Spartacus frowned. ‘Why would we do that? Crassus would hem us in there, as he did in the toe.’
‘It’s the biggest port in Italy. I don’t know how many ships would be tied up on the quay at any one time, but it’ll be a lot. Certainly enough vessels to carry a few thousand men, but there could be more. From Brundisium, it’s not far to Illyria, or even Greece.’
Spartacus’ mind began to race. The Alps were too far, and his men had balked there before, but this, this was news he hadn’t expected. He chewed on it for a moment. ‘How far is it to Brundisium?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. Two hundred miles, maybe a bit less? It’s straight down the Via Appia, which is only half a day’s march from here. We could make it in ten days.’
Ariadne’s voice broke in. ‘Make where in ten days?’
Spartacus lifted a finger to his lips and beckoned her closer. Quickly, he explained.
Her face lit up. ‘You think we could do it?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘What about Crassus?’ she asked warily. ‘His cavalry are shadowing us as if their lives depended on it.’
‘He knows our every move,’ Spartacus admitted. ‘The prick will be after us like a hound on a hare if he suspects what we’re up to.’ His eyes glittered. ‘We’d have to act fast. Take the town in the first attack.’
‘I could ride ahead with Navio, see if I can bribe a guard on one of the gates,’ offered Carbo. ‘If that didn’t work, we might be able to lower ropes over the wall at night for an assault party.’
‘You’re a good man, Carbo.’
Ariadne murmured her agreement, and Carbo flushed with pride. He eyed his leader, his heart thumping. What would Spartacus decide?
‘Very well. We’ll head south-east.’ Ariadne let out a little cry of happiness and Spartacus held up a warning finger. ‘But if the right site offers itself on the way, I’m going to make a stand. This idea might come to nothing, and Pompey’s legions will get here soon. Defeating Crassus before they join up would nicely reduce the numbers facing us. It would also give us more breathing space to reach Brundisium and possibly get the entire army out — not just part of it.’ He clapped Carbo on the shoulder. ‘My thanks.’
Carbo grinned. It was risky, but there was a way out of their predicament after all.
Two days later, Spartacus had begun to believe that his future was finally brightening. They had reached the Via Appia without incident, camping the first night in a valley that was split into two by a fast-flowing river. The following afternoon, he’d been brought news that the Roman horse dogging their trail were drawing closer and closer to his rearguard. Spartacus had seized the chance to take on the enemy again. Sending his cavalry into the wooded hills that ran along their right side, he had made his way to the army’s tail. An hour or so later, he’d heard a single trumpet sound from the treeline some distance behind the Roman horsemen. It had been the signal for the rearmost cohorts to turn about face and present arms.
As the enemy cavalry had reined in, pondering their best course of action, his riders had charged from cover. The ambush had been a resounding success. Mad for revenge because of what had happened to Castus and Gannicus and their men, Spartacus’ soldiers had fought like demons. The Romans had been driven from the field with heavy casualties. Among the injured had been one of their commanders, who’d been lucky to escape with his life. Crassus would have discovered that the scorpion was still well able to sting, thought Spartacus with great satisfaction. He hadn’t seen an enemy scout or horseman since. The legions were still following, but at a safer distance.
He grinned. There was no way that Crassus could yet know of his intention to make for Brundisium. Carbo and Navio had set out on horseback at dusk two days previously, leading a pair of spare mounts each. Because their extra horses would attract unwanted attention — normally, only official messengers or cavalry travelled in this way — they would travel while it was dark, and conceal themselves during the day. With a little luck, Spartacus would have some news within two weeks.
In the meantime, he could march his army south — not at breakneck speed, for that would raise Crassus’ suspicions, but at a more leisurely pace of twelve to fifteen miles daily. This in turn meant that in the eventuality of a battle, his soldiers would be more rested than if they were marching hard. Spartacus’ men had no idea of his intent. He had told Egbeo, Pulcher and a few of his other senior officers, but the rest thought that they were in search of more supplies. He didn’t want a reaction similar to the one when he had suggested that they cross the Alps. For his plan to have any chance of working, the army had to do exactly as he wished.
