delicious smells issuing from a baker’s shop a short distance away mixed with the smell of burning charcoal, and manure from the pens behind a butcher’s. The cattle held there roared their protests. Ting. Ting. Ting. The sound of metal hammering off metal reached them from a smithy. A cripple hobbled by on a crudely fashioned crutch.
Carbo began to relax.
Beside him, Tulla was jiggling with impatience. ‘Do you think it’s safe yet?’
Spartacus shook his head.
‘But everything is going on as norm-’
Tramp. Tramp. Tramp.
Tulla’s eyes widened. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back as Spartacus peered briefly around the corner. ‘Soldiers. Eight, nine, ten of them.’
A moment later, a party of legionaries came to a halt before the inn. A burly figure emerged from within and sat down with the two old men. Focused on the soldiers, Spartacus didn’t see the man give them a tiny nod. Carbo did, but put it down to nothing more than a greeting. Six entered; the remainder waited outside.
Spartacus had been right to be cautious, thought Carbo, but their predicament was only a fraction less dire than before. ‘What in Hades do we do now?’
‘Good question.’ Spartacus racked his brains. Great Rider, help us.
‘What about a whorehouse?’ suggested Tulla. ‘You could stay in one of those overnight.’
‘No,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘Places like that live on gossip. Besides, they could be searched. Believe me, Crassus is going to have this city turned upside down to try and find us.’
‘We could try going to my uncle’s house and finding out where my parents live,’ said Carbo slowly. ‘If we clean ourselves up, it might work.’ His mind raced. What would he say to Varus? To his mother and father?
‘That’s a damn good idea. If the worst comes to the worst, we can hold them hostage until the morning.’ Spartacus eyeballed Carbo.
‘Very well.’ Carbo almost wished that he had said nothing. He didn’t want his parents to remember their last meeting with him — for surely this would be the last — to be tainted in that manner. But they had to escape.
Spartacus gave a satisfied nod.
‘Where does your uncle live?’ asked Tulla.
‘On the Esquiline Hill. I’m not sure where.’
‘Can you find his house?’ asked Spartacus.
Tulla gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Of course. I might need to ask around a little.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
Tulla thumbed her nose at Spartacus and headed back down the alley.
Marcion had drunk more than the rest of his comrades, and his pounding head the next morning had made it easy to turn down his comrades’ suggestion of a swim in the river that lay near the camp. They hadn’t been gone long, however, before his rest was disturbed again by the sound of widespread cheering. Irritably poking his head out of his tent, he discovered something that sent him fumbling for his clothes. Ignoring his hangover, he ran all the way from the camp to the broad watercourse. ‘Did you hear the news?’ he called excitedly as he came barrelling down the slope, dodging past other soldiers.
There were scores of men in the water, bathing, washing their clothes, filling water containers or doing as his tent mates were, sporting about in the shallows near the bank. A few looked up, but none of Marcion’s comrades heard him.
‘Ariadne has had her baby!’ he shouted.
That got him some attention.
Arphocras, one of the nearest to Marcion, was shoving a comrade’s head under the surface. The sun glinted off the droplets in his close-cropped hair. ‘What did you say?’
‘Tell us!’ cried a soldier Marcion had never seen before.
‘Ariadne has given birth to a healthy boy!’
A lop-sided grin twisted Arphocras’ face. ‘A son? The gods be thanked. That’s wonderful news. Let’s hope that Spartacus comes back soon, eh?’
‘He will,’ declared the soldier who’d spoken first.
Marcion nodded. Unlike many others, Zeuxis prominent among them, he still felt sure that their leader would return. He wasn’t sure why this was, but the news of Maron’s birth had increased this belief.
The others were still play-fighting. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got big news!’
No one paid him any notice. Marcion was not surprised. During their weeks of marching under the hot summer sun, few of the mountain streams they’d encountered had been safe enough to enter. This one was, making it a huge draw to the soldiers. Despite the ragging he got for washing regularly, his comrades could not deny the sheer pleasure of being able to bathe in running water.
Marcion’s gaze was drawn back to Arphocras, whose victim had just managed to struggle free. His head had been half-submerged, so he had no clue what Marcion had been saying either. With a triumphant roar, he threw his arms around Arphocras’ neck and dragged him under. Water fountained into the air as the pair thrashed about.
Ten paces further out, Gaius had Zeuxis on his shoulders, and was facing up to two more of their comrades. Shouting curses, Zeuxis and the other man on top grappled fiercely, trying to throw one another into the water. It wasn’t long before Zeuxis’ ‘steed’ lost his footing and fell. Zeuxis began to topple backwards, but he seized his opponent by one arm and, shouting with glee, managed to take him down as well.
Their antics made Marcion forget his news for a moment. Keen to join in, he began to strip off. He had just pulled his tunic up over his shoulders when an immense blow sent him flying forward, his limbs flailing. A heartbeat’s delay, and Marcion landed in the river. He thrashed about madly, trying to find the bottom. Heaving himself upright, he ripped off his tunic and coughed up several mouthfuls of liquid. ‘Who did that?’ he roared. ‘Who did that?’
Laughter filled his ears, and he looked up at the bank. ‘You bastard!’
‘The opportunity was too good to miss,’ said Antonius, another of his tent mates. ‘You were standing there, shouting your head off like bloody Julius.’
Marcion grinned. Throwing their disciplinarian officer into the river was a most appealing idea.
‘What were you bawling about?’ asked a deep voice.
‘Zeuxis. Finally!’ He dodged the balding man’s charge with ease, giving him a push that, to his immense satisfaction, sent his argumentative tent mate face first into the river.
‘Ariadne has given birth,’ Arphocras butted in.
That put a smile on most men’s faces, but Zeuxis, dripping water, scowled. ‘I wish the babe no harm, but that’s the last thing we need.’
‘It’s not as if it’s a surprise. She’s been pregnant for nine months!’ retorted Arphocras to a ripple of laughter.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘Castus and Gannicus aren’t going to be too pleased about this, are they?’
‘Who cares what those whoresons think?’ demanded Marcion. ‘Not us, that’s for sure.’ He was pleased when a number of men nearby voiced their agreement. It was hard to ignore, however, that some soldiers were throwing him foul looks. Even worse, they weren’t Gauls. The rot is spreading, he thought unhappily.
‘It might force them to act. They’ve been planning something since we turned around at the Alps,’ said Zeuxis. ‘If I’ve heard what they promise us in exchange for loyalty once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. A free rein with every farm and estate that we attack. The right to use iron and gold as trading items. We’ll all be rich men soon, if Castus and Gannicus are to be believed!’
‘What’s your point?’ snapped Marcion, tired of Zeuxis’ constant complaints. ‘I know you think it’s lies that the Gauls are peddling.’
‘They’re not lies, that’s the problem,’ replied Zeuxis sourly. He dropped his voice a fraction. ‘That’s why so many men are listening to them. You mark my words, if Spartacus doesn’t come back soon, there’ll be trouble. Real trouble.’
The others exchanged worried looks.
‘It’s not that bad,’ protested Marcion, but he’d heard the whispers too.
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Zeuxis. ‘An army needs its leader, and if he is absent for too long, then someone else will take the space. It won’t be Egbeo or Pulcher either. They’re not ruthless enough.’
