Spartacus: Rebellion (48 page)

‘Those Gaulish bastards are like vultures picking over a corpse,’ he ranted to Ariadne. ‘They want to win over as many soldiers as possible before they split off.’

‘You can’t stop them.’

‘Oh yes, I fucking can! I’ll take a cohort over to their tents and kill the pair of them! It’s what I should have done a long time ago.’

Ariadne’s temper flared. ‘Do you think their followers would take that lying down? You’d set the entire army at each other’s throats. Crassus would piss his pants when he heard that you had done his job for him.’ Spartacus glowered at her, but she was determined to say her piece. ‘Do you really want to keep men who are so easily persuaded to leave?’

‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.

‘What do you care if Castus’ and Gannicus’ followers talk to the faint-hearts then?’ He didn’t answer, which encouraged her. ‘We know now that Crassus’ soldiers are wary of attacking us, but we didn’t at first. It’s been no harm having the Gauls at hand while the legions were only a few miles behind us.’

‘So I’m supposed to do nothing while they spread their poison?’

‘Did I say that? You need to be seen by as many of the troops as possible. Men love to see their commander appear among them. Your words help to give them courage. You know that as well as I do.’

Brooding, Spartacus stared into the fire. He knew that Ariadne was right, but that didn’t douse the fury he felt towards the Gauls. After all he’d done for them, this was how they repaid him? He longed to crucify both men, to smash their legs and arms in multiple places, to stand over them as they cried for their mothers and pleaded to die. Like the legionary on the ridge. But he wouldn’t do it. Any short-term satisfaction he gained from such an action would surely be lost by the benefit gained by Crassus.

As if that whoreson needed any more advantage handed to him, he thought grimly. The cost of breaking out of the toe had been high. Nearly a thousand men had been killed, perhaps twice that number wounded. These were in addition to the eleven thousand lives lost during the first, failed assault. About half of the cavalry’s horses and a similar number of mules had been left behind. Of the sixty thousand or so soldiers who had hoped to sail to Sicily, about forty-six thousand able-bodied men remained. And that was before Castus and Gannicus were taken into account. They wouldn’t stick around for much longer. As soon as they reached the fertile lands of Campania and Samnium, Spartacus reckoned, they would leave.

There would be no fixed battles from now on if he could help it. Crassus’ soldiers now outnumbered his. The odds would lengthen once Pompey arrived. Spartacus knew the Roman war machine well, and one lesson stood out from all the others that he had learned during his time in its service. To have any chance of victory against the legions, it was imperative to have superior numbers of troops. Parity of forces was not enough. If his people, the warlike Thracians, had not been able to beat Rome that way, neither could those who had once been slaves. Spartacus grimaced. He hated having to think like this, but it was the brutal truth. Few men thought or acted as he, a trained warrior, did. Navio did; so too did those some of his soldiers who’d been born free, and who had fought for their living.

To expect the rest of his army to do so when faced with such an implacable enemy would be to court disaster. He had to work to his men’s strengths, and that did not include standing toe to toe with equal numbers of legionaries. Once again, they would have to act like latrones. Hide out in the wilderness, among the forested peaks that formed Italy’s backbone. From there he would send out word that hard men – agricultural slaves and herdsmen – were wanted. There, with the help of the Great Rider, he could rebuild his army. Until the time came to face Crassus once more.

Spartacus knew in his gut that that would happen one day. Crassus and he had become mortal enemies. Their struggle would go on until one of them was dead. He tried to stay focused on that outcome, but it was hard not to dwell on the fact that if Crassus defeated and killed him, the rebellion would be over, whereas if he did the same to Crassus, the war against Rome would merely enter another phase. Not for the first time, Spartacus compared the Republic to the Hydra. Each of that creature’s multiple heads breathed poisonous fumes, and if one was cut off, two grew in its place. It was like that with every damn legion that his men had destroyed. Yet the Hydra had not been invincible: only one of its heads had been immortal. Its end had come when the hero Hercules had cauterised the stumps of each head he’d chopped off, preventing them from regrowing and allowing him to find the head he really needed to remove. What was Rome’s invincible head? Spartacus wondered. And how could he sever it?
Before the Great Rider, I swear that I will never stop searching for it as long as I live.

