Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

‘That and being able to hump a woman all night long,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘That’s why you and I have got to where we are. And we’ve done well! Thousands of men are loyal to each of us.’

‘Not nearly as many as are devoted to Spartacus,’ Castus retorted. ‘Did you see him fight today? He’s fearless, and skilled with it. The prick is a good general too. Tricking Lentulus into leading his army through the defile was a masterstroke. It’s no surprise that they fucking love him.’ His reddened face twisted with the bitterness of the man who knows he is lesser.

‘What I don’t like is the way he expects us to do what he wants. He used to ask our opinion. Now he just does whatever he pleases,’ said Gannicus, brooding.

‘That might be good enough for arselickers like Egbeo and Pulcher, but not for us. Gauls have pride!’

Resentment held them silent for a while. The logs in the fire crackled and spat as the resin within poured out. The noise of the celebrating soldiers rose into the starry night sky, where their challenge vanished into the immense silence.

‘I don’t know that you’re right,’ said Gannicus, tugging on his moustache.

‘Eh? About what?’

‘About how much the men love Spartacus. They adore him while he leads them to victory after victory, and when he lets them plunder farms and latifundia with abandon. But when they’re faced with crossing a huge range of mountains, out of Italy, I think that the majority of them will suddenly have a change of heart.’

‘They know that that’s where we’re heading. Spartacus told them at Thurii.’

‘There’s a big difference between “knowing” something and understanding it, Castus. All the men have had to think about since then is marching, raping, and pillaging whatever homestead they happen upon. Fighting the consular armies — and beating them — will have kept their minds off much else too. I’d wager that until recently, not one man in ten has given serious thought to leaving Italy. The grumbling that’s been going on is very real.’

Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’

‘That’s exactly what I think.’

‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’

‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’

In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’

‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.

‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’

‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’

Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’

‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’

‘Even better — that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’

‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’

They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.

A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’

‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity.’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’

‘Damn right I am!’

‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed — where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’

Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.

Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.

One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’ army had been camped near Thurii for some months. Rumours about how easy it was to join had been rife among the discontented farm slaves. In the dark of an autumn night, Marcion had stolen away into the hills. It had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.

Marcion had completed his initial training long since. He had fought in the battles against Lentulus and Gellius, which made him a veteran. In the eyes of the original gladiators who had escaped from the ludus with Spartacus, however, or the men who had fought in the initial battles against the likes of Publius Varinius at Thurii, Marcion and his comrades were nothing but wet-behind-the-ears rookies. He’d grown sick of their jibes, which filled his ears any time their hard-nosed centurion made them train. The old-timers liked nothing better than to stand by and make sarcastic comments. Marching was hard on Marcion’s legs, but at least he was surrounded by his own, more recently recruited cohort. Zeuxis’ grumbling started up again from the rank in front, reminding him that it wasn’t all roses here either. The bald-headed man was older than him, and had joined a week before Marcion had. Zeuxis had the loudest voice in their contubernium, which he thought gave him the right to dictate to everyone. Mostly, the other soldiers in the eight-man tent group let him get on with it. Marcion found that hard.

‘We do nothing but fucking march!’

‘Shut it,’ said Gaius, a broad-shouldered man who lived to fight. He was marching beside Marcion. ‘Try not to think about it. You’ll get there sooner that way.’

Zeuxis ignored him. ‘How many hundred miles is it from Thurii?’