But no soldiers.
Unperturbed, Spartacus called Carbo, Aventianus and two other slaves to him. The four gave each other curious looks as they gathered before him. They didn’t know each other particularly.
‘Wondering why you’re here?’ asked Spartacus.
They all murmured in assent. Carbo hadn’t seen much of Spartacus in the previous months. That was fine. He felt privileged just to have been instructed by him. If the truth be known, he had been fitting in extra training. Running up and down the mountain’s slopes twice a day. Carrying weights and sparring with whoever would take him on. He still wasn’t up to taking on Amatokos, but he fancied that the looks Chloris had thrown in his direction were approving. At least he hoped so. Carbo’s efforts had paid off in other ways, however, because Spartacus had nodded in approval a day before when he’d knocked a German twice his size on his arse. The small gesture had made Carbo’s spirits soar. Whatever duty he was offered now, he would accept. How his life had changed, he reflected. He now lived among, and fought with, slaves. He truly was an outcast — but he didn’t care. Carbo was proud of what he’d become. What he’d made of himself.
‘Ariadne — the priestess who revealed that I have Dionysus’ favour,’ Spartacus added for effect, ‘had a strange feeling this morning when she awoke. I’ve learned to pay attention when she tells me such things. As you know, the scouts have found sod all in the surrounding countryside, but we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the Romans for months now. Just because there’s no sign of the dogs doesn’t mean that nothing’s happening. I want you to head singly for the nearby towns and see what information you can glean. A man can find out a lot by hanging around a market place for a day or two.’ He saw Carbo’s questioning look. ‘You’re all native speakers. You’ll fit in far better than me, with my Thracian accent, or Atheas and Taxacis, who can barely order a cup of wine in Latin. No one will give you a second glance.’
‘And if anyone demands to know our business?’ asked Aventianus.
Spartacus reached down and picked up four little purses that lay by his feet. He tossed one to each man. ‘You’re a contract labourer who has finished his summer’s work, and is on his way home to his wife or his family. That’s your pay.’
Aventianus smiled. It was an entirely plausible story.
‘Where shall we go?’ enquired Carbo. Please don’t ask me to travel to Capua.
It was almost as if Spartacus sensed his reluctance. ‘You head for Neapolis, on the coast. The rest of you can decide where you want to go: north to Nola and Capua, on the Via Appia, and Nuceria, to the south. If there’s any gossip to be had, you’ll hear it in those towns.’ He held up a warning finger. ‘I don’t care if you spend all the money before you return, but be careful! Don’t get too drunk. Wine loosens men’s tongues. If you get found out, you’ll end your days nailed to a cross.’
They nodded grimly at him.
‘One more thing. Leave your swords behind. Take only a knife and a staff with you.’ He grinned at Carbo’s scowl. ‘I know you’ve grown used to being armed, but nothing will attract more attention than a peasant with a gladius.’ Spartacus waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Come back as fast as you can. May Dionysus and the Great Rider watch over you.’
Carbo went to fetch his sleeping roll and a water carrier. By leaving immediately, he could reach Neapolis before dark. How I’ve changed. Once, he’d have been insulted at being called a peasant and having the blessings of strange gods called down on him. Now he was more upset at not being allowed to carry a weapon.
Carbo knew which person he preferred.
Dusk was falling as Carbo neared Neapolis. He’d run some of the ten miles from Vesuvius to make sure that he arrived in time. Yet he’d cut it very close indeed. The three guards had already pushed one massive door to, and were moving towards the second. He broke into a sprint. ‘Wait!’
The sentries’ heads turned. They were typical city watchmen: two were middle-aged, with sagging paunches, and the other was a stripling youth with cheeks as smooth as a newborn’s bottom. ‘What have we here?’ cried one. The solitary silver phalera pinned to his tunic told Carbo that he’d once been a legionary. He’s the leader. Only brave men earned such decorations. ‘To be in that much of a rush, a man can only be searching for one of two things. Is it wine or a whore?’
‘Or both?’ added the second greybeard with a toothy leer.
