‘Where are the consuls?’ he shouted. ‘Are they still within?’
The crowd of senators recoiled from the man, who was unshaven and wearing a sweat-soaked tunic. A corridor opened before the messenger and, with a curse, he sprinted up the steps. He looked exhausted, thought Crassus. And frightened. He must be carrying urgent news. Crassus stepped into the man’s path, forcing him to come to a juddering halt. ‘They are still inside, I believe,’ he said smoothly.
It took a heartbeat for his words to register. Then the other’s faded blue eyes took him in. ‘My thanks, sir,’ he said, and made to move past.
Turning nimbly, Crassus fell in with him. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Capua.’
‘And you bring important news from there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the terse reply.
‘What is it?’
The faded blue eyes regarded him again. ‘I don’t suppose it matters if you hear it first. A band of gladiators has broken out of the ludus in Capua.’
Crassus’ interest soared. ‘The ludus? I know it well. Did many escape?’
‘Only about seventy.’
‘That’s of little consequence,’ declared Crassus in a bluff voice. ‘Hardly a matter to trouble the consuls of Rome with, is it?’
The man gave him a nervous glance, but then his chin firmed. ‘I’d argue the opposite, sir. Within the day, we, the townspeople of Capua, sent a force of more than two hundred men after the bastards. A simple matter to deal with, you’d think. Yet our lads were virtually annihilated. Less than a quarter of them made it home.’
Crassus sucked in his surprise. ‘That’s remarkable,’ he said casually.
Looking vindicated, the messenger made to go.
A finger of recognition tickled at Crassus’ memory. ‘Wait. Do you by any chance know any of the renegades’ names?’
The man turned. He made the sign against evil. ‘Apparently, the leader is called Spartacus.’
‘Spartacus?’ echoed Crassus in real shock.
‘Yes, sir. He’s from Thrace.’
‘Who cares what the whoreson is called?’ growled a senator who’d overheard. ‘Get in there and tell the consuls. They’ll soon organise enough troops to go down there and butcher the lot of them.’
‘They will,’ purred Crassus. ‘Capua need not worry. Rome will seek vengeance for its troubles.’
With a grateful nod, the man hurried off.
The gladiator whom I saw fight has even more balls than I thought. A pity I did not order his death when I had the chance. Crassus put the matter from his mind. A few hundred legionaries under the command of one of the other praetors would sort it out. He had far bigger fish to fry.
Standing on the very lip of the cliff, Spartacus looked over the edge. He squinted into the brightness of the abyss, spotting a number of eagles and vultures hanging in the air at roughly the same dizzying height. Above was a turquoise sky, filled by a warm spring sun. Below, the view was stupendous. A dense carpet of holm oak, turpentine, beech and strawberry trees spilled down Vesuvius’ slopes from Spartacus’ fastness on the summit. He let out a long breath. No one lives up here but birds of prey, wild beasts — and us. I am truly a latro now, Phortis.
Spartacus’ gaze followed the gradient as it flattened far below. There the land changed. An intricate network of farms, resembling a crazy mosaic pattern, extended out on to the Campanian plain as far as the eye could see. The vineyards were innumerable. Between them were vast fields of young wheat. Beyond, twenty miles away, lay Capua and the ludus. To the west and south-west were the towns of Neapolis and Pompeii, and the sea. The Via Annia, a minor road linking Rome with the south, was situated east of Vesuvius, along with the town of Nuceria. Beyond those lay the Picentini Mountains, a tall range of peaks which could serve as a refuge if needs be.
Memories of the events three days prior filled Spartacus’ mind. It hadn’t surprised him, or any of the gladiators, that a strong force had immediately been dispatched from Capua to crush them. Arrogant and sure of success, the ten-score veterans and townspeople had been easy to ambush. The gladiators had fallen upon them like howling wraiths. Only a fraction of the ragtag militia had escaped to tell the tale. Despite this, Spartacus’ sour mood deepened. The matter wouldn’t end there. Rome doesn’t work like that. Ever. Already the message would have reached the Senate in Rome. Already the plans for reprisal would be in train.
