‘What shall we do then? Do you want to’ — Carbo swallowed the word hide — ‘stay here while I check things out?’
Spartacus chuckled. ‘I’m not scared — I’m just being cautious. We’ll aim for the larger tents in the middle. That’s where Ariadne and the Scythians will be.’
‘What are your plans after that? Are we going to round up a few cohorts and kill the Gauls?’
‘There’s nothing I’d like to do more if it’s they who are responsible,’ snarled Spartacus. ‘But they’ve been hard at work ensuring the loyalty of their followers. If they were killed, upwards of ten thousand men might desert. That’s a loss I can’t afford right now.’
‘So you’re going to let them get away with it?’
‘That’s not what I said at all,’ replied Spartacus with a small smile. ‘Let’s go. Keep your head down as you walk. Most men won’t even notice us.’
‘If you say so.’ Carbo nervously touched the hilt of his dagger for reassurance.
‘I do. You go first. I’ll follow.’
Praying that Spartacus was right, Carbo led the way. It wasn’t long before they started meeting soldiers: men who were returning from an afternoon hunting, a tryst with a woman in the privacy of the woods, or simply those who needed a place to void their bowels. Carbo ignored everyone he met. If a greeting was thrown in his direction, he grunted a reply and moved on. Spartacus kept close behind him, his gaze aimed at the ground.
They reached the camp without incident. Rather than walking in the avenues that regularly split up the tents, Carbo opted to walk in the narrow gaps between them. It meant having continually to step over guy ropes, but there was far less chance of anyone noticing them. As he soon realised, it was also a good way of eavesdropping on conversations.
‘How much further is Thurii anyway?’
‘Not more than fifty miles, my officer says.’
From another tent, ‘Hades below, who farted? It stinks worse than a rotting corpse.’
A snort of laughter. ‘You shouldn’t have fed us all those greens for dinner!’
Carbo smiled, looking forward to renewing his banter with Navio and Arnax.
‘Where the fuck is Spartacus?’ asked a deep voice from outside the next tent. ‘He’s been gone how long now?’
Carbo felt a tap on his back from the Thracian. He stopped.
‘Nearly three weeks.’
‘Not coming back then, is he?’
‘You don’t know that,’ argued the second voice. ‘Who are we to know when he’ll return? He’s the leader of this army. He does what he thinks best.’
‘Pah! He’s either not coming back, or he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. What was the prick thinking? Leaving us with only those filthy Gauls to lead us?’
‘Egbeo and Pulcher are in charge too, you know. Many men also listen to Ariadne. She has Dionysus’ ear, remember,’ said a third man.
‘For the moment, maybe. But you mark my words,’ growled the deep voice. ‘It won’t be long before they’re all murdered. You know what Castus and Gannicus are like. They’re a pair of sewer rats. They won’t lose any sleep over killing a woman and child.’
Carbo’s mouth opened and closed. He turned to the Thracian, whose face was twisted in a combination of delight and rage. ‘Wait,’ mouthed Spartacus.
‘Come on, things aren’t that bad. We’ve nearly reached Thurii. There hasn’t been a sign of any Roman forces for weeks. Spartacus will appear any day now, and all will be well again.’
‘If he does, I’ll eat my bloody sandals,’ declared the first voice. ‘And when the Gauls take charge, I’m not hanging about to see what happens.’
There was a rumble of assent from some of their comrades.
To Carbo’s surprise, he felt Spartacus shove past him, around the corner of the tent. Gripping his knife hilt, he followed.
They found a group of six men sitting around a small fire upon which sat a bronze pot full of bubbling stew. The group were dressed in roughly spun cream, red or brown tunics. All of them had knives, but only two were wearing baldrics and sheathed gladii. A stack of weapons — spears, pila and swords — lay a few steps away, along with a heap of scuta.
Spartacus curled his lip at the ring of surprised faces. ‘Greetings.’
‘Who in damnation are you?’ demanded a bald man with a strong chin.
His was the deep voice, thought Carbo.
‘Smelt our dinner, did you?’ asked a younger soldier with deep-set eyes and thick black hair. ‘Well, you can’t have any! Piss off and cook your own.’
His companions laughed. The sound was amiable enough, but there was an edge to it that Carbo didn’t like. It wouldn’t take much for the situation to get ugly. Squaring his shoulders, he moved to stand beside Spartacus.
‘Who’s the one mouthing off about Spartacus?’ barked the Thracian.
‘That’d be me.’ The bald man got slowly to his feet. ‘Got a problem with what I said?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
At this, all but the young soldier who’d spoken stood up. Any trace of friendliness had left their faces. Meaningful hands were laid on the hilts of knives and swords.
‘I’d advise you to walk away now,’ snarled the bald man, stepping forward. ‘Before you get badly hurt.’
‘Or killed,’ added one of his fellows with a toothy leer.
‘Is that a threat?’ growled Spartacus.
‘Take it how you will.’ The bald man moved even closer.
Good. Spartacus darted forward, grabbed the bald man by the front of his tunic and shoved him backwards. He landed on his arse in the fire. With a bawl of pain, he leaped up, clutching his rear end. Several of his companions — most notably the young man who was still seated — sniggered.
Carbo laughed out loud, but then the rest of the soldiers drew their weapons. Shit, he thought, pulling out his own knife. It would have been better to walk away.
‘Think very carefully before you attack your leader,’ cried the Thracian.
The bald man stopped yelling. A trace of fear entered his eyes. ‘Eh? You’re not Spartacus!’
‘Am I not? Do I need to be wearing my mail and carrying my sica for you to know me?’ Spartacus stepped forward, raising a fist. ‘Who wants the glory of saying that he took a Roman eagle in battle and, by doing so, shamed an entire legion?’ he roared.
All around them, men’s heads turned.
It was the same cry that Spartacus had used to encourage his army the day that they had fought Gellius, remembered Carbo with delight.
The bald man’s anger had been replaced by pure dread. ‘N-no, sir. I recognise you now.’
His companions shared incredulous stares with one another before quickly shoving their weapons away. ‘We’re sorry, sir. We didn’t realise,’ mumbled one. There was a rapid chorus of agreement, and Carbo relaxed a little.
Spartacus’ flinty eyes bored into the soldiers one by one.
‘Gods above, Zeuxis, you’re a bloody idiot! We’ll all be executed now, because of your big mouth,’ said a thickset soldier with cropped hair.
The balding man’s face crumpled. ‘Please forgive me, sir. I didn’t know who you were.’
‘A moment ago, you were complaining about how long I’d been away. Dead in a ditch, you said.’
‘I didn’t really think that, sir, I-’
‘Don’t lie to me, fool. I heard what you said.’
‘You had been gone for an age, sir. I know I wasn’t alone in worrying about what would happen to the army. To all of us. Without you, sir, we would have filth like Castus and Gannicus trying to take charge. That’s what everyone’s saying.’ Zeuxis glanced at his companions for support, but none would meet his eye. Resigned and unsurprised, he turned back to Spartacus. ‘Thank the gods that you have returned, though!’
‘Is what he said true?’
No one answered.
They’re too damn scared, thought Carbo, amazed at Spartacus’ ability to instil awe with his sheer confidence.
‘You!’ Spartacus barked at the young soldier with deep-set eyes.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is your comrade right?’
‘There is something to what he says, sir,’ came the awkward reply. ‘But it’s only talk. You know what men are like.’