Pompey leaned forward, the back legs of his chair leaving the floor.
“From this point on, gentlemen, I will expect to see you every night after the sentries are posted. Rather than have a vulnerable line of four camps, I have given orders for only two, with four legions in each. You should be close enough to reach the command position two hours before each midnight.”
There was a murmur of interest from the legates as they digested this. Pompey continued over it.
“The latest reports suggest the slave army is heading north as fast as they can. Crassus and I believe there is a danger they will reach the Alps mountains and Gaul. If we cannot catch them before then, they will disappear. Gaul is vast and we have little influence there. They must not be allowed to win free, or next year will see another rebellion of every slave still on Roman lands. The destruction and loss of life would be huge.”
He paused for comment, but the assembled generals were silent, watching him. One or two glanced at Crassus, clearly wondering about the Senate command, but Pompey's companion was sitting relaxed in his chair, nodding as Pompey rattled through the points.
“Your orders are to march west along the plains road until I give the signal to cut north. It's a longer route overall, but we'll make better speed on the road than across country. I want thirty miles a day, then twenty, then another thirty.”
“For how long?” Lepidus interrupted.
Pompey froze and let the silence show his irritation.
“Our best estimates are for five hundred miles west and then some distance north that we cannot gauge without knowing the exact whereabouts of the enemy. It depends, of course, on how close to the mountains they get. I expect—”
“It can't be done,” Lepidus said flatly.
Pompey paused again, then stood to look down on the general.
“I am telling you what will happen, Lepidus. If your legion cannot match the pace of the others under my command, then I will remove your rank and give it to someone who can make them march.”
Lepidus spluttered in indignation. Julius wondered if he had been told how close he had come to outright control of the legions. But for a few votes in the Senate, their positions would have been reversed. Watching Lepidus closely, Julius suspected he knew that very well indeed. No doubt Cato had let the word slip out to him while they gathered in the Campus Martius, in the hopes of fomenting trouble later.
“My men have covered three hundred miles at a hard pace on this trip already, Pompey. They could do it again, but I'll need two weeks to rest them and no more than twenty, twenty-five miles a day afterward. Any more will lose men.”
“Then we lose men!” Pompey snapped. “Every day we wait in Ariminum is another that brings this Spartacus closer to the mountains and freedom in Gaul. I am not staying here for a day longer than it takes to load up provisions. If we have a few dozen sprains and limps by the end, it is a price worth paying. Or even a few hundred, if it is the difference between catching them and watching them escape punishment for the Roman blood on their hands. Nine thousand dead at Mutina!” Pompey's voice had risen to a shout and he leaned toward Lepidus, who looked back with an infuriating calm.
“Who is in command here?” Lepidus demanded, waving a hand toward Crassus. “I was given to understand that it was Crassus the Senate chose over me. I do not recognize this business of ‘second-in-command.' Is it even legal?”
The other legates did not miss the point that Lepidus could have led, any more than Julius did. Like cats, they watched the speakers with claws carefully hidden, waiting for the outcome. Crassus too rose from his seat to stand beside Pompey.
“Pompey speaks with my voice, Lepidus, and that is the voice of the Senate. Whatever you may have heard, you should know better than to question the command.”
Pompey's face was tight with anger. “I tell you now, Lepidus. I will have you stripped of rank the first moment you make a mistake. Question an order of mine again and I will have you killed and left on the road. Understood?”
“Completely,” Lepidus replied, apparently satisfied.
Julius wondered what he had hoped to gain by the exchange. Did the legate hope to undermine Crassus? Julius knew he could not serve under such a man, no matter how he twisted and turned to gain authority. The threat Pompey had made was a dangerous one. If Lepidus commanded the kind of personal loyalty Julius had seen with Primigenia and Marius, then Pompey had taken a risk. In Pompey's position, Julius thought it would have been better to have Lepidus killed immediately and his legion sent back to Rome in shame. Losing the men was a lighter penalty than marching with ones who might betray them.
“We will march in two days, at dawn,” Pompey said. “I have spies out already on the road with orders to meet the main force when we get close. Tactics for the battle will have to wait on better information. You are dismissed. Tribune Caesar, I'd like a word with you, if you could stay.”
Lepidus stood with the other legates, beginning a conversation with two of them as they passed out of the room. Before their voices had faded, Julius heard him laugh at some witticism and saw Pompey stiffen in irritation.
“He's the eyes and ears of Cato, that one,” Pompey said to Crassus. “You can be sure he's taking little notes of everything we do to report back when we come home.”
Crassus shrugged. “Send him back to Rome, then. I'll put my seal on it and we can beat the rebels with seven legions as easily as eight.”
