Carbo heard the distinctive hammering of a woodpecker, a bird sacred to Mars, the god of war. He quickly offered up a prayer. Give us a good hunt, O Great One. They walked on, entering the shelter of the woods. Motes of dust floated lazily on the sunlight that filtered through the branches of laurels, stone pines and strawberry trees. It was peaceful — eerily so. Carbo thought of the copse a short distance away that contained hundreds of Roman soldiers and their ballistae, and his skin crawled. He began to see a legionary behind every tree, and wished that he had not taken off his mail shirt. Navio’s hiss startled him. ‘Pssst!’
Carbo looked. Ten paces off to his left, Spartacus was pointing at the ground. He padded over. At the Thracian’s feet were two large hoof imprints with a characteristic pair of indents behind them. ‘Red deer. A big one.’
‘It’s a stag,’ said Navio excitedly.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Spartacus.
At once Carbo’s gaze moved to the trees in front of them. Of course he saw nothing. The marks were fresh, but the stag would be some distance away.
When they had followed the prints for a little way, their suspicions were proved correct. ‘See this?’ Carbo showed Arnax. ‘We know it’s a male deer because the rear tracks fall to the inside of the front ones. That happens because his chest is a lot larger than his hindquarters.’
‘Where is he?’ Arnax’s eyes were alive with interest and delight.
Spartacus stooped and pressed his fingers into the nearest print. ‘Nowhere that close. But the earth is still a little damp. He passed by here today. Probably sometime in the morning.’
Arnax hefted the spear in his right hand. ‘Will we find him?’
Carbo grinned at the boy’s enthusiasm. ‘Who knows? We shall have to follow his tracks and see. Now is the time to pray to Diana for her help.’ Using a loop of leather made for the purpose, he slung his spear across his back. Then he slipped an arrow with a narrow head from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.
‘That won’t take down a deer,’ joked Navio.
‘We might see another hare, or one of those black birds,’ answered Carbo a trifle defensively.
‘It always pays to be ready,’ said Spartacus, selecting a shaft of his own. ‘For whatever — or whoever — we might meet.’
Carbo felt gratified. During the time the slave army had travelled from deep in the south, he’d spent a lot of time scouting with Atheas. The Scythian never moved without a weapon in his hands.
Some time later, however, his vague unease had been replaced by frustration. He had seen no phantom legionaries, and there had been no game worth bringing down either. Irritatingly, the stag’s tracks had petered out on a bare rocky slope that led to the bank of a fast-flowing stream. The trio had cast about, searching for signs of where the animal might have left the hard ground and forded the watercourse, but had had no luck.
‘The damn creature must have sprouted wings and flown away,’ said Navio, frowning.
Arnax glanced briefly at the sky before looking down again, embarrassed.
Carbo hid his grin. He’d forgotten how innocent children could be. ‘Let’s not give up.’
‘I want to keep going,’ agreed Spartacus, who was revelling in the sensation of being with comrades, tracking nothing more than a deer. There were no men asking him for equipment, no new recruits who needed instruction, no horses to be broken or officers asking him for guidance. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in an age.
‘Look!’
The excitement in Arnax’s voice caught everyone’s attention. Spartacus’ gaze followed the boy’s pointing arm down the slope, through the gap in the trees to the flat ground that lay beyond. ‘That’s no deer.’ He studied the three figures who were running at full pelt towards the woods.
‘They’re being pursued,’ hissed Carbo. Some distance behind the fugitives rose a tell-tale dust cloud. His stomach clenched. ‘Riders.’ They were too far away to estimate their number, but the spiral of dust was large. It was also closing in fast on the running men.
‘Roman deserters?’ suggested Navio.
‘They’re more likely to be escaped slaves,’ said Spartacus.
Carbo and Navio exchanged glances, wondering what to do. The safest thing would be to return to the camp. Surely, their leader would think the same thing.
‘Those men could be coming to join us,’ grated Spartacus.
‘The riders who are after them outnumber us,’ warned Navio.
Everyone in the camp — Ariadne, the Scythians, Pulcher and Egbeo — would want me to melt away into the trees. Even Castus and Gannicus would advise walking away from this situation. But who are they to tell me what to do? I decide what risks I take — crazy or not. A wicked grin split Spartacus’ face. ‘It’s been a while since I faced long odds. I’m going down there. You in?’
Chapter V
‘Of course.’ Carbo wondered why his leader was being so foolhardy, but he didn’t say so. Instead he returned his narrow-headed arrow to his quiver and pulled out a barbed shaft.
‘Fine,’ said Navio with a crooked smile and did the same.
‘W-what are you going to do?’ Arnax’s voice was quavering.
‘Slip down to the edge of the trees and see what’s going on.’ Spartacus pointed a finger at the ground. ‘You’re going to stay here, where it’s safe.’
‘But-’
‘But nothing. You’re too young to fight, yet the Romans — if that’s who the riders are — would cut you down in the blink of an eye.’
‘You’re to do as Spartacus says,’ ordered Carbo loudly, trying to calm his own nerves. ‘You can hide easily here, and see what happens. If the worst comes to the worst, return to the camp. Can you retrace your steps to find it?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. When you get there, find Pulcher or Egbeo and tell them what happened,’ Spartacus directed.
‘Pulcher. Egbeo. Yes.’
‘If I have been killed, they are to lead the army.’ Or however many of the men will follow them rather than Castus or Gannicus, he thought cynically. ‘Atheas and Taxacis are to look after Ariadne. Let’s go.’ Taking his spear from Arnax, Spartacus trotted off with Navio on his heels.
Carbo paused long enough to clap the boy on the arm. What had he got Arnax into? he wondered. He glanced at the dust cloud, which had grown larger. Now he could see the shapes of individual riders, at least fifteen of them. What the hell was he getting himself into? His pulse raced as he began to descend the slope.
Reaching the bottom first, Spartacus moved at once along the edge of the trees, searching for the best spot to observe what was going on. He was careful to keep far enough back to prevent his being seen. He soon spotted the fugitives. They were definitely slaves, he decided. All three were thin, barefoot and dressed in ragged tunics. The men had almost reached the shelter of the woods, but they looked more terrified than ever. That was because the front riders — three Roman cavalrymen in mail shirts and bronze helmets, carrying long, slashing swords — were nearly upon them. Behind thundered many more.
‘Quickly!’ he hissed at Carbo and Navio. Darting to the shelter of a holm oak at the very limit of the trees, he dropped his spear and stabbed a row of shafts into the earth in front of him. Nocking an arrow to the string, Spartacus drew a bead on the first rider, an unshaven man with long hair. He glanced to either side. A few steps away, Carbo and Navio were also ready. ‘How far?’ he muttered.
‘Eighty to a hundred paces, give or take,’ replied Carbo. Navio growled in agreement.
Spartacus pulled back to full draw. ‘On my count. One. Two. Three!’
Their arrows shot through the air. Two punched the first rider off his horse’s back, and Spartacus swore under his breath. He should have named his target. The last shaft, Carbo’s, struck a man behind the leader straight through the throat. He was dead before he even hit the ground. The men’s companions roared with anger, but they did not slow down. Leaning forward across his mount’s neck, one swung down with all his might at the last of the three fugitives. An excruciating scream shredded the air. A sheet of blood sprayed from the man’s back, and he fell
