from the sentries on the earthen rampart, he was the only figure in sight. It was a good time to be alone, and one that he often took advantage of to collect his thoughts. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the cool air. Summer was around the corner, and each day it was growing hotter. By midday, marching would have become an unpleasant slog. It wasn’t surprising that the army’s progress since defeating Gellius had been even slower than usual. Buoyed up by their incredible successes, his men had spent much of the time drunk, or ransacking local farms for food, women and, of course, more wine. He hadn’t tried to stop them. After what they’d achieved, they deserved to celebrate. A leader who prevented his men from doing such things became unpopular, and he couldn’t risk that, not with the Alps drawing near. Spartacus knew he’d done well to get the army on the move a week or so previously. It had travelled at a snail’s pace of five miles a day since, however, which was immensely frustrating.
Yet at the best of times it was hard to organise fifty thousand soldiers and the straggling baggage train that accompanied them. He had long since given up trying to control the thousands of hangers-on — women, children, the wounded, whores, traders — who swelled the host’s size to ridiculous proportions. The damn column stretched for more than twenty miles. When journeying from the south, he had kept his followers in the mountains, where it was easy to avoid confrontation. Just the day before, they had left the protection of the Apennines and marched out on to the river plain of the mighty Padus. They were now permanently in the open, and vulnerable to attack. They may have driven off both consuls but Spartacus had learned over the years never to let his guard down. Squadrons of his cavalry rode at regular intervals along the column’s flanks. Other units had also ranged far afield, locating enemy troops. So far it appeared that the garrison of Mutina was staying firmly behind the town’s walls.
Spartacus climbed on to a nearby rock and peered north. Cloud cover meant that he couldn’t see the Alps this morning, but his memory of seeing them on the far horizon as they had descended from the Apennines was crystal clear. Less than seventy miles away, the influence of the Roman Republic came to an abrupt end. The sight had made Ariadne happier than he’d ever seen; it had had a similar effect on Atheas, Taxacis and the surviving Thracians. Everyone else’s reaction had been more muted, however. Gannicus had smiled and said he was looking forward to screwing a free Gaulish woman, but Castus had barely said a word. Concerned by the first real hints of resentment, Spartacus had taken to wandering through the army’s camp each night, his face obscured by the throw of a cloak. Many of the conversations he had eavesdropped on were not what he would have wished to hear. Yes, there was some talk of leaving Italy behind for ever, but there was also a great deal of grumbling and complaining.
‘Why does he want to leave? Everything we want is here. Undefended towns. Grain. Wine. Women. Money. All ours for the taking!’
‘We’ve defeated every damn force sent against us. What is there to fear by staying?’
‘Both consuls had to flee for their lives after we thrashed their legions. The Romans have learned their lesson. They won’t come near us again in a hurry.’
Biting his tongue, Spartacus hadn’t challenged this dissent. He couldn’t talk to every tent group in the army. They don’t understand the Romans. They are uneducated slaves. What do they know of history? Talk of Pyrrhus, who had defeated Rome more than once, and Hannibal, who had massacred almost their entire army in one day, and the Gaulish tribes who had threatened Italy on occasions, would mean nothing to the vast majority. Yet part of him couldn’t help exulting at the level of their confidence. Why would they want to leave? What might we do if we were a hundred thousand strong? Two hundred thousand strong? The Romans would truly fear us then.
He dragged his thoughts back to Thrace, and how he wanted to rid it of the legions for ever. The men will listen to me when the time is right, he told himself. They love and trust in me. Not all will follow me north, but most will. He glanced at the sky. Let it be so, Great Rider. Let their reverence for you and Ariadne, your faithful servant, remain, O Dionysus.
But deep in his gut, Spartacus suspected that the Romans would not leave him be if he left Italy. They would want revenge for the humiliations he had heaped upon them. And if they followed him — what then?
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
