Spartacus: Rebellion (15 page)

‘To commemorate the death of someone rich or famous,’ Arnax replied.

‘That’s right,’ said Spartacus. ‘Nowadays, of course, they’re held any time some high-and-mighty or up-and-coming noble wants to impress the masses. Men fight and sometimes die in those munera, don’t they? Slaves, who have no choice in the matter.’

Arnax nodded.

‘My munus was to mark the death of thousands of my former comrades in battle. In my mind, that makes it far more valid than the
entertainment
that is laid on for the populations of towns the length and breadth of Italy every month or two. I had every damn right to do what I did.’ He pinned Arnax with a hard stare. ‘Understand?’

In the silence that followed, Carbo was surprised to find himself in agreement with Spartacus. The munus had upset him badly at the time, but for months now, he had trained and fought alongside former slaves. They were his trusted comrades. If it was acceptable to force men such as they to fight as gladiators, then it was permissible to do the same to Roman prisoners. He watched Arnax, pleased, surprised and a little worried by the way he’d stood up to Spartacus.
Agree with him.

‘Yes,’ the boy said at last.

‘A real fighter you’ve got there, Carbo. I think I can understand now why a slip of a lad like him saved your lives at the risk of his own. He’ll make a good soldier one day – as long as he learns to watch his tongue.’

‘He will,’ replied Carbo.

‘Ever been hunting?’ Spartacus asked Arnax.

‘No.’

‘This can be your first time. We take bows and arrows for deer and birds, and these in case we meet a boar.’ He handed over his heavy hunting spear. ‘You can carry that.’

Arnax beamed. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Carbo?’ asked Spartacus.

‘There are plenty of tracks in the woods to the north of the camp. I thought that would be a good place to start.’

‘If we want to have a chance of killing anything, we’d best get moving, eh?’ Navio slapped his mail shirt. ‘Help me take this off,’ he said to Arnax.

Aided by Spartacus, Carbo also removed his. Although it made sense to leave the heavy shirt behind, he felt naked without it. Talk of the meat that they’d be roasting over their fire that night soon put his concerns to rest, however.

The four wended their way through lines of tents to the edge of the vast encampment. Despite the fact that Spartacus kept his head down, his men hailed him at every step. It took a mile or more before the sights and sounds of the huge army were left behind, but eventually they found themselves alone, a world away from the hustle-bustle of the camp. It was a fine spring day, and the warm temperature was most welcome after the long winter months. Carbo felt glad just to be wearing a tunic.

He led the little party fast across the open ground that sloped downwards to the north. It was covered in short grass and clumps of aromatic sage and juniper. His eyes scanned the dirt for signs of deer or boar, but all he saw were the tracks of small creatures such as the startled hare that had bounded off between a dark green myrtle shrub and a mass of prickly buckthorn. There was plenty of birdlife. Several large black birds with red markings around their eyes and impressive fantails darted off into the undergrowth as they passed. They looked good enough to eat, but a swift glance at Navio and Spartacus told Carbo that they too wanted bigger quarry.

He ignored the pair of hooded crows that chattered angrily at them from a cork oak tree. In the distance, Carbo heard the distinctive hammering of a woodpecker, a bird sacred to Mars, the god of war. He quickly offered up a prayer.
Give us a good hunt, O Great One.
They walked on, entering the shelter of the woods. Motes of dust floated lazily on the sunlight that filtered through the branches of laurels, stone pines and strawberry trees. It was peaceful – eerily so. Carbo thought of the copse a short distance away that contained hundreds of Roman soldiers and their ballistae, and his skin crawled. He began to see a legionary behind every tree, and wished that he had not taken off his mail shirt. Navio’s hiss startled him. ‘Pssst!’

Carbo looked. Ten paces off to his left, Spartacus was pointing at the ground. He padded over. At the Thracian’s feet were two large hoof imprints with a characteristic pair of indents behind them. ‘Red deer. A big one.’

‘It’s a stag,’ said Navio excitedly.

‘Looks like it,’ agreed Spartacus.

At once Carbo’s gaze moved to the trees in front of them. Of course he saw nothing. The marks were fresh, but the stag would be some distance away.

When they had followed the prints for a little way, their suspicions were proved correct. ‘See this?’ Carbo showed Arnax. ‘We know it’s a male deer because the rear tracks fall to the inside of the front ones. That happens because his chest is a lot larger than his hindquarters.’

