Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

A furious roar met his words.

‘We’re no savages!’ cried Gannicus. ‘What happened here is no different to the way you treat slaves.’

‘Slaves,’ Caepio repeated. ‘Not free men.’

‘Rome lives by double standards,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘During the war against Hannibal, when its need was great, it liberated enough slaves to raise two new legions. They were freed in return for fighting for the Republic. Those men proved that they were the equal of any citizen.’

‘I cannot deny what you say, but I also know how my people’s leaders will respond when they hear about this munus. This is not really about the rights and wrongs of who is made a slave and who is not, about who fights and who does not. It is about humiliating Rome, and that you have done, by defeating both consuls, by taking four silver eagles and, last of all, by putting on this display. Am I not right?’ Caepio met Spartacus’ stare and held it.

‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted, as his men howled with glee.

‘It will not be forgotten, I can promise you.’

Spartacus raised a hand, halting Castus, who looked as if he was about to attack Caepio. ‘Good. Because that was my intent! Tell them that Spartacus the Thracian and his men can fight as well as any of your legionaries, and by defeating the consular armies we have proved it twice.’ This time, Spartacus caught the sour look that Castus gave Gannicus. ‘Tell the Senate that I am not the only general here. These men, Gannicus and Castus’ — he indicated them — ‘played pivotal roles in the defeats of Lentulus and Gellius. Rome had best look to its security! The next army it sends our way will suffer an even greater defeat. More eagles will be lost.’ Spartacus was pleased to see broad grins spread across the Gauls’ faces. He had lied — neither of them were tacticians as he was — but thousands of men looked to them as leaders. He had to keep them on board.

‘I shall tell the Senate everything you said. Am I free to go?’

‘You are. Give him enough food to last him to Rome! He is to have no weapons,’ Spartacus ordered.

‘And the bodies of my comrades?’

‘You expect me to say that they will be left in the open air for the carrion birds to pick on, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘They died the deaths of brave men, so they will be buried with honour. You have my word on that. I cannot say the same of the soldiers who were slain on the field, however. Many of them were cowards.’

Caepio’s face hardened, but he did not argue. ‘I pray to the gods that this is not the last time we meet.’

‘I shall not be merciful the next time.’

‘Nor shall I.’

‘Then we understand each other.’ Spartacus watched Caepio walk away. Another brave man, he thought. He spoke the truth too. Rome would not let this humiliation go unanswered. It made sense, therefore, to cross the Alps and go beyond the legions’ reach. A sneaking doubt crept into his mind. What if the Senate sends armies after us? It is not as if they don’t know where Thrace is. He shoved the disquieting idea away. That will never happen. Deep in his guts, though, Spartacus knew that the possibility, even the likelihood, was there. Rome would not forgive, or as Caepio had said, forget, this many defeats.

Little did he know that Ariadne was thinking similar thoughts. When Hannibal Barca was forced to leave Carthage, he was pursued for the rest of his life by Roman agents. She clenched her fists. Stop it. Dionysus, let us escape Italy, I beg you. Watch over us always and keep us safe.

Carbo too was watching the centurion; then, almost before he’d realised what he’d done, he had set off after Caepio. Hearing his tread, the centurion spun around.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to stab you in the back.’

Caepio looked even more suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

Carbo suddenly felt embarrassed. This close, Caepio did not resemble his father in any way. ‘I–I just wanted to say that you’re a brave man.’

‘You’re Roman?’ Complete disbelief filled Caepio’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘What in the name of sacred Jupiter are you doing with this rabble? Have you no pride?’

‘Of course I have.’ Carbo was furious to feel his cheeks going red.

‘You make me sick.’ Caepio began to walk away.

‘Hey! I would not have made you fight each other that way.’

Caepio turned again. The contempt on his face was writ large. ‘Really? Yet you’ve chosen to ally yourself with a host of murdering, raping slaves. Scum who have ravaged towns and cities the length and breadth of Italy, who have massacred thousands of innocent citizens and brave legionaries. In my mind, that makes you a latro of the worst type.’ He hawked and spat at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s for being a traitor to your own kind.’

Anger flared in Carbo’s belly. ‘Piss off, before I gut you!’

Caepio didn’t bother replying. He stalked off, muttering insults.

So that’s how it is. There can be no going back now. Ever. Why did I even think it was possible? It had been naive to approach Caepio, but he had wanted to express his kinship with him. He had been unprepared for the level of the centurion’s scorn. Yet an odd feeling — was it satisfaction? — filled him. I am a latro after all. The slaves have become my family. And Spartacus is my leader. Despite the fact that he would never see his parents again, the emotion was oddly comforting.

Gannicus took a long pull from the small amphora. He smacked his thick lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s a good vintage, or I’m no judge.’

Castus lifted an arse cheek and let loose a thundering fart. ‘You’re no judge! It’s only entered your thick skull that it’s quality wine because we took it from Gellius’ tent.’ He ducked, chuckling, as the clay vessel flew at his head. It landed a few steps beyond his position by the fire. He leaned over and picked it up before its entire contents leaked out. ‘You know I’m right. Ten denarii says that you grew up on vinegar-flavoured, watered-down piss. Like me, like every farm slave that ever was. The best we could hope for every year was the dregs of the master’s mulsum at the Vinalia Rustica. How would we know what tastes good and what doesn’t?’

Gannicus cracked a sour smile by way of agreement; his moon face was less jovial that usual.

‘I couldn’t tell a Falernian from donkey piss most of the time, but if one thing’s certain, every bloody drop taken from the Romans tastes like nectar!’ Castus swigged from the amphora and tossed it back. ‘To be fair, that does have good flavour.’

Gannicus’ irritated expression eased. ‘I told you so.’

‘Look at us! We who were slaves, gladiators, the lowest of the low, living like kings!’ Castus’ wave incorporated the grand Roman tent that he’d insisted his men take from Gellius’ camp, and the glittering gilt standards that had been stabbed into the earth before it. ‘If that prick Gellius wasn’t so scrawny, I’d be wearing his armour too!’

Gannicus laughed. ‘It’s quite something to own the breastplate of a Roman consul, eh? Even if it doesn’t fit!’

‘I wish I’d taken it from his corpse,’ growled Castus. ‘Next time the dog won’t be so lucky.’

‘If he has the balls to come back for another bout.’

They sat and savoured the memories of their victory, which had come in no small part from their own personal bravery.

‘That was a fine spectacle that Spartacus put on earlier,’ said Castus in a grudging voice.

‘True. The men loved it.’

‘He’s got such a way with them, damn his eyes.’ Castus didn’t try to hide his jealousy. Gannicus knew how he felt about the Thracian. So too did the few warriors, Gauls all, who lounged nearby. ‘Time was that being courageous in battle and able to drink any other man under the table was good enough, eh?’