‘If we do this, Ariadne,’ said Carbo, ‘it’s going to be done our way. You, Maron and me and Navio will go. No one else. It’s too dangerous. Atheas would attract attention, and so would a group of male slaves wandering the roads this soon after the battle. You’ll have to leave your snake as well. Being Romans of a certain class, Navio and I will get by any roadblock. You’ll just be a slave belonging to one of us. No one will care about the baby.’ He glared at Ariadne, expecting her to argue, but she nodded meekly.
‘We leave at once. It’s seventy-five miles to Capua from the River Silarus, and Crassus has a head start on us of at least a day.’
The Via Appia, between Capua and Rome
Crassus had been in a jubilant mood for a number of days — ever since the battle in fact. He smiled broadly as the first nails were hammered in and the screaming began. This is what victory tastes like, he thought, nodding and waving to the crowd. He was sitting on his horse not far from Capua’s walls, supervising a group of his soldiers as the process of crucifying the captured slaves began. Hundreds of the city’s inhabitants had gathered to watch; in the moments prior, he had bade them welcome and ordered fistfuls of coins and loaves of bread thrown to them. They had cheered him then until their throats were hoarse. Now they jeered and hurled insults as the first victim was fixed to the crossbar and hauled on to the upright portion of his cross. Soon Caepio indicated that the procedure was complete.
‘Such a fate awaits every enemy of Rome,’ declared Crassus.
More cries of approval.
‘This miserable specimen is but one of the six thousand pieces of shit who will end their days in agony. They will die thirsty, sunburned and covered in their own filth, all the way from here to Rome. Every slave who sees them will put any thought of treachery from his mind.’ Crassus paused, enjoying the acclaim that washed over him. ‘Some of you may have heard that thousands of the slaves escaped. That they fled into the mountains, and to the north. Rest assured that the rats will have no bolthole to call safe. As I speak, no fewer than six of my legions are scouring the lands to the east and south of here. Any slaves found without an owner to speak for them will be killed on sight.’ Another rousing cheer. He was grateful that no one asked where Spartacus was. He’d been spotted near Crassus’ position for much of the battle, but no one could remember seeing him after the slaves had broken. He had ordered his soldiers to look for the Thracian among the fallen, but searching for one man amidst ten thousand corpses was no easy feat. Given the Thracian’s predilection for leading from the front, it seemed unlikely that he had survived. However, despite his best efforts, Crassus had no proof. This irked him immensely.
‘The rabble that went north will get soon a nasty surprise. Pompey and his soldiers have reached Italy, and no doubt they will give the scum short shrift.’ He was pleased that the crowd’s response was a trace more muted than it had been for his announcements.
In his benevolence, Crassus even wished Pompey well with his tiny ‘mission’. What would be remembered was his glorious effort in crushing Spartacus’ main army, not the pathetic part played by his rival in mopping up a fraction of those who had survived. Lucullus’ legions would have nothing to do at all. It was unfortunate that Pompey was closer to Rome than he was. He longed to ride to the capital at once, to ensure that his side of the story was heard first. Crassus could almost hear the adulation of the city’s population and the fawning thanks of the senators. But his triumphal arrival would have to wait. Despite his claims that the rebellion was over, there was still some fighting going on. Some of the slaves had not given up. The back of their resistance had to be broken before he could entirely relax.
There would be undoubted advantages to marching on Rome after the completion of the six thousand crucifixions, when the spectacle was complete. Crassus could not think of a better way to impress the populations of Latium and Samnium. Everywhere he went, crowds would come to see him. The sight would cement his reputation. People would speak of the gruesome display for years to come: it would be the greatest number of crucifixions that the world had ever seen and would show the Republic that he was the man to lead it into the future. The consulship for next year beckoned.
‘Ready for the next one, sir?’ asked Caepio.
‘Indeed. Get the bastards in the air as fast as you can.’ Crassus waved a languid hand. ‘The parties that have gone ahead are to start as well.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Caepio barked an order, and a messenger rode off to the north.