‘Where is he?’ Arnax’s eyes were alive with interest and delight.

Spartacus stooped and pressed his fingers into the nearest print. ‘Nowhere that close. But the earth is still a little damp. He passed by here today. Probably sometime in the morning.’

Arnax hefted the spear in his right hand. ‘Will we find him?’

Carbo grinned at the boy’s enthusiasm. ‘Who knows? We shall have to follow his tracks and see. Now is the time to pray to Diana for her help.’ Using a loop of leather made for the purpose, he slung his spear across his back. Then he slipped an arrow with a narrow head from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.

‘That won’t take down a deer,’ joked Navio.

‘We might see another hare, or one of those black birds,’ answered Carbo a trifle defensively.

‘It always pays to be ready,’ said Spartacus, selecting a shaft of his own. ‘For whatever – or whoever – we might meet.’

Carbo felt gratified. During the time the slave army had travelled from deep in the south, he’d spent a lot of time scouting with Atheas. The Scythian never moved without a weapon in his hands.

Some time later, however, his vague unease had been replaced by frustration. He had seen no phantom legionaries, and there had been no game worth bringing down either. Irritatingly, the stag’s tracks had petered out on a bare rocky slope that led to the bank of a fast-flowing stream. The trio had cast about, searching for signs of where the animal might have left the hard ground and forded the watercourse, but had had no luck.

‘The damn creature must have sprouted wings and flown away,’ said Navio, frowning.

Arnax glanced briefly at the sky before looking down again, embarrassed.

Carbo hid his grin. He’d forgotten how innocent children could be. ‘Let’s not give up.’

‘I want to keep going,’ agreed Spartacus, who was revelling in the sensation of being with comrades, tracking nothing more than a deer. There were no men asking him for equipment, no new recruits who needed instruction, no horses to be broken or officers asking him for guidance. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in an age.

‘Look!’

The excitement in Arnax’s voice caught everyone’s attention. Spartacus’ gaze followed the boy’s pointing arm down the slope, through the gap in the trees to the flat ground that lay beyond. ‘That’s no deer.’ He studied the three figures who were running at full pelt towards the woods.

‘They’re being pursued,’ hissed Carbo. Some distance behind the fugitives rose a tell-tale dust cloud. His stomach clenched. ‘Riders.’ They were too far away to estimate their number, but the spiral of dust was large. It was also closing in fast on the running men.

‘Roman deserters?’ suggested Navio.

‘They’re more likely to be escaped slaves,’ said Spartacus.

Carbo and Navio exchanged glances, wondering what to do. The safest thing would be to return to the camp. Surely, their leader would think the same thing.

‘Those men could be coming to join us,’ grated Spartacus.

‘The riders who are after them outnumber us,’ warned Navio.

Everyone in the camp – Ariadne, the Scythians, Pulcher and Egbeo – would want me to melt away into the trees. Even Castus and Gannicus would advise walking away from this situation. But who are they to tell me what to do? I decide what risks I take – crazy or not.
A wicked grin split Spartacus’ face. ‘It’s been a while since I faced long odds. I’m going down there. You in?’

Chapter V

‘OF COURSE.’ CARBO
wondered why his leader was being so foolhardy, but he didn’t say so. Instead he returned his narrow-headed arrow to his quiver and pulled out a barbed shaft.

‘Fine,’ said Navio with a crooked smile and did the same.

‘W-what are you going to do?’ Arnax’s voice was quavering.

‘Slip down to the edge of the trees and see what’s going on.’ Spartacus pointed a finger at the ground. ‘You’re going to stay here, where it’s safe.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. You’re too young to fight, yet the Romans – if that’s who the riders are – would cut you down in the blink of an eye.’

‘You’re to do as Spartacus says,’ ordered Carbo loudly, trying to calm his own nerves. ‘You can hide easily here, and see what happens. If the worst comes to the worst, return to the camp. Can you retrace your steps to find it?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good. When you get there, find Pulcher or Egbeo and tell them what happened,’ Spartacus directed.

‘Pulcher. Egbeo. Yes.’