If a confrontation with Crassus had been avoided by the time Carbo returned, he would tell his men then. There would be no mention of their previous glories, just a heavy emphasis on the sixteen legions that they would soon have to face. If that didn’t persuade the dogs to leave Italy, thought Spartacus, nothing would.
If, however, an opportunity presented itself to fight Crassus, there would be no mention of Brundisium until afterwards. As at the Alps, however, a recent victory might make it harder to win over his soldiers. Spartacus estimated that the majority would see sense. Being penned into the toe by the legions for two months had given a clear indication of what could happen to them. It wasn’t as if he was planning to end his fight against Rome either — far from it. The war could continue in Illyria, and then Thrace. His homeland.
Since seeing his troops’ reaction to their first defeat on the ridge, he had begun to long for Thrace and his own kind. That major setback — their first — had been enough to knock the confidence out of most. Yes, they had flocked to him in their tens of thousands previously — not of late, he thought bitterly — yes, they had just won another clash against the Romans, but they had not been born to war as he and his kind had. He still felt great loyalty towards them, but Thracian tribes were more used to fighting Rome. Although many had been subjugated, the flames of their hatred towards the foreign invaders still burned. Spartacus wanted to fan those flames into a conflagration once more. His people’s fierce independence would be an obstacle to uniting them, but would it be any worse than having to manage men such as Castus and Gannicus?
The prospect now seemed better than facing ever larger armies here. If he left, Rome would still want vengeance, but Spartacus doubted that they would send sixteen legions after him. A few maybe, but those he could deal with.
Another two days passed in similar fashion. Spartacus’ army marched south-east without hindrance; the Romans did not attempt to move any closer to his forces, which Spartacus assumed meant that Crassus hadn’t realised that he might break for Brundisium. Yet the changing terrain would soon force Spartacus’ hand one way or another. The Via Appia was angling out from the shadow of the Apennines, threading a route through the countryside that would soon take it close to the east coast. Away from the mountains’ protection, his intention would be obvious to anyone but an imbecile. Frustratingly, it would be at least a week until Carbo and Navio got back. Spartacus didn’t like it, but he was going to have to make the decision to continue travelling south-east or to double back on his trail before the pair returned.
To help him decide, Spartacus rode his stallion to the army’s vanguard, the better to spy out the land. Atheas and Taxacis trotted on either side of him, keeping pace without even breaking sweat. The tattooed pair could ride — what Scythian couldn’t? — but the shortage of horses since the fight at the ridge precluded them having any.
The farms here were not as large as the latifundia of Campania and Lucania, but impressive nonetheless. Artificial terraces spilled down the lower slopes of the mountains, affording level ground for countless thousands of olive trees. More of them marched right up to the road, their characteristic grey-green foliage concealing the ground behind. Spartacus was glad that he had scouts patrolling in advance of the army, for it would have been easy to set an ambush among the dense network of trees.
Grapes and grain were also cultivated in abundance, but the neat rows of vines and the open fields of slow- growing wheat provided no cover for enemy troops. There were few villages in the area; the majority of people lived on farms. Spartacus had his soldiers checking houses and buildings for supplies, and most importantly, for food. All flocks of sheep and goats and herds of cattle found were to be rounded up and driven to join the army. Even the poultry were to be taken. Nothing was to be left behind; any resistance could be met with lethal force.
Spartacus felt no remorse for the farmers whose livelihoods he was devastating and whose lives he threatened with famine. He didn’t worry either about the stubborn individuals who refused to abandon their properties, and who died as their wives and daughters were being gang raped. Before, he had made some effort to minimise the atrocities, but not now. Rome was out to destroy him, so he would do it and its people as much harm as possible. Besides, what his men did was but a small taste of bitter medicine for a few of those whose fathers, sons or brothers had done the same in Thrace. It was a form of retribution.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith in the sky, it had grown pleasantly warm. Larks fluttered high
