Spartacus: Rebellion (41 page)

Spartacus’ eyes held Heracleo’s for several moments, but the pirate did not look away. The dog is telling the truth, or he’s a damn good liar, he thought. ‘I had hoped for more vessels, but three should suffice. How many soldiers can each ship transport at a time?’

‘For a short crossing like this?’ Heracleo waved dismissively at Sicily. ‘The biremes can carry fifty, perhaps even sixty each. The trireme will take nearly a hundred.’

Spartacus did a quick mental calculation. ‘About a dozen trips should see my men on the other side then.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ agreed Heracleo. A greedy look entered his eyes. ‘And the price—’

‘It remains the same,’ interrupted Spartacus.

‘I was to be paid a hundred and twenty-five thousand denarii when I arrived.’

‘When you arrived with
ships
. I see only one.’

Heracleo licked his lips. ‘The other captains might need some evidence of your . . . goodwill.’

Spartacus didn’t trust the pirate, but the fact that Heracleo had turned up was a good indicator that he might honour his side of the bargain. It would be politic to keep him sweet. Like it or not, he had far more to lose than Heracleo. ‘You’ve been honourable thus far. As a friendly gesture, I’d be willing to give you twenty thousand denarii more. What captain wouldn’t be persuaded to help when you hand him some of that?’

Heracleo sucked in a breath, considering. Then he was all smiles. ‘Thank you. How soon could—’

‘Wait here. I’ll have a party of my men bring the money at once.’ Heracleo rubbed his hands together and Spartacus gave him a warning look. ‘Play me false, and I’ll hunt you down, even if it takes me the rest of my days. Do you understand?’

‘I will return. You have my word on it.’ Heracleo stuck out his hand.

Pleased, Spartacus accepted the grip. ‘Two days until you return, you say?’

‘Two, maybe three. No more than that.’

‘Good. We’ll be waiting for you here.’

Leaving Maron in the care of the midwife, Ariadne set off through the camp, the wicker basket containing her snake under one arm. Inside, she had carefully placed a small amphora of wine, a little sheaf of wheat and a bunch of grapes. Half a dozen soldiers – protection given her by Spartacus – dogged her footsteps, but they knew well enough to hang back. She didn’t know exactly where to go, but as long as she found solitude, it didn’t matter. Living in the midst of an enormous army felt like dwelling in a city. Ariadne didn’t like it, nor had she grown used to it. The villages in Thrace that she had grown up with contained no more than a few thousand inhabitants. Even Kabyle, the only city, had not been large. There she had prayed to her god in the temple, but had also been able to access wild places. Places where she could almost feel the otherworld, where Dionysus’ voice wasn’t drowned out by the sound of people.

More than anything, Ariadne longed for guidance. It had been too long since she felt the certainty of the god’s will in her actions. Spartacus’ purpose seemed as implacable as ever, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t also making mistakes. Since his return from Rome, they had resolved their differences, but there was a faint distance between them that hadn’t been there before. Spartacus sought out her opinion less than he had; she asked fewer questions about what he was doing.

For her, the root of it was the resentment that she still felt towards him for choosing his army over her and Maron. Ariadne had always tried to deny the feeling, but like the weeds that spring up between flagstones, it kept returning. She wanted direction not just on the best course to choose for the army, but the best one for her. Should she try to resolve her differences with Spartacus or would it be easier to do the unthinkable and walk away?

Ariadne stumbled as her sandal caught against a stone. She looked up, noticing with surprise that she had left the camp behind her and was standing at the foot of the rocky slope that led up to Scylla’s cave. An image of the monster popped into her mind, and she shuddered. She had seen the mouth of the cavern from the beach below. It was all too easy to imagine each of Scylla’s long necks darting out to seize unsuspecting fishermen, sailors or dolphins. Only a fool would look inside and see whether the legend was true. Ariadne was about to go somewhere else, but she stopped. She hadn’t been watching where she was walking. This was where her feet had led her. Who was she to turn away? Dionysus might have guided her here.

Steeling her nerves, she began to climb.

‘Where are you going?’ The nervous voice of one of her guards.

‘Where does it look like?’

‘It’s not safe up there. Please, come down.’

