Ben Kane - Spartacus - Rebellion

Ariadne had heard about crucifixion, but she had never seen the practice with her own eyes. By the time the sun began to set, she had seen it hundreds of times over. The reality of it would live with her until her dying day. The tortured expressions on the faces of the dead. Their cracked lips. Their vacant, staring eyes, which seemed to blame her for their deaths. The wounds from the scourging inflicted on them as they had marched. Their gas-filled bulging bellies. Laced through the stink of their piss and shit, the overwhelming smell of decay. Everywhere, the flies. The scrawny dogs that hung about, clearly responsible for the gnaw marks on some of the bodies’ legs. The passers-by, with their cruel comments. Every two miles, the soldiers on guard, so inured to the scene that they no longer even looked at the crucified men.

How could she have thought the reality would not be as bad as her nightmare?

Ariadne didn’t want to journey all the way to Rome, past so much suffering. Yet she had to. They had seen a handful of prisoners who still lived. These few were enough to keep her doubt alive. Regardless of the horror, she would never be able to live with herself, or look Maron in the eye when he grew older, if she hadn’t checked every last crucified man. Her husband deserved no less respect. So she walked on, in a daze of revulsion at what Crassus had done. They had heard that the general was some two days’ march ahead of them, supervising the erection of many of the crosses himself. The whoreson.

‘Help me, please.’

At first, Ariadne thought it was Carbo’s voice. Then she heard it again, from her left. Shock filled her as she realised that the wretch on the nearest cross had spoken. Gods above, no! A quick glance up and down the road revealed that there was no one about. ‘Navio, keep a look out. Carbo, get over here!’ Even as he turned, Ariadne was darting to the man’s side. ‘Egbeo?’

The big Thracian’s head lifted. He showed no sign of recognising her. ‘Help. Water.’

Carbo fumbled the strap of his water carrier from around his neck. Uncapping it, he held it to Egbeo’s mouth. The Thracian was so weak that most of the liquid dribbled back out of his mouth. Carbo persisted, but Egbeo didn’t seem able to swallow. Eventually he gave up, and Egbeo’s head slumped back down.

‘He’s nearly gone,’ whispered Ariadne.

Carbo’s face was full of helpless rage. ‘Look.’ He pointed at the nails transfixing Egbeo’s wrists, which had been driven in flush with his flesh to make them impossible to remove. ‘We can’t even take the poor creature down to let him die a more natural death.’

A sharp whistle from Navio. ‘Someone’s coming!’

Ariadne reached out and touched Egbeo’s face. ‘The Rider is waiting for you. Go well. We shall always remember you.’ She saw Carbo reach for his dagger. ‘No! If you’re seen doing that, we’ll have every legionary within twenty miles after us. You can come back later, when it’s dark.’

‘He’ll be dead by then.’

‘He’s almost dead now,’ hissed Ariadne.

Carbo’s fingers fell reluctantly to his side.

‘Come on.’ Without looking at Egbeo again, Ariadne hurried back to the mule, which was grazing the grass on the verge.

They moved off. Soon they encountered the small party that Navio had spotted. The travellers passed by with cordial greetings. At once the trio’s eyes returned to Egbeo. His head seemed to have lifted, which made walking away even harder. Yet Carbo was right. By the time darkness fell, Egbeo would have passed into the otherworld. It felt cruel beyond belief leaving him to die alone, on a cross, but to have done otherwise would have risked all of their lives. Egbeo would have understood. Or so she hoped.

If Spartacus had known that so many of his soldiers would die in such a manner, would he have crossed the Alps? she wondered. The answer was still a resounding ‘No’. He had known throughout what might happen. Wasn’t that half the reason he had staged the munus with the Roman prisoners?

‘Marcion!’ cried Carbo. He tore to the far side of the road, where a black-haired man with deep-set eyes hung from a cross. Rank-smelling liquid ran from a terrible cut in his belly.

Checking that the travellers had gone around the next bend, Ariadne and Navio followed.

‘He’s still alive,’ whispered Carbo. He reached out and brushed the hair that hung over Marcion’s face. ‘Can you hear me? It is I, Carbo, who stood near you during the battle.’

Ariadne paled. Near Spartacus too, then.

Marcion’s breathing, which was loud and rasping, checked. After a moment, his eyelids flickered. A low moan left his mouth.

Carbo stroked his cheek as tenderly as he might a baby’s. ‘Two of your comrades are here. Spartacus’ wife is here. Your pain will soon be over.’

Marcion’s head came up slowly. His eyes took in Carbo, but there was no recognition. ‘Kill me,’ he croaked. ‘Please.’

Ariadne saw Carbo’s dagger rise. This time, she couldn’t bring herself to order him to put it away.

‘Elysium awaits,’ whispered Carbo. ‘Just answer me one question.’

Marcion’s grunt might have been a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’.

‘Did you see Spartacus fall?’

They all stared. Ariadne was very aware that behind her on the mule Maron was stirring. That the sun was illuminating every line of blood, every cut and bruise on Marcion’s battered body. That her heart was pounding in her chest fit to burst.

‘Marcion?’ asked Carbo again.

There was no answer.

‘He’s too far gone,’ muttered Navio.

Please, O Great Dionysus, prayed Ariadne. Great Rider, give him the strength to speak.

‘Saved… life.’

‘Spartacus saved your life?’

‘Yes.’ A shuddering breath; a sense of energy being rallied. ‘Soon after, he took a bad cut to one of his legs. Even that didn’t stop him, but then three legionaries attacked him. He went down under a flurry of blows. That was when I gave up. No reason to go on, was there?’ Drained, his head sagged down again.

Ariadne felt faint. She was aware of Carbo and Navio’s grief-stricken faces, of her own knife-edged sorrow dulling somewhat. Most of all, she felt an overpowering feeling of relief. After the battle, she had thought Spartacus was dead, only to have Navio place the doubt in her mind that he might be suffering on a cross like the near-dead wretch before her. That doubt had vanished. Spartacus had died on the field, as he would have wished. In the circumstances, it was the best she could have hoped for.

A glance up and down the road. Thank the gods, she thought. Not a soul in sight. Her eyes slid to Carbo. His face looked haunted. When she looked at his dagger meaningfully, though, he gave her a resolute nod. On impulse, Ariadne unstrapped Maron and carried him back to the cross. ‘Do you see this man Marcion?’ she whispered. ‘He fought with your father until the end. Now he is going to meet him again. Let’s ask Marcion to carry a message for us.’

Maron gurgled with happiness, unaware of the dreadful reality in front of him.

Tears welled in Ariadne’s eyes as she went up on tiptoe to reach Marcion’s ear. ‘When you reach Elysium, tell Spartacus that he died well. That his soldiers loved him. That we loved him also, his wife and his son. That Atheas, Carbo and Navio are alive and as faithful as ever. Tell him too that he will never be forgotten as long as men draw breath in this world. That Crassus will have a dreadful death, the worst of ends a man can have, and will be remembered more for his failures than for what he did at the Silarus.’

Marcion’s breathing settled. Ariadne wasn’t sure, but she thought that there was a faint nod. She waited, but he didn’t move again.