had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.
Marcion had completed his initial training long since. He had fought in the battles against Lentulus and Gellius, which made him a veteran. In the eyes of the original gladiators who had escaped from the ludus with Spartacus, however, or the men who had fought in the initial battles against the likes of Publius Varinius at Thurii, Marcion and his comrades were nothing but wet-behind-the-ears rookies. He’d grown sick of their jibes, which filled his ears any time their hard-nosed centurion made them train. The old-timers liked nothing better than to stand by and make sarcastic comments. Marching was hard on Marcion’s legs, but at least he was surrounded by his own, more recently recruited cohort. Zeuxis’ grumbling started up again from the rank in front, reminding him that it wasn’t all roses here either. The bald-headed man was older than him, and had joined a week before Marcion had. Zeuxis had the loudest voice in their contubernium, which he thought gave him the right to dictate to everyone. Mostly, the other soldiers in the eight-man tent group let him get on with it. Marcion found that hard.
‘We do nothing but fucking march!’
‘Shut it,’ said Gaius, a broad-shouldered man who lived to fight. He was marching beside Marcion. ‘Try not to think about it. You’ll get there sooner that way.’
Zeuxis ignored him. ‘How many hundred miles is it from Thurii?’
‘I heard it was close to four,’ said Arphocras, Marcion’s favourite member of the contubernium.
‘Is that all? It feels as if we’re halfway to Hades.’
Arphocras winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, Zeuxis, it’s not much further to the Alps.’
‘The Alps! How hard will it be to cross them?’
‘It will be summer by the time we get there. The journey won’t be any different to what we’ve experienced in the Apennines,’ said Marcion, repeating what he’d overheard his centurion saying.
‘As if you’d know, Greek boy,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘You’re like the rest of us. Never set foot outside Bruttium until Spartacus led us away from there.’
The others laughed, and Marcion flushed with anger. ‘That’s according to Spartacus, not me!’
‘Been talking to him recently, have you?’
More laughter. Marcion buttoned his lip. He would try to get Zeuxis back later.
‘Spartacus — the great man. Huh! If we’re lucky, he might ride by our position every day or two, but that’s it,’ complained Zeuxis. ‘The rest of the time, we’re stuck in the column, without a damn clue about what’s going on. Just following the men in front like shitting ants. No wonder it takes three hours for us even to leave the camp each morning — which means we’re always the last damn soldiers to reach the new one every day.’ Encouraged by the others’ nods and mutters, he went on, ‘Getting our grain ration takes an age, never mind about the wine. And as for spare equipment-’
Marcion gave up his intention of keeping silent. Everything Zeuxis said was true, but it was part of life when one served in such a vast army. They could no more change it than force the sun to rise in the west and set in the east. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’
‘I’ll talk if I want to. Men are interested in what I’ve got to say,’ retorted Zeuxis over his shoulder.
‘No, they’re not. They just can’t compete with your bloody monotone.’
Hoots of laughter rang out, and Zeuxis scowled. He swung around, nearly braining Gaius with the pole carrying his gear. ‘You cheeky bastard!’
Gaius gave him an almighty shove back into his rank. ‘Why don’t you do as Marcion asked, eh? Give us all a break. Enjoy the scenery. Look up the blue sky. Sing us a song, even. Anything but more of your grumbling!’
Marcion grinned as everyone within earshot loudly agreed.
Frowning, Zeuxis subsided.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Marcion to Gaius.
‘S’all right. It won’t keep him quiet for long.’
‘Nothing ever does,’ said Marcion, rolling his eyes. ‘Better just enjoy the moment.’
Taking a deep breath, Gaius began to sing.
Recognising the bawdy tune, Marcion and the rest joined in with gusto.
The miles went by far faster when thinking about wine, women and song.
