odds would lengthen once Pompey arrived. Spartacus knew the Roman war machine well, and one lesson stood out from all the others that he had learned during his time in its service. To have any chance of victory against the legions, it was imperative to have superior numbers of troops. Parity of forces was not enough. If his people, the warlike Thracians, had not been able to beat Rome that way, neither could those who had once been slaves. Spartacus grimaced. He hated having to think like this, but it was the brutal truth. Few men thought or acted as he, a trained warrior, did. Navio did; so too did those some of his soldiers who’d been born free, and who had fought for their living.
To expect the rest of his army to do so when faced with such an implacable enemy would be to court disaster. He had to work to his men’s strengths, and that did not include standing toe to toe with equal numbers of legionaries. Once again, they would have to act like latrones. Hide out in the wilderness, among the forested peaks that formed Italy’s backbone. From there he would send out word that hard men — agricultural slaves and herdsmen — were wanted. There, with the help of the Great Rider, he could rebuild his army. Until the time came to face Crassus once more.
Spartacus knew in his gut that that would happen one day. Crassus and he had become mortal enemies. Their struggle would go on until one of them was dead. He tried to stay focused on that outcome, but it was hard not to dwell on the fact that if Crassus defeated and killed him, the rebellion would be over, whereas if he did the same to Crassus, the war against Rome would merely enter another phase. Not for the first time, Spartacus compared the Republic to the Hydra. Each of that creature’s multiple heads breathed poisonous fumes, and if one was cut off, two grew in its place. It was like that with every damn legion that his men had destroyed. Yet the Hydra had not been invincible: only one of its heads had been immortal. Its end had come when the hero Hercules had cauterised the stumps of each head he’d chopped off, preventing them from regrowing and allowing him to find the head he really needed to remove. What was Rome’s invincible head? Spartacus wondered. And how could he sever it? Before the Great Rider, I swear that I will never stop searching for it as long as I live.
Spartacus had barely seen either Carbo or Navio since the breakout. They were uninjured, but more than that he did not know. Wanting some companionship as much as to hear their thoughts, he made his way to their tent later that night. There was no sign of either Roman. It wasn’t that late, thought Spartacus. Had they already gone to bed?
‘Carbo? Navio?’
‘Who is it?’ Carbo’s voice came from a short distance away. He sounded irritated.
‘It is I, Spartacus.’
A moment’s delay, and the flap on a nearby tent was thrown back. Carbo poked his head out.
‘What are you up to?’ Spartacus asked.
Carbo’s face clouded over. ‘It’s Publipor. He took a flesh wound on the ridge. At first, it didn’t look like much, but then it turned septic. The poor bastard has gone downhill fast since. The surgeon offered to take off his arm, but he’s too weak to survive the operation. I don’t think he’ll last more than another day or two.’
Another good man lost. Spartacus ducked past Carbo and entered the tent. The stench of rotting flesh and urine inside was overpowering. He choked back a cough and approached the pile of blankets upon which Publipor lay, clad in only an undergarment. Navio, who was sitting alongside, looked up with a rueful smile. ‘He’d be glad to see you, sir.’
Carbo was right, thought Spartacus grimly. Publipor’s pallor was terrible. His eyes were sunken, his forehead drenched in sweat, his ribs clapped to his backbone. The injury to his sword arm had been wrapped in bandages that did little to stop a green-brown liquid from oozing on to his bedding. ‘Is he conscious?’
‘From time to time,’ replied Navio. ‘Often he’s not lucid, though.’
Spartacus crouched down and took Publipor’s good hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you in this state.’
Publipor’s eyelids twitched and then opened. His rheumy eyes swivelled around the tent, falling eventually on Spartacus. A strange expression twisted his gaunt face. ‘You!’
‘Yes,’ said Spartacus gently. ‘Can I get you anything?’
A hiss of pain. ‘How about my family?’
Spartacus glanced at Carbo, who mouthed the word ‘fever’. ‘That’s not within my power. But I can get you some wine if you like. A piece of ham.’ He winked. ‘Even a woman if you’re up to it?’
‘Go to Hades.’
Spartacus waved Navio and Carbo back. ‘You’re feverish, Publipor. I’ll have the surgeon make up something that will help.’ He turned to go.
‘The fever didn’t make me say that, you cocksucker.’
Spartacus’ lips thinned. ‘I see. Why would you insult me then?’
‘Because you’re responsible for the deaths of my family.’ His voice cracked. ‘My wife. My beautiful children.’
‘I thought they died of cholera,’ said Carbo in confusion.
‘No.’ A weak cough as he sat up. ‘They were murdered at Forum Annii.’
Spartacus frowned. ‘If that’s where you’re from, why didn’t you say so before?’
It was as if Publipor hadn’t heard. ‘May the gods forgive me, I was away hunting in the mountains. I got back when the slaughter was over.’ Tears dribbled down his unshaven cheeks. ‘I returned to find them in my master’s house, all dead. Butchered!’
‘Publipor, I am deeply sorry for what happened to your family,’ said Spartacus. ‘I did my best to prevent atrocities from happening, you have to believe that.’
‘Clearly, you didn’t do enough!’ Spittle flew from Publipor’s mouth. ‘My children were aged three, five and eight. They were innocent! Defenceless!’
‘That’s terrible,’ Spartacus acknowledged, but then his face hardened. ‘So you joined my army to get your revenge, is that it?’
A half-smile. ‘Something like that.’
‘Did you have ought to do with the Gauls’ attempt on my life?’
‘That? No. I knew nothing of it. I had a different master.’
Suspicion tickled Spartacus’ spine. He saw the same doubt in Carbo and Navio’s faces. ‘Who would that be?’
‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’
White-hot fury lanced through Spartacus. In a heartbeat, his dagger was at Publipor’s chin. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘You can’t scare me. I’m dying.’
Spartacus’ chuckle was evil. ‘How would you like five men to haul on a rope that’s been tied to your bad wrist?’
Publipor swallowed.
‘Just tell me what happened, and I’ll give you a swift death.’
A tiny nod. ‘Months after the massacre, I was still living in the ruins of Forum Annii. I had no reason to go anywhere else. One day, a man came snooping about. He began asking me questions, and when I’d told him my story, he offered me money and the chance of revenge on you. He explained that his master was Crassus, who wanted an inside man in your army. All I had to do was become one of your soldiers, and to find out whatever I could.’
‘You were being hunted by Roman cavalry when we found you!’ cried Carbo.
‘That was staged. My companions were both to be killed to make it look more authentic. It was a mistake that Kineas survived.’ A grimace. ‘He nearly gave the game away too.’
Spartacus’ memory snaked back to the fight in the woods, and the way that Kineas had tried so hard to speak before he died. It all made sense now. ‘You were the one who told Crassus that I was in Rome.’
A proud nod. ‘I spoke to a rich farmer near the camp. He sent word to the capital.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘I told Crassus when you were going to march to the toe, and about the pirates. He didn’t believe me about them, though. The best thing I did was to let him know that you were going to attack the ridge.’
‘You dirty rat,’ Spartacus snarled. ‘Thousands of your comrades died there.’
‘They were never my comrades! They were murdering bastards of the worst kind. I wish that every last one had been killed. And you as well!’ Publipor’s mouth opened to throw more insults, but the sound never came. He
