Spartacus was pleased. Things augured well. On the spur of the moment, he decided to join Carbo. Hunting was something that he had always enjoyed, but there had been precious little time for it of recent months. He ignored the host of tasks that needed doing, and that it was a little rash to leave the camp without guards. It would do him good, he decided, to forget Longinus, Castus and Gannicus, and the damn Alps for a few hours. Nothing will happen. The Rider will look after me, as he always does.
‘Put your back into it!’ roared Julius, his face a handsbreadth from Marcion’s. ‘Just because we’re nearly done for the day, just because we’ve hammered the Romans both times that you’ve fought them, doesn’t mean you can start slacking. Training is training, and it goes on until I say so!’
Marcion’s mouth set into a scowl of concentration. He raised his shield and advanced towards Gaius, his tent mate. He wished that Julius would piss off and annoy one of the other soldiers in their unit, but there was little chance of that. Their centurion never moved on until he was satisfied.
He glanced to either side. Beyond his century, the rest of his cohort was also busy. Further on, many hundreds of men were being forced by their officers to run, to fight, as he was, with covered weapons, or to attack other groups in formation. Shouts and commands mixed with the clack, clack sound of swords hitting scuta and the deeper thump of shield bosses making contact with each other. In the distance, he could see the cavalry charging en masse, wheeling and turning in graceful but deadly arcs. It was the same as always, he thought wearily. If we aren’t marching or fighting, we’re bloody training.
‘Move it!’ yelled Julius.
Marcion peered over the rim of his scutum as he shuffled forward. Gaius was about ten paces away. Marcion could only see his friend’s eyes, and his feet. The shield Gaius carried protected almost his entire body, as Marcion’s did his. It left precious little to attack. He still knew what to do. He darted forward, hoping to catch Gaius off guard. Marcion used all of his force, smashing his shield boss into Gaius’ scutum. Although Gaius had braced himself, the impact rocked him back on his heels, and he wasn’t able to dodge Marcion’s blade as it came sliding over the shield’s iron rim. ‘Damn you!’ he spat.
‘You’re dead,’ said Marcion with a smile.
‘You won’t get me like that again,’ Gaius swore.
‘Glad to hear it,’ came Julius’ sarcastic voice. ‘If this was real life, you’d be choking out your last breath by now. Do it again.’
The words had barely left the centurion’s lips when Gaius threw himself across the space that separated him from Marcion. This time, it was Marcion who went over, landing on his arse with his shield on top of him. Winded by the fall, he could do nothing to prevent Gaius ripping aside his scutum and pretend to skewer him through the neck.
Gaius leered. ‘That’ll teach you, you pup!’ He backed off, allowing Marcion to get to his feet.
‘Better, Gaius,’ declared Julius. He threw a hard glance at Marcion. ‘Not as good as you think, are you?’
Stung, Marcion had the sense not to answer.
‘Right, that’ll do you for the day.’ Julius raised his voice. ‘DISMISSED! Same time tomorrow, you sacks of shit!’
With a relieved sigh, Marcion stripped the leather cover from his gladius and slid it back into its scabbard. He made sure that the centurion was out of earshot. ‘Julius is fucking annoying, but he’s right. We have to keep sharp, eh?’
Gaius hawked and spat. ‘Aye, true enough. A man needs Fortuna on his side every time he goes into battle. Even the best soldier can end up staring at a string of his own guts, or worse. Remember Hirtius?’
‘Of course.’ Marcion winced. Hirtius had been one of their tent mates. A short barrel of a man, he’d been prodigiously strong. That hadn’t stopped him taking a stray pilum in the eye during the fight against Gellius’ legions. His deafening screams had gone on until Zeuxis had done him a mercy by cutting his throat.
‘Who’s cooking tonight?’ asked a familiar deep voice.
‘It’s your bloody turn, Zeuxis!’ Gaius cried indignantly.
‘Is it?’ Zeuxis wiped the sheen of sweat from his pate and flicked it at Gaius, who dodged, cursing.
‘You know damn well it is!’
‘Don’t look at me!’ said Marcion as Zeuxis’ head turned. ‘I’d much rather have your tasteless offering than have to cook.’
‘Me too,’ declared Arphocras, who had been Zeuxis’ sparring mate. ‘You’re such a chancer! Every eight days, it’s the same.’
Zeuxis shrugged. ‘I can’t help it if my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Just as well that we remember for you, eh?’ jibed Marcion.
Despite Gaius besting him, Marcion’s mood was lifting. This was his favourite part of the day. Training was over. The hottest hours had passed, but it was still a good while until sunset. After he’d cleaned the dust off his equipment, there was time perhaps to fill a bucket from the river and to have a wash. Most of his tent mates weren’t bothered, but the love of small luxuries that Marcion had grown up with died hard. After a hard training session, he liked nothing better than to get clean. It was best to slope off on his own, however. If Zeuxis realised, he’d never hear the end of it. A desire to bathe regularly did not mean that he liked other men, he thought angrily, just that he had possessed some culture. It was Zeuxis who was the primitive, not him. He smiled.
His dreadful cooking proved it.
Carbo had been busy all day. After a hearty bowl of barley porridge and honey prepared by Arnax, he had slept for several hours. Then, as he would have done normally, Carbo had sought out the cohort of which he was second-in-command. His senior officer was Egbeo, a huge Thracian who was one of Spartacus’ most devoted followers, and whom Carbo had grown to trust implicitly. He’d found Egbeo training the men. ‘You might think that the Roman dogs are scared of us now, but they’re not! You can never take them for granted,’ the Thracian had roared over and over. ‘You still need to drill with each other. You have to know in your gut that when the order comes, every man around you will do exactly as you do. That he will advance. Form close order. Throw his javelins. Charge the enemy. Help to form a wedge. Even to retreat!’ Carbo had smiled at the guffaws this produced and, invigorated by Egbeo’s speech, had set to with a will. However, once the practice was over and he’d spent a little time chatting with his men, he found himself at a loose end. He remembered his idea of going hunting and when Navio had returned from training his own cohort, he suggested they went together.
‘Come on. It’ll be better than having to look at Gannicus’ men preening themselves before they leave.’
‘True enough,’ said Navio with a grimace. Although they were supposed to be keeping quiet about what they were to do, Gannicus’ troops were doing a poor job of it. ‘What do you fancy going after?’
‘I’ll take whatever we can find. Boar. Deer. A bird for the pot.’
‘Can I tag along?’
Arnax’s eager face made Carbo smile: he was becoming fond of the boy. ‘All right. We’re not likely to meet any Roman patrols.’
Arnax’s face fell. ‘How can you be sure?’
There was a familiar laugh. ‘Because they’re too damn scared to come anywhere near my army.’
Arnax goggled. ‘Oh,’ he said in a small voice.
‘Spartacus!’ Carbo took in his leader’s hunting weapons. ‘Have you come to join us?’
‘I haven’t been on a hunt in months.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Carbo, thinking about what might happen if they did meet a Roman patrol.
‘I am.’ Ariadne is worried about nothing.
Spartacus’ tone brooked no argument. Carbo shrugged. Navio grinned. ‘Another bow increases our chance of success.’
Spartacus nodded a friendly greeting at Arnax, who looked even more frightened. ‘So this is the lad who helped you out in Mutina?’