Spartacus had barely seen either Carbo or Navio since the breakout. They were uninjured, but more than that he did not know. Wanting some companionship as much as to hear their thoughts, he made his way to their tent later that night. There was no sign of either Roman. It wasn’t that late, thought Spartacus. Had they already gone to bed?

‘Carbo? Navio?’

‘Who is it?’ Carbo’s voice came from a short distance away. He sounded irritated.

‘It is I, Spartacus.’

A moment’s delay, and the flap on a nearby tent was thrown back. Carbo poked his head out.

‘What are you up to?’ Spartacus asked.

Carbo’s face clouded over. ‘It’s Publipor. He took a flesh wound on the ridge. At first, it didn’t look like much, but then it turned septic. The poor bastard has gone downhill fast since. The surgeon offered to take off his arm, but he’s too weak to survive the operation. I don’t think he’ll last more than another day or two.’

Another good man lost
. Spartacus ducked past Carbo and entered the tent. The stench of rotting flesh and urine inside was overpowering. He choked back a cough and approached the pile of blankets upon which Publipor lay, clad in only an undergarment. Navio, who was sitting alongside, looked up with a rueful smile. ‘He’d be glad to see you, sir.’

Carbo was right, thought Spartacus grimly. Publipor’s pallor was terrible. His eyes were sunken, his forehead drenched in sweat, his ribs clapped to his backbone. The injury to his sword arm had been wrapped in bandages that did little to stop a green-brown liquid from oozing on to his bedding. ‘Is he conscious?’

‘From time to time,’ replied Navio. ‘Often he’s not lucid, though.’

Spartacus crouched down and took Publipor’s good hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you in this state.’

Publipor’s eyelids twitched and then opened. His rheumy eyes swivelled around the tent, falling eventually on Spartacus. A strange expression twisted his gaunt face. ‘You!’

‘Yes,’ said Spartacus gently. ‘Can I get you anything?’

A hiss of pain. ‘How about my family?’

Spartacus glanced at Carbo, who mouthed the word ‘fever’. ‘That’s not within my power. But I can get you some wine if you like. A piece of ham.’ He winked. ‘Even a woman if you’re up to it?’

‘Go to Hades.’

Spartacus waved Navio and Carbo back. ‘You’re feverish, Publipor. I’ll have the surgeon make up something that will help.’ He turned to go.

‘The fever didn’t make me say that, you cocksucker.’

Spartacus’ lips thinned. ‘I see. Why would you insult me then?’

‘Because you’re responsible for the deaths of my family.’ His voice cracked. ‘My wife. My beautiful children.’

‘I thought they died of cholera,’ said Carbo in confusion.

‘No.’ A weak cough as he sat up. ‘They were murdered at Forum Annii.’

Spartacus frowned. ‘If that’s where you’re from, why didn’t you say so before?’

It was as if Publipor hadn’t heard. ‘May the gods forgive me, I was away hunting in the mountains. I got back when the slaughter was over.’ Tears dribbled down his unshaven cheeks. ‘I returned to find them in my master’s house, all dead. Butchered!’

‘Publipor, I am deeply sorry for what happened to your family,’ said Spartacus. ‘I did my best to prevent atrocities from happening, you have to believe that.’

‘Clearly, you didn’t do enough!’ Spittle flew from Publipor’s mouth. ‘My children were aged three, five and eight. They were innocent! Defenceless!’

‘That’s terrible,’ Spartacus acknowledged, but then his face hardened. ‘So you joined my army to get your revenge, is that it?’

A half-smile. ‘Something like that.’

‘Did you have ought to do with the Gauls’ attempt on my life?’

‘That? No. I knew nothing of it. I had a different master.’

Suspicion tickled Spartacus’ spine. He saw the same doubt in Carbo and Navio’s faces. ‘Who would that be?’

‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

White-hot fury lanced through Spartacus. In a heartbeat, his dagger was at Publipor’s chin. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘You can’t scare me. I’m dying.’

Spartacus’ chuckle was evil. ‘How would you like five men to haul on a rope that’s been tied to your bad wrist?’

Publipor swallowed.

‘Just tell me what happened, and I’ll give you a swift death.’

A tiny nod. ‘Months after the massacre, I was still living in the ruins of Forum Annii. I had no reason to go anywhere else. One day, a man came snooping about. He began asking me questions, and when I’d told him my story, he offered me money and the chance of revenge on you. He explained that his master was Crassus, who wanted an inside man in your army. All I had to do was become one of your soldiers, and to find out whatever I could.’