A mischievous mood seized Ariadne. ‘Are you frightened?’

‘N-no, of course not.’

She scanned their faces. Not one was happy; most seemed scared. ‘Stay here if you will.’

‘But Spartacus said that you were not to be left alone.’

‘I know what he said.’ Ariadne began climbing again. Hampered by her basket, she moved slowly.

The guard tried again. ‘He would not want you to visit the cave.’

‘I am my own mistress,’ retorted Ariadne, without looking back. ‘I do what I choose. No one is stopping you from accompanying me.’

She ignored the argument that began behind her. After a while, she glanced around. Just one of her guards, the man who’d protested, was following her. The rest were huddled at the bottom of the slope like a group of frightened sheep. She wasn’t surprised. Superstition ruled the minds of most men. If she, a priestess of Dionysus, was scared, then ordinary soldiers would be plain terrified of walking into the cave of a legendary monster. She set her jaw, forced herself to breathe, her legs to keep moving. With every step, she felt more confident that she was
supposed
to do this.

The view of the straits and of Sicily grew even more impressive as she climbed. Sunlight glittered off the water, turning it into a giant mirror, which meant that she missed the bireme setting out from the beach where Spartacus had been. Her eyes searched the south, but the haze prevented her from any sight of the famous volcano, Mount Aetna, whose eruptions were attributed to a fearsome giant who lived deep underneath it. Soon, she told herself, she would have the opportunity to see it with her own eyes.

Before Ariadne knew it, she had reached the top of the headland, which was covered in scrubby vegetation. A narrow trail beckoned. She wasn’t surprised when the lone soldier came to a halt. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder.

He gave her a nervous nod.

The man was probably as worried about what Spartacus would do to him afterwards as whether Scylla might eat him, she thought with a hint of amusement. There was no need for her husband to know, though. If she didn’t tell him, her guards surely wouldn’t.

The path meandered as it passed through the vegetation. Here and there, she could make out the print of a sandal in the dirt. She took heart. People had been here before, perhaps to make offerings in return for safe passage on the waters below. Her idea was confirmed as she reached the cliff top and saw a makeshift altar of stones. Miniature amphorae, votive lamps, coins and small cakes were arranged in front of it. Just a few steps beyond, a dizzying precipice overlooked the deep blue sea.

Ariadne was careful not to go too near. A gust of wind might carry her over the edge. There was a perilously narrow trail down to the cave itself, but she wasn’t about to start trying to climb down to it. That would be a step too far. Tempting the gods, as if it she hadn’t tempted them enough in the recent past. No, this was the right place to seek guidance.

Laying her basket on the ground, she knelt before the shrine. First, to placate the creature whose territory this was. Great Scylla, she prayed, I ask for your forgiveness in even approaching your home. I do so with reverence, and with great respect. Next, she opened her basket. At once, the snake raised its head. She spoke reassuringly to it, and it allowed her to lift out the amphora, wheat and grapes. Ariadne was so eager to present her gifts that she neglected to fasten the basket shut. ‘Scylla, I offer you wine in acknowledgement of your power and your right to prey on those who pass by this point.’ Removing the stopper, she poured a stream of wine on to the ground. The ruby liquid soaked into the earth, leaving only a stain behind. ‘Accept this libation as a mark of my veneration. I also pray that you are not angered by my speaking to a god here.’ Lowering the amphora, Ariadne closed her eyes and waited. Her ears filled with the whistle of the wind, the occasional screech of a gull and, from far below, the crash of the waves against the rocks at the cliff’s base.

A little time passed, and there was no response. No monster had appeared to devour her; the ground had not opened up beneath her feet. The wine had been accepted, Ariadne decided. Hopefully, that also meant that Scylla did not object to her asking Dionysus for help. She opened her eyes again. Taking the sheaf in one hand and the grapes in the other, she gazed up at the sky. ‘Dionysus, I am always your humble servant, even when it does not appear so. Of late, I have not spent enough time honouring you. Having given birth to a child is no excuse. I beg for your understanding and your forgiveness. I bring you tokens of my devotion, objects that I know you find pleasing.’ With great care, she laid the wheat and grapes on the ground before her.

Another respectful silence; again no response.

