Carbo gave her a tight nod. Thankfully, Maron was asleep.
The second body was forty paces down the Via Appia, on the opposite side. Carbo didn’t know this victim either. The third man, another stranger, was on the same side as the first. In a savage indication of what was to come, his cross was also two score paces from the second. The moment that Carbo realised, his eyes moved to the front. The crucified men ran as far as the eye could see, every forty steps, on alternate sides of the road. His mind struggled to take in the horror. The grisly exhibition would continue the entire way to Rome.
The trio walked on, mesmerised by the bodies and the smell, and the revolting magnitude of Crassus’ display. The crosses marched on, uncaring of the landscape. They were present on the straight stretches, the bends, on the slopes of the hills, even in the villages. They lined the road when it was bordered by vineyards and fields, where gangs of slaves worked under the close supervision of their vilici. They ran under the aqueduct that bridged the Via Appia, carrying water from the Apennines to Capua. Their presence had already become the norm. Farmers drove their carts along, scarcely looking at the bodies. Merchants were more interested in ensuring that their mules kept up a steady pace. The slaves who were on their way to market or repairing the road kept their gaze averted. Only the children on their way to their lessons or running errands seemed uniformly fascinated.
The horror deepened for the trio when they came upon the first living man, a once strapping figure who was being guarded by a pair of bored-looking legionaries. Carbo offered up a prayer of thanks. He didn’t know the luckless creature — they had recognised none of the victims so far — but he clearly didn’t have long for this world. They dared not approach, passing by with the most casual of glances.
Things grew even worse when Carbo noticed a body with a sword cut on his left arm. It would have prevented the man from holding himself up at all, and granted him a quick death. ‘Could that be from the battle?’
‘Maybe.’ Navio sounded as tormented as Carbo felt. ‘But he’s the first wounded one I’ve seen.’
Carbo told himself that this meant Spartacus could not be on a cross. The injured would have died on the battlefield. He hoped that Ariadne thought the same.
Ariadne had heard about crucifixion, but she had never seen the practice with her own eyes. By the time the sun began to set, she had seen it hundreds of times over. The reality of it would live with her until her dying day. The tortured expressions on the faces of the dead. Their cracked lips. Their vacant, staring eyes, which seemed to blame her for their deaths. The wounds from the scourging inflicted on them as they had marched. Their gas-filled bulging bellies. Laced through the stink of their piss and shit, the overwhelming smell of decay. Everywhere, the flies. The scrawny dogs that hung about, clearly responsible for the gnaw marks on some of the bodies’ legs. The passers-by, with their cruel comments. Every two miles, the soldiers on guard, so inured to the scene that they no longer even looked at the crucified men.
How could she have thought the reality would not be as bad as her nightmare?
Ariadne didn’t want to journey all the way to Rome, past so much suffering. Yet she had to. They had seen a handful of prisoners who still lived. These few were enough to keep her doubt alive. Regardless of the horror, she would never be able to live with herself, or look Maron in the eye when he grew older, if she hadn’t checked every last crucified man. Her husband deserved no less respect. So she walked on, in a daze of revulsion at what Crassus had done. They had heard that the general was some two days’ march ahead of them, supervising the erection of many of the crosses himself. The whoreson.
‘Help me, please.’
At first, Ariadne thought it was Carbo’s voice. Then she heard it again, from her left. Shock filled her as she realised that the wretch on the nearest cross had spoken. Gods above, no! A quick glance up and down the road revealed that there was no one about. ‘Navio, keep a look out. Carbo, get over here!’ Even as he turned, Ariadne was darting to the man’s side. ‘Egbeo?’
The big Thracian’s head lifted. He showed no sign of recognising her. ‘Help. Water.’
Carbo fumbled the strap of his water carrier from around his neck. Uncapping it, he held it to Egbeo’s mouth. The Thracian was so weak that most of the liquid dribbled back out of his mouth. Carbo persisted, but Egbeo didn’t seem able to swallow. Eventually he gave up, and Egbeo’s head slumped back down.
