Spartacus: The Gladiator (61 page)

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 and 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, questions 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.

‘So it’s true! They’re back,’ cried Gannicus, closing in on the fire. Castus was two steps behind him. Both men’s faces were set with worry. ‘What news?’ He threw the question at Spartacus, not Carbo or Atheas.

‘I don’t know yet,’ came the reply.

‘Eh?’ barked Castus. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Look at them. They’re filthy. Tired. They haven’t eaten for twelve hours or more. I fed them first. Looking after my men comes before anything else.’

Respect and a little awe flared in both Gauls’ eyes. ‘Of course,’ muttered Castus.

Ariadne nearly laughed out loud at the beauty, and simplicity, of it. Spartacus had known all along that the other leaders would hear of the scouts’ return, and come hurrying to hear what they’d seen. No doubt he wanted to know just as much as they did, but waiting was real proof that he was cool under pressure. That he was not frightened of what was to come. She glanced at Carbo, seeing he had come to the same realisation.

Spartacus carefully poured wine for Castus and Gannicus, and refilled Carbo and Atheas’ cups, Ariadne’s and his own. He raised it in the air, and waited until everyone else had done the same. ‘To the victories we have won! To the bonds of comradeship we have forged! To Dionysus and the Great Rider!’

‘Dionysus and the Great Rider!’ They all drank deeply.

‘Now.’ Spartacus fixed Atheas with a gimlet stare. ‘Tell me everything.’

There was a reverent silence as the Scythian began to speak. He threw an occasional glance at Carbo for confirmation, which pleased the young Roman greatly. Despite Atheas’ accented words and poor Latin, he drew a vivid picture of the legions blocking their path. When he was done, he simply folded his hands in his lap and waited for Spartacus to speak.

‘So there can be no doubt,’ said the Thracian, raising an eyebrow at Carbo.

‘No.’

‘What of the other consular army?’ asked Gannicus at once.

Atheas shrugged. ‘We did not see it.’

Maybe it’s already behind us,’ said Castus uneasily, ‘and they’re planning on squeezing us between them.’

‘No. Our mounted scouts are always some twenty miles behind the main force. Taxacis has been busy too. We would have had word by now if we were being followed. Who knows where Gellius is, but he’s not immediately to the south of here.’ Spartacus eyed Carbo again. ‘The legions are how far ahead of us?’

‘It’s as Atheas says. Four or five miles.’