real.’
Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’
‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’
In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’
‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.
‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’
‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’
Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’
‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’
‘Even better – that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’
‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’
They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.
A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’
‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity .’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’
‘Damn right I am!’
‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed – where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’
Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.
Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.
One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’
Castus’ beady eyes filled with hope. He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Will the majority really refuse to do as he asks?’
‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘I hope you’re right, by Taranis! I would love to see that come to pass.’
‘So would I, because the day that he announces the army is to march into the Alps is the day we act. In the meantime, we wait, watch and listen.’
In a flash, Castus’ mood turned. ‘We’ve been sitting on our hands about this since we broke out of the stinking ludus! I’ve a good mind just to head off on my own. Plenty of men will follow me!’
‘Do what you want,’ said Gannicus dismissively. ‘You are your own master. But before you act, think of the prize on offer. Imagine leading forty, even fifty thousand men into battle. We’d be like the Gaulish chieftains of old. Like Brennus, who sacked Rome. They say that the ground trembled when his men were going into battle. Imagine that! The Romans would shit themselves.’ He sat back and let Castus suck on the bones of that idea.
‘All right, all right. We’ll wait a little longer; use the time to talk more men around, eh?’
‘Exactly.’ Gannicus kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was delighted. If he could induce Castus to act with him, they stood a far greater chance at the Alps of persuading the majority of the army to reject Spartacus’ demands. And when that happened, he would be the driving force of the pair. Castus was no fool, but his hot-headedness often led him into trouble. It also made him relatively easy to manipulate, which suited Gannicus down to the ground. He cracked the seal off another amphora. ‘In the meantime, let’s get pissed!’
Castus belched. ‘Good idea.’
‘We’ll drink to Spartacus losing control of the army.’
‘Even better – that he ends up on the wrong end of a Roman blade!’
‘Aye,’ agreed Gannicus. ‘He did the job well enough at the start, but the power has gone to his head.’
They eyed one another with new intensity, both realising that the other was thinking the same thing.
A moment went by. Castus looked around, checking that no one was in earshot. ‘Do you think it’s possible? Those Scythians are like a pair of mad hunting dogs. And then there’s the man himself. He’s lethal with a blade. Or his bare hands. Remember how he all but killed Crixus, and he was as strong as an ox.’
‘He’s not so dangerous when he’s asleep. Or when he’s taking a shit,’ murmured Gannicus slyly. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? We just have to wait for the right opportunity .’ He gave Castus a hard stare. ‘You with me?’
‘Damn right I am!’
‘Not a word about it to anyone. This has to be between you and me.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid? My lips are sealed – where that’s concerned, anyway.’ He reached out a hand for the amphora. ‘Now, are you going to let me die of thirst?’
Grinning with satisfaction, Gannicus handed over the wine. Spartacus, he thought, your star has begun to wane. About bloody time.
Marcion had grown up on an estate in Bruttium. He was of Greek extraction, medium height, and had his father’s sallow skin and black hair. Given that his parents were household slaves, it had been natural for Marcion’s master to have him trained as a scribe when he was old enough. He had shown a natural proficiency for the job, and had enjoyed it too. Sadly, his whole life had been turned upside down a year previously, when his master had died, leaving as his only heir a dissolute youth with no sense of culture.
One of this boor’s first acts had been to force many of the domestic slaves to work in the estate’s fields, where they ‘would be more productive’. Marcion had known about the harsh life and brutal discipline meted out to agricultural slaves, but until then he had never experienced it first-hand. After a few weeks, he had had enough. Spartacus’
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