Pompey shook his head. “Maybe, but there are other reports I haven't mentioned. Julius, this is to go no further, understand? There's no point having the rumors all over the camp before tomorrow, which is what would happen if I told the others, especially Lepidus. The slave army has grown alarmingly. I'm getting reports of more than fifty thousand. Hundreds of farms and estates have been stripped. There is no way back for them now and that will make for desperate fighting. They know how we punish escaped slaves and the rebellion won't end without a massive show of force. I think we're going to need every legion we have.”
Julius whistled softly. “We can't depend on a rout,” he said.
Pompey frowned. “It doesn't look like it, no. I'd expect them to fold and run on the first attack except for the fact that they have women and children with them and nowhere to go if they lose. Those gladiators have brought off more than one success already, and they must be more than a rabble.” He snorted softly. “If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if Cato was hoping to see us lose, but, no, that's too much even for him. They could still turn south again, and from Ariminum the whole country is open. They have to be crushed and I need good commanders to do it, Julius.”
“I have more than two thousand under the Primigenia eagle,” Julius replied. He chose not to mention that Cato had supplied half of them to protect his son. Renius had trained them to exhaustion, but they were still of poor quality compared to the established legions. He wondered how many were waiting for the right moment to put a knife in him. Such men at his back didn't inspire confidence, for all his assurances to Renius that they would become Primigenia.
“It's good to see that name in the field again. I can't tell you how much,” Pompey replied, losing his grimness for a moment and looking surprisingly boyish as he smiled. Then the mantle of his continual anger settled on him again, as it had ever since his daughter's death. “I want Primigenia to march flank to Lepidus. I don't trust any man who has Cato as his sponsor. When it comes to the fighting, stay close to him. I'll trust you to do whatever has to be done. You'll be my own extraordinarii, I think. You did well in Greece. Do well for me.”
“I am at your command,” Julius confirmed with a quick bow of his head. He met Crassus's eyes, including him even as he began to plan. Brutus would have to be told.
As he left, with the soldiers of Primigenia falling in around him, Julius felt a touch of excitement and pride. He had not been forgotten and he would make certain Pompey didn't regret the trust.
* * *
The slave sank his hoe into
the hard ground, splitting the clods of pale earth with a grunt. Sweat dripped from his face to leave dark marks in the dust, and his shoulders burned with the effort. At first he did not notice the man standing near him, as he was too wrapped up in his own misery. He raised the tool again and caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He did not react immediately, his surprise covered in the motions of his work. The blisters on his hands had broken again and he laid down the hoe to tend them, aware of the man, but not yet willing to give his knowledge away. He had learned to guard the slightest advantage from his masters.
“Who are you?” the dark figure asked softly.
The slave turned to him calmly. The man was wrapped in a rough brown robe over a ragged tunic. His face was partially covered, but the eyes were alight with interest and pity.
“I am a slave,” he said, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Even in the vine rows, it beat down on his skin, burning and blistering him. His shoulders were mottled with raw redness and loose, flaking skin that itched all the time. He scratched idly at the area while he watched the newcomer. He wondered if the man knew how close the guards were.
“You should not stay here, friend. The owner has guards in the fields. They'll kill you for trespassing if they find you.”
The stranger shrugged without shifting his gaze. “The guards are dead.”
The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn't rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.
“I . . . have to get back,” he muttered.
“The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don't have to go anywhere. Who are you?”
“I am a slave,” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
The stranger's eyes creased in such a way that he knew he was smiling under the cloth.
“No, my brother. We have made you a freeman.”
“Impossible.”
The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.
Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.
“Whoever you are, let me go. I won't tell anyone you were here,” he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.
The first man laughed. “There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?”
“What about . . .” He could not bring himself to say “master” in front of these men. “The owner and his family?”
“They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?”
The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.
“Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.”
The man laughed again and it was not a pleasant sound. “Such hatred, yet I understand it. Can you handle a sword? I have one here for you, if you want.” He held it out as a test. A slave was forbidden to bear arms. If he took it, he was marked for death with the rest of them.
The slave reached out and gripped the gladius firmly, rejoicing in the weight.
“Now who are you?” the stranger said softly.
“My name is Antonidus. I was once a general of Rome,” he said, straightening his back subtly.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Spartacus will want to meet you. He too was an army man before . . . all this.”
“Will you let me have the family?” Antonidus asked impatiently.
“You will have your hour, but then we must move on. There are more to be freed today and our army needs the grain in the stores here.”
Antonidus smiled slowly at the thought of what he would do to the people who had called themselves his masters. He had only seen them at a distance as he worked, but his imagination had provided the sneers and slights he could not see. He ran his thumb across the edge of the blade.
