‘Thirsty. I’m so thirsty.’
Ariadne’s helplessness reached new heights. She had no water bag with her. Glancing up and down the road, she could see no well, no buildings. Just a line of occupied crosses, stretching away on either side as far as she could see. ‘How many men have been crucified?’ she whispered in horror. ‘It must be hundreds.’
‘Thousands,’ croaked Egbeo.
Suddenly, Ariadne knew why she was here. Terror twisted her stomach into a painful knot. ‘Spartacus — where is Spartacus?’
Egbeo didn’t answer.
‘Where is my husband?’ Desperation turned her voice shrill.
The lines on his haggard face grew even deeper. ‘He-’
A hand shook her shoulder. ‘Ariadne!’
Startled, she opened her eyes to find the midwife crouched over her. ‘You were having a nightmare-’ She was interrupted by a mewling sound from beside Ariadne. ‘And you woke the baby. I think he’s hungry.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Failing to clear her mind of the graphic images, Ariadne scooped up Maron, whose cry was growing louder. It cannot be coincidence that I’ve had the same hideous dream three times, can it? She kissed her son on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, my darling. Come here.’ Placing him on her breast with the help of the midwife, she lay down again. ‘My dream was terrible.’
The old woman cackled. ‘It’s the herbs. They often bring bizarre and unsettling images. Things that we do not want to happen, or things that we fear.’
‘Do the visions ever come true?’
‘Sometimes, but it’s almost impossible to know the real ones from the false. My advice is for you to forget all about it. You’ve got more important things to be doing than brooding over a nightmare.’
Ariadne nodded in agreement. That would be best. She busied herself by gazing at Maron, and imagining what he would look like as he grew up. Would he inherit Spartacus’ piercing grey eyes or her brown ones? Would he be compactly built, like his father, or take after her family, who were slighter framed? Soon though, her mind began to wander. Inevitably, it returned to her dream. With Spartacus in Rome, her natural reaction to it was to assume the worst for him. How can it be the herbs when I’ve had the same vision before? Could Spartacus be already dead? She took a deep breath. On the previous occasions that she had seen the lines of crosses, there had been no Egbeo, no conversation. Surely, the big Thracian’s presence in the nightmare meant that it could not be taking place in the present or the near future, because Egbeo was alive and well, and here with the army. That had to mean that Spartacus was not one of the crucified men.
The old woman coughed, and Ariadne glanced at her. Maybe none of it means anything. Her attempt to reassure herself lasted no more than a heartbeat. A dream so dramatic didn’t keep returning unless it was of some significance.
Maron stirred, and she caressed the back of his head. ‘Hush, my little one. It’s all right. It’s all right.’ Dionysus will look after us, as he always has. Spartacus was not one of the men I saw.
As she closed her eyes and tried to rest once more, Ariadne was haunted by one question. She could not make herself forget it.
What had Egbeo been trying to tell her?
On their way to the Esquiline, Spartacus had Tulla purchase two new tunics from a rundown clothes shop on a side street. Discarding their bloody ones on a dung heap and with their knives cleaned and sheathed, the trio were able to take to the main thoroughfares once more. There were parties of soldiers everywhere, but they were paying little heed to the passers-by. Despite this, Carbo’s heart was racing, but he swaggered along as if he were walking through Capua. Spartacus was careful to look at the ground. Finding a small open-fronted restaurant at the base of the hill, Carbo stood at the counter and ordered some food while Tulla went in search of Varus’ house. Both watched the passing patrols, but fortunately the soldiers seemed interested only in inns and taverns. Despite the fact that no one had challenged them, both were glad when the girl returned.
Tulla was immune to their worries. ‘It’s two streets up,’ she announced breezily. ‘We’ll know it by the embroidered cushions on the benches outside.’
Carbo rolled his eyes.
‘What’s she talking about?’ demanded Spartacus.
‘There are seats outside the houses of the rich for their clients to sit on as they wait to be seen. My uncle has always been one for ostentation.’
Tulla led them up the flagged street, weaving her way through the traffic. She took a left at a fountain decorated with a central gilded statue of Neptune, and then the second right.
Carbo spotted the cushions first; he remembered his mother talking about them. ‘That’s it.’
They approached. Apart from the soft furnishings on the otherwise empty benches, Alfenus Varus’ house could have been one of thousands in Rome. As with many others in this part of the city, it stood alone, a rectangular building with a high outer wall whose only features were a massive studded door and a line of small glass windows. This feature was rare indeed. Carbo’s mother’s words echoed in his head. ‘He always has to have the latest fad, no matter how expensive it is.’ The fool. Already he was not looking forward to seeing his uncle again. Yet the thought of his parents drove him on. Somehow he would make them understand what he’d done.
Tulla sat down on the bench to the left of the door. Spartacus remained standing.
Carbo realised that they were both looking at him. He straightened his tunic and ran his hands through his hair. Then he stepped up and rapped the iron elephant trunk knocker off the timbers. It made a deep, thumping noise.
He waited for a long time, and was just about to knock again when a shutter at head height opened. A pair of eyes stared out suspiciously. ‘Yes?’
‘Is Alfenus Varus in?’
There was an audible Phhh of contempt. ‘Not to the likes of you.’ The shutter began to close.
This reaction to his scarred appearance was second nature to Carbo. Once, it would have cowed him. Now he took a step forward. ‘I think you’ll find that that’s not the case. I’m his nephew.’
The shutter stopped. ‘You’re who?’
‘Paullus Carbo, his nephew.’
‘The son of Julia, Alfenus’ sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait here.’
Carbo was about to ask if his parents were still living in the house, but the shutter had already slammed home. There was a faint sound of footsteps receding, and then silence.
‘That wasn’t exactly the warmest of welcomes,’ muttered Spartacus.
‘Alfenus thinks that Mother married below her station. He has always looked down on us. He’s a good man really.’ Carbo’s protest was automatic, and echoed his father’s words. For the first time in his life, however, the sentiment felt false. The few times he had met Varus, the man had been nothing but patronising and arrogant. It was as well that he’d left the family home, Carbo decided. Otherwise, his father would have sent him to live here under Varus’ supervision, to train as a lawyer.
A moment later, he heard someone returning down the hall. There was a metallic snick as the bolt was drawn back, and the door opened. A shrew-faced man with grey hair looked out. ‘You’re to come in.’ His eyes moved distastefully from Spartacus to Tulla. ‘Your slave, and your…?’
‘Guide.’ Good, thought Carbo. I didn’t even need to lie to him.
‘I see. They can remain outside.’
Carbo gave what he hoped was a reassuring glance to Spartacus, and crossed the threshold. The door was shut with an air of finality, making him uneasy, but he squared his shoulders. This was no time for weakness.
‘Leave the knife here.’ The slave indicated a recess to one side of the entrance. Inside it, a massive man sat on a stool with a club between his knees. He seemed dull-witted, but fully capable of braining someone if he was ordered to. Carbo handed over his dagger without protest.