Spartacus: Rebellion (27 page)

‘I do,’ said Spartacus solemnly.

This seemed to satisfy the girl. ‘Two aurei in total then.’

‘Yes. The balance payable when you take us to the gate in the morning.’

‘Along with the amount we agreed for the job of guiding you around.’ Tulla’s jaw jutted out stubbornly.

‘Can you believe this girl?’ Spartacus barked a laugh. ‘She’d bargain with the ferryman!’

Despite the danger he had placed himself in, Carbo grinned.

Spartacus spat on his hand and shoved it forward. ‘It’s a deal.’

‘Deal,’ agreed Tulla, gravely accepting the grip.

Some time later, they found themselves in a side alley that overlooked the Elysian Fields. Tulla made to enter the street, but Spartacus pulled her back. ‘Wait. Let’s not be hasty.’

Staying in the shadows, they watched the inn. Several tables outside were occupied. A balding man dozed with his head against the front wall; a bored-looking whore toyed with her bracelets; two older men argued amiably about which horse-racing team was best that season. Carbo’s unease reduced a fraction. There didn’t seem to be any reason for alarm. He glanced at Spartacus.

‘Not yet.’

Tulla rolled her eyes, but she too stayed where she was.

A boy pushing a small cart went by, shouting about the fresh fruit juice he had for sale. A matron passed in the other direction, issuing orders to the trio of house slaves who hurried behind her, carrying her shopping. The delicious smells issuing from a baker’s shop a short distance away mixed with the smell of burning charcoal, and manure from the pens behind a butcher’s. The cattle held there roared their protests.
Ting. Ting. Ting.
The sound of metal hammering off metal reached them from a smithy. A cripple hobbled by on a crudely fashioned crutch.

Carbo began to relax.

Beside him, Tulla was jiggling with impatience. ‘Do you think it’s safe yet?’

Spartacus shook his head.

‘But everything is going on as norm—’

Tramp. Tramp. Tramp.

Tulla’s eyes widened. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back as Spartacus peered briefly around the corner. ‘Soldiers. Eight, nine, ten of them.’

A moment later, a party of legionaries came to a halt before the inn. A burly figure emerged from within and sat down with the two old men. Focused on the soldiers, Spartacus didn’t see the man give them a tiny nod. Carbo did, but put it down to nothing more than a greeting. Six entered; the remainder waited outside.

Spartacus had been right to be cautious, thought Carbo, but their predicament was only a fraction less dire than before. ‘What in Hades do we do now?’

‘Good question.’ Spartacus racked his brains.
Great Rider, help us.

‘What about a whorehouse?’ suggested Tulla. ‘You could stay in one of those overnight.’

‘No,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘Places like that live on gossip. Besides, they could be searched. Believe me, Crassus is going to have this city turned upside down to try and find us.’

‘We could try going to my uncle’s house and finding out where my parents live,’ said Carbo slowly. ‘If we clean ourselves up, it might work.’ His mind raced. What would he say to Varus? To his mother and father?

‘That’s a damn good idea. If the worst comes to the worst, we can hold them hostage until the morning.’ Spartacus eyeballed Carbo.

‘Very well.’ Carbo almost wished that he had said nothing. He didn’t want his parents to remember their last meeting with him – for surely this would be the last – to be tainted in that manner. But they had to escape.

Spartacus gave a satisfied nod.

‘Where does your uncle live?’ asked Tulla.

‘On the Esquiline Hill. I’m not sure where.’

‘Can you find his house?’ asked Spartacus.

Tulla gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Of course. I might need to ask around a little.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Tulla thumbed her nose at Spartacus and headed back down the alley.

Marcion had drunk more than the rest of his comrades, and his pounding head the next morning had made it easy to turn down his comrades’ suggestion of a swim in the river that lay near the camp. They hadn’t been gone long, however, before his rest was disturbed again by the sound of widespread cheering. Irritably poking his head out of his tent, he discovered something that sent him fumbling for his clothes. Ignoring his hangover, he ran all the way from the camp to the broad watercourse. ‘Did you hear the news?’ he called excitedly as he came barrelling down the slope, dodging past other soldiers.

There were scores of men in the water, bathing, washing their clothes, filling water containers or doing as his tent mates were, sporting about in the shallows near the bank. A few looked up, but none of Marcion’s comrades heard him.

‘Ariadne has had her baby!’ he shouted.

That got him some attention.

