Spartacus: The Gladiator (51 page)

If I had lived by such rules, how might I feel if the tables were turned?

Carbo’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He had only one answer, but he didn’t want to admit to it. For some, life as a slave was a living torment, and any opportunity for revenge would be seized with both hands. What would inevitably happen when they descended on the town was chilling. Carbo didn’t want to be part of it, but he had to be. He was Spartacus’ man for good or ill. Whether they were fighting against a legion, or about to sack a town.

‘Advance!’ called Spartacus in a low voice. ‘But stay together. I want a solid line as we approach.’

Carbo licked his dry lips. ‘You heard him,’ he hissed at the men to either side. ‘Forward, at the slow march.’

As the order spread, thousands of men emerged from the trees. They were armed with spears, swords and sharpened stakes. Spartacus could see the occasional scythe and mattock. One figure was even bearing a smith’s hammer. Was it Pulcher? He couldn’t be sure. The tatters of mist on the fields gave the slaves some cover as their leaders forced them into line.
The discipline is holding for now. Let it continue to do so
.

It was a faint hope.

They hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred paces before a bunch of Crixus’ Gauls broke free of the ranks. Raising their weapons, they charged towards Forum Annii like a pack of hunting wolves. Curse them, thought Spartacus. He lifted a hand, stalling his men. ‘Steady. Steady. Let the fools go.’

But already Crixus was pounding after his followers, laughing like a lunatic.

What happened next was as if a logjam of winter debris blocking a river had been freed. In a seething mass, virtually the entire army swarmed forward across the ploughed earth. Whoops and shrieks filled the air in a deafening and bloodcurdling cacophony. The men following Spartacus, Navio and Egbeo were the only ones to hold back.

Despite the fact that surprise was of little or no importance, Spartacus scowled at the men’s indiscipline. He didn’t want to miss out on the action, however. There could be large quantities of money in some houses. Perhaps even letters from Rome in the local politicians’ offices. ‘After them,’ he roared. ‘We don’t want to be last to the party.’

It was all the permission the rest of the slaves needed.

With a great, inarticulate roar, they charged.

By the time a quarter of an hour had passed, Carbo had given up trying to control his troops. It was like trying to call off a pack of dogs after they’d caught a hare. Only when the prey was dead would they listen. He’d lost count of the number of times he had screamed at a man not to chop the limb off a screaming greybeard, or to rip the clothes from a woman’s back before throwing her to the ground. When the deed was done, they finally seemed to hear his voice, turning to look at him with surprised, crazed faces. The moment he’d moved on, Carbo was sure it all began again.

Forum Annii had become how Carbo envisioned Hades. The streets were full of manically laughing, dead-eyed men with bloodied sword arms, mutilated corpses and screaming women and children. Here and there an occasional armed householder was being hacked to pieces. Some houses were on fire; the roof of one had already collapsed inwards. The air was laced with the thick, choking smell of their burning, as well as the harsh tang of blood and shit. Carbo didn’t know what to do. In frustration, he had even clubbed one of his men unconscious. While it had prevented the murder of a girl of no more than ten, the slave’s companions had turned on him, waving their weapons threateningly. Seeing his death at their hands, Carbo had simply dropped his shield and dragged the girl away. This was no time to try and assert his authority. If he could save a child’s life, that would at least be something.

By the time he’d gone fifty paces down the street, the slaves’ attention had turned elsewhere. Carbo turned to the girl, a dainty, blond-haired creature in a fine tunic. ‘Where is it safe to hide?’ he demanded.

She stared at him, her eyes black with terror.

Carbo forcibly softened his face. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’

‘M-M-Mother!’ She started to sob, and Carbo glanced over his shoulder. Twenty paces away, a woman was spread-eagled on the ground. Men were standing on her arms and her legs to hold her still as she was raped by a sweating gladiator. Slurping at a cracked amphora of wine and hooting encouragement, more than a dozen slaves waited their turn.
Gods above!
‘Look away,’ Carbo ordered. ‘No one is going to hurt you like that. I swear it!’

