Three weeks went by, and Spartacus had put the confrontation with the Gauls from the front of his mind. Instead it lingered in the recesses of his memory like a bad smell over an open sewer. Overall, however, things had gone well. Varinius had been neatly tricked on the night that he and the army had withdrawn from Glaber’s old encampment. Spartacus had insisted on meticulous planning beforehand. Patrols sent out in the late afternoon had scoured the area to make sure that there were no legionaries spying on the camp. Then, under the cover of darkness, their sentries at the front gate had been replaced by corpses dressed in mail and armed with bent or useless swords. By the light of dozens of campfires, every last tent had been taken down and packed, along with other heavy equipment such as Pulcher’s anvils, on to hundreds of mules. In the hour before midnight, every man, woman and child had filed away, eastwards, to the towering Picentini Mountains.
Everyone but Carbo, who was armed with a captured Roman trumpet.
It had been a dangerous duty to volunteer for, but Carbo had been most insistent. Seeing the burning desire in his eyes, Spartacus had acquiesced. The young Roman’s job had been to stay awake all night, listening out for the enemy. At dawn he was to sound his instrument, in mockery of Rome’s customary way of waking its soldiers, and wait to see what happened next.
Spartacus smiled at the memory of Carbo’s report. It had been a real morale booster for everyone to discover that some two hours later, when Varinius had become aware that the rebels’ camp was far quieter than normal, he had not dared to send a patrol to search it. Instead, one of his newly arrived cavalry units had ridden to the top of a nearby hill to look down on it from a height. Disconcerted by the slaves’ disappearance, Varinius had withdrawn his forces to the north-west. Rather than having to creep away from the camp, Carbo had simply trotted after the slave host. Delighted by his report, Spartacus had called for a gathering that night. ‘That’s how respectful the bastards are of us now,’ he had cried to the thousands who had assembled to hear him speak. ‘They are too damn scared even to come after us!’ In the rousing cheer that met his words, he hadn’t been surprised to be challenged by Crixus again.
‘If the shitbags are that frightened, why in hell’s name aren’t we pursuing them?’ he’d growled.
‘Varinius fearing us is a good thing,’ Spartacus had replied robustly. ‘But it does not mean that we would win an open fight with him. In addition to his legionaries, he has four hundred cavalry. We have none. None! Imagine what those horsemen would do if they came hammering in to our rear in the midst of a battle. Have you ever seen a cavalry charge strike an unprepared enemy?’ Crixus had glowered then, because everyone present had known that only Spartacus had witnessed such a thing. It had shut the Gaul up, though. ‘They smash the formation into smithereens! It’s like watching a gust of wind pick up a pile of leaves and scatter it to the four ends of the earth. The fight would be lost with that one strike.’ No one had argued any further, which had pleased Spartacus. Of course, his approach wouldn’t work forever, but his dire prediction had at least ensured that their forces had moved out of harm’s way. Varinius’ cavalry would be useless on steep mountainsides.
Besides, he’d withdrawn to the safety of Cumae, a city some twenty-five miles from Vesuvius. The rebels had therefore reached the Picentini Mountains without incident, and had made a temporary camp for several nights. Meanwhile, guided by Carbo, five hundred handpicked men under Gannicus had raided the town of Nola. They had returned in triumph to the accolades of their comrades, with enough grain to feed everyone for two weeks, as well as large quantities of warm clothing and footwear and close to a thousand new recruits. An attack on the town of Nuceria had yielded similar returns. Carbo had been elated by their success. It was remarkable, he realised, that his new vocation troubled him less and less. Yet the idea of becoming a lawyer now seemed positively laughable. Life with Spartacus was dangerous, but Carbo had authority, the respect of his comrades and last but not least, he had Chloris.
With enough supplies to last for a month or more, the entire army had headed south. It was guided by slaves who had worked as shepherds locally. These men kept the host at altitude because enduring the harsh weather of autumn was preferable to encountering any Roman troops. Yet, apart from the inhabitants of the small farming settlement of Abella, who had been surprised in their fields, the only company the slaves had had since was that of the creatures that lived in the forested mountains. Eagles and vultures that hung on the air overhead, surveying the long column with lofty disdain. Small birds that chattered angrily from the safety of trees at the invaders of their territory. Wolves that howled their mournful cries at dusk every night, adding to the sense of isolation and freedom. Deer and wild boar that hid from sight, leaving only their trail as evidence of their existence. Bears and lynxes lived here too, but they were only occasionally sighted by the scouts.
Spartacus had counted himself fortunate to see one lynx with his own eyes. It was a magnificent male, which had stood quite still when it had spotted him, regarding him for several moments from its slitted yellow eyes. It was the gently moving tufts on the tops of its ears that had told him it was not a statue, carved by a genius or a god. And then it had vanished, simply melting away into the undergrowth.
That is how we shall be to the Romans, thought Spartacus with some satisfaction. They will never know we’re there, unless we want them to.
Two days before, they had crossed the River Silarus, using a little-known ford instead of the bridge on the Via Annia, the main road south to Rhegium. Since it lay near to the paved way with its heavy traffic, Spartacus had sent the two Scythians ahead to watch it day and night. By the time he arrived, they had been monitoring it for the guts of a week. They had seen neither hide nor hair of an enemy soldier. Spartacus had promptly convened with the other leaders. For once, they had come to a unanimous decision: to travel on the Via Annia. Moving much faster than previously, they had swept through the long, narrow plain that was the Campus Atinas, a fertile upland valley fed by the River Tanager. All travellers on the road and inhabitants of the large latifundia on either side of it had been freed, seized, or killed. No one in Forum Annii, the town they were aiming for, could be aware of their presence.
Until we walk into their houses, empty their storehouses, free their slaves. And kill them.
Spartacus had wanted to leave all this behind when he left the Roman army. But it was not to be. Fate had stepped in when Kotys had played him false, and Phortis had taken him to Italy and the ludus in Capua. Then a god had sent him a dream about a snake. Who was he to ignore such an opportunity when it was placed in his path? And yet — as in life — it was not quite that simple. Innocents always died.
Spartacus glanced around. The tree line to either side of him was packed with hundreds — no, thousands — of spectral figures. Everyone fit to bear arms was here. Even some of the women were to take part. He could sense the slaves’ hunger, could reach out and touch it. The staring faces, the tightly gripped weapons, the fierce whispering reminded him of similar ambushes that he had taken part in, a lifetime ago in Thrace. The men were like starving wolves, about to fall on a flock of unsuspecting sheep in the fold. Except their prey was not animal, but human.
Spartacus stared down bleakly at the empty Via Annia, which was coated by thin tendrils of morning mist. It led through recently ploughed fields for perhaps a quarter of a mile to the jumble of red-tiled roofs that was Forum Annii. He watched the trickles of smoke rising from fires that had been kept in overnight. Listened to the crowing of cocks in petulant rivalry with each other, and the fierce barking of dogs that know they will never have to back up their threats to each other. Not a figure moved in the fields below Spartacus’ position, or on the streets of the town. Not a voice could be heard. It was incredibly tranquil. Peaceful, even beautiful. And so very similar to the village in Thrace that he had once called home.