Spartacus: Rebellion (6 page)

‘Hold!’ Spartacus barked. He stared at Caepio. ‘My soldiers would slay you.’

‘That’s no surprise! Scum do not honour their promises.’ Caepio threw down his sword and raised his hands in the air. ‘Let them do what they will. It matters not. I’m damned for what I have done here tonight.’

‘Maybe you are, and maybe you’re not. Before you die, however, I have a task for you. A message to take to your masters in the Senate.’

‘You want me to carry word of this so-called munus.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘I thought you would,’ sneered Castus.

‘Not because of your threats. I do not fear death,’ said Caepio, the pride returning to his voice. ‘I accept because it is my duty to tell Rome of the depths to which you savages have sunk. Of the barbarity which you forced me and my comrades to inflict on each other.’

A furious roar met his words.

‘We’re no savages!’ cried Gannicus. ‘What happened here is no different to the way you treat slaves.’

‘Slaves,’ Caepio repeated. ‘Not free men.’

‘Rome lives by double standards,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘During the war against Hannibal, when its need was great, it liberated enough slaves to raise two new legions. They were freed in return for fighting for the Republic. Those men proved that they were the equal of any citizen.’

‘I cannot deny what you say, but I also know how my people’s leaders will respond when they hear about this munus. This is not really about the rights and wrongs of who is made a slave and who is not, about who fights and who does not. It is about humiliating Rome, and that you have done, by defeating both consuls, by taking four silver eagles and, last of all, by putting on this display. Am I not right?’ Caepio met Spartacus’ stare and held it.

‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted, as his men howled with glee.

‘It will not be forgotten, I can promise you.’

Spartacus raised a hand, halting Castus, who looked as if he was about to attack Caepio. ‘Good. Because that was my intent! Tell them that Spartacus the Thracian and his men can fight as well as any of your legionaries, and by defeating the consular armies we have proved it twice.’ This time, Spartacus caught the sour look that Castus gave Gannicus. ‘Tell the Senate that I am not the only general here. These men, Gannicus and Castus’ – he indicated them – ‘played pivotal roles in the defeats of Lentulus and Gellius. Rome had best look to its security! The next army it sends our way will suffer an even greater defeat. More eagles will be lost.’ Spartacus was pleased to see broad grins spread across the Gauls’ faces. He had lied – neither of them were tacticians as he was – but thousands of men looked to them as leaders. He had to keep them on board.

‘I shall tell the Senate everything you said. Am I free to go?’

‘You are. Give him enough food to last him to Rome! He is to have no weapons,’ Spartacus ordered.

‘And the bodies of my comrades?’

‘You expect me to say that they will be left in the open air for the carrion birds to pick on, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘They died the deaths of brave men, so they will be buried with honour. You have my word on that. I cannot say the same of the soldiers who were slain on the field, however. Many of them were cowards.’

Caepio’s face hardened, but he did not argue. ‘I pray to the gods that this is not the last time we meet.’

‘I shall not be merciful the next time.’

‘Nor shall I.’

‘Then we understand each other.’ Spartacus watched Caepio walk away. Another brave man, he thought. He spoke the truth too. Rome would not let this humiliation go unanswered. It made sense, therefore, to cross the Alps and go beyond the legions’ reach. A sneaking doubt crept into his mind.
What if the Senate sends armies after us?
It is not as if they don’t know where Thrace is.
He shoved the disquieting idea away.
That will never happen.
Deep in his guts, though, Spartacus knew that the possibility, even the likelihood, was there. Rome would not forgive, or as Caepio had said, forget, this many defeats.

Little did he know that Ariadne was thinking similar thoughts.
When Hannibal Barca was forced to leave Carthage, he was pursued for the rest of his life by Roman agents.
She clenched her fists.
Stop it. Dionysus, let us escape Italy, I beg you. Watch over us always and keep us safe.

Carbo too was watching the centurion; then, almost before he’d realised what he’d done, he had set off after Caepio. Hearing his tread, the centurion spun around.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to stab you in the back.’

Caepio looked even more suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

Carbo suddenly felt embarrassed. This close, Caepio did not resemble his father in any way. ‘I—I just wanted to say that you’re a brave man.’

‘You’re Roman?’ Complete disbelief filled Caepio’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘What in the name of sacred Jupiter are you doing with this rabble? Have you no pride?’

‘Of course I have.’ Carbo was furious to feel his cheeks going red.

‘You make me sick.’ Caepio began to walk away.

‘Hey! I would not have made you fight each other that way.’

Caepio turned again. The contempt on his face was writ large. ‘Really? Yet you’ve chosen to ally yourself with a host of murdering, raping slaves. Scum who have ravaged towns and cities the length and breadth of Italy, who have massacred thousands of innocent citizens and brave legionaries. In my mind, that makes you a
latro
of the worst type.’ He hawked and spat at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s for being a traitor to your own kind.’