The girl started to cry.

He bent down to her level. ‘Try to stay calm,’ he said gently. ‘Where can I hide you? Where would be safe? Is there a temple nearby?’

She pointed down the street.

‘Which god?’

‘Jupiter.’

No good. Jupiter is the ultimate symbol of Rome. No slave will respect that
. Inspiration struck him. ‘What about Dionysus? Do you know of any slaves who worship him?’

She looked at him with surprise, before nodding. ‘Father lets our slaves worship Bacchus. He says it gives them hope. A reason to live.’

‘He’s a wise man. Quickly, then. Take me there.’

Turning away from the degrading sight that was her mother’s end, the girl stumbled off up the street. With drawn sword, Carbo followed. He roared abuse at anyone who came near, threatening to cut their balls off and feed them to the pigs in the nearby sty. With so much in the way of easy pickings, those they encountered were content to snarl obscene comments about the girl and let them pass. She led him unerringly past the carcasses of two butchered horses, scatters of clothing, broken pottery and countless bodies, to a house right on the edge of town. Carbo felt a flood of relief as he scanned the area. There was no sign of any slaves or gladiators. In all likelihood, they had swept past this area and into the centre of Forum Annii.

‘Is this your home?’

‘Yes.’

Like many Roman dwellings, the building was rectangular in shape, with a high wall devoid of openings save for the occasional small glass window. The only entrance Carbo saw was a large pair of wooden doors in one side wall. These gave on to the street. Unusually, one hung wide open. Loud voices and laughter could be heard within.

Gods! The whoresons are still here
. Raising a finger to his lips, he halted. ‘Did it get attacked? And your mother tried to get you away?’ he hissed.

Another tearful nod.

‘Your father?’

‘H-he stayed behind with my brother. So Mother and I could escape,’ she whispered without looking at him.

They’re dead for sure. She knows it too. And if we enter, the same will happen to us
. Blood rushed in Carbo’s ears.
Have faith in the god. Ariadne is his servant, and Spartacus has been anointed by him. No one will harm us in his presence
. ‘Where is the shrine to Dionysus?’

‘It’s in the yard behind the house, which opens on to the fields.’

‘Can we get to it without going through the main entrance?’

‘Yes. There’s a little gate in the back wall of the garden. It’s never locked.’ Her face twisted with grief. ‘That’s how they got in.’

‘Don’t think about that,’ he urged. ‘Just take me there.’

Rubbing away her tears, she darted across the open gateway, towards the end of the street. Carbo followed her, taking the opportunity to shoot a glance within. He saw nothing but the blank walls of the entrance hall. The audible ribaldry meant that at least two slaves were inside, however.
Cross that bridge when you come to it. Get the girl out of harm’s way first
.

They rounded the corner of the house, coming off the paved street and on to the freshly tilled black earth of the fields. Carbo could see right up to the tree line where they’d hidden just a short time previously. A few figures moved up there, stragglers no doubt, but they were far enough away to make it unlikely that he and the girl would be seen. All the same, he felt a surge of relief when the door came into sight. It also lay ajar. The girl turned to him, her face white with terror again.

‘Don’t move. I’ll go in first.’ Carbo took a deep breath. He tiptoed to the door, and peered around its edge. There was no one in sight. What he saw instead was a large, but typical, Roman garden. Filling half the space were neat rows of vines, and lemon, fig and apple trees. The rest of the ground was given over to a combination of vegetables and herbs. A red-brick wall enclosed the space on three sides, with the back of the house taking up the fourth. Another small door in that wall provided access to the garden. Thankfully, it was closed.

Carbo’s eyes flickered from side to side. There was what looked like a tool shed, and a well, but no shrine. ‘Where is it?’

‘You can’t see it. It’s on this wall.’ The girl tapped the brickwork.

