Spartacus: The Gladiator (30 page)

Looking vindicated, the messenger made to go.

A finger of recognition tickled at Crassus’ memory. ‘Wait. Do you by any chance know any of the renegades’ names?’

The man turned. He made the sign against evil. ‘Apparently, the leader is called Spartacus.’

‘Spartacus?’ echoed Crassus in real shock.

‘Yes, sir. He’s from Thrace.’

‘Who cares what the whoreson is called?’ growled a senator who’d overheard. ‘Get in there and tell the consuls. They’ll soon organise enough troops to go down there and butcher the lot of them.’

‘They will,’ purred Crassus. ‘Capua need not worry. Rome will seek vengeance for its troubles.’

With a grateful nod, the man hurried off.

The gladiator whom I saw fight has even more balls than I thought. A pity I did not order his death when I had the chance
. Crassus put the matter from his mind. A few hundred legionaries under the command of one of the other praetors would sort it out. He had far bigger fish to fry.

Standing on the very lip of the cliff, Spartacus looked over the edge. He squinted into the brightness of the abyss, spotting a number of eagles and vultures hanging in the air at roughly the same dizzying height. Above was a turquoise sky, filled by a warm spring sun. Below, the view was stupendous. A dense carpet of holm oak, turpentine, beech and strawberry trees spilled down Vesuvius’ slopes from Spartacus’ fastness on the summit. He let out a long breath.
No one lives up here but birds of prey, wild beasts – and us. I am truly a latro now, Phortis
.

Spartacus’ gaze followed the gradient as it flattened far below. There the land changed. An intricate network of farms, resembling a crazy mosaic pattern, extended out on to the Campanian plain as far as the eye could see. The vineyards were innumerable. Between them were vast fields of young wheat. Beyond, twenty miles away, lay Capua and the ludus. To the west and south-west were the towns of Neapolis and Pompeii, and the sea. The Via Annia, a minor road linking Rome with the south, was situated east of Vesuvius, along with the town of Nuceria. Beyond those lay the Picentini Mountains, a tall range of peaks which could serve as a refuge if needs be.

Memories of the events three days prior filled Spartacus’ mind. It hadn’t surprised him, or any of the gladiators, that a strong force had immediately been dispatched from Capua to crush them. Arrogant and sure of success, the ten-score veterans and townspeople had been easy to ambush. The gladiators had fallen upon them like howling wraiths. Only a fraction of the ragtag militia had escaped to tell the tale. Despite this, Spartacus’ sour mood deepened. The matter wouldn’t end there.
Rome doesn’t work like that. Ever
. Already the message would have reached the Senate in Rome. Already the plans for reprisal would be in train.

He glanced around at the massive crater that formed the top of the mountain. Its enclosing walls were covered in wild grapevines, and the green space was filled with vegetation: twisted juniper trees towered over spurge olive bushes, myrtle and sage plants. A number of large pools provided ample rainwater to drink. The gladiators’ camp was spread out over a wide area. It comprised a dozen or so tents – seized the previous day – and the same number of makeshift wooden lean-tos. Spartacus scowled.
Seventy-three of us escaped the ludus. When the four women are taken into account, that’s sixty-nine fighters. Just over a third of Batiatus’ men. Hardly even a decent-sized war band
. His gut instinct replied at once.
The Senate won’t look at us in that light. Not only did we arm ourselves with the gladiator weapons from that wagon train heading for Nola, but we’ve smashed a superior military force
. If there was ever a time to strike out for Thrace, it was now. Ariadne had mentioned this possibility, but so far Spartacus had resisted it. He hadn’t admitted it to Ariadne, but he liked having men follow him. He liked being a leader. If he left for Thrace, only a few loyal supporters would go with him.

A man by one of the lean-tos lifted his hand in greeting, and Spartacus returned the gesture.
At least new recruits are starting to trickle in
. So far it was only a handful of agricultural slaves. That number had to grow, and fast. If it didn’t, any troops sent against them would crush them as a man swats a fly. Spartacus’ fists bunched. Even if their numbers did increase, what real difference would it make? It took weeks –
no, months
– of training to turn men who were used to pushing a plough into soldiers who could stand against Roman legionaries. They’d be lucky if even a fraction of that time was granted to them. Seeing Crixus wrestling with one of his comrades, Spartacus’ frustration grew.