Crassus watched contentedly as the soldiers, a group of slaves in their midst, marched forty paces on. He had the feeling that Caepio disapproved of the number of crucifixions — the old sod probably thought it was a waste of men who could be used in the mines, or as labourers for a Roman army in the field — but he didn’t care.
He knew best.
As he always had.
It had taken the trio six days to reach Capua, better time than Carbo had expected. Carrying Maron had proved to be exhausting for Ariadne, and their initial progress had been much slower than he’d wanted. His purchase of a mule from a farm on the second day had been a godsend. The beast had been able to carry not just the baby, but their gear and, underneath it, their swords. Previously, they had been risking everything by wearing the weapons under their cloaks. The remaining miles to Capua had been covered at a good pace, and they had been ignored by the groups of legionaries and military wagons travelling the road. They had stayed in wayside inns. Ariadne and Maron had slept in Carbo’s room, letting anyone who noticed assume that she was his bed companion. In fact, he had lain by the door each night, a naked blade beside him.
It was the first time that Carbo had been this close to Capua since he’d fled the ludus with Spartacus, and it felt most odd. The last thing he wanted was to be recognised. Yet it would have looked strange to circumvent the city rather than go through it, so he had let Navio take the lead. He had followed, his gaze directed at the rutted surface of the road. Ariadne had taken up the rear with the mule.
In the event, they had crossed from Capua’s southern gate to its northern without any difficulty. Now they were shuffling along with everyone else, in the queue to get out of the city. Carbo had had plenty of time to imagine what he would see when he emerged on to the Via Appia. The moment was at hand, and he felt sick. How many of the wretches would still be alive? How many would he recognise? Was it possible that they would find Spartacus?
Before long, they had passed under the large archway that led out of Capua. The practice of banning construction close to the walls had long since been discarded. Here was prime commercial territory, through which a captive audience — the passers-by — daily walked or rode in their hundreds. As well as restaurants and watering holes, there were businesses of every type: carpenters and wheelwrights, fullers and potters. Butchers, bakers and vendors of wine and sweetmeats. Scribes, whoremasters and slave dealers. Carbo could have pointed out the position of each even if he’d been blindfolded. This was where he’d grown up. And so it was that he knew when the buildings would end.
When the crosses would begin.
They had already discussed what to do once the ordeal began. Walking slowly would not be difficult, or regarded as strange. The road would be busy, and everyone would be gawping at the crucified men. Studying the victims would not considered unusual either, as long as they didn’t go too close, or linger unnecessarily. If any of the trio saw someone that they knew, they were to look away in case the unfortunate recognised them and called out. Nothing was to be said until they were safely beyond the man in question. Extra care was to be taken if there were soldiers about. All three knew now that they would travel to the gates of Rome itself just to be sure that Spartacus wasn’t one of the six thousand soldiers captured by Crassus.
Although Carbo had steeled himself for the sight of the first cross, he still couldn’t stop a little gasp from escaping his lips when it appeared. Navio stiffened, but he quickly shuffled on. Carbo was grateful not to recognise the brown-haired, stocky man who hung naked before him, his bloody feet nailed just a handsbreadth from the ground. Mercifully, the victim was already dead, but his face was twisted in a final rictus of suffering. The first flies of the season swarmed around him, attracted by the ripe odour. A group of people clustered around the cross, holding their noses and making crude jokes. A small boy poked at the corpse’s penis with a stick and giggled.
‘They scourged him,’ said Navio in a conversational tone.
For the first time, Carbo noticed the red lines that extended around from the man’s back. The streaks of shit that had run down the wooden post from the man’s arse. He longed to drive the onlookers away, cuff the boy around the head, cut the poor bastard down and give him a decent burial, but of course he did nothing. He glanced at Ariadne, whose lips were moving in anguished, silent prayer. Her eyes flashed to his. ‘Ignore me. I shall be all right,’ she whispered.
