Laughing Wolf (17 page)

“But…!”

“
Adulescens
, my decision is final.” To cut off any further debate, he whistled to his troops who drew the “guests” into their centre and started marching forward. Boxed in by these human shields, they had to move at the same pace as them, and a rapid step it was, desperate as these troops were to leave the region. While they were frustrated to be treated so, the pair did appreciate the soldiers' concern, especially when each was handed an apple.

“Have you been stationed in this region long?” Felix asked.

“We were in Spain five years,” the leader panted. “And before that I served in Macedonia, under Sulla.”

“The dictator?”

“Of course. I was with him when he marched on Rome, and before that he commanded me in the Social Wars — a dreadfully wasteful campaign. Why did Italians have to kill each other? I believe in our empire, but sometimes it comes at a frightful cost. Like this war against the slaves.”

“You aren't … enthusiastic?”

“Why should I be? If I were them, I would fight to win my freedom. Still, the Senate has dispatched us so who am I …?”

He didn't finish his sentence. The group was rounding a bend in the road, which stood at the foot of a bush-covered hill. With a minimum of noise an army sprung from the earth above them, dressed in a mix of skirts and hides and armour, the latter captured in previous campaigns. Each was armed with spears and stones with which they viciously pelted the soldiers.

“We're under attack!” the veteran shouted. “
Adulescens
, this is no place for you! Take the girl and run into the wilds!”

He ordered his men to open their ranks and allow Felix and Carolyn to pass behind them. As soon as they'd retreated from their centre, the soldiers locked their shields together and prepared to meet their attackers head-on — a hopeless effort as they were grossly outnumbered. Without wasting a moment, Felix and Carolyn left the road and stumbled down a slope of scrub and undergrowth. As they crawled past bushes that were thick with thorns, they heard a series of cries behind them: the men on the hillside were on top of the Romans. There was an awful clanging as swords and shields clashed, together with curses and agonized screams. Never had Felix heard anything so dreadful.

As they slid toward the bottom of a gully, he looked back and caught a glimpse of the fighting. There were only five or six Romans left and they were battling dozens of Spartacus's men. One soldier fell, a spear buried in his neck. Was it the kind veteran? He didn't want to know; besides, they now had problems of their own.

“The scum is in the bracken!” someone called in Greek. “There are two of them!”

“There! I see the white of his toga!”

“We've been spotted!” Felix cried, slipping his toga from his shoulders.

“Down this way,” Carolyn urged him, crashing into a cluster of shrubs. As Felix barrelled after her, he discovered, too late, that they had wandered off a five-metre drop; at its bottom was a channel clogged with mud and rotting logs. The fall knocked the wind from him. For her part, Carolyn struck the side of her head. Not only was she covered in dirt, but the side of her skull was bleeding profusely. Felix struggled towards her, a Herculean task as the mud was deep and thick as jam.

“It looks worse than it is,” Carolyn mumbled, staring at the blood that was staining her tunic. He caught her as she lost her balance. Remembering her trick when he'd been stabbed back in Rome, he shaped a makeshift sling from her
palla
and, drawing the folds across his shoulder, hauled her to the high ground.

There were voices above him, around and in front. They didn't concern him; his priority was to escape the mud and staunch the blood from Carolyn's wound. He strained until he thought his shoulder would snap. Carolyn was dazed and could barely help him. A bird retreated from a nearby thicket, startling them both. He scrabbled upwards to a ledge of stone and, with the last of his strength, hauled Carolyn beside him.

“Did we lose them?” she asked, her face distorted with gore.

Instead of answering he gestured to their right. Three grizzled men with half-bared chests were wielding spears whose tips were pointed at their throats.

Chapter Fifteen

F
elix could barely feel his legs. He'd been walking for at least six hours over very rough terrain. Every time his step had slackened, he'd been pushed from behind by one of his captors or slapped or kicked or viciously insulted — it was generally believed that he and Carolyn were spies. He'd been given a crust of bread to eat and only once been allowed to drink from a stream. Compared to Carolyn, he was lucky. Her skull was bandaged with a strip from her
palla
— the rust-coloured stain on the cloth was horrific — and she was so groggy that her step was uncertain. To keep her going, he'd given her his piece of bread. He'd wanted to comfort her with words as well but a guard had threatened to stab him if he spoke.

