Laughing Wolf (18 page)

Ignoring the crowd, Magonus walked up to this “jail” and motioned one of its inmates over. He was a muscular man with dark, curly hair and a hawk-like face that had once been handsome, but was gaunt with hunger now. Fearfully, the man approached the Gaul, who signalled to some henchmen. They dragged the Roman to a space outside the prison and pinned his arms behind his back. Magonus nodded to Borgo who unsheathed his sword and threw it to the ground in front of Felix.

“Take that sword and kill the Roman,” Magonus said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kill him,” he repeated, looking Felix in the eye. “Your willingness to do so will reveal your intentions. Quickly. Night is falling and there is work to be done.”

Felix looked at the sword, then at the curly-haired Roman: the man was clearly terrified but was intent on dying honourably, without moans or tears or pleas for mercy. Felix could imagine the thoughts passing through his head: how he wished he could bid his family goodbye, how he was sorry before the gods for any crime he'd committed, and how he wasn't yet ready to surrender his ghost.…

“Take the sword!” Magonus thundered.

“What's the matter, spy?” Borgo jeered. “Perhaps you know this Roman scum?”

Felix glanced at Carolyn, then at the crowd around him. Clearly, he couldn't kill this man. Besides the risks of a butterfly effect, the idea of driving steel into a stranger and watching his blood spurt and hearing the air leave his lungs, no, all of this was out of the question. He looked at Magonus.

“I can't violate the sanctity of human life.”

“What?” Magonus thundered, as the crowd unleashed a flurry of cat-calls.

“My tribal ways have taught me that to extinguish a life is to extinguish a world. What you ask is impossible and irreligious.”

“Very well,” Magonus laughed. “Borgo was right. You are a spy.…”

“Let me kill him,” the lug offered.

“That would be too easy,” Magonus chuckled. “Instead, let us arm this soldier. If he wishes to live, he will kill the spy. If the spy desires life, he will forget his principles and destroy his opponent.”

The surrounding crowd roared with approval. Gathering torches, they settled in to watch a
munus
, only this time Romans would be fighting each other. As Borgo found a sword for the Roman, a slave armed Felix with Borgo's weapon. Carolyn wanted to intervene, but four men seized her and she was warned — through Felix — that involvement on her part would lead to instant execution.

Again, Felix's wound was tingling.

“Let the game begin!” Magonus cried, dropping a scrap of fabric to the earth.

The Roman charged Felix. He was weak with hunger, but his desperation lent him strength. He stabbed with his sword, not once, but several times in quick succession. Instinctively Felix protected himself, blocking each blow with his own length of bronze, and flinching as sparks travelled the length of their blades. Despite his lack of training, he was quick on his feet and able to dodge the strokes — his experience playing halo-ball was useful. If the soldier had been fed and rested he would have made short work of him, but in his weakened state he kept missing his target. He was also tiring quickly. The spectators laughed and insulted the pair, words to the effect that the Roman empire would crumble with effeminate soldiers like these to defend it.

Stung by these insults, the soldier drew himself straight and brought his sword down full force on Felix. Twisting like a fish, he dodged the attack and watched as his opponent tumbled to the soil. That was when he dropped his sword and faced Magonus with a look of contempt.

“Of all people, you should know the loathsome nature of such combat. And yet you copy your enemy's worst sins, and rob your cause of all its justice. Despite your freedom, you're still slaves to your passion!”

“You know nothing of slavery!” Magonus thundered. “How dare you tell us what is right and wrong! Kill him,
miles
,” he urged the panting soldier. “And we will let you live and see your wife and children!”

Unable to believe his luck, the soldier mustered his remaining strength. His sword upraised and gleaming murderously in the torch-light, he fell upon Felix. He was neither grateful for his show of mercy, nor in any way reluctant to stab his benefactor. From far away, a million miles away, Felix heard Carolyn calling his name, even as he prepared for the steel's final kiss, the agony as his soul was ripped from its moorings, and his final gasps as the shadows claimed him.…

It wasn't to be. There was a rush of motion and the Roman fell backwards, knocked off his feet by a well-aimed stone. Felix cringed, sure that Carolyn had interfered, and that death would be visited on both of them now. But no, she was still in the grip of Borgo's henchmen. Who …?

