dancing eyes belied her scolding tone.
‘A man has his needs,’ he said with a lopsided grin. ‘Is it to be a son, as you said?’
She caressed her belly. ‘Yes, I think so. Your firstborn would have to be male, wouldn’t he?’
‘I’d like that.’ Spartacus did a quick mental calculation. ‘He’ll be born around harvest time.’
‘That’s my thinking.’
‘Good. It will be warm and sunny then, and he’ll have grown strong by the winter,’ said Spartacus with satisfaction. ‘It gives us time to head north as well.’
‘When will you speak to the other leaders?’ The sooner the better.
‘Now,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Spring is nearly here. I want to be ready to move the moment it arrives.’
A flicker of movement caught Ariadne’s eye. She glanced down, seeing a horse and rider galloping towards the camp from the west. The frantic whip strokes being delivered by the horseman told their own story. The gods always place something in the way. She tried not to worry. ‘Your conversation might have to wait.’
Spartacus’ gaze followed hers. His jaw tightened at the sight. ‘Maybe so. I’ll still be needing to talk to the others, though.’
‘What is it, do you think?’ she asked softly, suspecting what he’d say.
‘Varinius,’ grated Spartacus. ‘He’s found us.’
‘The prick has had a few months to lick his wounds and recruit more men,’ said Spartacus. The rider had been carrying just the news he’d expected. The man was standing off to one side now, sweat-stained and weary, and watching Spartacus confer with Castus, Gannicus and Crixus. ‘It’s not that surprising that Varinius has been looking for us. He can’t go back to the Senate without some kind of success to report. They’d hang him up by his balls.’
‘So far all he’s had are defeats,’ said Gannicus with a predatory smile.
‘He’s soon going to have another one,’ rumbled Crixus.
‘The messenger says that Varinius has over six thousand men now,’ warned Castus. ‘He’s been busy recruiting at Cumae.’
‘Is that all? That’s a drop in the ocean compared to our forces!’ scoffed Crixus.
‘All the same, let’s not underestimate him,’ said Spartacus. ‘That’s more than a legion.’
‘Lost your appetite for a fight with all this easy living?’ taunted Crixus.
Spartacus’ eyes went flat and hard. ‘What do you think?’
‘I-’ Crixus began.
Spartacus cut him off. ‘I agreed before that we would fight Varinius, and I’m a man of my word. But we need to be wary of that many legionaries. We might outnumber the whoresons eight or nine to one, but on more than one occasion, I’ve seen Roman armies take on worse odds than that — and still come out victorious.’
Castus’ expression turned wary. Gannicus rubbed his nose and said nothing.
‘That’s not going to happen to us!’ replied Crixus furiously.
‘Damn right it’s not!’ Spartacus caught the messenger’s eye. ‘How far from Thurii did you say they were?’
‘About two days’ march, sir.’
‘Two days…’
Gannicus pounced on Spartacus’ thoughtful expression. ‘What have you in mind?’
‘I think that we should lay a little trap for Varinius. Something that he won’t expect from slaves.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ said Castus, looking more cheerful.
‘Spit it out then,’ muttered Crixus grudgingly.
‘Carbo’s made friends with one of the guards on the main gate at Thurii,’ Spartacus revealed. ‘He brings him fresh venison and boar now and again. If Carbo asks him to open the gate late at night for some more, the fool will do it.’
Castus’ eyebrows rose. ‘You mean to seize the town?’
‘Why not? There can’t be more than a few hundred defenders. Most of them will be old or out of shape. If we move tonight, the place will be ours by dawn.’
‘Why would we do that?’ demanded Crixus.
‘Come a little closer and I’ll tell you,’ said Spartacus with an evil grin.
