Spartacus: Rebellion (38 page)

Apart from triremes, Carbo’s knowledge of ship types was vague. ‘How many men can that carry?’

‘Sixty oarsmen, and about fifty slaves. Passengers.’ He corrected himself with an evil leer.

‘I need bigger vessels than that.’

‘There are other captains knocking about the area in biremes. There’s even a trireme or two. Why do you need them?’

‘We want to get to Sicily.’

There was a long, slow whistle. ‘The whole army?’

‘No. Just a couple of thousand men.’

‘Why so few? I’ve heard that Spartacus’ army is massive.’

‘None of your damn business.’

‘It’s my bloody business if you’re on my ship,’ retorted Heracleo.

The last thing his leader wanted any pirate to know was that he was considering retreat. Carbo had his lie ready. ‘Spartacus wants to start a rebellion on Sicily.’

‘Ahhh. To divert the Romans’ attention?’

‘Something like that,’ said Carbo stiffly, as if annoyed.

‘That’s smart. I’ve heard that he’s a canny one, your Thracian. You’d want to cross at the straits, I take it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How soon?’

‘Whenever you can get the ships there.’

A cunning glance. ‘He’s in a hurry. What’s he willing to pay?’

‘Two hundred and fifty denarii per man. Say five hundred thousand in total.’

There was a collective gasp from the pirates. Each of their slaves was worth between two hundred and four hundred denarii, but they only had thirty. Slaving was profitable work, yet the securing of captives was unpredictable and irregular. This would be a prize haul.

‘One and a quarter million,’ replied Heracleo without even blinking.

‘That’s outrageous,’ cried Carbo with all the bluster he could manage.

‘Getting four or five ships that are large enough to carry your men won’t be easy, you know. I’ll have to cut the other captains in. Then there’s the Roman navy to worry about.’

‘I don’t give a shit. It’s far too much!’

Heracleo’s grin was predatory. ‘Spartacus needs me more than I need his money. I can tell. Take my price or leave it – it’s up to you.’

Scowling, Carbo didn’t say anything for several moments. Heracleo’s greed was no surprise. Spartacus had told him he could pay up to a two and a half million denarii, but he had to play the part, to look annoyed.

Heracleo yawned, but a good number of his men seemed keen to carve Carbo up.

‘We could pay nine hundred thousand, but no more than that.’

‘It’s what I said, or nothing, you ugly son of a whore!’

Carbo flushed. He hadn’t been insulted about his pox scars for a long time. His gaze went flat. ‘If you didn’t have so many men with you, I’d cut you a new arsehole.’

Heracleo’s face hardened. ‘You cheeky bastard!’ He opened his mouth, but Carbo interrupted.

‘You drive a hard bargain. One and a quarter million it is.’

Heracleo’s demeanour changed in a flash. His eyes glittered with avarice. ‘You have the money?’

Carbo threw back his head and laughed. ‘For the last year and more, we’ve been pillaging whole towns from here to the Alps!’

‘Of course, of course.’ Heracleo managed to sound obsequious as well as annoyed.

‘How soon can you have the ships at the beach near Scylla?’

Mention of the mythical beast who guarded the straits made Heracleo purse his lips. ‘A month. Six weeks.’

‘Can’t you do it sooner?’

A frown. ‘I will do my best. Before that, however, a down payment will be necessary. I was thinking—’

‘Twenty-five thousand denarii today. A hundred and twenty-five thousand when you arrive with the ships, and the balance when the last of our men set foot on Sicily,’ interjected Carbo harshly. ‘That’s
my
final offer. Take it, or leave it.’

Heracleo smiled. ‘You can pay me now?’

Carbo turned his head. ‘Optio! Bring a chest over!’

Heracleo spoke a few words in a guttural argot, and his men cheered.

As half a dozen of his soldiers trotted over, Carbo eyed the grinning pirates sidelong. Not one of them could be trusted, yet with the gods’ help, they were now the most important allies Spartacus had ever had. He sent up an urgent prayer to Neptune, the god of the sea, and Fortuna, the goddess of luck, that Heracleo kept his side of the bargain.

If this plan failed, they had ten legions to face.

That was without taking the Gauls and the spy into account. Carbo scowled. Sometimes it felt as if they had as many enemies within as without. He hoped that Crassus had not got wind of what he’d been up to. It seemed unlikely. Once it had been decided that he would leave, Carbo had packed his gear and departed. On Spartacus’ orders, he had told only Navio where he was going.

