‘It’s nothing like that.’
She searched his face for a clue.
‘Leave it, Ariadne. You will find out in due course.’
She didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t being open with her, but she did not probe further. This was no time to sow discord. There were ballistae to destroy and after that, another Roman army to defeat. She cast a longing look to the north, towards the Alps. When we stand at their foot, everything will seem much clearer. We will head eastwards. She did not want to entertain any other possibility. This hope was what had sustained her in the months since their breakout from the ludus. Yet Spartacus’ reticence had planted a seed of doubt in her mind.
Ariadne decided to seek Dionysus’ aid. It was not in the nature of any deity to answer requests directly, but it did happen on occasion. Her spirits rallied at the memory of the time they had been trapped at the top of Vesuvius by three thousand legionaries. In their hour of greatest need, Dionysus had shown Spartacus the wild vines that could be used to make ropes. Maybe he would help again now? While their situation was nowhere near as desperate as before, Ariadne felt in need of the peace of mind that divine guidance would grant. A welcome calm descended over her.
It lasted for a few heartbeats. Then, like a sting in the tail, Ariadne thought of the munus that Spartacus had held. Had it been too bloody? As if that wasn’t enough to be worried about, she agonised over the occasion at Thurii when she had lied about the god’s will. She had told the entire army that Dionysus had sent her a dream in which they were to travel to the east under his protection, to lands that were unconquered by Rome. Ariadne had admitted her falsehood to no one, not even her husband. I did it for good reasons, she thought. To prevent Crixus trying to kill Spartacus. To win the troops over, and to stop them from splintering into many factions. Her inner demon answered at once. It doesn’t matter why you did it. To suit your own purpose, you pretended to speak with a divine voice. That shows a deep disrespect for the god.
Her guilt swelled immeasurably. ‘I must go and pray,’ she said in a tight voice.
‘A good idea.’ Troubled, Spartacus watched her go.
By early afternoon, the cavalry he had sent out had returned. They had located the most likely spot for the Roman ballistae to be hidden. Some five miles from their camp was a hollow behind a slight incline that was bounded on two sides by a dense arrangement of trees. His horsemen had seen figures moving in the copse, but as instructed, they had not investigated further. To maintain as much secrecy as possible, Spartacus ordered them to say nothing to their comrades.
Gannicus and Castus had picked a thousand of their best men for the mission. As well as barrels of olive oil and torches, they had armed their troops with every axe that could be found. The two Gauls, Spartacus and the cavalry officer who’d led the patrol conferred as the sun fell in the sky. There were hours to go before the chosen soldiers left. To prevent them being seen by Roman scouts, the force would not move out until it was dark.
Spartacus was pleased. Things augured well. On the spur of the moment, he decided to join Carbo. Hunting was something that he had always enjoyed, but there had been precious little time for it of recent months. He ignored the host of tasks that needed doing, and that it was a little rash to leave the camp without guards. It would do him good, he decided, to forget Longinus, Castus and Gannicus, and the damn Alps for a few hours. Nothing will happen. The Rider will look after me, as he always does.
‘Put your back into it!’ roared Julius, his face a handsbreadth from Marcion’s. ‘Just because we’re nearly done for the day, just because we’ve hammered the Romans both times that you’ve fought them, doesn’t mean you can start slacking. Training is training, and it goes on until I say so!’
Marcion’s mouth set into a scowl of concentration. He raised his shield and advanced towards Gaius, his tent mate. He wished that Julius would piss off and annoy one of the other soldiers in their unit, but there was little chance of that. Their centurion never moved on until he was satisfied.
He glanced to either side. Beyond his century, the rest of his cohort was also busy. Further on, many hundreds of men were being forced by their officers to run, to fight, as he was, with covered weapons, or to attack other groups in formation. Shouts and commands mixed with the clack, clack sound of swords hitting scuta and the deeper thump of shield bosses making contact with each other. In the distance, he could see the cavalry charging en masse, wheeling and turning in graceful but deadly arcs. It was the same as always, he thought wearily. If we aren’t marching or fighting, we’re bloody training.
