Spartacus: Rebellion (9 page)

Hearing someone approach, he turned his head. ‘Carbo. Navio. I thought it would be you.’
My trusty Romans.
He’d watched their faces closely during the munus for Crixus. Navio had enjoyed watching the legionaries die, which in Spartacus’ mind proved his loyalty. Carbo had protested to him about it, and had even spoken to Caepio when it was over. Spartacus had seen the centurion’s contempt from fifty paces away, had seen him spit at Carbo’s feet. He’d felt sorry for the young Roman, but he had also rejoiced, because Caepio’s rejection would have bonded Carbo to him for ever. There were few men whom Spartacus would trust to protect Ariadne and their as yet unborn son in the event of his death. Atheas and Taxacis were two, and Carbo was another. It was a relief to know that his allegiance remained strong.

‘Looking north?’ Carbo was wondering why their leader had summoned them so early.

‘Where else would I look? The Alps are close. We’ll reach them in a week to ten days.’ He was pleased that neither man looked unhappy. ‘Before that we have to pass Mutina, don’t we?’

‘It’s about ten miles away,’ said Navio.

‘Tell me about it,’ ordered Spartacus.

‘It’s a Roman colony on the Via Aemilia, which runs from Ariminum on the east coast to Placentia, some sixty miles distant. Mutina is also the main base for the provincial governor and his two legions.’

‘Proconsul Gaius Cassius Longinus,’ said Carbo. ‘He comes from an old and illustrious family.’
Like Crassus, the shitbag.

‘Longinus was consul last year, when Glaber and the other fools were sent to destroy us,’ mused Spartacus. ‘By now he will have heard what happened to Lentulus and Gellius.’

‘At this moment, I would say he’s hiding behind Mutina’s walls, shitting himself,’ said Navio with a laugh. ‘Wishing that he had more than two legions.’

‘Beware the cornered snake,’ advised Spartacus. ‘And to underestimate a Roman army is to invite your own destruction.’

‘True,’ murmured Navio. ‘But we’ll hammer them into little pieces regardless.’

‘The scouts have found no sign so far of Longinus or his troops. That probably means that he’s kept them in camp, but the easiest route to the Alps will take us right by Mutina. Who knows what the proconsul might have planned for us?’ He pinned them with his eyes. ‘I want you to see what you can find out.’

‘What, go to Mutina?’ asked Carbo in surprise.

‘Yes. You’re the only two who can get away with it. You’re Roman. You’re educated. No one will even challenge you.’

We could sleep in beds, thought Carbo. He hadn’t done that for many months. ‘All right.’

‘Count me in,’ said Navio.

‘I want you back within a day. If you value your skins, remember to keep your mouths shut,’ warned Spartacus. ‘I’ll let the army rest until you return. Then we’re moving north.’

‘A day,’ mused Carbo, feverishly wondering if he might have time to compose a letter of farewell to his parents. The idea had occurred to him before, but their situation had made it impossible. He had no ink, no stylus or parchment, and no way of sending the message. Now, with the Alps so near at hand, their departure from Italy suddenly seemed real. Permanent. In the forum of a town such as Mutina, he would find scribes who for a few coins would write him a note.

‘It’s plenty of time,’ asserted Navio.

‘Find some clothes that are well worn and dirty. Do not wear your belts, obviously, or any weapons apart from a knife,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Take only a small amount of money.’

‘If anyone asks our business, what shall we say?’

‘You’re both farmers. That will explain your tans, and the calluses on your hands. You come from thirty miles to the south of here, in the foothills of the Apennines. Like so many others, your farms were laid waste by Spartacus’ men, and your families killed. You’ve come to Mutina to find work, and protection from the rebels.’

It seemed a plausible story. Carbo and Navio glanced at each other and nodded.

‘Go on with you! The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back.’

To avoid being run over by an official messenger who showed no sign of slowing his cantering horse, Carbo stepped off the paved surface of the road. He glanced sidelong at the rider as he pounded past, heading for Placentia.
No prizes for guessing what his message is. Something along the lines of ‘Send me every available soldier you have! Spartacus is at the gates.’
It was a pleasing thought.

He and Navio had skirted through the deserted countryside to join the busy Via Aemilia some miles to the west of Mutina, so that when they arrived, it didn’t look as if they had come from the south. Unsurprisingly, most of the heavy traffic was heading away from the threat of the slave army. There were enough travellers moving eastwards for them not to appear unusual, however. Carbo unslung his water bag with a sigh. ‘Gods, but it’s hot.’ Taking a long swig, he threw the leather carrier at Navio.