Any semblance of unity among the gladiators had dissolved the moment that they’d reached Vesuvius. Like oil separating from vinegar, the different groups had re-formed under their original leaders. They camped apart too: three parties of Gauls; the Germans under Oenomaus, and the Thracians and other nationalities with Spartacus. The physical separation had increased their differences even further. From the word go, Spartacus had struggled to get enough sentries. Unsurprisingly, his men weren’t too happy standing watch while the others relaxed in the crater. But at least they followed their orders, he reflected.

Intoxicated by their newfound freedom, Crixus, Castus and Gannicus had laughed in his face when he’d confronted them over it the previous evening. ‘We’re free now! Relax and enjoy it, why don’t you?’ Gannicus had said. Castus had simply shrugged and pointed to his men, who were guzzling down the wine they’d taken from the dead after the ambush. ‘What need have we of sentries?’ Crixus had roared. ‘Look what we did to those whoresons from Capua! No one is going to come near us in a hurry. Unless they want to commit suicide, of course.’ He grinned at his supporters, who guffawed in approval.

It had taken all of Spartacus’ self-control not to leap on top of Crixus again, fists pounding. But he’d done nothing. While the Gaulish leaders were infuriating, ill-disciplined and prone to drunkenness, they and their men represented a sizeable – and vital – chunk of their forces. There were twenty-five Gauls, of whom one was a woman. Spartacus could not alienate them totally. With the recent addition of some runaway agricultural slaves, he had twenty-nine men and two women, including Ariadne and himself. If it came to a real fight, however, he could only rely on the seventeen of his followers who were gladiators. Oenomaus had a few more followers than the total number of Gauls: twenty-six men and two women, but the Germans’ unity gave him the most powerful grouping by far.

Fortunately, Oenomaus also had more sense than the others. He’d listened to Spartacus’ complaints about the sentries, and immediately agreed that his men should share the duty. His goodwill had not extended further, however. When Spartacus had mentioned weapons drill, Oenomaus had frowned. ‘We had enough of that in the damn ludus.’ Spartacus’ argument about facing legionaries had met with simple indifference. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,’ the German had said.

When we come to it
. A grim sense of foreboding filled Spartacus and he turned his eyes back to the Campanian plain. The roads he could see were as small as the ribbons on a doll’s dress, but he could still make out the tiny shapes of wagons and oxen. For now. As sure as the wheat ripened at summer’s end, one day he’d see the distinctive column of a Roman army, marching towards Vesuvius. Even if it only comprised a thousand men, it would look the same as the ones Spartacus had grown used to during the conquest of Thrace. Scouts and skirmishers to the front. Cavalry, and then the main body of infantry. The camp surveyors and their equipment, followed by the commander and his bodyguards. More cavalry. The senior officers with their escort. The rearguard. And after them, the raggle-taggle that trailed in the wake of every army since the dawn of time. Whores, traders of every description, soothsayers, shysters, entertainers and slave traders. Perhaps even the man appointed in Phortis’ place, sent by Batiatus to bring back those unfortunate enough to be captured alive.

I won’t be among them. Nor will Ariadne, Spartacus thought grimly. Death was far more attractive than returning to captivity, especially when it was achieved by hacking apart as many legionaries as he could. While that end appealed, it was impossible to deny that it was futile.
Why not just leave?

‘Was this the mountain you dreamed of?’

Ariadne’s voice by his ear made Spartacus jump. ‘You crept up on me!’ he muttered, a trifle embarrassed. He studied his surroundings more closely. In the adrenalin rush of events since their escape, he hadn’t had the leisure to reconsider his dream. ‘Possibly. It’s certainly remote enough.’

‘And you have a sica.’ She tapped the sheathed weapon hanging from his baldric.

‘True.’ He’d been delighted to find a Thracian sword in the consignment that they’d chanced upon on the road from Capua.