‘You’re exactly right, friends. Both,’ lied Carbo, coming to a grateful halt. ‘I’ve been working on a latifundium for the last six weeks, existing on little more than acetum and stale bread. Not so much as a woman in sight. At least not one that it was safe to go near.’
‘The vilicus kept a close eye on you, eh? That’s often the way. You must have a hard-on like Priapus!’ The veteran gave him a wink. ‘I was the same when I was your age. Neleus here wishes he was like that too, but he’s so shy that he won’t even approach the whores by the market. And they’d straddle a corpse if it had a coin to spare!’ He chortled as the embarrassed youth hung his head.
Gods, thought Carbo with delight. They didn’t even look at my scars. And they took me at face value. Pride filled him. I’m a man now.
‘Pass, friend.’ With an expansive gesture, the veteran indicated that Carbo could enter. ‘Whoever you choose, give her one from me.’
‘I will.’ Carbo grinned. ‘Is there an inn where I could find a corner to sleep in?’
‘Several. The Bull is the one where you’re least likely to be eaten alive by fleas and bedbugs. You’re less likely to be robbed there too. It’s off the street that leads from this gate. Third alley on the right. Don’t pay any more than an as for a bed in the stable.’
‘My thanks.’
With that, he’d passed under the great stone arch and into the city. Carbo had never been to Neapolis before. He glanced curiously at the fine buildings as they faded into the rapidly falling darkness. Most were newly built. After centuries of loyalty to Rome, Neapolis had been elevated to a municipium nearly two decades previously, but its fortunes had taken a real tumble during the brutal civil war just a few years later. Carbo could remember as a boy his father telling his mother in hushed tones about the city’s sacking. Under Sulla ‘the butcher’, an army had burned its large fleet at anchor, and killed many hundreds of civilians. Finally, they had set Neapolis ablaze. The residents’ crime had been to have opposed Sulla. And they call Spartacus a latro?
Carbo hurried to find the Bull. The narrow thoroughfare was emptying before his eyes; he had no desire to linger outside longer than necessary either. There was no street lighting. Lamps hung outside an occasional large house, but their glow did not extend far. The shadows were growing longer with every heartbeat. As he came alongside an alleyway, a shape moved in the gloom within. Carbo’s grip on the hilt of his dagger tightened. If Neapolis was anything like Capua, only a fool went abroad after dark. A fool, or a cutthroat.
He was relieved to find the inn soon after. The hum of loud conversation, shouts and out-of-tune singing led him in. The stench of manure, stale urine and human sweat filled his nostrils as he approached the open-fronted establishment. A wooden staircase ran up the side of the building to the flats above. Oil lamps decorated the graffiti-covered walls, inside and out. Their yellow-orange glare illuminated a jumble of rough tables and benches that spilled from the grimy interior on to the alley. Straw had been scattered everywhere; from its soggy appearance, it looked to have absorbed more than its fair share of wine. Or blood.
The place was thronged. I’m not the only one with a dry throat. It wasn’t a surprise. The harvest had recently been taken in, and although the Vinalia Rustica was over, the temperatures were still pleasantly warm. A man could do worse than drink a few cups of wine with his friends at night. Carbo took in the customers, a selection of merchants, travellers and locals. There were whores aplenty too, sitting on men’s laps, flashing their breasts at anyone showing interest, or working the tables for custom. Lowlifes were also numerous: shifty, poorly dressed men in ones and twos whose gaze flickered constantly over the gathering like hungry wolves eyeing a flock of sheep. Friends? I don’t have any. Not here anyway.
Pushing his way to the bar, Carbo spoke to the proprietor, a wall-eyed man with heavy stubble coating his long jaw. As promised by the guard at the gate, a bronze coin secured him a corner in one of the stables. Throwing down his sleeping roll, he returned to purchase a jug of wine and some bread and cheese. With his hands full, Carbo headed for an unoccupied table against one wall. The best — and safest — place to observe the goings on was one where he could sit with his back against cool brickwork. His belly grumbled noisily as he sat down, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since midday. Carbo forgot all about the other customers and set upon his food with purpose.
It didn’t take him long to clear his plate and throw back two cups of the watered-down wine. Feeling much
