‘If you’re sure…’ said Carbo doubtfully. He hadn’t ever ridden that much.
‘I am.’ Spartacus said nothing of the fierce argument he’d had with Ariadne over it. She had totally opposed his going, not, she said, because he might miss the birth, but because of the dangers that he would face. ‘What if you are recognised in Rome?’ she had uttered repeatedly. Spartacus had laughed. ‘Who will recognise me? The likelihood of seeing someone who knows me are less than a icicle surviving the midday sun.’ Then he’d taken her hand. ‘I have to find out what the cursed Romans are planning. This chance to kill Crassus will only be there once.’
‘And if you get caught?’
He’d laughed. ‘That won’t happen. I’m going to take Carbo with me. He’s a native. I’ll act as his slave. We’ll be on a short business trip to Rome, just two men in a crowd of thousands. What could go wrong with that?’ Ariadne had finally acquiesced, because she’d seen that he would not be swayed, but there was now a further tension between them. It can be resolved when I return, thought Spartacus.
‘So, will you come?’
As with the first time Spartacus had made such a request of him, man to man rather than from leader to a follower, Carbo was touched. He was also secretly pleased, because in Rome, the opportunity to meet his parents might arise. ‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ Spartacus got to his feet.
‘Won’t you have some warmed wine?’ Carbo made a gesture that sent Arnax scrambling for the amphora in their tent.
‘No. I want a clear head in the morning. We’ll need to cover more than twenty miles a day.’
‘I understand. Arnax, leave it.’
‘Heat some up anyway,’ ordered Navio. ‘I’ll have a cup even if Carbo’s not going to. I’ll raise a toast to your success, and more importantly, safe return.’
‘Thank you.’ Spartacus cast them a warning glance. ‘It goes without saying that no one is to speak of this. To anyone.’
Carbo and Navio nodded.
‘I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, I-’ blurted Arnax, looking mortified.
‘It’s all right. I know you won’t talk.’ With a curt nod, Spartacus disappeared into the darkness.
Navio jerked his head after the Thracian. ‘Gods, I’d wager you didn’t see that coming.’
‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘Neither can I. Didn’t your parents end up in Rome?’
Carbo had told Navio his whole story after the fuss over his letter. ‘Yes.’
‘Tempted to see them?’
‘I don’t know. I might not have the chance.’
‘When will a better opportunity come your way?’
‘Leave it,’ muttered Carbo.
Navio raised his hands, palm outwards. ‘Fair enough.’
Carbo stared into the flames, brooding. If the truth be known, he was wary of meeting his parents again. What would he say to them about where he’d been for the last year and more? He would have to lie about absolutely everything. Despite this, his heart ached at the thought of them.
Carbo woke long before dawn. Moving carefully so he didn’t disturb Navio and Arnax, he threw off his blankets. He rolled them up, placing them in his pack, which was lying ready by his side. He had gone to bed fully dressed, so all he had to do was slip on his sandals, grab his dagger and creep outside. Although Carbo half expected to see Spartacus, he gave a start at the figure which loomed out of the semi-darkness. ‘Been here long?’ he whispered.
‘A little while.’
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
‘Something like that.’ I was tired of the disapproval radiating from Ariadne. Spartacus regretted not saying goodbye, but the cool between them had hardened overnight to a thick frost.
It was strange seeing his leader without his sword, helmet and mail shirt, thought Carbo. Spartacus was dressed in a simple wool tunic and sandals. He was carrying a pack and a stout cudgel. A sheathed knife hung from a leather strap over one shoulder. He looked like any agricultural slave.
‘I’m ready,’ said Carbo.
‘Give me your bag.’
‘Eh?’
‘If you’re the master and I’m the slave, then I have to carry both our packs. From the start. Only the gods know whom we’ll meet on the road. No point arousing suspicions, is there?’
‘But-’
‘Hand it over.’
Feeling awkward, Carbo did as he was told.
‘You’ve got no weapons?’
‘Just this.’ He tapped his dagger.
‘Fine. Let’s go. It’s a long way to Rome.’
Carbo cast a last glance at his tent. His guts lurched at the thought of never seeing Navio and Arnax again. I’ll be back before they know it, he told himself. Pushing back his shoulders, he set off, with Spartacus a step behind.
‘May the gods go with you!’ called a low voice.
Turning, Carbo saw Navio’s head sticking out of their tent. He grinned. ‘Thank you.’
Nodding farewell, the two men strode off between the lines of tents. It took a long time to work their way to the edge of the huge camp, which was situated in a flat area between two forested peaks. Nearing the perimeter, they passed several sentries, who smiled and waved them on. ‘They think we’re just going on a reconnaissance of the local area,’ muttered Spartacus. ‘I had Pulcher send out the word last night.’
‘What will they say when we don’t come back?’
‘If anyone asks, Pulcher is to say that we may have gone south ahead of the army, to check the lie of the land. It doesn’t matter too much if the men don’t believe the story. All anyone is thinking of now is reaching Thurii. We’ll return before there’s any serious problem.’ Spartacus pictured Castus, who had been delighted when he’d told him about his planned mission. Gannicus had seemed pleased too, but the chance of some decent intelligence and of killing Crassus had to take priority. They won’t win that many men over, he told himself.
Leaving the encampment behind, they walked up a steep slope covered in beech trees and worked their way down the other side. The eastern sky was paling fast now, but it no longer mattered. Only the sentries and Publipor had seen them go.
At least that was what they thought.
Nine days later, the pair had nearly reached Rome. Annoyingly, finding suitable mounts had proved to be overly time-consuming. They had therefore walked, covering more than twenty miles every day, still considerably faster than the slow pace of the slave army. It had been tough going, but Carbo hadn’t complained. Spartacus was bearing both their packs while he got to walk with only his water bag to weigh him down.
They had come down from the mountains at the first opportunity and taken the fastest route to the capital: the Via Appia, which ran from Brundisium to Rome. Paved with blocks of black basalt, it was the Republic’s main artery, carrying wagons full of trade goods, soldiers, travellers and civil servants of all types. Carbo and Spartacus had been swallowed up in the tide of humanity that flowed towards the capital, just another master and servant going about their business.
As they had arranged, the pair only spoke on the road when there was no one else in sight. At the roadside inns where they had stayed each night, Carbo had taken a small room while the Thracian slept in the stables or even outdoors. It was customary for agricultural slaves to be treated rather poorly, and Spartacus had wanted them to look no different. Everything had to go without hitch, because time was of the essence. If he stayed away too long, the Gauls might actually do some real harm. And he might miss the birth of his son.
‘We must be close now,’ said Carbo, pointing at a particularly grand brick-built tomb. ‘They’re getting larger.’ The mausoleums had lined both sides of the road for miles, memorials to the wealthy and powerful.
‘You’re right. There are fewer latrones and cheap whores on view too.’
