number of weapons each man carried more than made up for their lack of clothing. There was hardly an individual that didn’t have a knife, or two, as well as a sword, on his belt. Spears were stacked up near their tents. There were catapults on the decks of the two shallow-draughted, single-masted vessels that were drawn up on the beach. Carbo felt grateful for the presence — a couple of hundred paces back — of the century of soldiers that Spartacus had insisted he take with him.
The small bay to his front was protected from the worst of the weather by a large sandbar that ran outwards from a rocky promontory to his right. That had to be why the pirates had chosen it as their mooring point. There were perhaps eighty of them — forty to a boat, thought Carbo — sprawled about, sleeping, cooking food over fires, or wrestling with one another. They looked to have been busy. About thirty young people of both sexes sat wretchedly on the sand, ropes tied around their necks. A number of the women were being raped by some of the pirates, while others watched and made comments.
Carbo considered his options. There was no benefit to going in alone, or with just a few men. They’d end up dead, or captured as slaves. All he could think of was to march in peacefully, and to ask for the renegades’ leader. He slid backwards, down the landward side of the large dune that had served as concealment from the beach. It was fortunate that the pirates on sentry duty were too busy watching the violation of their captives to have spotted him.
A short while later, Carbo and his men — some of his own cohort — came tramping over the dune and down towards the beach. They made no effort to be quiet. Panic reigned as they were seen. Men ran for their weapons, and the captives were kicked to their feet and hurried to the boats. That didn’t worry Carbo as much as the sight of the catapults being manned. The light artillery pieces would have an accurate range of two hundred paces.
He raised his hands in the air, and began shouting in Latin and Greek, ‘We come in peace. PEACE!’
As they advanced on to the flat ground, the mayhem did not lessen. About half the pirates arrayed themselves in a rough phalanx before their boats, while the rest were frantically helping to push the vessels into the water. The catapults were aimed straight at Carbo and his men.
He cursed. This was what he had thought might happen. In the pirates’ minds, safety lay at sea. If they succeeded, he would lose all chance of making a deal with them.
There was a loud twang, and his stomach lurched. ‘Shields up!’
A heartbeat’s delay, and then the first stones from the catapults — chunks half the size of a man’s head — landed with soft thumps in the sand, about thirty paces in front of their formation.
‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Very soon, he was going to start losing men. And for nothing. ‘Halt!’
His soldiers gladly obeyed.
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Carbo. He dropped his shield and unslung his baldric, letting his sword drop to the sand.
‘What are you doing?’ asked his optio, a block-headed gladiator.
‘Showing them that I mean no harm.’ Carbo took a step towards the pirates. He did well not to flinch as the next stones landed. They were wide this time, but a lot nearer. ‘If I’m killed, return to the army and tell Spartacus what happened.’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘Maybe I am,’ replied Carbo, his heart thumping. But I’m not going back empty-handed. Not after Spartacus has placed such trust in me. He lifted both hands, palms out, and walked forward. ‘I COME IN PEACE!’ He repeated himself in Greek and Latin, over and over.
Another volley of stones came flying over, and he heard them rattle off his men’s upturned shields. There was a shout of pain as someone was hit. Carbo began to grow angry. ‘You stupid bastards. Can’t you see that we’re not attacking you?’ he muttered, continuing to advance. ‘PEACE! PEACE!’
A moment later, to his great relief, he saw a short man in the phalanx bellowing orders at the crew working the catapults. No more stones were loosed, and Carbo walked a little closer. He heard curses being shouted at him in a number of languages. Weapons were still being brandished, but no one threw a spear or charged him. Yet. Wary of going too near, he stopped about fifty paces from the pirates, careful to keep his hands in the air.
He waited.
The short man emerged from the midst of his comrades. He was dark-skinned, but not black enough to be a Nubian. His beady eyes were set in a calculating and cruel face. Gold earrings flashed in his ears, and his tunic was of a richer cut than his fellows. He took a dozen steps towards Carbo. ‘Who in damnation are you?’ he demanded in bad Latin.
‘I am one of Spartacus’ soldiers,’ replied Carbo as loudly as he could. He was pleased when a murmur of recognition rippled through the pirates.
There was a suspicious scowl from the short man. ‘Spartacus? The gladiator who is fighting Rome?’
‘The same. Do you always greet visitors in the same manner?’
‘Usually we just butcher them.’ He grinned, and his men snickered. ‘But I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll let you and your men piss off instead.’
‘No, chief! Let’s kill him,’ said a large man, brandishing a rusty sword.
There was a rumble of agreement from the rest.
The captain winked at Carbo. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that.’
Carbo resisted the urge to order his men to the attack. ‘I have a proposition for you, from Spartacus himself.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is. My name is Carbo. What do they call you?’
‘Heracleo.’
Given half a chance, Heracleo would turn on him like a stray dog, but Carbo still felt encouraged. ‘Can you locate ships bigger than these?’ He indicated the two shallow-bottomed boats, which were now afloat.
There was a laugh. ‘Of course I can. I’ve got a lembus at another anchorage.’ He saw Carbo’s confusion and laughed again. ‘You’d know that as a liburnian. Like everything they admire, the Romans copied it.’
Apart from triremes, Carbo’s knowledge of ship types was vague. ‘How many men can that carry?’
‘Sixty oarsmen, and about fifty slaves. Passengers.’ He corrected himself with an evil leer.
‘I need bigger vessels than that.’
‘There are other captains knocking about the area in biremes. There’s even a trireme or two. Why do you need them?’
‘We want to get to Sicily.’
There was a long, slow whistle. ‘The whole army?’
‘No. Just a couple of thousand men.’
‘Why so few? I’ve heard that Spartacus’ army is massive.’
‘None of your damn business.’
‘It’s my bloody business if you’re on my ship,’ retorted Heracleo.
The last thing his leader wanted any pirate to know was that he was considering retreat. Carbo had his lie ready. ‘Spartacus wants to start a rebellion on Sicily.’
‘Ahhh. To divert the Romans’ attention?’
‘Something like that,’ said Carbo stiffly, as if annoyed.
‘That’s smart. I’ve heard that he’s a canny one, your Thracian. You’d want to cross at the straits, I take it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How soon?’
‘Whenever you can get the ships there.’
A cunning glance. ‘He’s in a hurry. What’s he willing to pay?’
‘Two hundred and fifty denarii per man. Say five hundred thousand in total.’
There was a collective gasp from the pirates. Each of their slaves was worth between two hundred and four hundred denarii, but they only had thirty. Slaving was profitable work, yet the securing of captives was unpredictable and irregular. This would be a prize haul.
‘One and a quarter million,’ replied Heracleo without even blinking.
‘That’s outrageous,’ cried Carbo with all the bluster he could manage.