Understanding flooded through him, and he led the way inside. The area dedicated to Dionysus was immediately apparent. Two lines of pillars had been thrown out a dozen steps from the back garden wall. They supported a low wooden roof. It was nothing compared to even the most basic Roman temple, but it was undoubtedly a place of worship. The floor, which had been covered with crudely laid stone slabs, was covered with offerings. There were little oil lamps by the dozen, but also statuettes of Dionysus and his maenads, jugs of wine, piles of olives and small sheaves of wheat. Bronze coins were dotted here and there; there was even an occasional silver
denarius
.

It was only when Carbo drew level with the shrine’s entrance that he was able to appreciate the imagery beneath which the offerings had been placed. His eyes widened. Under the area covered by the roof, the garden wall had been plastered and then painted. Wreathed by lines of green ivy, one of Dionysus’ favoured emblems, were three large panels. On the left was a bucolic scene of the grape harvest. In the background, men laboured, placing the fruit they picked in baskets. Other workers carried loads of the purple fruit to a figure in the foreground, which was reclining on a couch and flanked by attendants holding vine branches. A beardless, nude youth, Dionysus lay holding a
cantharus
, or ritual drinking vessel. Carbo instinctively bowed his head.
I ask for your protection, O Great One. For both of us
.

The middle panel depicted Dionysus as a much older man, bearded and wearing a Greek chiton. Draped over his shoulders was the skin of a fawn. Around him clustered groups of women, some fawning in obeisance, others dancing in ecstatic frenzy, still more coupling with men on the floor. But it was the last image that Carbo didn’t like. Here was Dionysus, youthful once more, clad in an undergarment, descending into the underworld to hold hands with its god, Hades.
Is that what you’re doing today? Making a pact with Hades? It certainly feels like it
.

His chin firmed. Whatever Dionysus’ intentions, the girl should be safe here at least. He turned to find her regarding him.

‘I thought it was just slaves and women who prayed to Bacchus. Or foreigners.’

‘My leader’s wife is a priestess of Dionysus. I’ve learned to hold him in great reverence.’

‘You’re a Roman,’ she said accusingly. ‘What are you doing with murderous slaves?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Carbo snapped. He pointed. ‘That door. Can it be locked from this side?’

‘No. Only from inside the kitchen.’

Damn it!
If he stayed, there’d be no chance of rescuing other children. ‘Stay under the shrine’s roof. No one will bother coming into the garden. Even if they do, you won’t be seen,’ he said bluffly.

‘You’re going to leave me?’ She began to cry again.

‘I have to,’ he muttered awkwardly. In an effort to reassure her, he said, ‘I’ll take a look into the house. See what’s going on. Make sure it’s safe for you.’
Safe?

She didn’t seem any happier, but Carbo didn’t know what else to say or do. Hefting his sword, he strode towards the small wooden door. Reaching it, he placed his head carefully against the timbers and listened. The voices he’d heard were still audible, but dim. Carbo waited for the count of fifty heartbeats, but the noise level remained the same.
Good. There’s no one in the kitchen
. He placed his thumb on the latch. With a metallic
click
, it lifted. He laid his ear on the door again. Nothing. Carbo’s stomach began to churn, but he pulled the door open and looked inside.

The kitchen had been thoroughly ransacked. Broken crockery lay everywhere. Doors had been ripped off cupboards. Bags of flour had been slashed open, strings of onions and bunches of herbs hacked down from the rafters. A yellow sludge of olive oil surrounded a smashed amphora. There was no sign of life, so Carbo took a step inside. Seeing the telltale crimson of blood on the tiled floor, he stiffened. He tiptoed further, finding an old man sprawled in the kitchen doorway. The slave – for that’s what he looked like – had been nearly decapitated. His head lay at a crazy, unnatural angle to his body. Carbo had never seen so much blood around one man.
He must have bled out
.