Publius Varinius shivered and pulled his cloak closer around his bony shoulders. He shuffled nearer to the brazier that stood in the centre of his sleeping quarters. The damp wood in it sputtered, giving off little heat. Wiping his streaming eyes, Varinius cursed. Since leaving the comforts of Cumae, it seemed he had been cold all the time. Nothing he did, or wore, could take the chill from his bones. It wasn’t surprising. Every damn day was a repetition of the one before. Wake up to a freezing tent. Eat a cold breakfast. Break camp. Send out the scouts. Follow in their wake, riding through the winter rain and sleet in steep, muddy, inhospitable terrain. Find nothing. Make a fresh camp. Eat half-cooked, half-burned meat and porridge for dinner. Sleep the sleep of the exhausted — or the dead. Wake the following day and do it all over again. A fresh bout of coughing racked him.
Fucking Spartacus. He and his men had spent weeks following rumour here and gossip there. To Varinius’ extreme frustration, every single lead had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. Although the name Spartacus was on everyone’s lips, there was no sign of the runaway gladiator in all of Campania. So far, Lucania had been no different. It was worse than trying to find the centre of the maze without a ball of string, Varinius thought sourly. At least they would reach the town of Thurii the following day. There he’d be able to commandeer a house. To lie under warm, dry blankets and a solid tile roof. If he never had to sleep in a tent again, it would be too soon.
He eyed the scroll on his table with a jaundiced eye. It had reached him by messenger earlier that day. No doubt Marcus Licinius Crassus, the man who’d written it, was at this very moment comfortably tucked up in bed. If the smug bastard could see me now, he’d probably laugh until he cried. Varinius didn’t have a good feeling about receiving a personal letter from one of the men who guided the Republic’s course. If he’d already met with some success, he’d have hurried to open it, but since leaving the capital, his whole damn mission had seemed doomed to failure. Varinius didn’t like to dwell on this, but he made himself, because Crassus would have heard of his woes by now. His vague, misleading reports thus far would not have pulled the wool over the eyes of an imbecile, let alone the richest and one of the shrewdest politicians in Rome. Worryingly, his misfortune couldn’t all be put down to bad luck on his and his officers’ part. In retrospect, reflected Varinius, it had been a bad idea to split his forces.
After their startling successes against first Lucius Furius and then Lucius Cossinius, Spartacus’ men had had the effrontery to raid two of Varinius’ encampments, inflicting numerous more casualties, and stamping his soldiers’ weakened morale into the glutinous Campanian mud. Disease had thinned his troops’ ranks further. It was a miracle that more hadn’t deserted, thought Varinius morosely. When word had come that the slaves had withdrawn from Glaber’s former camp, there had been no question of leading an assault on it, or of pursuing Spartacus into the hinterland. It might have looked cowardly, but withdrawing to Cumae to regroup, and to bolster his force with new recruits, had been the only sensible option. Anything else, and he’d have had a mutiny on his hands.
Of course that’s not how Crassus or the Senate would see it. Roman commanders did not withdraw beyond the enemy’s reach. Particularly when the enemy was nothing more than a rabble of escaped gladiators and slaves.
With a muttered oath, Varinius snatched up the letter. Cracking the wax seal with a thumbnail, he unrolled the parchment.
‘To Publius Varinius, praetor of the Republic of Rome: Greetings. I trust that this letter reaches you hale and hearty, and that the gods continue to show you favour?’ Varinius scowled. The sarcasm starts already, he thought. His eyes flickered across the neatly written words: the mark of a professional scribe. ‘It has been some four months since you and your fellow officers set out from Rome on the glorious mission to which you were appointed by the Senate.’ That’s right, rub it in.
The news that has reached me here in the capital has been troubling, to say the least. It was surprising enough to hear of the calamitous ambush on Lucius Furius, but the tragic death of Lucius Cossinius and so many of his men was truly shocking. I believe that the slaves also achieved further success with attacks on your camps. Aside from the troubles during the civil war, the likes of these outrages have not been seen in Italy for generations. They cannot be allowed to continue. While I am personally in no doubt that your withdrawal to Cumae was made for the best of reasons, others in Rome do not look upon your actions in such a benign light. Such caution will not bring about the destruction of those who have dared to defy the Republic so flagrantly. It must not happen again. It