‘He’s nearly gone,’ whispered Ariadne.
Carbo’s face was full of helpless rage. ‘Look.’ He pointed at the nails transfixing Egbeo’s wrists, which had been driven in flush with his flesh to make them impossible to remove. ‘We can’t even take the poor creature down to let him die a more natural death.’
A sharp whistle from Navio. ‘Someone’s coming!’
Ariadne reached out and touched Egbeo’s face. ‘The Rider is waiting for you. Go well. We shall always remember you.’ She saw Carbo reach for his dagger. ‘No! If you’re seen doing that, we’ll have every legionary within twenty miles after us. You can come back later, when it’s dark.’
‘He’ll be dead by then.’
‘He’s almost dead now,’ hissed Ariadne.
Carbo’s fingers fell reluctantly to his side.
‘Come on.’ Without looking at Egbeo again, Ariadne hurried back to the mule, which was grazing the grass on the verge.
They moved off. Soon they encountered the small party that Navio had spotted. The travellers passed by with cordial greetings. At once the trio’s eyes returned to Egbeo. His head seemed to have lifted, which made walking away even harder. Yet Carbo was right. By the time darkness fell, Egbeo would have passed into the otherworld. It felt cruel beyond belief leaving him to die alone, on a cross, but to have done otherwise would have risked all of their lives. Egbeo would have understood. Or so she hoped.
If Spartacus had known that so many of his soldiers would die in such a manner, would he have crossed the Alps? she wondered. The answer was still a resounding ‘No’. He had known throughout what might happen. Wasn’t that half the reason he had staged the munus with the Roman prisoners?
‘Marcion!’ cried Carbo. He tore to the far side of the road, where a black-haired man with deep-set eyes hung from a cross. Rank-smelling liquid ran from a terrible cut in his belly.
Checking that the travellers had gone around the next bend, Ariadne and Navio followed.
‘He’s still alive,’ whispered Carbo. He reached out and brushed the hair that hung over Marcion’s face. ‘Can you hear me? It is I, Carbo, who stood near you during the battle.’
Ariadne paled. Near Spartacus too, then.
Marcion’s breathing, which was loud and rasping, checked. After a moment, his eyelids flickered. A low moan left his mouth.
Carbo stroked his cheek as tenderly as he might a baby’s. ‘Two of your comrades are here. Spartacus’ wife is here. Your pain will soon be over.’
Marcion’s head came up slowly. His eyes took in Carbo, but there was no recognition. ‘Kill me,’ he croaked. ‘Please.’
Ariadne saw Carbo’s dagger rise. This time, she couldn’t bring herself to order him to put it away.
‘Elysium awaits,’ whispered Carbo. ‘Just answer me one question.’
Marcion’s grunt might have been a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’.
‘Did you see Spartacus fall?’
They all stared. Ariadne was very aware that behind her on the mule Maron was stirring. That the sun was illuminating every line of blood, every cut and bruise on Marcion’s battered body. That her heart was pounding in her chest fit to burst.
‘Marcion?’ asked Carbo again.
There was no answer.
‘He’s too far gone,’ muttered Navio.
Please, O Great Dionysus, prayed Ariadne. Great Rider, give him the strength to speak.
‘Saved… life.’
‘Spartacus saved your life?’
‘Yes.’ A shuddering breath; a sense of energy being rallied. ‘Soon after, he took a bad cut to one of his legs. Even that didn’t stop him, but then three legionaries attacked him. He went down under a flurry of blows. That was when I gave up. No reason to go on, was there?’ Drained, his head sagged down again.
Ariadne felt faint. She was aware of Carbo and Navio’s grief-stricken faces, of her own knife-edged sorrow dulling somewhat. Most of all, she felt an overpowering feeling of relief. After the battle, she had thought Spartacus