‘Move it!’ yelled Julius.
Marcion peered over the rim of his scutum as he shuffled forward. Gaius was about ten paces away. Marcion could only see his friend’s eyes, and his feet. The shield Gaius carried protected almost his entire body, as Marcion’s did his. It left precious little to attack. He still knew what to do. He darted forward, hoping to catch Gaius off guard. Marcion used all of his force, smashing his shield boss into Gaius’ scutum. Although Gaius had braced himself, the impact rocked him back on his heels, and he wasn’t able to dodge Marcion’s blade as it came sliding over the shield’s iron rim. ‘Damn you!’ he spat.
‘You’re dead,’ said Marcion with a smile.
‘You won’t get me like that again,’ Gaius swore.
‘Glad to hear it,’ came Julius’ sarcastic voice. ‘If this was real life, you’d be choking out your last breath by now. Do it again.’
The words had barely left the centurion’s lips when Gaius threw himself across the space that separated him from Marcion. This time, it was Marcion who went over, landing on his arse with his shield on top of him. Winded by the fall, he could do nothing to prevent Gaius ripping aside his scutum and pretend to skewer him through the neck.
Gaius leered. ‘That’ll teach you, you pup!’ He backed off, allowing Marcion to get to his feet.
‘Better, Gaius,’ declared Julius. He threw a hard glance at Marcion. ‘Not as good as you think, are you?’
Stung, Marcion had the sense not to answer.
‘Right, that’ll do you for the day.’ Julius raised his voice. ‘DISMISSED! Same time tomorrow, you sacks of shit!’
With a relieved sigh, Marcion stripped the leather cover from his gladius and slid it back into its scabbard. He made sure that the centurion was out of earshot. ‘Julius is fucking annoying, but he’s right. We have to keep sharp, eh?’
Gaius hawked and spat. ‘Aye, true enough. A man needs Fortuna on his side every time he goes into battle. Even the best soldier can end up staring at a string of his own guts, or worse. Remember Hirtius?’
‘Of course.’ Marcion winced. Hirtius had been one of their tent mates. A short barrel of a man, he’d been prodigiously strong. That hadn’t stopped him taking a stray pilum in the eye during the fight against Gellius’ legions. His deafening screams had gone on until Zeuxis had done him a mercy by cutting his throat.
‘Who’s cooking tonight?’ asked a familiar deep voice.
‘It’s your bloody turn, Zeuxis!’ Gaius cried indignantly.
‘Is it?’ Zeuxis wiped the sheen of sweat from his pate and flicked it at Gaius, who dodged, cursing.
‘You know damn well it is!’
‘Don’t look at me!’ said Marcion as Zeuxis’ head turned. ‘I’d much rather have your tasteless offering than have to cook.’
‘Me too,’ declared Arphocras, who had been Zeuxis’ sparring mate. ‘You’re such a chancer! Every eight days, it’s the same.’
Zeuxis shrugged. ‘I can’t help it if my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Just as well that we remember for you, eh?’ jibed Marcion.
Despite Gaius besting him, Marcion’s mood was lifting. This was his favourite part of the day. Training was over. The hottest hours had passed, but it was still a good while until sunset. After he’d cleaned the dust off his equipment, there was time perhaps to fill a bucket from the river and to have a wash. Most of his tent mates weren’t bothered, but the love of small luxuries that Marcion had grown up with died hard. After a hard training session, he liked nothing better than to get clean. It was best to slope off on his own, however. If Zeuxis realised, he’d never hear the end of it. A desire to bathe regularly did not mean that he liked other men, he thought angrily, just that he had possessed some culture. It was Zeuxis who was the primitive, not him. He smiled.
His dreadful cooking proved it.
Carbo had been busy all day. After a hearty bowl of barley porridge and honey prepared by Arnax, he had slept for several hours. Then, as he would have done normally, Carbo had sought out the cohort of which he was second-in-command. His senior officer was Egbeo, a huge Thracian who was one of Spartacus’ most devoted