‘You were being hunted by Roman cavalry when we found you!’ cried Carbo.

‘That was staged. My companions were both to be killed to make it look more authentic. It was a mistake that Kineas survived.’ A grimace. ‘He nearly gave the game away too.’

Spartacus’ memory snaked back to the fight in the woods, and the way that Kineas had tried so hard to speak before he died. It all made sense now. ‘You were the one who told Crassus that I was in Rome.’

A proud nod. ‘I spoke to a rich farmer near the camp. He sent word to the capital.’

‘What else did you do?’

‘I told Crassus when you were going to march to the toe, and about the pirates. He didn’t believe me about them, though. The best thing I did was to let him know that you were going to attack the ridge.’

‘You dirty rat,’ Spartacus snarled. ‘Thousands of your comrades died there.’

‘They were never my comrades! They were murdering bastards of the worst kind. I wish that every last one had been killed. And you as well!’ Publipor’s mouth opened to throw more insults, but the sound never came. He gasped a little, and looked down at Spartacus’ dagger, which was buried to the hilt in his chest.

‘That’s more than you deserve, you traitorous piece of shit.’ Spartacus savagely twisted the blade to and fro before pulling it free. His eyes already glazing over, Publipor slumped backwards on to his bed and lay still. A hot tide of blood began saturating the blankets.

Spartacus regarded him without emotion. He wished that he’d never gone hunting that day. Never set eyes on Publipor. Never taken him into his trust. But it was too late for that. Too late for so many things. ‘At least we know who the spy was,’ he said in a dry tone.

‘I should have seen through his story,’ said Carbo angrily.

‘How? It was entirely feasible. There could be a score of others like him in the army, with different motives, but the same desire to do me harm. That’s why I trust only a handful of men, such as you two.’ Spartacus stood up and walked outside.

‘What shall we do with him?’ called Carbo.

‘Leave him out for the wolves. He shouldn’t have any better treatment than any of those who died at the ridge.’

The fractured army spent two weeks on the march, passing from Bruttium to Lucania. Spartacus was aiming for Campania, one of the most fertile regions of Italy and the birthplace of the rebellion. Keen to get a head start on Crassus, he had driven his men harder than ever before; unencumbered by baggage or supplies, and free of their previous raggle-taggle of followers, they were able to cover twenty-five miles per day. Spartacus had taken charge of a shaggy white stallion, one of the largest horses belonging to any his cavalrymen. Riding up and down the column made it far easier to encourage his men. Realising what he was doing, Castus’ and Gannicus’ soldiers had matched the furious pace. The tactic worked. Soon his scouts were reporting that the legions were more than thirty miles behind them, and marching at a slower speed.

Spartacus took heart from this, and allowed his men a much-needed day off. Before moving to Samnium, he hoped to lure new recruits to his cause. He began the process by sending raiding parties to the biggest latifundia, their mission not just to find grain and supplies, but to win over the slaves they encountered there. Upwards of 250 men joined from the first two estates; after a few weeks Spartacus was sure that number would turn to thousands. Navio would soon whip them into shape. All they had to do was avoid confrontation with Crassus’ legions until the recruits had been trained, and in the mountains of Samnium, that would not prove too difficult. Spring had arrived and, with it, better weather. In the coming days, the countryside would start yielding its own bounty of plants, nuts and berries. They wouldn’t have to rely exclusively on raiding homesteads and farms.

When word came one morning that Castus and Gannicus were leaving, Spartacus was oddly surprised. As a man learns to live with his lice, he had grown used to the Gauls and their followers shadowing his army. It was hard not to be pleased, however, like a man who exchanges his infested tunic for a new one. Keen to see their departure for himself, he took Carbo, the Scythians and a century of soldiers. Even at this late stage, there was no point laying himself open to attack. Ariadne insisted on coming with him. She was carrying the basket containing her snake, so Spartacus did not object. The god might have spoken to her.

He found the troublesome pair marshalling their troops outside the camp. It was difficult to tell how many there were, but Spartacus guessed that it was somewhere in the region of ten thousand. Five eagles and nearly thirty Roman standards provided the proud focal point for the men, the badges of their achievements thus far. Spartacus wasn’t worried about losing the Roman emblems; he was grateful instead that there were few horsemen among them.