A tall, lean figure jumped into focus. There were no surviving portraits of the man, no sculptures, no mosaics, no paintings, no frescoes, but Felix knew his identity well, as surely as if he'd been looking at his very own father.

And so he caught his first glimpse of the gladiator Spartacus.

Chapter Sixteen

F
elix woke to the sound of muffled voices. It was black around him and the air was rank with sweat and garlic. He was perspiring beneath a woollen blanket, his legs were sore, and his right temple was throbbing. Sitting upright, he strained to catch his bearings.

“We've lost half our men since the winter snows melted.”

“But we're thirty thousand strong still.”

“For two years we have plundered, with what end in sight?”

“To teach the Roman scum a lesson.”

“Surely our purpose is nobler than that. And won't they learn a lesson if we retreat from Italy and return to our homes?”

It was all coming back to him: the long march, the camp, his match with the Roman, and Spartacus's dramatic arrival on the scene: with a look of disgust, he had ended the
munus
and insisted that their “guests” be properly received. When Magonus had declared he wouldn't share his food with Romans, and the other slaves had murmured their agreement, Spartacus had decided to host the pair. He had led them to his tent in perfect kindness, where they'd been fed and washed and their wounds had been treated.

“We can't leave Italy until Rome is in ruins.”

“Do you suppose, Magonus, we will win such success? Rome is strong and will never be beaten.”

“Our cause is just.”

“And our homes are sweet. Let us disband while fortune smiles on us still.”

“I disagree. We must fight. Are you with me, boys?”

As a chorus of men expressed their approval, Felix considered the bundle beside him. Carolyn. She'd had a hard night. Feverish and restless, she had tossed and turned and talked in her sleep — several times she had called out to her mother. He remembered groping in the dark for some water and giving her a drink and wiping her forehead. Eventually she had slept like a stone.

Reassured to see her fever had broken, Felix crawled toward the tent door and pushed the leather flap aside. Stepping into a perfect summer's day, he shielded his eyes from the low sun in the east. The tent had been pitched on the verge of the meadow and confronted him with the pretty sight of ferns and scrub and knee-high grass, whose blades were bright with the morning dew. Behind him were innumerable encampments, whose inhabitants were beginning to stir. To his right was a bonfire, around which several men were huddled. Among them sat Spartacus. Although he wasn't the biggest man in their circle, a subtle glow enhanced his features and marked him as their natural leader. As if sensing Felix's gaze upon him, he raised his eyes and took his presence in.

“Our guest is up,” he announced. “Let's include him in our council.”

“So he can tell our plans to the Romans?” Magonus sniffed.

“Make room, Boaz,” Spartacus addressed a thin, bearded figure. “He will sit next to you.”

With a smile of embarrassment, Felix sat with the captains.

“Let's continue,” Spartacus said. “Please excuse us, Felix, if we mention facts that are not known to you.”

Felix smiled at this apology. Little did this leader guess that he had read Appian, Plutarch, and other writers, who had chronicled Spartacus's slave rebellion. In other words, he was intimately acquainted with the man's history. His grin quickly faded, however, as the gravity of their situation struck home.

The slaves were at the end of their tether. They had recently arrived in the Silarus valley after losing their captains Castus and Crixus together with a huge number of men. Spartacus had won a battle soon after, but at the cost of an additional ten thousand troops, leaving him with thirty thousand warriors in all. For his part, Crassus had six full legions, and reinforcements would be arriving soon. The conclusion seemed obvious: they were fated to lose. This was why Spartacus wanted to flee, dissolve the army, and make his way home.

“Crassus is a brute,” he was telling his generals. “And that Roman brat Pompey has never been beaten.”

“We bruised them before,” Boaz spoke. “We can bruise them again.”

“And we can use the river as a defence,” Gannicus added.

Felix started when he heard the river mentioned. Far from serving as a bulwark, it would be a tomb for these slaves. His expression grew more downcast.

“Felix,” Spartacus said, desperate to find someone who would agree with his plans, “you seem to me the thoughtful sort. What do you propose? Should we meet the Romans in combat, or should we run to the north?”