His friend winked. ‘Just as well we’re not wearing our mail shirts and carrying our swords and shields, eh?’

‘In Hades’ name! Keep your mouth shut.’ Carbo was grateful for the deafening racket made by the creaking of a passing cart’s wheels.

‘No one can hear me.’

‘Maybe now. But in Mutina, things will be different, especially if we go to a tavern.’

‘
If
?’ screeched Navio. ‘When!’

Carbo glowered at Navio, but he only half meant it. They’d spent the entire journey talking about finding an inn where they could drink some decent wine, and order good food instead of the burned offerings they’d grown used to. There might even be some half-decent-looking whores, Carbo thought hopefully. He hadn’t had sex since Chloris, his lover, had died. There had been plenty of opportunities, but unlike most of Spartacus’ men, he wasn’t prepared to rape defenceless women. By now he was desperate. ‘All right, all right. But we do it my way. Quietly. Carefully. There’ll be no talk of anything other than farming, our poor dead families, and what bastards Spartacus and his lot are.’

‘Fair enough,’ replied Navio. ‘But that’s as much as you’re telling me what to do. You’re not choosing which whore I screw.’ He hurled the water bag at Carbo’s head with a laugh and made a ring with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. With a suggestive leer, he thrust his left forefinger in and out of the opening. ‘That’s what I want. With the best-looking woman I can find,’ he growled.

Carbo chuckled. For just a moment, life felt normal.

His wariness returned fast. There was a long queue waiting to enter Mutina’s main gate, which was guarded by a large group of legionaries. ‘Look how many of the whoresons there are. Twenty at least,’ he muttered as they shuffled along behind an ox cart laden down with freshly sawn planks. ‘They’ve heard how we took Thurii.’

‘Looks like it.’

Carbo could remember every moment of the battle at Thurii in southern Italy. In order to spring a surprise attack on Varinius, Spartacus had had his men seize the poorly defended city by subterfuge. The next day, leaving a portion of his army outside, apparently besieging Thurii, he had drawn Varinius and his soldiers into a deadly trap. Since that day, Carbo’s respect for Spartacus had been unassailable. The Romans’ defeat had been total, their humiliation immense.

Clearly, Longinus wasn’t going to let the same happen to Mutina, or to him.

‘We’ll just have to brazen our way in.’ Carbo was relieved to see some of the nervousness he was feeling reflected in Navio’s face.

‘If they ask, let’s lay it on thick about our families being slaughtered. We’re loyal Roman citizens, who pay our taxes and ask little in return. Where were the legionaries to protect us when Spartacus and his savages descended on our farms? And so on.’

‘Fine.’ However, Carbo’s tension grew as they edged closer to the walls, which were heavily manned. There were ballistae at regular intervals along the stone battlements as well. He indicated them with tight nods of his hed. ‘See those?’

‘Yes. They’re prepared for a siege. Maybe Longinus is scared to march outside and fight!’ joked Navio.

‘Maybe. But he’ll do it anyway.’

‘He’ll have to,’ agreed Navio grimly. ‘Or for the rest of his life he’ll be known as the general who let Spartacus escape. He’d never command more than a squad of men on latrine duty.’

It was a pleasing to imagine a Roman general supervising the cleaning up of shit and piss, but Carbo forced himself to concentrate on what was going on ahead. The skinny man with the cart in front was having a furious argument with the legionaries manning the gate. ‘You’re not coming in with that damn wagon,’ reiterated the
optio
in charge, a pug-nosed, officious individual. ‘For the foreseeable future, no trade goods are to be allowed in unless by the direct order of the proconsul.’ He scanned the list in his right hand. ‘I can’t see anything here about planks.’

‘These have been ordered by no less than Purpurius!’

‘Purpurius?’ The optio yawned.

‘He is an important merchant who lives by the forum.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Let me tell you that Purpurius is a friend of the proconsul!’

‘I’m sure he is,’ said the optio in a disbelieving tone. ‘His goods aren’t on my list, however.’

‘It’s taken me two days to get here,’ pleaded the carter.

‘Not my problem,’ came the bored reply. ‘Now back your cart up and turn around. You’re blocking the entrance.’

‘I—’

The optio lifted his metal-tipped staff. ‘Are you deaf?’

Throwing filthy looks at the soldiers and complaining about what Purpurius would do when he heard what had happened, the unfortunate carter began the laborious procedure of reversing the oxen. Carbo, Navio and the people behind them scrambled out of the way as he manoeuvred away from the walls and, still grumbling, headed back the way he had come.

