‘It’s very simple. We bring him to bay like a boar on a hunt. Ready our legions. Soften his men up with catapults. Advance, and butcher the lot of them. And that will be that.’ His eyes roved challengingly over them. It was Scrofa, whom he’d already judged to be one of the most courageous, who spoke first.
‘You really think it will be that simple, sir?’
‘Yes, Scrofa, I do. The time has come to rid Italy of Spartacus and his filth. What better way to do it than in head-to-head battle? That has ever been the way of Rome’s magnificent legions.’ He glanced at Caepio, who rumbled his approval.
‘But the men who have fought Spartacus before, sir, they-’ Mummius hesitated.
‘We all know that they have run before,’ said Crassus in a silky tone. ‘And if it happens again, they will be punished so severely that none of them will ever think of running again.’
In the lull that followed, the only sounds were the voices of slaves who were tending the plants in the central courtyard.
Crassus pinned them one by one with his stare. ‘I am talking of decimation.’
Quinctius’ mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
‘Decimation, gentlemen. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ was the unanimous, shocked response.
‘That practice hasn’t been used for generations, sir,’ ventured Scrofa.
‘All the more reason to revive it then,’ said Crassus. ‘Anyone else?’
No one except Caepio and Caesar met his gaze.
‘Excellent.’ It was good that his officers were so horrified, thought Crassus. Anger was still coursing through his veins at the thought of how nearly Spartacus had come to killing him. ‘I meant every word that I said. I will do whatever it takes to defeat that Thracian son of a whore. Whatever it takes.’
I swear to you, great Jupiter, that I will not rest until he is — or I am — dead.
Chapter XI
When the time came that day to search out a suitable place to set up camp, the pair were nowhere near a village, or even an inn. Carbo was glad. It had been a week since they’d left Rome. The high temperatures had meant that even when they climbed away from the fertile plain of Campania with its dense pattern of farms and estates and into the more mountainous region of Lucania, it was pleasant to sleep outdoors. Their solitude meant they could talk without the worry of being overheard. They had provisions, wine and blankets, and the horses they’d bought four days prior meant that they could ride in search of the most secluded sites with ease.
To Carbo’s chagrin, he’d had to continue wearing Varus’ toga each day. As Spartacus said, it gave him a wealthy air, which would explain, should anyone comment, why his ‘slave’ was astride a horse rather than walking. Having to bake daily in the thick woollen garment was another reason that Carbo preferred camping. Every evening, with Spartacus watching in amusement, he would strip off the toga and jump into the nearest stream to wash off the day’s accumulation of sweat. He shifted his shoulders unhappily, looking forward to doing the same again as soon as they’d stopped. After that, he could relax by the fire with a hunk of bread and cheese, and a beaker of wine.
He would try, for a while at least, to forget his sorrow over his parents. Even though Carbo had done what he’d thought was best at the time — entering the ludus to earn money — he was still racked by guilt over his decision. Guilt that he hadn’t stayed with his parents, and gone to Rome with them. Guilt that he hadn’t sent any money to them in the subsequent months, or tried harder to establish contact. Deep down, he knew these thoughts for fantasies, but that didn’t ease his pain. To cope, he stoked his hatred for Crassus into a white-hot flame. If it wasn’t for him, his parents would still be alive. Give me one more chance to kill Crassus before I die, he prayed repeatedly.
Carbo hoped that Spartacus would tell more tales of his youth in Thrace. He had been surprised and intrigued over the previous few nights as his leader had opened up more than he ever had. Carbo now knew the names of Spartacus’ father, mother and brother, as well as his childhood friends. He’d listened avidly to tales of hunting boar and wolves, of raiding horses and sheep from neighbouring tribes, and to dramatic legends about the Great Rider, the deity favoured by most Thracian warriors. Carbo didn’t realise it, but Spartacus’ stories were partially aimed at taking his mind off his parents. The Thracian had seen him brooding as they rode.
Spartacus made little or no mention of the war waged by his tribe on Rome, or of his time with the legions. Carbo had been content with that; he wanted no reminders of the reality of their own situation. Both men were enjoying the relative freedom from worry that their journey had granted them.
Behind him, Spartacus was thinking about Ariadne, and wondering if she had yet given birth. He made a silent request of the gods that she would have a straightforward labour. Women who didn’t often died, along with their infants. That grim thought made him wish that they had resolved their differences before he’d left. It would be the first thing to do upon their return, he decided. It was pointless letting arguments go on for this long, especially when danger — or death — lurked around every corner.
For the moment, though, they were still on the road. He might as well enjoy the loud churring of the cicadas from the oaks and chestnuts on each side. Relax to the clop, clop, clop of their mounts’ hooves off the basalt slabs. Relish the heat of the sun, which was slowly dropping towards the jagged-tipped mountains to the west. If he ignored the fact that the road was paved, he could almost be in the Thrace of his youth, an all-too-brief time when he had been utterly carefree.
The skin on the back of Spartacus’ neck prickled, and he turned his head. In the haze that shimmered over the road, he saw a small figure, approaching fast. Behind it thundered three more riders. ‘Company,’ he said quietly. ‘Four horsemen.’
With a start, Carbo came back to the present. He twisted around to see. ‘Are they messengers?’
‘More likely a messenger with an escort,’ said Spartacus.
‘His message must be important. They normally travel alone. Where are they heading? Pompeii and Paestum are behind us.’
‘Perhaps Crassus is sending word to Thurii, hoping it will reach the city before our army.’
Carbo took a mad notion. ‘Two to one isn’t bad odds, eh?’
‘Don’t go getting any ideas. They’ll be armed with swords. Whatever news they’re carrying isn’t worth risking our lives for.’
Carbo settled back on his horse. Spartacus was right.
They rode on, glancing regularly behind them. When the riders had drawn nearer, the pair guided their mounts into the shade of the trees on one side of the road. They watched as the lead horseman approached at the gallop, followed a short distance later by his three companions.
Any doubt about the man’s job vanished as he came closer. He was wearing typical military dress: a mail shirt over a padded tunic and a crested bronze-bowl helmet. A leather satchel bounced up and down off his right hip, and a long cavalry sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder. His mount was of fine quality, and it carried an ‘SPQR’ brand halfway down its neck.
Perhaps it would be worth finding out what message he was carrying, Spartacus thought with a flash of devilment. No. I’ve been in enough danger recently.
The rider gave them a haughty look as he drew level, but he didn’t check his steed.
‘Safe journey, friend,’ called Carbo.
All he got by way of reply was a grunt, and then the messenger was gone.
Carbo’s pulse increased as his gaze returned to the three horsemen to the rear. If there was to be any danger, it was from this trio, whose job was a fraction less urgent than the lead rider. The first two galloped past without as much as a glance at them, and he began to relax. Carbo barely saw the small stone that was sent flying by the back hooves of the lead horse. It shot up like a slingshot to strike the last horseman in the face. He bellowed in pain and did well not to lose his seat. With a savage tug on the reins, he brought his mount to a halt in front of Spartacus’ and Carbo’s position. Cursing, he fingered the deep cut on his right cheek, which was already bleeding heavily.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Carbo.