Trusting this meant that Dionysus was in a generous mood, Ariadne picked up the amphora for the second time. ‘I bring you some of the finest vintage wine. Accept this as a token of my commitment to you.’

She closed her eyes, and waited for a sign. Anything that would help her decide what to do. Should she go to Sicily with Spartacus? As if that plan will ever work, she thought bitterly. She had been wary of the idea of recruiting pirates from the beginning, but as time dragged on without any sign of a ship, Ariadne’s doubts had solidified. To leave this place, they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. And what then? Again she saw the road lined with crucifixes. Was that the end that awaited Spartacus? She prayed that it was not, but the haunting image would not leave her. Would it not be better to leave now, she wondered, before the same or worse happened to her and Maron? There would be no Roman mercy for Spartacus’ woman or child. Yet to run would be to betray her husband. Guilt racked her.

Too late she heard the rush of movement behind her; too late she tried to rise.

A heavy blow across the back of her head sent Ariadne sprawling forward. She landed hard, knocking her forehead off a stone at the altar’s base. Stars burst across her vision, and she struggled to draw in a breath. Someone grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her upright. Even as she opened her mouth to cry for help, a hand was clamped across her mouth.

‘Try to scream,
bitch
, and I’ll toss you over the edge,’ hissed a voice. ‘Do you understand?’

Terrified, furious, Ariadne nodded.
Who in Hades is it?

‘No one would hear anyway. Your guard is a dead man.’ The hand was removed, and she was pulled over to lie on her back. She stared up at Castus’ leering face with utter revulsion. ‘Seeking the help of your god is all very well, but doing it on your own? I thought you’d know better than that by now.’ He reached down and squeezed her breasts. ‘Nice. They’re bigger than they were.’

Ariadne’s guts roiled with fear.
He’s going to rape me and then throw me off the cliff anyway.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He cuffed her across the head. ‘Answer me, whore!’

‘I was seeking guidance from my god. W-what brought you to this place?’ she mumbled, playing for time.

‘I wanted to placate Scylla. If we’re to sail across that stretch of open water’ – he waved a hand at the straits – ‘we’ll need all the help we can get.’

He was terrified, Ariadne realised. It wasn’t that surprising. Like most of the army, Castus would never have set foot in a boat. ‘Did you receive an answer?’

A curt laugh. ‘Of course not.’ He shrugged off the baldric that suspended his sword and laid it to one side. Using both hands, he ripped her dress to the waist. ‘But who cares? Even if I drown, I’ll go down to Neptune knowing that I fucked Spartacus’ woman.’

Ariadne tried to push him off. He laughed and slapped her hands away. She kicked frantically, but Castus was more than twice her weight. She watched in horror as he bent to nuzzle her breasts with his mouth. Savage memories of what her father’s abuse, of what Phortis the Capuan had done to her, came rushing back. Now it was about to happen again.
Think! Think!
Her head twisted. On one side, all she could see was the outline of Sicily, which she would never reach. On the other, the offerings left before the altar. Nothing she could reach would stop Castus. His sword was several steps away.

He reached down and his hand groped for her groin. She could feel his hardness pressing against her thigh. Waves of nausea mixed with the pain from her head. Ariadne wanted to die. She wished he had just tossed her over the edge.

‘Spartacus’ wife?’ he panted. ‘Who’d have thought I’d get to screw her, eh?’

It was if a lightning bolt had hit her.
Spartacus’ wife. That is who I am. I cannot run away from that.
The thought gave Ariadne new energy to live. To survive.

Castus paused to lick at her breasts again. He looked up at her, his face full of lust. His fetid breath washed over her. Ariadne wanted to vomit, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. Anything to delay what was about to happen. ‘You’ve wanted me for a long time?’

‘Gods, yes! What man wouldn’t?’ he panted, tugging down his trousers. ‘Ready for a decent-sized cock, not the sausage you’ve been used to? You’ve probably wanted me all along.’ He shoved forward with his hips, trying to enter her.

Ariadne couldn’t look at him any longer. She rolled her head to the left. Gods, let it be over quickly. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Her heart almost stopped. Her snake! It had got out of the basket, and had slithered on to a large stone at the altar’s foot. If only she could reach it!