Arphocras, one of the nearest to Marcion, was shoving a comrade’s head under the surface. The sun glinted off the droplets in his close-cropped hair. ‘What did you say?’

‘Tell us!’ cried a soldier Marcion had never seen before.

‘Ariadne has given birth to a healthy boy!’

A lop-sided grin twisted Arphocras’ face. ‘A son? The gods be thanked. That’s wonderful news. Let’s hope that Spartacus comes back soon, eh?’

‘He will,’ declared the soldier who’d spoken first.

Marcion nodded. Unlike many others, Zeuxis prominent among them, he still felt sure that their leader would return. He wasn’t sure why this was, but the news of Maron’s birth had increased this belief.

The others were still play-fighting. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got big news!’

No one paid him any notice. Marcion was not surprised. During their weeks of marching under the hot summer sun, few of the mountain streams they’d encountered had been safe enough to enter. This one was, making it a huge draw to the soldiers. Despite the ragging he got for washing regularly, his comrades could not deny the sheer pleasure of being able to bathe in running water.

Marcion’s gaze was drawn back to Arphocras, whose victim had just managed to struggle free. His head had been half-submerged, so he had no clue what Marcion had been saying either. With a triumphant roar, he threw his arms around Arphocras’ neck and dragged him under. Water fountained into the air as the pair thrashed about.

Ten paces further out, Gaius had Zeuxis on his shoulders, and was facing up to two more of their comrades. Shouting curses, Zeuxis and the other man on top grappled fiercely, trying to throw one another into the water. It wasn’t long before Zeuxis’ ‘steed’ lost his footing and fell. Zeuxis began to topple backwards, but he seized his opponent by one arm and, shouting with glee, managed to take him down as well.

Their antics made Marcion forget his news for a moment. Keen to join in, he began to strip off. He had just pulled his tunic up over his shoulders when an immense blow sent him flying forward, his limbs flailing. A heartbeat’s delay, and Marcion landed in the river. He thrashed about madly, trying to find the bottom. Heaving himself upright, he ripped off his tunic and coughed up several mouthfuls of liquid. ‘Who did that?’ he roared. ‘Who did that?’

Laughter filled his ears, and he looked up at the bank. ‘You bastard!’

‘The opportunity was too good to miss,’ said Antonius, another of his tent mates. ‘You were standing there, shouting your head off like bloody Julius.’

Marcion grinned. Throwing their disciplinarian officer into the river was a most appealing idea.

‘What were you bawling about?’ asked a deep voice.

‘Zeuxis. Finally!’ He dodged the balding man’s charge with ease, giving him a push that, to his immense satisfaction, sent his argumentative tent mate face first into the river.

‘Ariadne has given birth,’ Arphocras butted in.

That put a smile on most men’s faces, but Zeuxis, dripping water, scowled. ‘I wish the babe no harm, but that’s the last thing we need.’

‘It’s not as if it’s a surprise. She’s been pregnant for nine months!’ retorted Arphocras to a ripple of laughter.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘Castus and Gannicus aren’t going to be too pleased about this, are they?’

‘Who cares what those whoresons think?’ demanded Marcion. ‘Not us, that’s for sure.’ He was pleased when a number of men nearby voiced their agreement. It was hard to ignore, however, that some soldiers were throwing him foul looks. Even worse, they weren’t Gauls. The rot is spreading, he thought unhappily.

‘It might force them to act. They’ve been planning something since we turned around at the Alps,’ said Zeuxis. ‘If I’ve heard what they promise us in exchange for loyalty once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. A free rein with every farm and estate that we attack. The right to use iron and gold as trading items. We’ll all be rich men soon, if Castus and Gannicus are to be believed!’

‘What’s your point?’ snapped Marcion, tired of Zeuxis’ constant complaints. ‘I know you think it’s lies that the Gauls are peddling.’

‘They’re not lies, that’s the problem,’ replied Zeuxis sourly. He dropped his voice a fraction. ‘That’s why so many men are listening to them. You mark my words, if Spartacus doesn’t come back soon, there’ll be trouble. Real trouble.’

The others exchanged worried looks.

‘It’s not that bad,’ protested Marcion, but he’d heard the whispers too.

‘Isn’t it?’ asked Zeuxis. ‘An army needs its leader, and if he is absent for too long, then someone else will take the space. It won’t be Egbeo or Pulcher either. They’re not ruthless enough.’

‘We don’t want change. We’re still Spartacus’ men, eh?’ asked Marcion, glaring at his comrades.

