Another good man lost. Spartacus ducked past Carbo and entered the tent. The stench of rotting flesh and urine inside was overpowering. He choked back a cough and approached the pile of blankets upon which Publipor lay, clad in only an undergarment. Navio, who was sitting alongside, looked up with a rueful smile. ‘He’d be glad to see you, sir.’
Carbo was right, thought Spartacus grimly. Publipor’s pallor was terrible. His eyes were sunken, his forehead drenched in sweat, his ribs clapped to his backbone. The injury to his sword arm had been wrapped in bandages that did little to stop a green-brown liquid from oozing on to his bedding. ‘Is he conscious?’
‘From time to time,’ replied Navio. ‘Often he’s not lucid, though.’
Spartacus crouched down and took Publipor’s good hand. ‘I’m sorry to see you in this state.’
Publipor’s eyelids twitched and then opened. His rheumy eyes swivelled around the tent, falling eventually on Spartacus. A strange expression twisted his gaunt face. ‘You!’
‘Yes,’ said Spartacus gently. ‘Can I get you anything?’
A hiss of pain. ‘How about my family?’
Spartacus glanced at Carbo, who mouthed the word ‘fever’. ‘That’s not within my power. But I can get you some wine if you like. A piece of ham.’ He winked. ‘Even a woman if you’re up to it?’
‘Go to Hades.’
Spartacus waved Navio and Carbo back. ‘You’re feverish, Publipor. I’ll have the surgeon make up something that will help.’ He turned to go.
‘The fever didn’t make me say that, you cocksucker.’
Spartacus’ lips thinned. ‘I see. Why would you insult me then?’
‘Because you’re responsible for the deaths of my family.’ His voice cracked. ‘My wife. My beautiful children.’
‘I thought they died of cholera,’ said Carbo in confusion.
‘No.’ A weak cough as he sat up. ‘They were murdered at Forum Annii.’
Spartacus frowned. ‘If that’s where you’re from, why didn’t you say so before?’
It was as if Publipor hadn’t heard. ‘May the gods forgive me, I was away hunting in the mountains. I got back when the slaughter was over.’ Tears dribbled down his unshaven cheeks. ‘I returned to find them in my master’s house, all dead. Butchered!’
‘Publipor, I am deeply sorry for what happened to your family,’ said Spartacus. ‘I did my best to prevent atrocities from happening, you have to believe that.’
‘Clearly, you didn’t do enough!’ Spittle flew from Publipor’s mouth. ‘My children were aged three, five and eight. They were innocent! Defenceless!’
‘That’s terrible,’ Spartacus acknowledged, but then his face hardened. ‘So you joined my army to get your revenge, is that it?’
A half-smile. ‘Something like that.’
‘Did you have ought to do with the Gauls’ attempt on my life?’
‘That? No. I knew nothing of it. I had a different master.’
Suspicion tickled Spartacus’ spine. He saw the same doubt in Carbo and Navio’s faces. ‘Who would that be?’
‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’
White-hot fury lanced through Spartacus. In a heartbeat, his dagger was at Publipor’s chin. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘You can’t scare me. I’m dying.’
Spartacus’ chuckle was evil. ‘How would you like five men to haul on a rope that’s been tied to your bad wrist?’
Publipor swallowed.
‘Just tell me what happened, and I’ll give you a swift death.’
A tiny nod. ‘Months after the massacre, I was still living in the ruins of Forum Annii. I had no reason to go anywhere else. One day, a man came snooping about. He began asking me questions, and when I’d told him my story, he offered me money and the chance of revenge on you. He explained that his master was Crassus, who wanted an inside man in your army. All I had to do was become one of your soldiers, and to find out whatever I could.’
‘You were being hunted by Roman cavalry when we found you!’ cried Carbo.
‘That was staged. My companions were both to be killed to make it look more authentic. It was a mistake that Kineas survived.’ A grimace. ‘He nearly gave the game away too.’
Spartacus’ memory snaked back to the fight in the woods, and the way that Kineas had tried so hard to speak before he died. It all made sense now. ‘You were the one who told Crassus that I was in Rome.’
A proud nod. ‘I spoke to a rich farmer near the camp. He sent word to the capital.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘I told Crassus when you were going to march to the toe, and about the pirates. He didn’t believe me about them, though. The best thing I did was to let him know that you were going to attack the ridge.’
‘You dirty rat,’ Spartacus snarled. ‘Thousands of your comrades died there.’
‘They were never my comrades! They were murdering bastards of the worst kind. I wish that every last one had been killed. And you as well!’ Publipor’s mouth opened to throw more insults, but the sound never came. He gasped a little, and looked down at Spartacus’ dagger, which was buried to the hilt in his chest.
‘That’s more than you deserve, you traitorous piece of shit.’ Spartacus savagely twisted the blade to and fro before pulling it free. His eyes already glazing over, Publipor slumped backwards on to his bed and lay still. A hot tide of blood began saturating the blankets.
Spartacus regarded him without emotion. He wished that he’d never gone hunting that day. Never set eyes on Publipor. Never taken him into his trust. But it was too late for that. Too late for so many things. ‘At least we know who the spy was,’ he said in a dry tone.
‘I should have seen through his story,’ said Carbo angrily.
‘How? It was entirely feasible. There could be a score of others like him in the army, with different motives, but the same desire to do me harm. That’s why I trust only a handful of men, such as you two.’ Spartacus stood up and walked outside.
‘What shall we do with him?’ called Carbo.
‘Leave him out for the wolves. He shouldn’t have any better treatment than any of those who died at the ridge.’
The fractured army spent two weeks on the march, passing from Bruttium to Lucania. Spartacus was aiming for Campania, one of the most fertile regions of Italy and the birthplace of the rebellion. Keen to get a head start on Crassus, he had driven his men harder than ever before; unencumbered by baggage or supplies, and free of their previous raggle-taggle of followers, they were able to cover twenty-five miles per day. Spartacus had taken charge of a shaggy white stallion, one of the largest horses belonging to any his cavalrymen. Riding up and down the column made it far easier to encourage his men. Realising what he was doing, Castus’ and Gannicus’ soldiers had matched the furious pace. The tactic worked. Soon his scouts were reporting that the legions were more than thirty miles behind them, and marching at a slower speed.
Spartacus took heart from this, and allowed his men a much-needed day off. Before moving to Samnium, he hoped to lure new recruits to his cause. He began the process by sending raiding parties to the biggest latifundia, their mission not just to find grain and supplies, but to win over the slaves they encountered there. Upwards of 250 men joined from the first two estates; after a few weeks Spartacus was sure that number would turn to thousands. Navio would soon whip them into shape. All they had to do was avoid confrontation with Crassus’ legions until the recruits had been trained, and in the mountains of Samnium, that would not prove too difficult. Spring had arrived and, with it, better weather. In the coming days, the countryside would start yielding its own bounty of plants, nuts and berries. They wouldn’t have to rely exclusively on raiding homesteads and farms.
When word came one morning that Castus and Gannicus were leaving, Spartacus was oddly surprised. As a man learns to live with his lice, he had grown used to the Gauls and their followers shadowing his army. It was hard not to be pleased, however, like a man who exchanges his infested tunic for a new one. Keen to see their departure for himself, he took Carbo, the Scythians and a century of soldiers. Even at this late stage, there was no point laying himself open to attack. Ariadne insisted on coming with him. She was carrying the basket containing her snake, so Spartacus did not object. The god might have spoken to her.