High on the cliff tops, Carbo heard the Roman bucinae too. He was lying on his belly at the northernmost end of the gorge, observing the first legion emerging around a bend in the road. Before it rode several squadrons of cavalry, the scouts who had brought the news of the slave army to Lentulus. As he watched, a large group of horsemen broke away and rode forward into the defile. Carbo stared at them in alarm. What in Hades are they doing? He was grateful that his common sense kicked in. They’re going to ensure that Spartacus hasn’t blocked off the exit. That’s it. So Lentulus isn’t a fool, Carbo thought, glancing around uneasily. Maybe that’s not all he wants checked out.
Rock scraped off rock, and Carbo craned his neck to see over the edge. He’d never been more grateful to be lying down, not to be profiled against the sky. Climbing up the scree-covered slope from the direction of the legions were four — five — six dark-skinned, bearded men. Barefoot, they were clad in short-sleeved tunics. Their only weapons were the slings draped around their necks. Carbo had seen Balearic slingers once before, in Capua. They were fast-moving skirmishers who also acted as scouts. Clearly, these men had been sent to reconnoitre the cliff top. Carbo’s mouth went bone dry with fear.
They had to be killed, and fast, or Spartacus’ whole plan would fall apart, and Carbo’s task of saving Ariadne would become a dreadful reality.
Carbo rolled away, out of sight, and jumped to his feet. Sprinting to the nearest of his soldiers, he explained what was going on. Alarm filled their faces, and a new urgency filled Carbo. ‘None can escape, or we’re all fucked! Get it?’
They nodded grimly.
‘The dogs will see what’s going on the moment they reach the top, so they have to be taken down instantly. Out of sight of the legions too.’
One man picked up a hunting bow. ‘I can deal with two, if not three of them.’
‘Good,’ said Carbo. If only I had more archers! ‘Make it two, so you don’t miss. The last ones to come up as well.’ He pointed at three other slaves in turn. ‘We’ll hide behind the last piles of stones. You take the first man; you the second; and you the third. I’ll take the fourth. None of you make a damn move until I do. Clear?’
‘Yes,’ they muttered.
Quickly ordering everyone else to conceal themselves, and to remain silent, Carbo ran back to the piles of stones nearest to where he thought the slingers would emerge. There was precious little cover for all of them. Carbo prayed it would be sufficient. A heartbeat later, the next shortcoming of his plan hit him like a hammer blow. What if the first scout who got to the top realised what the mounds of rocks meant, and turned to flee? They’d have to pursue the slingers down the slope in full view of Lentulus’ army. All hopes of surprising the Romans would be lost. Acid washed the back of Carbo’s throat, and he had to swallow it to prevent himself from retching. The only way his spur-of-the-moment ambush would work was if the enemy scouts decided to investigate the cliff top properly.
His entreaties to Jupiter grew frantic. I will build an altar in your honour. In front of it, I’ll slaughter a bull — the best I can find. I will do the same every year, as long as I am able.
Guttural whispers set Carbo’s pulse racing to new heights. Steadying his nerves, he squeezed the hilt of his sword as hard as he could. With great care, he peered around the rocks. Nothing. Where the fuck are they? Carbo waited. And waited. Every moment lasted an eternity, but he could not move even a step from his position. The slightest sound would alert the scouts to their presence.
When he finally saw a mop of black, curly hair emerging not fifteen paces from where he stood, Carbo blinked with shock. He watched with bated breath as a tanned face poked over the edge and glanced carefully from side to side. There was a short delay, and then the slinger scrambled up and on to the cliff top. He was soon followed by two more. Crouching low, they began padding towards Carbo’s hiding place.
Where in Hades are the rest? Waiting until their comrades give them the all clear?
Carbo was afforded no chance to give thanks as the remaining scouts climbed into view. The first three were almost upon him. ‘NOW!’ he roared, and threw himself around the mound of stones. He had a brief impression of startled faces and shouted curses before, miraculously, he was past, charging for the top of the slope and the trio of slingers there. They took one look at him, and turned to run. Zip! An arrow flashed past Carbo, burying itself deep in one man’s back. He went down with a loud groan. ‘Take the one on the right!’ Carbo bellowed. Praying that the archer had heard him, he aimed for the figure to his left, a short man with prominent cheekbones.