They were travelling with a band of men who, to elude all Roman troops in the region, had been avoiding the main road and cutting across the countryside. When this had proven difficult — some hills were impassable — they had travelled on the Via Popilia and headed in the direction of Paestum. They'd even passed milestone 143 and the rustic road that led to Panarium. Felix had eyed it yearningly. A lug of a slave was watching him, however, and escape at that point was out of the question.

But where were they headed? Focusing his thoughts, Felix visualized a map of ancient Italy. They were moving toward Paestum, and had passed the town of Picenti.

That meant Salernum was coming up, Eburnum next, the river Silarus … The Silarus. Of course! How stupid of him! That was where the slaves and Romans would fight and Spartacus would make his famous last stand! So they had to be getting close to his camp. He was going to say as much to Carolyn, but the lug caught sight of him and whacked him hard.

“You mangy, cursed Roman! One word to the girl and it will be your last!”

“I've told you already!” Felix snarled. “We're not Romans!”

“Of course you aren't! You only dress like them, and smell like them, and travel with their soldiers. But you aren't Romans, no, heaven forbid!”

“My sister speaks no Latin! I'll prove it to you …”

“I said don't speak to her!” the lug barked out, lifting his arm to hit him again. Before he could strike, a scout called out from a nearby hill. He was standing with a couple of guards who had appeared from out of nowhere and was motioning excitedly.

“We're here, lads. Home sweet home!”

The group moved forward and climbed the hill. For all his tiredness, Felix gasped when he reached the crest. Below him was a long, wide meadow that had a stream meandering through its middle. This space was packed with makeshift shelters, built from blankets suspended on networks of branches. Herds of livestock were standing about, with dogs watching over them to prevent them from straying. And ten thousand bonfires were burning at once and beating back the onset of dusk with their glowing embers and plumes of smoke. While these details and many others gladdened the eye, they were nothing compared to the masses of people who were sprawled across the landscape like a swarm of locusts.

On and on their numbers ran, for as far as the eye could stretch, tens of thousands of human souls. The bulk of them were men who were armed to the teeth, but there were plenty of women and children too. Felix was surprised to see so many non-combatants present, his assumption being they would impede the defenders, but in actual fact they had services to offer. Former slaves, they were skilled and used to hard labour and could provide high quality “logistical support.” They were tending the livestock and feeding the army, cleaning the equipment and looking after the wounded. They were imposing order where there should have been chaos.

“This is incredible,” Felix said. “You've built a city out of nothing.”

“Hear the spy!” the lug declared. “He counts our numbers and assesses our food and observes how cunningly our camp is arranged.”

“I keep telling you. I'm not a Roman. Listen to my accent!”

Instead of answering, the lug shoved him forward and they entered the camp. As they walked past endless tents and fires, they drew lots of attention. Some slaves gazed with sympathy at Carolyn, who looked miserable in her tunic and blood-soaked dressing. When the lug announced she was a Roman, however, their kind looks turned to ones of hatred.

Wending their way past shelters and fires and chicken coops and forges and horses and children, they came upon a Roman tent: it was made of leather panels tied together with guy ropes.

“Magonus!” the lug called out. “Have a look at the Roman scum we captured!”

The lug was large and bursting with muscles, yet seemed puny alongside the brute who emerged. He was six foot eight, weighed three hundred pounds, was bare-chested, dressed in trousers and wore his white-blond hair in two plaited braids — the traditional fashion of Gauls, Felix knew.

“Your hunting was successful, Borgo?”

“We dispatched a patrol then grabbed these agents, even though they tried to escape us.”

“Put them in with the other Romans.”

“But we're not Romans …” Felix started.

