‘Thank the gods. It’s a great shame that so many of your men did not also survive,’ Crassus added in a tone of great sorrow.
‘Their deaths hang around my neck like a millstone,’ said Varinius miserably.
‘And so they should! Along with the loss of Furius’ and Cossinius’ men,’ Crassus snapped. ‘Virtually everything I have heard of your actions against Spartacus smacks of utter incompetence!’
Varinius did not dare to reply. He hung his head in shame.
‘Tell me what happened at Thurii. I want to understand it for myself.’
The words fell out of Varinius in a veritable tide. His withdrawal to Cumae after the surprise of Spartacus’ disappearance. The long hunt for new recruits. Issues with desertion, near mutiny, disease and finding enough equipment for his men. The search for Spartacus during the foul weather of autumn and winter. After weeks of fruitless marching, the unexpected good news that Spartacus had besieged Thurii. Varinius’ plan to crush the slaves between his infantry and cavalry. The shock of the ambush. The slaves’ overwhelming numbers. Galba’s charge, and his death at Spartacus’ hands. The rout that followed. The incredible appearance of enemy cavalry. Varinius’ attempts to rally his men for a counter-attack, and their total refusal to do so. Somehow pulling together the survivors. Organising treatment for the wounded and maimed, and then his return to Rome. Varinius looked exhausted by the time he’d finished.
He’s not a complete fool, thought Crassus with a twinge of conscience. Who could have predicted that the town was already in Spartacus’ hands? Naturally, he wasn’t going to admit that to Varinius. ‘Clearly, you are here to report this sorry tale to the Senate. I expected to see you there later this morning,’ Crassus said, softening his tone a fraction. ‘Why have you come to me before doing your duty?’
Varinius looked up. There was a desperate expression on his long face. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Republic. Whatever punishment is handed down to me, I will accept.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Crassus acerbically.
‘I thought — I wondered, after your letter, if you might see a way to lending me some support.’
‘Some support?’ Crassus’ voice was silky-smooth.
‘The senators will be out for my blood. If you were to speak for me, they could be swayed…’ Varinius went to say more, but stopped himself.
Crassus considered his options. Did he need the fealty of a failed fellow praetor? No. Would it look good to back a man who had lost repeatedly to a runaway gladiator? Most certainly not. He eyed Varinius sidelong, feeling a modicum of sympathy for the wretch. Was there any benefit at all in defending him? It only took Crassus a heartbeat to decide. ‘You have failed utterly in the mission entrusted to you by the Senate. Why in Hades’ name would I utter a word in your favour?’
‘I-’
‘I am not without heart, however. If, in the wake of your passing, your family needs a loan to carry them through the lean times ahead, I will be happy to oblige. I charge very little interest.’
A nerve twitched in Varinius’ cheek, and he swallowed hard. With an effort, he composed himself. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’
‘Very well. If that’s all, then…’ Crassus picked up an olive, and studied it carefully before popping it into his mouth. He did not look at Varinius again.
Saenius materialised at Varinius’ elbow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir?’
‘Yes, I…’ Varinius’ voice faltered. ‘Of course.’ With slumped shoulders, he followed Saenius from the courtyard.
Crassus watched him go. When he has finished his report, the Senate will offer him only one choice, he thought. Varinius is a dead man walking. That was of little concern. What caused Crassus more disquiet was the fact that Spartacus — the gladiator he’d seen fight and with whom he’d spoken — had turned out to be a formidable foe. Spartacus’ successes could no longer just be put down to chance, ill-fortune or poor judgement on the Roman commanders’ part. There had been too many defeats, over too many legionaries.
Spartacus wasn’t lying when I talked with him, mused Crassus. He is a man to be reckoned with. What a shame he wasn’t the one to be defeated that day in Capua. He’d be maggot food now, instead of a thorn in Rome’s side.
Crassus hoped that his fellows in the Senate now recognised the danger posed by Spartacus. He would do his utmost to make sure that they did. The insult to the Republic’s honour could be tolerated no longer. Both consuls would have to go to war.
Spartacus has to die. And soon.
Chapter XX
The Apennine Mountains, north-east of Pisae, spring 72 BC
Typically, it was Atheas who sensed that there was something wrong. Raising a hand, he stopped. Used to their routine, Carbo came to a halt. He was some twenty steps behind the bearded Scythian on a narrow game track that led northwards through the foothills of the Apennines, the mountains that formed Italy’s spine. Since the army had left the ruined city of Thurii behind them, they had followed similar paths. Carbo had soon grown bored of the drudgery and repetitive routine of marching day after day. Dark thoughts about Crixus, and the fact that he had not tried to kill him, had also dogged his every step. Desperate to shake the gloom that had coated him, Carbo had begged Spartacus to let him join one of the scouts on their solitary missions.
‘Why are you wanting to do that?’ the Thracian had asked.
‘To learn a new skill,’ Carbo had answered evasively. And so I can track down Crixus one day. It might have been pure fantasy, but he still longed to kill the big Gaul. In his tortured mind, for him to have any peace, Chloris had to be avenged.
‘There are no better trackers than Atheas and Taxacis,’ Spartacus had said. ‘But they won’t be interested in letting you tag along.’ Seeing the anger in Carbo’s eyes, he’d relented. ‘I’ll ask for you.’
To Carbo’s surprise, Atheas had agreed. Whether it was because Spartacus had insisted, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. Naturally enough, he had been very wary the first time the Scythian had led him from the camp. Since the time of the confrontation over Navio, their relationship had been one of extreme suspicion. Although Atheas had killed Lugurix, Carbo still feared his blade, and it seemed that despite all that Carbo had done for Spartacus, the Scythian distrusted him. Unsurprisingly, their relationship had got off to a difficult start.
Wanting to make as good a fist of his opportunity as possible, Carbo had aped Atheas’ every move and obeyed his orders without question. He was given no recognition for this; indeed Atheas had run him ragged, often covering upwards of twenty-five miles a day. The Scythian ate and drank sparingly, making Carbo wonder where he got his incredible stamina from. Biting his lip, he’d learned to get by on similarly small quantities of food and water. They lived in virtual silence, only talking when absolutely necessary.
Time passed, and Carbo became skilful at lighting campfires and gutting game. He could even bring down a deer with an arrow more times than he missed. To his surprise, he also gained some proficiency at the difficult art of tracking. Carbo wasn’t sure how or why, but he had eventually won Atheas’ approval. A nod here, a proffered piece of meat there, were the little indications he’d had, but those gestures had meant the world to him. Atheas’ tiny smile when Carbo had thanked him for killing Lugurix had meant even more. Fortunately, the hard scouting life had also lessened his grief over Chloris. Now it was just a dull ache, rather than the stabbing pain it had been before.
‘Pssst!’
He blinked and came back to reality.
Atheas was beckoning him closer.
Sliding his feet over the ground as he’d been taught, Carbo advanced until he was at the Scythian’s shoulder.
Atheas pointed through a gap in the trees that lined the side of the track. Carbo peered between the leaves, down the steep slope that led to the bottom of the wooded valley, which ran in a north-south direction. At its floor was a small road, which led to Mutina, some twenty miles away. It was the flash of sunlight on metal that caught his eye. Adrenalin pumped through Carbo’s veins as he focused in on a large group of horsemen in bronze helmets,
