Caepio growled in approval. ‘Catch them unawares, that’s what we want to do!’
‘What are you suggesting, sir?’ asked Scrofa. ‘Increasing the number of troops at the gates?’
‘No,’ said Crassus as if to a child. ‘It was a slim hope that we would catch Spartacus leaving the city. We can safely assume that the whoreson has flown the coop by now.’ He gave Mummius a hard look.
‘My soldiers interrogated everyone whom they thought was suspicious, sir. More than a hundred men were detained.’
Crassus glanced at Caepio, who shook his head. ‘None of whom proved to be Spartacus.’
‘No, sir, but-’
‘Quiet, Mummius. You failed! If you had moved faster, we might be interrogating Spartacus right now, instead of planning our campaign against him.’ Crassus knew he was being hard on Mummius, but the man needed to know who was in charge. He — and the others — had to be sent a clear message from the start.
Mummius lapsed into a glowering silence.
‘As you know, I had intended spending the autumn and winter filling our recruitment quotas, and in arming and training the men. Now I want to bring our plans forward. Significantly.’
‘The number of volunteers has been exceptional, sir,’ agreed Quinctius. ‘And the workshops are also turning out equipment at a great rate.’
‘I should bloody hope so. I’m paying twice the market rate for every item to all the smiths for a hundred miles!’ Crassus raised a hand, silencing the chuckles this produced. ‘My intention is that the army is to be ready to march in a month.’
‘A month?’ repeated Quinctius.
‘But the men won’t be ready, sir,’ said Scrofa. ‘Basic training takes at least eight weeks.’
‘I know that,’ replied Crassus acidly. ‘The ground to the south of Rome is flat. The recruits can train every day after we have finished marching.’ Ignoring his officers’ surprise, Crassus went on, ‘Up until now, Rome has been humiliated by Spartacus. That time has now gone! No doubt the slaves are expecting to have an easy few months while we prepare our forces. Well, they’re going to have none of that. We’re going to take the war to them straightaway. Isn’t that right, Caepio?’
‘Damn right, sir.’
‘I know that thousands of veterans have heard your call and joined up, sir, and that we have the remnants of the consuls’ legions, about fourteen thousand men, but over half the army is made up of new recruits,’ said Scrofa. ‘Would it not be wiser to wait until they have been fully trained until we move against Spartacus?’
‘Who is the commander here?’ barked Crassus. ‘I make the bloody decisions, not you. Or any of the rest of you! Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Scrofa muttered.
‘We move in four weeks. It takes more than a month to march to Thurii. That’s eight weeks in total. With veterans like Caepio on our side, I would suggest that that’s plenty of time to train the men.’
‘That’s sufficient time for my soldiers to be ready, sir,’ Mummius declared eagerly.
‘I should think so! Given that you and Rufus each command a legion formerly led by one of the consuls, you have the least number of raw recruits.’
Mummius coloured. Rufus also looked embarrassed.
‘My troops will be prepared, so help me Jupiter,’ said Scrofa.
The other officers hastily added their agreements.
Crassus studied their faces. Their resolve seemed genuine. It was a start. ‘Very well.’
‘What is your plan when we find Spartacus, sir?’ asked Scrofa.
‘It’s very simple. We bring him to bay like a boar on a hunt. Ready our legions. Soften his men up with catapults. Advance, and butcher the lot of them. And that will be that.’ His eyes roved challengingly over them. It was Scrofa, whom he’d already judged to be one of the most courageous, who spoke first.
‘You really think it will be that simple, sir?’
‘Yes, Scrofa, I do. The time has come to rid Italy of Spartacus and his filth. What better way to do it than in head-to-head battle? That has ever been the way of Rome’s magnificent legions.’ He glanced at Caepio, who rumbled his approval.
‘But the men who have fought Spartacus before, sir, they-’ Mummius hesitated.
‘We all know that they have run before,’ said Crassus in a silky tone. ‘And if it happens again, they will be punished so severely that none of them will ever think of running again.’
In the lull that followed, the only sounds were the voices of slaves who were tending the plants in the central courtyard.
Crassus pinned them one by one with his stare. ‘I am talking of decimation.’
Quinctius’ mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
‘Decimation, gentlemen. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ was the unanimous, shocked response.
‘That practice hasn’t been used for generations, sir,’ ventured Scrofa.
‘All the more reason to revive it then,’ said Crassus. ‘Anyone else?’
No one except Caepio and Caesar met his gaze.
‘Excellent.’ It was good that his officers were so horrified, thought Crassus. Anger was still coursing through his veins at the thought of how nearly Spartacus had come to killing him. ‘I meant every word that I said. I will do whatever it takes to defeat that Thracian son of a whore. Whatever it takes.’
I swear to you, great Jupiter, that I will not rest until he is — or I am — dead.
Chapter XI
When the time came that day to search out a suitable place to set up camp, the pair were nowhere near a village, or even an inn. Carbo was glad. It had been a week since they’d left Rome. The high temperatures had meant that even when they climbed away from the fertile plain of Campania with its dense pattern of farms and estates and into the more mountainous region of Lucania, it was pleasant to sleep outdoors. Their solitude meant they could talk without the worry of being overheard. They had provisions, wine and blankets, and the horses they’d bought four days prior meant that they could ride in search of the most secluded sites with ease.
To Carbo’s chagrin, he’d had to continue wearing Varus’ toga each day. As Spartacus said, it gave him a wealthy air, which would explain, should anyone comment, why his ‘slave’ was astride a horse rather than walking. Having to bake daily in the thick woollen garment was another reason that Carbo preferred camping. Every evening, with Spartacus watching in amusement, he would strip off the toga and jump into the nearest stream to wash off the day’s accumulation of sweat. He shifted his shoulders unhappily, looking forward to doing the same again as soon as they’d stopped. After that, he could relax by the fire with a hunk of bread and cheese, and a beaker of wine.
He would try, for a while at least, to forget his sorrow over his parents. Even though Carbo had done what he’d thought was best at the time — entering the ludus to earn money — he was still racked by guilt over his decision. Guilt that he hadn’t stayed with his parents, and gone to Rome with them. Guilt that he hadn’t sent any money to them in the subsequent months, or tried harder to establish contact. Deep down, he knew these thoughts for fantasies, but that didn’t ease his pain. To cope, he stoked his hatred for Crassus into a white-hot flame. If it wasn’t for him, his parents would still be alive. Give me one more chance to kill Crassus before I die, he prayed repeatedly.
Carbo hoped that Spartacus would tell more tales of his youth in Thrace. He had been surprised and intrigued over the previous few nights as his leader had opened up more than he ever had. Carbo now knew the names of Spartacus’ father, mother and brother, as well as his childhood friends. He’d listened avidly to tales of hunting boar and wolves, of raiding horses and sheep from neighbouring tribes, and to dramatic legends about the Great Rider, the deity favoured by most Thracian warriors. Carbo didn’t realise it, but Spartacus’ stories were partially aimed at taking his mind off his parents. The Thracian had seen him brooding as they rode.