Anger flared in Carbo’s belly. ‘Piss off, before I gut you!’

Caepio didn’t bother replying. He stalked off, muttering insults.

So that’s how it is.
There can be no going back now. Ever. Why did I even think it was possible?
It had been naïve to approach Caepio, but he had wanted to express his kinship with him. He had been unprepared for the level of the centurion’s scorn. Yet an odd feeling – was it satisfaction? – filled him.
I am a latro after all. The slaves have become my family. And Spartacus is my leader.
Despite the fact that he would never see his parents again, the emotion was oddly comforting.

Gannicus took a long pull from the small amphora. He smacked his thick lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s a good vintage, or I’m no judge.’

Castus lifted an arse cheek and let loose a thundering fart. ‘You’re no judge! It’s only entered your thick skull that it’s quality wine because we took it from Gellius’ tent.’ He ducked, chuckling, as the clay vessel flew at his head. It landed a few steps beyond his position by the fire. He leaned over and picked it up before its entire contents leaked out. ‘You know I’m right. Ten denarii says that you grew up on vinegar-flavoured, watered-down piss. Like me, like every farm slave that ever was. The best we could hope for every year was the dregs of the master’s
mulsum
at the Vinalia Rustica. How would we know what tastes good and what doesn’t?’

Gannicus cracked a sour smile by way of agreement; his moon face was less jovial that usual.

‘I couldn’t tell a Falernian from donkey piss most of the time, but if one thing’s certain, every bloody drop taken from the Romans tastes like nectar!’ Castus swigged from the amphora and tossed it back. ‘To be fair, that does have good flavour.’

Gannicus’ irritated expression eased. ‘I told you so.’

‘Look at us! We who were slaves, gladiators, the lowest of the low, living like kings!’ Castus’ wave incorporated the grand Roman tent that he’d insisted his men take from Gellius’ camp, and the glittering gilt standards that had been stabbed into the earth before it. ‘If that prick Gellius wasn’t so scrawny, I’d be wearing his armour too!’

Gannicus laughed. ‘It’s quite something to own the breastplate of a Roman consul, eh? Even if it doesn’t fit!’

‘I wish I’d taken it from his corpse,’ growled Castus. ‘Next time the dog won’t be so lucky.’

‘If he has the balls to come back for another bout.’

They sat and savoured the memories of their victory, which had come in no small part from their own personal bravery.

‘That was a fine spectacle that Spartacus put on earlier,’ said Castus in a grudging voice.

‘True. The men loved it.’

‘He’s got such a way with them, damn his eyes.’ Castus didn’t try to hide his jealousy. Gannicus knew how he felt about the Thracian. So too did the few warriors, Gauls all, who lounged nearby. ‘Time was that being courageous in battle and able to drink any other man under the table was good enough, eh?’

‘That and being able to hump a woman all night long,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘That’s why you and I have got to where we are. And we’ve done well! Thousands of men are loyal to each of us.’

‘Not nearly as many as are devoted to Spartacus,’ Castus retorted. ‘Did you see him fight today? He’s fearless, and skilled with it. The prick is a good general too. Tricking Lentulus into leading his army through the defile was a masterstroke. It’s no surprise that they fucking love him.’ His reddened face twisted with the bitterness of the man who knows he is lesser.

‘What I don’t like is the way he expects us to do what he wants. He used to ask our opinion. Now he just does whatever he pleases,’ said Gannicus, brooding.

‘That might be good enough for arselickers like Egbeo and Pulcher, but not for us. Gauls have pride!’

Resentment held them silent for a while. The logs in the fire crackled and spat as the resin within poured out. The noise of the celebrating soldiers rose into the starry night sky, where their challenge vanished into the immense silence.

‘I don’t know that you’re right,’ said Gannicus, tugging on his moustache.

‘Eh? About what?’

‘About how much the men love Spartacus. They adore him while he leads them to victory after victory, and when he lets them plunder farms and
latifundia
with abandon. But when they’re faced with crossing a huge range of mountains, out of Italy, I think that the majority of them will suddenly have a change of heart.’

‘They know that that’s where we’re heading. Spartacus told them at Thurii.’

‘There’s a big difference between “knowing” something and understanding it, Castus. All the men have had to think about since then is marching, raping, and pillaging whatever homestead they happen upon. Fighting the consular armies – and beating them – will have kept their minds off much else too. I’d wager that until recently, not one man in ten has given serious thought to leaving Italy. The grumbling that’s been going on is very real.’

Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’

‘That’s exactly what I think.’

‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’

‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’

In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’

‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.

‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’

‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’

Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’

‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’

‘Even better – that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’

‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’

They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.

A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’

‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity .’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’

‘Damn right I am!’

‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed – where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’

Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.

Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.

One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’ army had been camped near Thurii for some months. Rumours about how easy it was to join had been rife among the discontented farm slaves. In the dark of an autumn night, Marcion had stolen away into the hills. It had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.