He glanced around at the massive crater that formed the top of the mountain. Its enclosing walls were covered in wild grapevines, and the green space was filled with vegetation: twisted juniper trees towered over spurge olive bushes, myrtle and sage plants. A number of large pools provided ample rainwater to drink. The gladiators’ camp was spread out over a wide area. It comprised a dozen or so tents — seized the previous day — and the same number of makeshift wooden lean-tos. Spartacus scowled. Seventy-three of us escaped the ludus. When the four women are taken into account, that’s sixty-nine fighters. Just over a third of Batiatus’ men. Hardly even a decent-sized war band. His gut instinct replied at once. The Senate won’t look at us in that light. Not only did we arm ourselves with the gladiator weapons from that wagon train heading for Nola, but we’ve smashed a superior military force. If there was ever a time to strike out for Thrace, it was now. Ariadne had mentioned this possibility, but so far Spartacus had resisted it. He hadn’t admitted it to Ariadne, but he liked having men follow him. He liked being a leader. If he left for Thrace, only a few loyal supporters would go with him.
A man by one of the lean-tos lifted his hand in greeting, and Spartacus returned the gesture. At least new recruits are starting to trickle in. So far it was only a handful of agricultural slaves. That number had to grow, and fast. If it didn’t, any troops sent against them would crush them as a man swats a fly. Spartacus’ fists bunched. Even if their numbers did increase, what real difference would it make? It took weeks — no, months — of training to turn men who were used to pushing a plough into soldiers who could stand against Roman legionaries. They’d be lucky if even a fraction of that time was granted to them. Seeing Crixus wrestling with one of his comrades, Spartacus’ frustration grew.
Any semblance of unity among the gladiators had dissolved the moment that they’d reached Vesuvius. Like oil separating from vinegar, the different groups had re-formed under their original leaders. They camped apart too: three parties of Gauls; the Germans under Oenomaus, and the Thracians and other nationalities with Spartacus. The physical separation had increased their differences even further. From the word go, Spartacus had struggled to get enough sentries. Unsurprisingly, his men weren’t too happy standing watch while the others relaxed in the crater. But at least they followed their orders, he reflected.
Intoxicated by their newfound freedom, Crixus, Castus and Gannicus had laughed in his face when he’d confronted them over it the previous evening. ‘We’re free now! Relax and enjoy it, why don’t you?’ Gannicus had said. Castus had simply shrugged and pointed to his men, who were guzzling down the wine they’d taken from the dead after the ambush. ‘What need have we of sentries?’ Crixus had roared. ‘Look what we did to those whoresons from Capua! No one is going to come near us in a hurry. Unless they want to commit suicide, of course.’ He grinned at his supporters, who guffawed in approval.
It had taken all of Spartacus’ self-control not to leap on top of Crixus again, fists pounding. But he’d done nothing. While the Gaulish leaders were infuriating, ill-disciplined and prone to drunkenness, they and their men represented a sizeable — and vital — chunk of their forces. There were twenty-five Gauls, of whom one was a woman. Spartacus could not alienate them totally. With the recent addition of some runaway agricultural slaves, he had twenty-nine men and two women, including Ariadne and himself. If it came to a real fight, however, he could only rely on the seventeen of his followers who were gladiators. Oenomaus had a few more followers than the total number of Gauls: twenty-six men and two women, but the Germans’ unity gave him the most powerful grouping by far.
Fortunately, Oenomaus also had more sense than the others. He’d listened to Spartacus’ complaints about the sentries, and immediately agreed that his men should share the duty. His goodwill had not extended further, however. When Spartacus had mentioned weapons drill, Oenomaus had frowned. ‘We had enough of that in the damn ludus.’ Spartacus’ argument about facing legionaries had met with simple indifference. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,’ the German had said.
When we come to it. A grim sense of foreboding filled Spartacus and he turned his eyes back to the Campanian plain. The roads he could see were as small as the ribbons on a doll’s dress, but he could still make out the tiny shapes of wagons and oxen. For now. As sure as the wheat ripened at summer’s end, one day he’d see the