Ten days later…
Rome
Marcus Licinius Crassus was tired and hungry. Seeing his house in the distance, he sighed with relief. Soon he’d be home. He had spent a long day in the Senate, listening to, and taking part in, the most interminable debate about building new sewers on the Aventine Hill. The fools spout enough shit as it is without literally having to talk about it, he thought, smiling at his own joke. It was incredible. Despite the recent defeat of both consuls by the renegade Spartacus, the sewerage needs of the plebs were being addressed as a matter of urgency.
Yet there was no doubt in Crassus’ mind which was the more pressing matter. Spartacus. The man and his slave rabble had become a festering sore in the Republic’s side. Lentulus, the first consul to be disgraced, had presented himself to the senators some weeks before. His attempt to explain his actions had not gone down well, but after a severe reprimand he had been left in command of what remained of his army. Gellius, his colleague, had appeared in the capital just a few days prior. Like Lentulus, he was a self-made man, and lacked the support of a major faction in the Senate. Like Lentulus, he had suffered considerable casualties at Spartacus’ hands; he had also lost both his legions’ eagles. What had brought the senators’ opprobrium raining down on him, however, had not been these factors. It had been the presence of Caepio, the only surviving witness to the humiliation and killing of four hundred Roman prisoners.
Crassus’ lips pinched at the memory of Caepio’s testimony. Few men in the Republic could demand more respect than he, a centurion with thirty years of loyal service under his gilded belt. Everyone in the Curia had been riveted as he’d spoken. The wave of sheer outrage that had swept through the hallowed building when he’d finished had been greater than any Crassus had ever seen. He had been no less affected. The idea of slaves holding a munus, forcing Roman legionaries — citizens — to fight to the death was outrageous. Unforgivable. Vengeance had to be obtained, and fast. Crassus’ fury and frustration mounted even further. At that moment, revenge seemed unlikely. If the rumours were to be believed, Spartacus was leading his men north, to the Alps. Only Gaius Cassius Longinus, the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, who commanded two legions, stood in his way, and it was hard to see how he would succeed where his superiors had failed. If Longinus were defeated, they would discover if Spartacus really was thinking the unthinkable: would he leave Italy?
Even if Lentulus or Gellius were granted the opportunity of fighting Spartacus again, Crassus didn’t think that either consul was capable of crushing the slave army. Both of them, especially Gellius, had seemed cowed by the senators’ furious reaction. That was just three hundred angry politicians — not fifty thousand armed slaves. Although the pair had now joined forces, in Crassus’ mind they lacked the initiative — and the balls — to bring the insurrection to a swift and successful conclusion. He had brought some of his fellow senators around to his point of view that change was needed. Getting them to agree to anything further was another matter, however. The traditions surrounding high office that had evolved over half a millennium were set in stone. For the twelve months of their office, the two consuls were the most senior magistrates in the Republic, and its effective rulers. Understandably, their positions were revered. To unseat them or to force them to allow another to lead their armies during their tenure was unheard of. Undeterred, Crassus had mooted such ideas twice now. On both occasions, his suggestions had been shouted down.
Fools. They will come to regret their decision. Longinus will fail. If they are sent after him, Lentulus and Gellius will fail. Crassus knew it in his bones. Of all the politicians in Rome, he alone had met Spartacus, and gauged his mettle. He had encountered the Thracian gladiator by chance, on a visit to Capua a year before. Crassus had paid for a mortal combat in the ludus there. Despite being wounded early on, Spartacus had overcome his skilled opponent. Intrigued by the Thracian, Crassus had struck up a conversation with him afterwards. At the time, he’d taken Spartacus’ confident manner as pure arrogance. Since then, in the aftermath of repeated Roman defeats, he had realised his mistake. The man wasn’t just a brave and skilful fighter. He possessed charisma, ability and generalship in plenty. Not since Hannibal has anyone posed such a real threat to the Republic, Crassus brooded. And the two fools who are supposed to bring him to heel are Lentulus and Gellius, whose best plan is hunt Spartacus down and confront him in battle once more. Why am I the only one to see that they’ll be unsuccessful?
I have to do something.
