Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

He and Navio had skirted through the deserted countryside to join the busy Via Aemilia some miles to the west of Mutina, so that when they arrived, it didn’t look as if they had come from the south. Unsurprisingly, most of the heavy traffic was heading away from the threat of the slave army. There were enough travellers moving eastwards for them not to appear unusual, however. Carbo unslung his water bag with a sigh. ‘Gods, but it’s hot.’ Taking a long swig, he threw the leather carrier at Navio.

His friend winked. ‘Just as well we’re not wearing our mail shirts and carrying our swords and shields, eh?’

‘In Hades’ name! Keep your mouth shut.’ Carbo was grateful for the deafening racket made by the creaking of a passing cart’s wheels.

‘No one can hear me.’

‘Maybe now. But in Mutina, things will be different, especially if we go to a tavern.’

‘ If?’ screeched Navio. ‘When!’

Carbo glowered at Navio, but he only half meant it. They’d spent the entire journey talking about finding an inn where they could drink some decent wine, and order good food instead of the burned offerings they’d grown used to. There might even be some half-decent-looking whores, Carbo thought hopefully. He hadn’t had sex since Chloris, his lover, had died. There had been plenty of opportunities, but unlike most of Spartacus’ men, he wasn’t prepared to rape defenceless women. By now he was desperate. ‘All right, all right. But we do it my way. Quietly. Carefully. There’ll be no talk of anything other than farming, our poor dead families, and what bastards Spartacus and his lot are.’

‘Fair enough,’ replied Navio. ‘But that’s as much as you’re telling me what to do. You’re not choosing which whore I screw.’ He hurled the water bag at Carbo’s head with a laugh and made a ring with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. With a suggestive leer, he thrust his left forefinger in and out of the opening. ‘That’s what I want. With the best-looking woman I can find,’ he growled.

Carbo chuckled. For just a moment, life felt normal.

His wariness returned fast. There was a long queue waiting to enter Mutina’s main gate, which was guarded by a large group of legionaries. ‘Look how many of the whoresons there are. Twenty at least,’ he muttered as they shuffled along behind an ox cart laden down with freshly sawn planks. ‘They’ve heard how we took Thurii.’

‘Looks like it.’

Carbo could remember every moment of the battle at Thurii in southern Italy. In order to spring a surprise attack on Varinius, Spartacus had had his men seize the poorly defended city by subterfuge. The next day, leaving a portion of his army outside, apparently besieging Thurii, he had drawn Varinius and his soldiers into a deadly trap. Since that day, Carbo’s respect for Spartacus had been unassailable. The Romans’ defeat had been total, their humiliation immense.

Clearly, Longinus wasn’t going to let the same happen to Mutina, or to him.

‘We’ll just have to brazen our way in.’ Carbo was relieved to see some of the nervousness he was feeling reflected in Navio’s face.

‘If they ask, let’s lay it on thick about our families being slaughtered. We’re loyal Roman citizens, who pay our taxes and ask little in return. Where were the legionaries to protect us when Spartacus and his savages descended on our farms? And so on.’

‘Fine.’ However, Carbo’s tension grew as they edged closer to the walls, which were heavily manned. There were ballistae at regular intervals along the stone battlements as well. He indicated them with tight nods of his hed. ‘See those?’

‘Yes. They’re prepared for a siege. Maybe Longinus is scared to march outside and fight!’ joked Navio.

‘Maybe. But he’ll do it anyway.’

‘He’ll have to,’ agreed Navio grimly. ‘Or for the rest of his life he’ll be known as the general who let Spartacus escape. He’d never command more than a squad of men on latrine duty.’

It was a pleasing to imagine a Roman general supervising the cleaning up of shit and piss, but Carbo forced himself to concentrate on what was going on ahead. The skinny man with the cart in front was having a furious argument with the legionaries manning the gate. ‘You’re not coming in with that damn wagon,’ reiterated the optio in charge, a pug-nosed, officious individual. ‘For the foreseeable future, no trade goods are to be allowed in unless by the direct order of the proconsul.’ He scanned the list in his right hand. ‘I can’t see anything here about planks.’

‘These have been ordered by no less than Purpurius!’

‘Purpurius?’ The optio yawned.

‘He is an important merchant who lives by the forum.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Let me tell you that Purpurius is a friend of the proconsul!’

‘I’m sure he is,’ said the optio in a disbelieving tone. ‘His goods aren’t on my list, however.’

‘It’s taken me two days to get here,’ pleaded the carter.

‘Not my problem,’ came the bored reply. ‘Now back your cart up and turn around. You’re blocking the entrance.’

‘I-’

The optio lifted his metal-tipped staff. ‘Are you deaf?’

Throwing filthy looks at the soldiers and complaining about what Purpurius would do when he heard what had happened, the unfortunate carter began the laborious procedure of reversing the oxen. Carbo, Navio and the people behind them scrambled out of the way as he manoeuvred away from the walls and, still grumbling, headed back the way he had come.

‘Get a move on!’ bellowed a voice.

The optio was beckoning them forward. ‘Names,’ he called out.

They had already decided that using their real names wouldn’t matter, and it would mean that they didn’t have to remember an alias. ‘Paullus Carbo.’

‘Marcus Navio.’

‘Occupations?’

‘We’re farmers, sir,’ said Carbo.

He looked them up and down. ‘No cart, no sacks of vegetables. What’s your business here?’

‘We’ve been driven off our land,’ replied Carbo bitterly.

‘Ah. By Spartacus and his lot?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Navio’s face twitched. ‘The bastards killed our families. Took all of our livestock. Trampled the young wheat in the fields.’

‘Left us with nothing,’ added Carbo.

The optio grimaced in sympathy. ‘You’re not alone. The same’s happened to thousands of others. Why have you come to Mutina?’

‘To look for work, sir,’ replied Navio.

‘Work? You’ll be lucky. The place is bursting at the seams with refugees.’

‘We’ll do anything, sir,’ Carbo pleaded. ‘Please.’

The optio rubbed his battered nose. ‘There’ll be work soon enough, I suppose. When Spartacus arrives, we’ll need men who can carry rocks to the catapults on the walls. Think you can do that all day without complaining?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘You look fit enough. No weapons apart from those knives?’

‘No, sir.’

He gave them an abrupt wave. ‘Go on then. Inside with both of you.’

Muttering their thanks, the friends hurried under the stone arch.

‘Paullus Carbo? You kept that one quiet,’ said Navio with a chuckle.

Carbo felt his face flame. ‘I don’t like the name, so I never use it.’

‘Paullus, my son! Dinner is served.’ Navio’s tone was falsetto high, mimicking a woman’s voice.

‘Piss off!’ He thumped Navio on the arm.

‘Paullus! Time for your lessons!’

Navio’s mimicry reminded Carbo of his old tutor and, despite himself, he snorted with amusement.

Navio put a finger to his lips. ‘We’re supposed to be grieving for our families — Paullus!’

They were so busy trying not to laugh out loud that neither saw one of the optio’s men sloping after them.