From the hills that surrounded the ruins of Forum Annii, Spartacus and a party of his scouts – among them Marcion and his comrades – were looking down on to the Via Annia, the main road that led from Capua to Rhegium, the town at the southernmost point of Italy. After what he and Carbo had discovered in Rome, the sight of enemy soldiers was unremarkable, yet it was shocking nonetheless. This host dwarfed the others that they had seen, and it had arrived sooner than Spartacus had expected. Having had word the previous day, they had been waiting for it since dawn. He observed it with a jaundiced eye. His service with the auxiliaries meant that he knew intimately the formation taken by Roman armies on the march.

A couple of hours after the enemy scouts had come stealing through the woods on either side of the road, the vanguard had come into sight, one legion picked by lot to lead the column that day. After that had come the surveyors, a unit comprised of one man from every contubernium in the army, whose job it was to help lay out the camp. Next were the engineers, who removed any obstacles in the legions’ path, and then the senior officers’ baggage. The general in charge and his bodyguard of infantry and cavalry had been easy to spot. A succession of messengers rode from this position up and down the verges, carrying orders to various parts of the host. The commander had been followed by the remainder of the horse. Scores of mules carrying the dismantled artillery preceded the senior officers and their escort. After came the legions, each one signified by a large group of standard-bearers at its front. The ranks of marching legionaries filled the road entirely. Each legion was strung out over a mile or so, but they seemed to go on for far longer. Spartacus’ own forces took up a similar amount of ground, but he and his troops never got to watch them from such a vantage point. It was an awe-inspiring and, even in the best of men, fear-inducing sight.

‘Crassus is here,’ said Spartacus softly. Gladly. It had been more than two months since he’d been in Rome. At last his waiting was over.

‘You’re sure, sir?’ asked Marcion.

‘I’d wager my life on it. We’ve seen, what, five legions so far, and they’re still coming. There’s no way that Crassus would let one of his subordinates lead that many soldiers against us.’

‘What’s your plan, sir?’

All eyes swivelled to Spartacus.

‘We’ve done what we came for. Every grain store within twenty miles has been emptied. If we loaded any more on to our mules, they’d collapse.’

His men chuckled. They liked the idea of so much food.

‘There’s one more thing to find out before we head south, though. I want to test the mettle of Crassus’ soldiers.’ He saw their questioning, slightly nervous looks. Marcion was alone in seeming excited. ‘Most of them are new recruits. I need to see how good their discipline is, so we know what we’re up against.’

‘We’re up against ten legions, sir,’ growled an unhappy voice from the back. Marcion scowled. As usual, it was Zeuxis.

‘And if they’re shoddy soldiers like those of Lentulus and Gellius, we have nothing to be concerned about. But if they’re not, then we’ll need to treat them with a sight more respect.’ He threw them a warning glance. ‘I’ve told you before: Rome is not an enemy to be taken lightly. Just because you’ve beaten its troops on a number of occasions doesn’t mean that you will always do so. Those legionaries you can see might be a very different proposition to meet face to face.’ They didn’t like that, but Spartacus didn’t care. The brutal reality of what they could expect to see for the rest of their lives lay on the valley floor below. If it wasn’t this army, it would be another one.

There was far more, but Spartacus didn’t say it. To his immense frustration, his forces – including the soldiers who answered to the increasingly hostile Castus and Gannicus – now only outnumbered those of Crassus by perhaps fifteen thousand men. If the new legions proved to be cowards, and he picked the right battlefield, that could be enough. Yet while Spartacus didn’t like to admit it, there was a chance that Crassus’ soldiers
would
stand and fight. If they did, he needed more troops than he currently had.

The days of his huge numerical superiority over Roman armies were but a memory; the deluge of runaway slaves joining them that had been the daily norm since their first remarkable victory had all but dried up. The news of Crassus’ ten legions had to be part of the reason. Or maybe it was because every herdsman and farm worker in the south with any courage had already joined him? Only the gods knew, Spartacus thought bitterly.

His mind was made up. He would go head to head with Crassus now if they were somehow cornered, but otherwise he would seek out a skirmish and then move south, towards Sicily. There, for a while at least, they would have fewer enemy forces to deal with. There would be more recruits and supplies. More options.

He winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, lad, we’ll still have a fight. A chance to bloody Crassus’ nose good and properly.’

Ignoring Zeuxis’ sour expression, Marcion grinned. With Spartacus to lead them, what could go wrong?

Two days later . . .

Since their confrontation, Spartacus had met with Castus and Gannicus only twice. The encounters had been less than friendly, but there had been no open conflict, and no more threats to leave. While the Gauls and their followers had continued to march with the other soldiers, they had begun to do their own thing. Raids on estates and villages. Attacks on a small town. Refusing to train daily. To all intents and purposes, they had already split off from the main army. Yet while they were still physically present, Spartacus’ hunch was that if the situation demanded it, they would fight alongside him.

On this occasion, the pair arrived outside his tent still dressed for battle, wearing mail shirts, crested bronze helmets and Gaulish patterned trousers. Both had long since given up their native longswords in favour of gladii, finding the stabbing blades easier and more efficient to use in a shield wall.

Hearing Atheas’ challenge, Spartacus came out to meet them. He was pleased to see that they had no retinue. They weren’t here to quarrel. ‘Will you have wine?’

‘No,’ growled Castus.

‘Gannicus?’

‘Say what you have to say and have done.’

‘Fair enough. I know that you took part in the fight earlier.’

‘Of course we did. We’re no cowards,’ retorted Castus.

‘You’re both brave men, I know,’ Spartacus acknowledged in a peaceable tone. ‘All the same, it wasn’t easy today. Those legionaries were keen to fight, and they didn’t give way easily.’

‘They were better than the soldiers we’ve faced before,’ admitted Gannicus grudgingly.

Castus scowled, but he didn’t argue, which told its own story.

‘Imagine if all ten legions fought like that,’ said Spartacus.

They glowered at him.

‘We’ll fight them anyway,’ snapped Castus. ‘And if we lose, at least we’ll die like men.’

‘You both know that I’ll also take them on if I have to.’

Resentful nods.

‘There is an alternative, though. To take the army over to Sicily.’

They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Rallying his patience, Spartacus explained his plan.

‘Has Carbo returned?’ asked Gannicus. ‘Did he find a captain willing to help?’

‘He’s not back yet.’

‘So this is based on hot air,’ cried Castus. ‘Who’s to say that the little bastard hasn’t failed? We could march down there to find that we’re cornered like rats in a trap.’

‘Autumn is practically here too,’ warned Gannicus. ‘There’ll be fuck all farms down there to plunder.’

‘Carbo won’t let us down,’ asserted Spartacus. Inside, he was less certain, but his faith in the Great Rider, whom he had been praying to daily, was strong. He winked. ‘When we arrive, there’ll be pirate ships waiting to take us across.’

Gannicus smiled sourly, but Castus was still not happy. ‘I don’t like it. It feels wrong.’

‘What should we do then?’ demanded Spartacus. ‘Fight a battle on ground we haven’t chosen? On Sicily, there’d be an opportunity to continue the war on an indefinite basis! Or have you got another bright idea?’

Castus flushed with a combination of anger and embarrassment, and Spartacus hoped that he hadn’t pushed the hot-headed Gaul too far. ‘We’ll still have the chance to fight Crassus, you know. He isn’t going to let us just march down to Rhegium. The whoreson will be on our tails the whole way. If Carbo hasn’t managed to make a deal with any pirates, we’ll have a battle on our hands within days.’

‘It’s worth the risk, Castus. I don’t fancy staying behind to face ten legions while the majority of the army buggers off,’ said Gannicus. ‘Sicily is big enough for us to do our own thing.’

‘All right,’ said Castus from between gritted teeth. ‘But this is the last sodding time we follow one of your suggestions. I’m leaving the moment that my feet touch Sicilian soil.’

‘Me too,’ added Gannicus with passion.

‘We’re not there yet. More than one party of enemy scouts has been seen watching us. Crassus knows where we are. If he can harry us on the way south, he will. Whoever is in charge of the rearguard will need to be ready to fend off Roman attacks every day, and if things go wrong, we’ll all have to fight. Let’s put our differences aside one last time, at least until we’ve left the mainland behind. Up to then, we remain one army.’ It was pushing things further than necessary, but Spartacus had to be sure. He was pleased and a little relieved when, after a moment, they both nodded.