‘That’s him,’ said Carbo.
‘You did well to aid my men, boy. What do they call you?’
‘A-Arnax, sir.’
‘A strong name.’
Arnax said nothing.
‘I don’t bite.’
Arnax glanced at Carbo, who gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he ventured.
Spartacus cocked his head. ‘What is it? You’ve heard terrible things about me?’
‘Y-y-yes, sir.’
‘What have you heard?’
No reply.
‘Tell me,’ Spartacus commanded.
Again Arnax looked to Carbo, who said, ‘Tell him.’
‘Apparently, you eat babies.’
Spartacus’ mouth twitched. ‘Really?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Who said that?’
‘My master. People in the forum,’ muttered Arnax.
‘He’s not your master any more. You’re free now.’
Arnax’s fearful expression eased a little.
‘I can also tell you that I am an ordinary man like Carbo or Navio. I don’t eat babies, nor do I breathe fire. As I said, I am grateful that you saved my men. You are welcome here.’ Arnax said nothing, and he frowned. ‘Still not happy?’
To Carbo’s shock, Arnax blurted, ‘You killed all those legionaries. The ones who had to fight each other to the death.’
‘Arnax!’ hissed Carbo.
Spartacus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Spirited, isn’t he?’
Arnax’s momentary courage fled him, and his eyes lowered.
‘Do you know why munera have historically been held?’
‘To commemorate the death of someone rich or famous,’ Arnax replied.
‘That’s right,’ said Spartacus. ‘Nowadays, of course, they’re held any time some high-and-mighty or up-and-coming noble wants to impress the masses. Men fight and sometimes die in those munera, don’t they? Slaves, who have no choice in the matter.’
Arnax nodded.
‘My munus was to mark the death of thousands of my former comrades in battle. In my mind, that makes it far more valid than the entertainment that is laid on for the populations of towns the length and breadth of Italy every month or two. I had every damn right to do what I did.’ He pinned Arnax with a hard stare. ‘Understand?’
In the silence that followed, Carbo was surprised to find himself in agreement with Spartacus. The munus had upset him badly at the time, but for months now, he had trained and fought alongside former slaves. They were his trusted comrades. If it was acceptable to force men such as they to fight as gladiators, then it was permissible to do the same to Roman prisoners. He watched Arnax, pleased, surprised and a little worried by the way he’d stood up to Spartacus. Agree with him.
‘Yes,’ the boy said at last.
‘A real fighter you’ve got there, Carbo. I think I can understand now why a slip of a lad like him saved your lives at the risk of his own. He’ll make a good soldier one day — as long as he learns to watch his tongue.’
‘He will,’ replied Carbo.
‘Ever been hunting?’ Spartacus asked Arnax.
‘No.’
‘This can be your first time. We take bows and arrows for deer and birds, and these in case we meet a boar.’ He handed over his heavy hunting spear. ‘You can carry that.’
Arnax beamed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Carbo?’ asked Spartacus.
‘There are plenty of tracks in the woods to the north of the camp. I thought that would be a good place to start.’
‘If we want to have a chance of killing anything, we’d best get moving, eh?’ Navio slapped his mail shirt. ‘Help me take this off,’ he said to Arnax.
Aided by Spartacus, Carbo also removed his. Although it made sense to leave the heavy shirt behind, he felt naked without it. Talk of the meat that they’d be roasting over their fire that night soon put his concerns to rest, however.
The four wended their way through lines of tents to the edge of the vast encampment. Despite the fact that Spartacus kept his head down, his men hailed him at every step. It took a mile or more before the sights and sounds of the huge army were left behind, but eventually they found themselves alone, a world away from the hustle-bustle of the camp. It was a fine spring day, and the warm temperature was most welcome after the long winter months. Carbo felt glad just to be wearing a tunic.
He led the little party fast across the open ground that sloped downwards to the north. It was covered in short grass and clumps of aromatic sage and juniper. His eyes scanned the dirt for signs of deer or boar, but all he saw were the tracks of small creatures such as the startled hare that had bounded off between a dark green myrtle shrub and a mass of prickly buckthorn. There was plenty of birdlife. Several large black birds with red markings around their eyes and impressive fantails darted off into the undergrowth as they passed. They looked good enough to eat, but a swift glance at Navio and Spartacus told Carbo that they too wanted bigger quarry.
He ignored the pair of hooded crows that chattered angrily at them from a cork oak tree. In the distance, Carbo heard the distinctive hammering of a woodpecker, a bird sacred to Mars, the god of war. He quickly offered up a prayer. Give us a good hunt, O Great One. They walked on, entering the shelter of the woods. Motes of dust floated lazily on the sunlight that filtered through the branches of laurels, stone pines and strawberry trees. It was peaceful — eerily so. Carbo thought of the copse a short distance away that contained hundreds of Roman soldiers and their ballistae, and his skin crawled. He began to see a legionary behind every tree, and wished that he had not taken off his mail shirt. Navio’s hiss startled him. ‘Pssst!’
Carbo looked. Ten paces off to his left, Spartacus was pointing at the ground. He padded over. At the Thracian’s feet were two large hoof imprints with a characteristic pair of indents behind them. ‘Red deer. A big one.’
‘It’s a stag,’ said Navio excitedly.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Spartacus.
At once Carbo’s gaze moved to the trees in front of them. Of course he saw nothing. The marks were fresh, but the stag would be some distance away.
When they had followed the prints for a little way, their suspicions were proved correct. ‘See this?’ Carbo showed Arnax. ‘We know it’s a male deer because the rear tracks fall to the inside of the front ones. That happens because his chest is a lot larger than his hindquarters.’
‘Where is he?’ Arnax’s eyes were alive with interest and delight.
Spartacus stooped and pressed his fingers into the nearest print. ‘Nowhere that close. But the earth is still a little damp. He passed by here today. Probably sometime in the morning.’
Arnax hefted the spear in his right hand. ‘Will we find him?’
Carbo grinned at the boy’s enthusiasm. ‘Who knows? We shall have to follow his tracks and see. Now is the time to pray to Diana for her help.’ Using a loop of leather made for the purpose, he slung his spear across his back. Then he slipped an arrow with a narrow head from his quiver and nocked it to his bowstring.
‘That won’t take down a deer,’ joked Navio.
‘We might see another hare, or one of those black birds,’ answered Carbo a trifle defensively.
‘It always pays to be ready,’ said Spartacus, selecting a shaft of his own. ‘For whatever — or whoever — we might meet.’
Carbo felt gratified. During the time the slave army had travelled from deep in the south, he’d spent a lot of time scouting with Atheas. The Scythian never moved without a weapon in his hands.
Some time later, however, his vague unease had been replaced by frustration. He had seen no phantom legionaries, and there had been no game worth bringing down either. Irritatingly, the stag’s tracks had petered out on a bare rocky slope that led to the bank of a fast-flowing stream. The trio had cast about, searching for signs of where the animal might have left the hard ground and forded the watercourse, but had had no luck.
‘The damn creature must have sprouted wings and flown away,’ said Navio, frowning.