‘Get a move on!’ bellowed a voice.

The optio was beckoning them forward. ‘Names,’ he called out.

They had already decided that using their real names wouldn’t matter, and it would mean that they didn’t have to remember an alias. ‘Paullus Carbo.’

‘Marcus Navio.’

‘Occupations?’

‘We’re farmers, sir,’ said Carbo.

He looked them up and down. ‘No cart, no sacks of vegetables. What’s your business here?’

‘We’ve been driven off our land,’ replied Carbo bitterly.

‘Ah. By Spartacus and his lot?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Navio’s face twitched. ‘The bastards killed our families. Took all of our livestock. Trampled the young wheat in the fields.’

‘Left us with nothing,’ added Carbo.

The optio grimaced in sympathy. ‘You’re not alone. The same’s happened to thousands of others. Why have you come to Mutina?’

‘To look for work, sir,’ replied Navio.

‘Work? You’ll be lucky. The place is bursting at the seams with refugees.’

‘We’ll do anything, sir,’ Carbo pleaded. ‘Please.’

The optio rubbed his battered nose. ‘There’ll be work soon enough, I suppose. When Spartacus arrives, we’ll need men who can carry rocks to the catapults on the walls. Think you can do that all day without complaining?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘You look fit enough. No weapons apart from those knives?’

‘No, sir.’

He gave them an abrupt wave. ‘Go on then. Inside with both of you.’

Muttering their thanks, the friends hurried under the stone arch.

‘Paullus Carbo? You kept that one quiet,’ said Navio with a chuckle.

Carbo felt his face flame. ‘I don’t like the name, so I never use it.’

‘Paullus, my son! Dinner is served.’ Navio’s tone was falsetto high, mimicking a woman’s voice.

‘Piss off!’ He thumped Navio on the arm.

‘Paullus! Time for your lessons!’

Navio’s mimicry reminded Carbo of his old tutor and, despite himself, he snorted with amusement.

Navio put a finger to his lips. ‘We’re supposed to be grieving for our families – Paullus!’

They were so busy trying not to laugh out loud that neither saw one of the optio’s men sloping after them.

A short distance into the town, the friends’ attention was drawn by the delicious smell of frying food. Following their noses, they found an open-fronted restaurant on one of the first side streets off the main thoroughfare. Seeing that the place was packed with off-duty soldiers, they decided to eat there. Eavesdropping in such a place might prove fruitful. They found an empty table against the back wall and sat down. A blowsy-looking woman who reeked of cheap perfume came and took their orders. Three
asses
bought them two bowls of hearty stew, served with fresh bread, and a jug of watered-down wine. In between mouthfuls, they talked in lowered voices, all the while listening in to the conversations around them.

At length, Navio pushed his empty plate away with a belch. ‘Gods, but I needed a feed like that.’

‘It was good,’ agreed Carbo absently.

‘Longinus doesn’t mind that we’re outnumbered five to one!’ announced a gnarled soldier at the next table. ‘The motherless cur needs—’

‘Shut it, Felix,’ warned his companion. ‘Never mind Longinus. If an officer hears you talking like that, you’ll end up on a charge.’

‘What do I care?’ Felix slurped sourly at his wine. ‘We’re about to be slaughtered anyway. I might as well have a last night in clink before the end. The mattresses in there don’t have as many bedbugs as mine.’

His friend snorted with laughter. ‘That’s as may be, but twenty lashes for insubordination will hurt a lot more than a few stinking bites. It won’t get you out of fighting either. Every man who can hold a shield and spear has to report for duty. The surgeons have been ordered to empty the hospital of all but the most severe cases.’

‘I know. I heard the announcement too,’ grumbled Felix. ‘It’s just that—’

‘Close your trap,’ ordered his friend, pouring more wine. ‘Enjoy another drink, for it might be one of your last.’

The two legionaries fell into a rambling chat about where they should go next.

‘Did you hear that?’ whispered Carbo. ‘It sounds as if Longinus
is
going to fight.’

‘Neither of them said that exactly.’

Navio was right. What they’d heard wasn’t enough. Hiding his scowl, Carbo took another drink and casually cast his eyes around the nearest tables. To his left, four soldiers were devouring a roasted leg of pork. Beyond them, a couple of what looked like merchants were talking business. On his right were the pair that they’d heard moaning and then a table of three legionaries who were swilling down wine and arguing over a game of knucklebones. Behind Navio, a junior officer and a trumpeter were amusing themselves by seeing how high a scrawny mongrel would jump to catch their leftovers. The conversations of those who were further away were impossible to make out.