“He's a stripling and a spy,” Magonus rasped. “His voice shouldn't be heard at our council.”

“Magonus is right,” Felix stammered, wishing he could speak the truth and save the army from annihilation. “I am ignorant of war. Consider your friends Crixus and Castus, both seasoned warriors who were worsted in battle. How can I advise you when such leaders failed?”

“The boy's no fool,” Magonus laughed. “Although I'm not acquainted with these men he speaks of.”

“Perhaps he refers to Mors and Dolor,” Boaz said.

“Perhaps,” Spartacus mused, with a neutral look. He was about to add something, but was interrupted. A gangly teen broke in on the group, dressed in a tunic and a shirt of rusting mail. His hair was matted and grass was clinging to his clothes. His news was urgent, but he was self-controlled. Felix knew the Romans had been spotted.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he gasped, “but Crassus draws near.”

“Already?” Magonus barked. “I thought we had time to prepare.”

“We count six legions,” the scout continued. “At their present rate of progress, they'll be here in three hours.”

“Let's have a look,” Spartacus sighed, climbing to his feet. Calmly and methodically, he told his captains to arrange their units for battle. As soon as they were fed and mustered, they would march due north along three different routes, concealing themselves in the surrounding hills. When they had advanced two miles, they would await his instructions.

As his captains scurried off, he asked if Felix could ride a horse. When Felix answered no, he said his horse would bear them both and that they would ride to take a look at the Romans. He then directed him to awaken his sister and to eat a quick breakfast so that they could leave soon. These orders given, he called for his horse. Returning to the tent, Felix saw Carolyn just outside its entrance. She was bleary-eyed and bruised all over, but her expression signalled she was fit for action.

Relieved to see that she was feeling better, he led her toward a fire pit where three bulls were being roasted on spits. As they walked, he explained how Crassus's troops were advancing and Spartacus wanted them to scout things out. Carolyn nodded vaguely. She was distracted by the tumult and couldn't focus on this news.

By now the camp knew the enemy was close. With a discipline and energy that would have impressed Crassus, everyone was setting about his appointed task. Some were packing up the bedding and tents, in case they had to leave in a hurry. Others were carrying helmets and breastplates, which they fitted on the fighting population, wishing them luck, kissing them repeatedly, and voicing fervent prayers aloud. Swords, spears, and shields soon followed, and men who only moments before had been talking to their wives or dancing children on their knees were transformed into engines of destruction.

And it wasn't just the men who were intending to fight. Boys younger than Felix were holding bows and slingshots. Their features were a curious mix of fear, resolve, and … optimism.

A girl handed Carolyn a handful of daisies. “To celebrate our victory,” she explained with a giggle.

“Will they win?” Carolyn asked, once the girl had scampered off.

“They will be ground into the dust,” he replied grimly.

There was nothing further to say, so the two approached the fire pit in silence. Each asked for a serving of meat and watched as a man who was stripped to his waist carved thick slabs from a bull's dripping haunch. Wrapping these in leaves, he handed them their breakfast. He smiled when they thanked him, and said he hoped the meat would give them the strength of a bull.

“I'm not hungry,” Carolyn said, staring at the food. “These people seem nice and I don't want them to die.”

“I don't either,” he agreed. “But we have to eat.”

As if to underline this point, Spartacus came over, with Boaz close behind. He was dressed in scaled armour and was heavily armed. He was also mounted on an ivory white charger that was eighteen hands tall, had a huge barrelled chest and was bulging all over with veins and muscle. His name was Thrax and he was beautiful.

“Climb behind me,” Spartacus called, extending his hand to Felix. “Your sister will ride with Boaz. Quickly. We haven't much time.”

With no choice in the matter, Felix grasped his hand and leaped toward him. In a practised motion, the warrior swung him up, causing him to land towards the horse's rump. There was no saddle, no stirrups, only a coarse woollen blanket. With no other means to keep himself steady, he wrapped his arms round Spartacus's waist. Smiling at his helplessness, the general advised him to cling to the horse with his thighs. After Carolyn was seated on Boaz's mount — she too was grasping him round his waist — Spartacus produced a clucking noise. Instantly Thrax set off at a trot.