Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

“He's the eyes and ears of Cato, that one,” Pompey said to Crassus. “You can be sure he's taking little notes of everything we do to report back when we come home.”

Crassus shrugged. “Send him back to Rome, then. I'll put my seal on it and we can beat the rebels with seven legions as easily as eight.”

Pompey shook his head. “Maybe, but there are other reports I haven't mentioned. Julius, this is to go no further, understand? There's no point having the rumors all over the camp before tomorrow, which is what would happen if I told the others, especially Lepidus. The slave army has grown alarmingly. I'm getting reports of more than fifty thousand. Hundreds of farms and estates have been stripped. There is no way back for them now and that will make for desperate fighting. They know how we punish escaped slaves and the rebellion won't end without a massive show of force. I think we're going to need every legion we have.”

Julius whistled softly. “We can't depend on a rout,” he said.

Pompey frowned. “It doesn't look like it, no. I'd expect them to fold and run on the first attack except for the fact that they have women and children with them and nowhere to go if they lose. Those gladiators have brought off more than one success already, and they must be more than a rabble.” He snorted softly. “If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if Cato was hoping to see us lose, but, no, that's too much even for him. They could still turn south again, and from Ariminum the whole country is open. They have to be crushed and I need good commanders to do it, Julius.”

“I have more than two thousand under the Primigenia eagle,” Julius replied. He chose not to mention that Cato had supplied half of them to protect his son. Renius had trained them to exhaustion, but they were still of poor quality compared to the established legions. He wondered how many were waiting for the right moment to put a knife in him. Such men at his back didn't inspire confidence, for all his assurances to Renius that they would become Primigenia.

“It's good to see that name in the field again. I can't tell you how much,” Pompey replied, losing his grimness for a moment and looking surprisingly boyish as he smiled. Then the mantle of his continual anger settled on him again, as it had ever since his daughter's death. “I want Primigenia to march flank to Lepidus. I don't trust any man who has Cato as his sponsor. When it comes to the fighting, stay close to him. I'll trust you to do whatever has to be done. You'll be my own extraordinarii, I think. You did well in Greece. Do well for me.”

“I am at your command,” Julius confirmed with a quick bow of his head. He met Crassus's eyes, including him even as he began to plan. Brutus would have to be told.

As he left, with the soldiers of Primigenia falling in around him, Julius felt a touch of excitement and pride. He had not been forgotten and he would make certain Pompey didn't regret the trust.

The slave sank his hoe into the hard ground, splitting the clods of pale earth with a grunt. Sweat dripped from his face to leave dark marks in the dust, and his shoulders burned with the effort. At first he did not notice the man standing near him, as he was too wrapped up in his own misery. He raised the tool again and caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He did not react immediately, his surprise covered in the motions of his work. The blisters on his hands had broken again and he laid down the hoe to tend them, aware of the man, but not yet willing to give his knowledge away. He had learned to guard the slightest advantage from his masters.

“Who are you?” the dark figure asked softly.

The slave turned to him calmly. The man was wrapped in a rough brown robe over a ragged tunic. His face was partially covered, but the eyes were alight with interest and pity.

“I am a slave,” he said, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Even in the vine rows, it beat down on his skin, burning and blistering him. His shoulders were mottled with raw redness and loose, flaking skin that itched all the time. He scratched idly at the area while he watched the newcomer. He wondered if the man knew how close the guards were.

“You should not stay here, friend. The owner has guards in the fields. They'll kill you for trespassing if they find you.”

The stranger shrugged without shifting his gaze. “The guards are dead.”

The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn't rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.

“I… have to get back,” he muttered.

“The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don't have to go anywhere. Who are you?”

“I am a slave,” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The stranger's eyes creased in such a way that he knew he was smiling under the cloth.

“No, my brother. We have made you a freeman.”

“Impossible.”

The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.

Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.

“Whoever you are, let me go. I won't tell anyone you were here,” he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.

The first man laughed. “There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?”

“What about…” He could not bring himself to say “master” in front of these men. “The owner and his family?”

“They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?”

The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.

“Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.”

The man laughed again and it was not a pleasant sound. “Such hatred, yet I understand it. Can you handle a sword? I have one here for you, if you want.” He held it out as a test. A slave was forbidden to bear arms. If he took it, he was marked for death with the rest of them.

The slave reached out and gripped the gladius firmly, rejoicing in the weight.

“Now who are you?” the stranger said softly.

“My name is Antonidus. I was once a general of Rome,” he said, straightening his back subtly.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Spartacus will want to meet you. He too was an army man before… all this.”

“Will you let me have the family?” Antonidus asked impatiently.

“You will have your hour, but then we must move on. There are more to be freed today and our army needs the grain in the stores here.”

Antonidus smiled slowly at the thought of what he would do to the people who had called themselves his masters. He had only seen them at a distance as he worked, but his imagination had provided the sneers and slights he could not see. He ran his thumb across the edge of the blade.

“Take me there first. After I have had my satisfaction, I am yours.”

The warren of filthy streets seemed closed off from the life and light of Rome. The two men Cato had sent trod warily through the refuse and excrement, trying not to react to the scrabbling sounds of rats and larger predators in the dark alleyways. Somewhere a child screamed and then the sound was cut off as if stifled. The two men held their breaths waiting for it to start again, wincing in understanding after the silence went on too long. Life was cheap in that place.