“Take me there first. After I have had my satisfaction, I am yours.”
* * *
The warren of filthy streets seemed closed off from the life and light of Rome. The two men Cato had sent trod warily through the refuse and excrement, trying not to react to the scrabbling sounds of rats and larger predators in the dark alleyways. Somewhere a child screamed and then the sound was cut off as if stifled. The two men held their breaths waiting for it to start again, wincing in understanding after the silence went on too long. Life was cheap in that place.
They counted the number of turnings at each stage, occasionally whispering to each other whether a tiny gap between the tenements was part of the count. These were sometimes less than a foot wide and filled with a dark mass they didn't dare to investigate. One of them had a dead dog half sunk in refuse that seemed to lean toward them as they passed, shuddering slightly as the buried part was eaten away by unseen mouths.
The two men were desperately uneasy by the time they reached the crossroads where Cato had told them to wait. It was nearly deserted, with only a few scurrying people moving past them without acknowledgment.
After a time, a shadow detached itself from the darkness under an overhang and moved silently toward them.
“Who do you seek here?” a voice whispered.
Both men swallowed in fear, their eyes straining to make out features in the gloom.
“Look away from me!” the voice snapped.
They turned as if pushed, staring down the rubbish-strewn lane. A sickening smell washed over them as the dark figure stepped close enough to touch.
“Our master told us to mention the name of Antonidus to whoever came,” one of them said, breathing through his mouth.
“He has been sold as a slave, far north. Who is your master now?” the voice returned.
One of the men suddenly remembered the smell from when his father had died, and he vomited, bending over and spilling his last meal into the unrecognizable slop that covered the lane. The other spoke haltingly, “No names, we were told. My master wishes to continue the association with you, but there must be no names.”
A warm scent of rot sighed over them.
“I could guess it, you fools, but this is a game I know how to play. Very well then, what would your master have of me? Deliver your message while I still have patience for you.”
“He . . . our master said you were to forget the one Antonidus asked for, now that the general has been taken for slavery. He will have other names for you and will pay your price. He wants the association to continue.”
The figure let out a soft grunt of regret. “Tell him to name them and I will decide. I will not promise service to any man. As for the death bought by Antonidus, it is too late to call back the men I have sent. That one is dead, though she still walks unknowing. Now go back to your master and take your weak-stomached companion with you.”
The pressure disappeared and Cato's servant took a deep breath in reaction, preferring the stench of the street to the soft odor that seemed to have sunk into his clothes and skin as they talked. It lingered with the two men as they made their way back to the open streets and a world that laughed and shouted, unaware of the festering alleys so close to them.
CHAPTER 37
A crest of white-topped mountains lined the horizon. Somewhere between the teeth were the three passes they hoped to use to escape the wrath of Rome. The cold peaks brought an ache of homesickness as Spartacus looked up at them. Though he hadn't seen
Thrace since his childhood, he remembered scrambling on the lower slopes of the great range there. He had always loved high places where the wind was a constant force against the skin. It made a man feel alive.
“They are so close,” he said aloud. “We could cross them in a week or two and never see a Roman uniform again.”
“Until they come next year and tear Gaul apart looking for us, if I know them,” Crixus said. The man had always been blunt compared to the gladiator he followed. Crixus reveled in the reputation of being a practical man, allowing no dreams or wild schemes to detract from the leaden reality of what they had achieved. He was a short squat figure next to Spartacus, who still retained the litheness that suggested speed even when he was standing still. Crixus had no such grace. Born in a mine, the man was as ugly as he was strong and the only one of the gladiators who could wrestle Spartacus to a draw.
“They couldn't find us, Crix. The Gauls say the land over the mountains is filled with battling tribes. The legions would have to wage war for decades and they haven't the stomach for that. Now Sulla's gone, they haven't a decent leader in the whole pack of them. If we cross the Alps, we'll be free.”
“Still the dreamer, Spartacus?” Crixus said, his frustration evident. “What sort of freedom do you see that is such a prize? Freedom to work harder than we ever did as slaves, scratching out a few crops on land threatened by the locals? They won't want us any more than the Romans do, you can be sure of that. It'll be a backbreaker, this freedom of yours, I know it. Get the women and children clear, that's all. Leave a hundred men to take them through the passes and we can finish what we started.”
Spartacus looked at his second-in-command. Crixus had a thirst for blood in him that had only been whetted in the triumph at Mutina. After what he had lived through at Roman hands, that was easy enough to understand, but Spartacus knew there was more to it.
“Is it their soft life you want, Crix?” he said.