‘You’re at altitude.’

‘Yes, but I’m not alone.’ He gestured at the camp below.

‘Not everything about a dream has to be accurate.’

Spartacus’ stomach tightened, and he scanned her face for clues. She spent much of her time praying to Dionysus. Maybe her prayers had been answered at last. ‘Have you gained an understanding of what I saw?’ He saw the regret flare in Ariadne’s eyes, and once again, he felt the snake wrapped around his throat.
Does it represent the soldiers sent by Rome? Or the fate that awaits me if I try to return to Thrace?
He lifted his eyes balefully to the heavens.
What end have you planned for us, Great Rider?

‘It might not mean what you think.’

‘It’s hard to see how it doesn’t.’ Patting his flat belly, Spartacus changed the subject. ‘I’ve a mind to fill this with meat. Any meat will do. Beef. Pork. Lamb. Even goat. We need supplies too – particularly blankets and leather for making sandals. I’ll round up the men and search out an easy farm to raid. I’ll take everyone except Getas. He will stay here with you.’

Ariadne knew better than to ask if she could come. As a priestess, her value to the gladiators was incalculable. Besides, she didn’t want to see the casual slaughter and rape that would be an integral part of the expedition.

Spartacus slipped to Carbo’s side as they followed the game trail downwards through the forest. Atheas and Taxacis, the two Scythians, followed him silently, barely moving the thick bushes as they passed. Atheas was the one with the bushy black beard, while Taxacis had a broken nose like a squashed sausage. Since escaping the ludus, the pair had become his shadows. They even slept outside his tent, like faithful hunting dogs. Spartacus didn’t know why the skilled warriors had chosen to become his bodyguards, but he rested easier because of them. Getas couldn’t do it all on his own. Having to contend first with the fearsome Scythians would make any disgruntled gladiators think twice before trying to kill him.

He eyed Carbo sidelong. With all that had been going on since their escape, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the young Roman. This was a chance to gauge Carbo’s loyalty once more. Inside the ludus, it hadn’t truly been tested, but things were about to change. ‘With luck, this little jaunt will bring us some sheep, or even cattle. Nothing like fresh meat roasted over a fire, eh?’

‘My belly’s rumbling already,’ admitted Carbo. His face clouded. ‘Will anyone be killed?’

‘I hope not. We’ll only be facing farm slaves and whatever arsehole owns them.’

‘I didn’t mean any of us.’

Spartacus shot him a sharp look. ‘I expect there’ll be a few casualties, yes. Don’t be surprised when escaped gladiators take their vengeance on some of the people that treated them like animals.’

‘I thought you were looking for food.’

‘We are,’ replied Spartacus innocently. ‘And if we happen to kill a Roman or two, it will be an added bonus.’

‘That’s not right!’ The words had escaped Carbo’s lips before he could stop them.

‘Is it not?’ Spartacus jabbed a finger into Carbo’s chest. ‘Your fucking legions have done far worse to my people. I’ve watched innumerable settlements being razed to the ground. Lost count of the old and infirm who were butchered because they were no use as slaves. Have you ever seen a baby that’s been gutted? Or a woman who’s been raped so many times that she’s lost her mind?’

Carbo flushed, and had the wits not to reply.
He’s probably right
.

‘If you don’t want to be part of it, you can piss off.’

Carbo’s feet stayed on the path.

There was a long pause.

‘Well?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘I’m staying.’

‘And when the time comes to fight?’ demanded Spartacus in a grating tone. ‘It’ll be legionaries who come against us next. Will you run rather than kill your own countrymen?’

‘No.’
Where would I go? To Rome, to become a lawyer? I’d rather be a latro
.

‘How can I be sure?’ Spartacus’ grey eyes were threatening. ‘I have no need of a man I can’t rely on.’

‘You looked out for me in the ludus. No one else did, so I’m loyal to you,’ said Carbo passionately. ‘Even if it means fighting my own kind.’

Spartacus’ anger subsided a fraction. ‘I’ll be watching you,’ he warned.