‘If I have been killed, they are to lead the army.’ Or however many of the men will follow them rather than Castus or Gannicus, he thought cynically. ‘Atheas and Taxacis are to look after Ariadne. Let’s go.’ Taking his spear from Arnax, Spartacus trotted off with Navio on his heels.

Carbo paused long enough to clap the boy on the arm. What had he got Arnax into? he wondered. He glanced at the dust cloud, which had grown larger. Now he could see the shapes of individual riders, at least fifteen of them. What the hell was he getting himself into? His pulse raced as he began to descend the slope.

Reaching the bottom first, Spartacus moved at once along the edge of the trees, searching for the best spot to observe what was going on. He was careful to keep far enough back to prevent his being seen. He soon spotted the fugitives. They were definitely slaves, he decided. All three were thin, barefoot and dressed in ragged tunics. The men had almost reached the shelter of the woods, but they looked more terrified than ever. That was because the front riders – three Roman cavalrymen in mail shirts and bronze helmets, carrying long, slashing swords – were nearly upon them. Behind thundered many more.

‘Quickly!’ he hissed at Carbo and Navio. Darting to the shelter of a holm oak at the very limit of the trees, he dropped his spear and stabbed a row of shafts into the earth in front of him. Nocking an arrow to the string, Spartacus drew a bead on the first rider, an unshaven man with long hair. He glanced to either side. A few steps away, Carbo and Navio were also ready. ‘How far?’ he muttered.

‘Eighty to a hundred paces, give or take,’ replied Carbo. Navio growled in agreement.

Spartacus pulled back to full draw. ‘On my count. One. Two. Three!’

Their arrows shot through the air. Two punched the first rider off his horse’s back, and Spartacus swore under his breath. He should have named his target. The last shaft, Carbo’s, struck a man behind the leader straight through the throat. He was dead before he even hit the ground. The men’s companions roared with anger, but they did not slow down. Leaning forward across his mount’s neck, one swung down with all his might at the last of the three fugitives. An excruciating scream shredded the air. A sheet of blood sprayed from the man’s back, and he fell to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

‘In here! In here!’ shouted Spartacus. He took aim and let another arrow fly. ‘Loose as fast as you can,’ he roared. ‘We have to make the scumbags think that there are plenty of us.’

Hiss! Hiss! Hiss!
The trio released shafts as fast as they could.

Two more horsemen went down. A steed that had been struck in the chest reared up in agony, unseating its rider. The man immediately behind could not react fast enough, and with a massive
thump
, the horses collided. Carbo’s delight at this faded as a yelling cavalryman closed in on the second fugitive, delivering an almighty blow to his right side. The slave stumbled and cried out, but incredibly he kept running. Carbo took a little satisfaction as his next arrow took the Roman rider in the groin, below the bottom of his mail shirt.
Hiss! Hiss!
Two more shafts scudded out, striking another pair of riders.

The wounded slave’s gaze scanned the trees. He’d seen their arrows. He shouted something at his companion, and they changed direction slightly, aiming for where Spartacus and the others were standing. Carbo stared at the man’s face, twisted with effort. ‘Paccius?’ he whispered. Disbelief filled him. It couldn’t be the Samnite who had been his family’s best slave, and who had trained him to use a sword and shield. Could it? Then the man staggered and almost fell, and one of the nearest Romans whooped with triumph. Before Carbo knew what he was doing, he was sprinting out of the cover of the trees. Into the open.

‘What are you doing, you fool?’ Spartacus yelled.

‘Come back!’ Navio roared. ‘You’ll be killed.’

The taste of Carbo’s fear was acid in his throat, but he kept running. He nocked an arrow to his string. ‘I’m coming, Paccius. Hold on!’

A cavalryman closed in on the injured fugitive and Carbo swore. There was no way that he could loose accurately as he ran.
Zip!
Something flashed past him, striking the Roman in the chest. The shaft punched through his mail shirt, throwing him backwards off his mount. Another arrow shot by, hitting a horse and causing it to stumble. Its rider did well not to be unseated, but he was still out of the fight. Carbo felt a surge of gratitude towards Spartacus and Navio.

The first slave was now only twenty paces or so away. His mouth gaped open with the impossible effort of trying to outrun horses.

‘We’ve got to help your friend,’ Carbo yelled, gesturing madly. ‘Go back and help him.’

The slave looked at him as if he were mad, but he obeyed.