His reply was a muted chorus of ‘Ayes’, but Zeuxis’ voice wasn’t one of them. He glared at Marcion. ‘The only reason that I joined Spartacus’ army was to get away from my damn master. You might be different, but a lot of men did the same as me. It was good to learn how to fight, I suppose, and to give the Romans a taste of their own medicine. Spartacus brought us victory after victory as well, so I kept following him. You could say that I became loyal to him, yes. But now he’s fucked off and doesn’t look like coming back. He’s left us at the mercy of a pair of Gaulish savages! So much for his loyalty to
us
. I’m damned if I’ll stick around for much longer.’

‘We can’t just let Castus and Gannicus take control!’ cried Marcion.

‘How are you going to stop them?’ hissed Zeuxis. ‘You’re an ordinary foot soldier, like me. Like all of us. What can you and I do against the likes of the Gauls? They’ve got thousands of followers! Thousands. If we challenged Castus and Gannicus, we’d be food for the vultures and you know it.’

Marcion looked to his comrades for support, but he found none. No one else was actively agreeing with Zeuxis’ gloomy prediction, but nor were they arguing with it. Misery filled him. The laughter of a few moments before seemed a lifetime ago.

Where are you, Spartacus?

‘Help me, please.’

For a moment, Ariadne could not work out where she was, or who was addressing her. She was alone on a road paved with black basalt slabs. The sun beat down from a clear sky. Above her she saw clouds of vultures. Her skin crawled.
Why are there so many?

‘Help. Water.’

Ariadne’s head turned, and she took in the man who hung from a simple wooden cross before her. Horror filled her. ‘Egbeo?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘Ariadne.’ The big Thracian’s voice was husky and dry. Far weaker than normal. ‘Help me.’

She took a step closer. The cross was a simple affair, little more than an upright two handsbreadth in width, and a crosspiece of similar size that stretched to either side. Ariadne saw that she could hack through the rope that bound Egbeo’s feet to the vertical, but the thick iron nails that had been driven through his wrists were beyond her. To prevent removal, their heads had been hammered flat on to the wood, pinning his hands in one agonising position. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thirsty. I’m so thirsty.’

Ariadne’s helplessness reached new heights. She had no water bag with her. Glancing up and down the road, she could see no well, no buildings. Just a line of occupied crosses, stretching away on either side as far as she could see. ‘How many men have been crucified?’ she whispered in horror. ‘It must be hundreds.’

‘Thousands,’ croaked Egbeo.

Suddenly, Ariadne knew why she was here. Terror twisted her stomach into a painful knot. ‘Spartacus – where is Spartacus?’

Egbeo didn’t answer.

‘Where is my husband?’ Desperation turned her voice shrill.

The lines on his haggard face grew even deeper. ‘He—’

A hand shook her shoulder. ‘Ariadne!’

Startled, she opened her eyes to find the midwife crouched over her. ‘You were having a nightmare—’ She was interrupted by a mewling sound from beside Ariadne. ‘And you woke the baby. I think he’s hungry.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Failing to clear her mind of the graphic images, Ariadne scooped up Maron, whose cry was growing louder.
It cannot be coincidence that I’ve had the same hideous dream three times, can it?
She kissed her son on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, my darling. Come here.’ Placing him on her breast with the help of the midwife, she lay down again. ‘My dream was terrible.’

The old woman cackled. ‘It’s the herbs. They often bring bizarre and unsettling images. Things that we do not want to happen, or things that we fear.’

‘Do the visions ever come true?’

‘Sometimes, but it’s almost impossible to know the real ones from the false. My advice is for you to forget all about it. You’ve got more important things to be doing than brooding over a nightmare.’

Ariadne nodded in agreement. That would be best. She busied herself by gazing at Maron, and imagining what he would look like as he grew up. Would he inherit Spartacus’ piercing grey eyes or her brown ones? Would he be compactly built, like his father, or take after her family, who were slighter framed? Soon though, her mind began to wander. Inevitably, it returned to her dream. With Spartacus in Rome, her natural reaction to it was to assume the worst for him.
How can it be the herbs when I’ve had the same vision before? Could Spartacus be already dead?
She took a deep breath. On the previous occasions that she had seen the lines of crosses, there had been no Egbeo, no conversation. Surely, the big Thracian’s presence in the nightmare meant that it could not be taking place in the present or the near future, because Egbeo was alive and well, and here with the army. That had to mean that Spartacus was not one of the crucified men.