men don’t believe the story. All anyone is thinking of now is reaching Thurii. We’ll return before there’s any serious problem.’ Spartacus pictured Castus, who had been delighted when he’d told him about his planned mission. Gannicus had seemed pleased too, but the chance of some decent intelligence and of killing Crassus had to take priority. They won’t win that many men over, he told himself.

Leaving the encampment behind, they walked up a steep slope covered in beech trees and worked their way down the other side. The eastern sky was paling fast now, but it no longer mattered. Only the sentries and Publipor had seen them go.

At least that was what they thought.

Nine days later, the pair had nearly reached Rome. Annoyingly, finding suitable mounts had proved to be overly time-consuming. They had therefore walked, covering more than twenty miles every day, still considerably faster than the slow pace of the slave army. It had been tough going, but Carbo hadn’t complained. Spartacus was bearing both their packs while he got to walk with only his water bag to weigh him down.

They had come down from the mountains at the first opportunity and taken the fastest route to the capital: the Via Appia, which ran from Brundisium to Rome. Paved with blocks of black basalt, it was the Republic’s main artery, carrying wagons full of trade goods, soldiers, travellers and civil servants of all types. Carbo and Spartacus had been swallowed up in the tide of humanity that flowed towards the capital, just another master and servant going about their business.

As they had arranged, the pair only spoke on the road when there was no one else in sight. At the roadside inns where they had stayed each night, Carbo had taken a small room while the Thracian slept in the stables or even outdoors. It was customary for agricultural slaves to be treated rather poorly, and Spartacus had wanted them to look no different. Everything had to go without hitch, because time was of the essence. If he stayed away too long, the Gauls might actually do some real harm. And he might miss the birth of his son.

‘We must be close now,’ said Carbo, pointing at a particularly grand brick-built tomb. ‘They’re getting larger.’ The mausoleums had lined both sides of the road for miles, memorials to the wealthy and powerful.

‘You’re right. There are fewer
latrones
and cheap whores on view too.’

It was true, thought Carbo. The skulking shapes who lurked by the whispering cypress trees and crypts with their statues of the dead had all but vanished. ‘The city guard probably doesn’t tolerate them close to the city.’

‘There it is,’ said Spartacus softly. ‘Up ahead. Look.’

Above the heads of the people in front and framed by the trees on either side, Carbo made out a high stone wall. ‘It’s bloody enormous!’

Spartacus grunted irritably. Rome’s defences were intimidating to say the least. As tall as five men standing on each other’s shoulders, the wall was faced with large slabs of yellow tufa. He could see soldiers patrolling to and fro on a rampart that ran along the top. A fortified tower perched on either side of the iron-studded gates that led into the capital. Both had a couple of light catapults. Spartacus had only ever had a vague notion of taking Rome, but now it vanished entirely.
I would need engineers who could build me hundreds of huge ballistae. Even then, it would take months to pound enough holes in the defences to storm the place successfully.
Months during which other legions would have been raised elsewhere in Italy.
He forced away his bad humour. ‘How old is it?’

‘More than three hundred years,’ replied Carbo proudly. ‘It was erected in the aftermath of the sacking of the city by the Gauls.’

‘Impressive, but it’s a damn shame that it was ever built. Things with Hannibal might have been very different otherwise. And for me too.’

Carbo’s pride vanished.

‘How long is it?’

‘Five miles. It encompasses all seven hills. There’s a deep defensive ditch too. We’ll see that as we get closer.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Spartacus dryly.

Embarrassed by his enthusiasm, Carbo fell silent.

‘Where does your uncle live?’

‘On the Esquiline Hill.’

It had been inevitable that Carbo would tell Spartacus his family’s full story. The Thracian had already known of Crassus’ part in their downfall. ‘Do you want to see them?’ Spartacus had asked. ‘Yes.’ Carbo had studied the fire as he’d replied, his rashness in dictating the letter in Mutina vivid in his mind. ‘I think you should go,’ Spartacus had said, stunning him.

‘Do you still think it’s a good idea to make contact with my parents?’

‘If there’s an opportunity, yes. You could be killed any time.’

Carbo’s skin crawled. ‘I don’t think that the Esquiline is far from the Capena, the gate we’re heading for. It won’t be hard to find out.’

‘Steady on,’ Spartacus warned. ‘Let’s find a place to stay first. Check out the lie of the land. See what’s going on.’

Carbo flushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll get your chance.’

Contenting himself with that, Carbo strode on, determined to appreciate the sights of the city he’d heard so much about but never seen. He had grown up on tales of the capital and the Forum Romanum, the open space where citizens met to socialise, do business and to petition senators, and which was overlooked by the Capitoline Hill with its massive temple complex and immense statue of Jupiter. There wouldn’t be time, but he also longed to see the Circus Maximus, a natural stadium formed by the steep sides of the Aventine and Palatine Hills.

His wonder soon turned to surprise. After they had passed under the mighty Servian wall, only the basalt road maintained its grandeur. It was still broad enough for two carts to pass abreast. On either side, however, the streets that led off up the hills were narrow and unpaved, and no different to Capua’s. The buildings towered higher than Carbo or Spartacus had ever seen – three, four and even five storeys tall, but for the most part, they looked poorly built. The air was thick with the smell of decaying rubbish, human waste and the acrid tang of urine from the fullers’ workshops that were clustered round the Capena Gate. And the people. There were more people than either man had imagined could be gathered in one place. They pushed and jostled, so intent on their business that they didn’t even look at the other passers-by.

The crush was added to by the queues of wagons which filled the roadway. Loaded with vegetables, sides of pork, steeply piled terracotta vessels and every other merchant good imaginable, they were drawn by pairs or larger teams of oxen. Their drivers roared curses at one another and at the pedestrians, blaming everyone but themselves for the throng that slowed all traffic to a snail’s pace. Carbo made for the edge of the street, hoping to make better progress, but the open-fronted shops, restaurants and taverns there filled the ground before their premises with stalls, tables and items for sale. Any available space between was occupied by toothless beggars – a combination of lepers, amputees and scrawny children – or jugglers, snake charmers and other performers.

‘It’s no good,’ he said in frustration. ‘It will take us all day to get anywhere if we stay on the Via Appia. I don’t know any of the side streets, though.’

‘That’s easy to sort out.’ Spartacus clicked his fingers at a snot-nosed girl in a threadbare tunic. ‘Want to earn an
as
?’

The urchin was by Spartacus’ side in a heartbeat ‘Yes, sir.’

‘No need to call me “sir”. I’m a slave.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the girl with an uncaring shrug. ‘New to the city?’

‘Yes. My master here is looking for lodgings for a few nights. Central if possible. Nothing too flash, but not a dive either. Somewhere that the beds are clean and the food won’t poison you. And where the wine is actually drinkable.’

‘Do you need whores?’

‘Unless you can guarantee that they haven’t got the pox, no,’ said Carbo.

This produced a smile and a mouthful of rotting teeth. ‘I know just the place. The Elysian Fields. It’s between the Esquiline and the Quirinal.’

‘Is that far?’ asked Spartacus.

‘Not the way I’m going to take you. Follow me!’ The urchin darted off up an alleyway.

Carbo eyed Spartacus uncertainly.