Luck was on his side. The slinger was so desperate to escape that as he spun, he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Carbo was on him like a wild beast on its prey. He hacked down with his gladius, slicing open the man’s back from his shoulder to his waist. Blood flew up in great gouts, and a bubbling scream of agony left his victim’s lips. It was cut brutally short as Carbo plunged his blade between the slinger’s ribs, shredding one lung and piercing his heart. Instantly, the man slumped down; his arms and legs kicked manically and then relaxed.
Frantically dragging free his sword, Carbo whipped around to see what was happening. The bowman had not been exaggerating about his ability. Another corpse lay on its back beside the first, an arrow jutting from its open mouth. Carbo’s gaze flickered to the rocks where he’d hidden. Two slingers were down, but the last had killed one of his men, and was now armed with a sword. Spinning on his heel, he pounded straight towards Carbo, shrieking at the top of his lungs.
Carbo’s vision narrowed. If he didn’t stop this man, he would be to blame for everything.
Zip!
An arrow shot over the slinger’s shoulder. It nearly took Carbo’s eye out. ‘Stop shooting!’ he cried, stepping into the other’s path. He raised his sword.
But the scout had no interest in fighting him. Skidding to one side, he angled around Carbo, aiming for the top of the slope.
He’d misjudged, thought Carbo, cursing silently. ‘Take him down! Quickly!’ Ducking, and praying that the archer didn’t hit him instead, he sprinted forward. There was a rush of air over his shoulder, and an arrow struck the slinger in the back. He staggered, but then righted himself. Dropping his sword, the man tugged free one of the two strips of cloth that was draped around his neck. He wove closer to the edge, waving the black fabric over his head.
The grim realisation of what the scout was trying to do hit Carbo at once. The banner meant ‘Enemy sighted’, and if anyone in Lentulus’ army saw it, he would have failed.
Carbo covered the last few steps at breakneck speed. Ramming his gladius into the man’s back, he reached up and grabbed the cloth with his left hand. Somehow he threw his arm around his moaning victim’s neck, and dragged him backwards, all the while shoving his blade deeper. The slinger’s cries quickly dropped to a low whimpering. A heartbeat later, he’d become a dead weight, so Carbo let him fall. Pulling out his sword, he thrust down twice, adding another blood-spattered corpse to the others lying nearby.
Carbo scanned the area. All the scouts were down, dying or dead. His men gave him victorious grins, but he did not return the smile. They had not necessarily succeeded. Someone might have seen the fighting. He dropped to his belly and wormed over to the edge. With churning guts, he studied the massive Roman column, his eyes roving to and fro for any indications of alarm or disquiet. To Carbo’s immense relief, he saw nothing.
‘Were we seen?’ It was the bowman’s voice.
Carbo moved back a little. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Thank you, Jupiter.
The bowman let out a long sigh.
‘Good work,’ said Carbo.
‘I should have taken the last bastard down with one arrow.’
‘He was strong and desperate,’ replied Carbo. ‘Anyway, he’s dead now.’ His eyes strayed to the slinger’s body and took in the second strip of cloth around his neck. It was red, the same colour as the vexilla flags used by the legions. A new wave of panic swamped him. The banner could have only one purpose. It was to signal that there was no danger on the cliff tops. If it wasn’t seen, more Roman troops would be sent to investigate. Carbo glanced down and cursed. His tunic was saturated in blood. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled the sodden fabric over his head and threw it down. ‘Quick! I need the tunic with the least blood on it.’
The bowman gaped at him.
‘So I can wave the red cloth at the Romans and not arouse suspicion.’
At last the bowman understood. Together they checked the dead. It didn’t take long to see that the cleanest tunic was the one belonging to the slinger who’d been struck in the mouth. They stripped the corpse and Carbo shrugged on the sweaty garment. Then, grabbing the red strip of cloth from the last man’s neck, he strode to the
