He waited.
The short man emerged from the midst of his comrades. He was dark-skinned, but not black enough to be a Nubian. His beady eyes were set in a calculating and cruel face. Gold earrings flashed in his ears, and his tunic was of a richer cut than his fellows. He took a dozen steps towards Carbo. ‘Who in damnation are you?’ he demanded in bad Latin.
‘I am one of Spartacus’ soldiers,’ replied Carbo as loudly as he could. He was pleased when a murmur of recognition rippled through the pirates.
There was a suspicious scowl from the short man. ‘Spartacus? The gladiator who is fighting Rome?’
‘The same. Do you always greet visitors in the same manner?’
‘Usually we just butcher them.’ He grinned, and his men snickered. ‘But I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll let you and your men piss off instead.’
‘No, chief! Let’s kill him,’ said a large man, brandishing a rusty sword.
There was a rumble of agreement from the rest.
The captain winked at Carbo. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that.’
Carbo resisted the urge to order his men to the attack. ‘I have a proposition for you, from Spartacus himself.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is. My name is Carbo. What do they call you?’
‘Heracleo.’
Given half a chance, Heracleo would turn on him like a stray dog, but Carbo still felt encouraged. ‘Can you locate ships bigger than these?’ He indicated the two shallow-bottomed boats, which were now afloat.
There was a laugh. ‘Of course I can. I’ve got a lembus at another anchorage.’ He saw Carbo’s confusion and laughed again. ‘You’d know that as a liburnian. Like everything they admire, the Romans copied it.’
Apart from triremes, Carbo’s knowledge of ship types was vague. ‘How many men can that carry?’
‘Sixty oarsmen, and about fifty slaves. Passengers.’ He corrected himself with an evil leer.
‘I need bigger vessels than that.’
‘There are other captains knocking about the area in biremes. There’s even a trireme or two. Why do you need them?’
‘We want to get to Sicily.’
There was a long, slow whistle. ‘The whole army?’
‘No. Just a couple of thousand men.’
‘Why so few? I’ve heard that Spartacus’ army is massive.’
‘None of your damn business.’
‘It’s my bloody business if you’re on my ship,’ retorted Heracleo.
The last thing his leader wanted any pirate to know was that he was considering retreat. Carbo had his lie ready. ‘Spartacus wants to start a rebellion on Sicily.’
‘Ahhh. To divert the Romans’ attention?’
‘Something like that,’ said Carbo stiffly, as if annoyed.
‘That’s smart. I’ve heard that he’s a canny one, your Thracian. You’d want to cross at the straits, I take it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How soon?’
‘Whenever you can get the ships there.’
A cunning glance. ‘He’s in a hurry. What’s he willing to pay?’
‘Two hundred and fifty denarii per man. Say five hundred thousand in total.’
There was a collective gasp from the pirates. Each of their slaves was worth between two hundred and four hundred denarii, but they only had thirty. Slaving was profitable work, yet the securing of captives was unpredictable and irregular. This would be a prize haul.
‘One and a quarter million,’ replied Heracleo without even blinking.
‘That’s outrageous,’ cried Carbo with all the bluster he could manage.
‘Getting four or five ships that are large enough to carry your men won’t be easy, you know. I’ll have to cut the other captains in. Then there’s the Roman navy to worry about.’
‘I don’t give a shit. It’s far too much!’
Heracleo’s grin was predatory. ‘Spartacus needs me more than I need his money. I can tell. Take my price or leave it — it’s up to you.’
Scowling, Carbo didn’t say anything for several moments. Heracleo’s greed was no surprise. Spartacus had told him he could pay up to a two and a half million denarii, but he had to play the part, to look annoyed.
Heracleo yawned, but a good number of his men seemed keen to carve Carbo up.
‘We could pay nine hundred thousand, but no more than that.’
‘It’s what I said, or nothing, you ugly son of a whore!’
Carbo flushed. He hadn’t been insulted about his pox scars for a long time. His gaze went flat. ‘If you didn’t have so many men with you, I’d cut you a new arsehole.’
Heracleo’s face hardened. ‘You cheeky bastard!’ He opened his mouth, but Carbo interrupted.
‘You drive a hard bargain. One and a quarter million it is.’
Heracleo’s demeanour changed in a flash. His eyes glittered with avarice. ‘You have the money?’
Carbo threw back his head and laughed. ‘For the last year and more, we’ve been pillaging whole towns from here to the Alps!’
‘Of course, of course.’ Heracleo managed to sound obsequious as well as annoyed.
‘How soon can you have the ships at the beach near Scylla?’
Mention of the mythical beast who guarded the straits made Heracleo purse his lips. ‘A month. Six weeks.’
‘Can’t you do it sooner?’
A frown. ‘I will do my best. Before that, however, a down payment will be necessary. I was thinking-’
‘Twenty-five thousand denarii today. A hundred and twenty-five thousand when you arrive with the ships, and the balance when the last of our men set foot on Sicily,’ interjected Carbo harshly. ‘That’s my final offer. Take it, or leave it.’
Heracleo smiled. ‘You can pay me now?’
Carbo turned his head. ‘Optio! Bring a chest over!’
Heracleo spoke a few words in a guttural argot, and his men cheered.
As half a dozen of his soldiers trotted over, Carbo eyed the grinning pirates sidelong. Not one of them could be trusted, yet with the gods’ help, they were now the most important allies Spartacus had ever had. He sent up an urgent prayer to Neptune, the god of the sea, and Fortuna, the goddess of luck, that Heracleo kept his side of the bargain.
If this plan failed, they had ten legions to face.
That was without taking the Gauls and the spy into account. Carbo scowled. Sometimes it felt as if they had as many enemies within as without. He hoped that Crassus had not got wind of what he’d been up to. It seemed unlikely. Once it had been decided that he would leave, Carbo had packed his gear and departed. On Spartacus’ orders, he had told only Navio where he was going.
From the hills that surrounded the ruins of Forum Annii, Spartacus and a party of his scouts — among them Marcion and his comrades — were looking down on to the Via Annia, the main road that led from Capua to Rhegium, the town at the southernmost point of Italy. After what he and Carbo had discovered in Rome, the sight of enemy soldiers was unremarkable, yet it was shocking nonetheless. This host dwarfed the others that they had seen, and it had arrived sooner than Spartacus had expected. Having had word the previous day, they had been waiting for it since dawn. He observed it with a jaundiced eye. His service with the auxiliaries meant that he knew intimately the formation taken by Roman armies on the march.
A couple of hours after the enemy scouts had come stealing through the woods on either side of the road, the vanguard had come into sight, one legion picked by lot to lead the column that day. After that had come the surveyors, a unit comprised of one man from every contubernium in the army, whose job it was to help lay out the camp. Next were the engineers, who removed any obstacles in the legions’ path, and then the senior officers’ baggage. The general in charge and his bodyguard of infantry and cavalry had been easy to spot. A succession of messengers rode from this position up and down the verges, carrying orders to various parts of the host. The commander had been followed by the remainder of the horse. Scores of mules carrying the dismantled artillery preceded the senior officers and their escort. After came the legions, each one signified by a large group of standard-bearers at its front. The ranks of marching legionaries filled the road entirely. Each legion was strung out over a mile or so, but they seemed to go on for far longer. Spartacus’ own forces took up a similar amount of ground, but he and his troops never got to watch them from such a vantage point. It was an awe-inspiring and, even in the best of men, fear-inducing sight.