“The stockade is too good for them. We should kill them now!” To emphasize his point, he gave Felix a smack.

“You savage!” Carolyn growled.

“What was that?” Borgo bellowed, rounding on her. He didn't understand Common Speak, but recognized when he was being insulted. He swung his arm to whack her too. An instant later he was on his back, blinking in confusion and gasping for breath.

“Translate for me,” she told Felix. “If anyone harms us, I will hurt this man.”

“What's she saying?” Magonus asked. “And what language is she speaking?”

“It's called ‘Common Speak,'” Felix said. “And we use it in Prytan. My sister is warning Borgo to keep his hands to himself.”

“You two are from Prytan?” Magonus asked. “I thought you were Romans. After all, you were seen wearing a toga.”

While hiking, Felix had concocted a tale that would explain their actions and dampen the slaves' resentment. He started with the usual “facts” — how their father was a Druid and how he'd been sent to live with Romans to study their ways. At this point he began to embroider: after he'd been absent a year, his sister had joined him and their troubles had started. Their host had fallen in love with her and wanted to divorce his wife and marry her. When Felix had refused — she'd been betrothed to someone else back home — the Roman had locked them up in his house and sworn he would keep them there until they met his demands. Happily, they had managed to escape. To avoid detection, Felix had “borrowed” a toga and pretended to be a
civis Romanus
.

“But why are you here?” Magonus demanded. “You should have headed west for Prytan, and not travelled to Campania.”

“We are Druids,” Felix answered, having expected this question. “We have a legend that speaks of great things to come when a wolf-like flower sprouts instead of grain.”

“Enough talk,” Borgo growled. “Spare us your lies.”

“The point is,” Felix pressed on, “we have learned that such a flower grows here in Campania and wish to see if it is the one our legend speaks of.”

“So you have risked your lives for a flower?” Magonus asked. His voice was full of doubt and laughter.

“Yes.”

“Don't listen to them,” Borgo cried. “They're spies for the Romans and —”

Magonus held up a hand and Borgo fell silent. This mountain of a man stepped over to Felix and lifted him effortlessly so that their noses were touching. Training his fierce blue eyes on his, he stared straight into him, as if to search his very essence out. After a minute of such scrutiny, he set him down.

“There is truth,” the giant murmured. “But there is something else.”

“Then it is as I said!” Borgo yelled in triumph. “Kill him and the girl!”

“No,” Magonus mused. “We will test him. Follow me.”

The giant strode off from his tent, passing through a crowd of slaves who had gathered to see what this drama portended. Carolyn released Borgo and followed after Felix. Even with the bandage on her head, her muddied clothing, and a feverish stare, she projected a quality that stirred respect in the onlookers.

They walked along the meadow, passing women who were cooking, men who were inspecting weapons, a throng of children who were teasing a lamb, and youths who were playing a variety of games like
tesserae
,
terni lapilli
, and others. Although a hundred details vied for his attention, the one that struck Felix most was the variety of languages being spoken around him. Latin was the most common one, but mixed in with it were snatches of Greek, Hebrew, and ancient Persian, as well as tongues that were utterly remote, Dacian maybe, Noric, Phrygian, Illyrian, Aramaic, Punic, Celtiberian. He understood how his father had felt when, wandering various parts of the world, he had stumbled on collections of books that neither time nor neglect had wiped from the planet.

His father. If only he were there, he was thinking. If only he could hear these words and the two of them had time to piece their meaning together.

Magonus's hand broke in on his reverie. By now they had reached the far end of the compound and were standing before a large stockade. Behind this barrier was a crowd of Roman soldiers — numbering in the hundreds at least — who'd been stripped of their armour and were clad in simple tunics. They were weak, dirty, and grossly unshaven. Some, like Carolyn, were covered in blood, while others were dying or dead already. Surrounding this palisade was a crowd of jeering slaves — young kids for the most part — who were yelling that they didn't look so tough without their weapons, that they hadn't expected slaves to defeat them, and that these same slaves would one day raze Rome to the ground.