‘Enough miserable talk,’ declared Spartacus. ‘Since when are soldiers good at seeing through disguises? We will both get through. If you cut down one of Varus’ best togas, you can just act like a rich young noble.’
‘Very well. What will you do?’
‘Take the simplest option.’ Spartacus’ eyes let his eyes go vacant and his lower lip fall slackly. A trickle of spit dribbled down on to his chin. He made a noise halfway between a distressed animal and a man in pain. He shuffled across the courtyard, hunching his back and dragging one of his legs. All the while, he kept moaning.
Carbo stared in amazement. Tulla looked horrified.
Abruptly, Spartacus stood up. ‘Convinced?’ he asked with a smile.
They both shook their heads in assent.
‘Good. That’s settled then.’ He eyed Tulla. ‘I’d wager that the busiest times are the first few hours of the day, and the last hour before the gate shuts.’
‘That’s right.’
‘There’s no point waiting until sunset. We want to get as far from the city as possible today. We go now,’ declared Spartacus. Inside, he wasn’t quite so certain. Crassus would be sparing no effort to find him. The politician would suspect that if he was captured, the rebellion would soon be over. How right he would be. Castus and Gannicus were no generals. Navio was an able tactician, but because he was a Roman, many distrusted him. Egbeo and Pulcher were brave and capable enough, but they lacked the charisma necessary to hold together tens of thousands of men. I have to get out. Great Rider, watch over me. Dionysus, help me to return to my wife, your priestess. The prayers helped. Spartacus felt his inner calm return. ‘Tulla, you will leave us before the gate. I’ll pay you now.’ He reached for the purse around his neck.
Dismay filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Now? But I might betray you!’
‘I don’t think you’ll do that, will you?’
‘No.’
‘I knew it. You’re a good girl.’ It had been the right decision not to kill her, thought Spartacus.
Tulla’s chin wobbled. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘Of course you don’t, but we must,’ said Spartacus in a kindly tone. ‘My army is waiting for me.’ And my wife and son.
‘Take me with you!’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’ wailed Tulla.
‘You cannot fight.’
‘I can be a scout! I’ll clean and polish your equipment. There must be something I can do.’
‘Tulla, you have a stout heart, but you’re too young.’ Spartacus stooped to the girl’s level. ‘However, there is something you could do for me here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I want you to hang around the Curia, the basilicae and the better classes of baths. You know, the places where senators tend to congregate. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. See what you can find out. Any information about Crassus or their legions could be very useful.’
Tulla’s eyes shone. ‘I can do that!’
‘I’m relying on you.’ Spartacus clapped her on the arm. ‘I’ll send word to you at the Elysian Fields, on the ides of every month. You can tell the messenger everything that you’ve heard.’
‘I will!’
Carbo admired Spartacus’ ability to make people believe in him. The day before, he’d been on the point of killing the girl. Now she was eating out of his hand. Not only that, but he had neatly restored Tulla’s pride. Now she had a purpose. As he himself did, with his oath to protect Ariadne. In the depths of his grief, that knowledge gave him strength.
Spartacus gave them both an encouraging nod. ‘Let’s move.’
Carbo’s guts had turned to liquid by the time he came within thirty paces of the gate. The Thracian had opted to go ahead of Carbo. They had arranged to meet about a mile out of the city, by a tomb that they both remembered. Carbo and Tulla — who was still hanging around — had watched with bated breath as Spartacus had joined the queue that packed the street leading up to the gate. They had grinned at the loud exclamations of disgust and the way people had moved as far away from him as possible. Spartacus’ idea of grabbing a fuller’s bucket of urine and emptying it over himself had continued to pay off royally. The guards, supplemented by ten hard-faced legionaries, had begun to complain as soon as his ripe smell had hit their nostrils. When Spartacus had shuffled before them, dribbling, moaning and covered in piss, they had urged him out of the city with the butts of their pila.
It had been as easy as that, thought Carbo enviously. Great Jupiter, let it be the same for me. His prayer did little to ease his concerns, or to propel his feet forwards. Yet he couldn’t hang around for much longer without starting to attract attention. Wealthy young men didn’t loiter on street corners. Already he had had some strange looks.
Since the Thracian had left, Carbo had seen one man — a foreigner, maybe Greek or Dacian — accused of being Spartacus. Protesting his innocence in poor Latin, the man had been hammered to the ground in a flurry of blows, trussed up like a hen for the pot, and dragged off to be interrogated. After that, Carbo had hoped that the guards’ vigilance would lapse a little, but it was not to be. They continued their aggressive questioning of all men of fighting age, as well as stabbing their pila into any carts loaded with merchandise.
Gods above, facing death in battle is easier than this.
‘Good luck!’ hissed Tulla from her spot against a wall a dozen paces away.
Carbo gave her a terse nod, and walked to join the line. He forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nostrils, counting his heartbeat as he exhaled. After he had done that several times, he felt calmer. A wagon drawn by two oxen pulled up behind him. Carbo half turned. One of the beasts sniffed at him, and then tried to lick his arm. Normally, he liked the way cattle did that, but now he recoiled from its long tongue and threw the carter a poisonous look. The man glared at him. ‘It’s what oxen do, isn’t it? Won’t do you no harm. Anyone who’d ever been around livestock would know that. Bloody city folk!’
Carbo sniffed haughtily and turned his back.
The man in front shuffled forward a few steps. He did the same.
And so it went for what seemed an eternity.
As he edged closer, Carbo strained his ears to pick out what the soldiers were saying. Most of the conversations were short.
‘Name?’
‘Julius Clodianus.’
‘Trade?’
‘Stonemason.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To a new tomb about two miles out.’
There was a snort of laughter. ‘Not your own then, I take it?’
‘No,’ the mason replied sourly. ‘It’s that of a rich lawyer. He requested that the family mausoleum be enlarged before his funeral. New brickwork, marble floor, expensive Greek statues: you name it, he wanted it. A dozen of us have been working on it fit to burst for a week now.’
‘Trying to take it all with him, is he? It won’t work!’ The soldier jerked his head. ‘On your way.’
The next man was a sailor on shore leave who was going to visit relations living in the countryside. He was ushered out with loud good wishes. The woman following was a villager who had been to Rome to seek Minerva’s help at the temple on the Capitoline Hill. She called down the blessings of the goddess on the guards as they waved her through. Then there were only two more people in front of Carbo. Sweat oozed down the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Varus’ toga had been cut down, but the wool was still heavy and over warm for the time of year. He shuffled forward, the barrage of shouted questions and answers merging into one.
‘Next!’
Carbo blinked. The man ahead of him was already walking under the archway of the gate.
‘Come on, young sir! We don’t have all day.’
A second soldier leered. ‘Daydreaming about your favourite whore?’
Carbo’s anger made his flush grow deeper, and the legionaries, thinking he was embarrassed, roared with laughter.
‘The lad must have been doing just that,’ said the first man. He turned back to Carbo. ‘Name?’