Spartacus: Rebellion by Ben Kane Page A

army had been camped near Thurii for some months. Rumours about how easy it was to join had been rife among the discontented farm slaves. In the dark of an autumn night, Marcion had stolen away into the hills. It had taken him only three days to reach the rebel army. A tough-looking officer had studied his farmer’s tan and the calluses on his hands, and accepted him as a recruit.
    Marcion had completed his initial training long since. He had fought in the battles against Lentulus and Gellius, which made him a veteran. In the eyes of the original gladiators who had escaped from the ludus with Spartacus, however, or the men who had fought in the initial battles against the likes of Publius Varinius at Thurii, Marcion and his comrades were nothing but wet-behind-the-ears rookies. He’d grown sick of their jibes, which filled his ears any time their hard-nosed centurion made them train. The old-timers liked nothing better than to stand by and make sarcastic comments. Marching was hard on Marcion’s legs, but at least he was surrounded by his own, more recently recruited cohort. Zeuxis’ grumbling started up again from the rank in front, reminding him that it wasn’t all roses here either. The bald-headed man was older than him, and had joined a week before Marcion had. Zeuxis had the loudest voice in their contubernium , which he thought gave him the right to dictate to everyone. Mostly, the other soldiers in the eight-man tent group let him get on with it. Marcion found that hard.
    ‘We do nothing but fucking march!’
    ‘Shut it,’ said Gaius, a broad-shouldered man who lived to fight. He was marching beside Marcion. ‘Try not to think about it. You’ll get there sooner that way.’
    Zeuxis ignored him. ‘How many hundred miles is it from Thurii?’
    ‘I heard it was close to four,’ said Arphocras, Marcion’s favourite member of the contubernium.
    ‘Is that all? It feels as if we’re halfway to Hades.’
    Arphocras winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, Zeuxis, it’s not much further to the Alps.’
    ‘The Alps! How hard will it be to cross them?’
    ‘It will be summer by the time we get there. The journey won’t be any different to what we’ve experienced in the Apennines,’ said Marcion, repeating what he’d overheard his centurion saying.
    ‘As if you’d know, Greek boy,’ growled Zeuxis. ‘You’re like the rest of us. Never set foot outside Bruttium until Spartacus led us away from there.’
    The others laughed, and Marcion flushed with anger. ‘That’s according to Spartacus, not me!’
    ‘Been talking to him recently, have you?’
    More laughter. Marcion buttoned his lip. He would try to get Zeuxis back later.
    ‘Spartacus – the great man. Huh! If we’re lucky, he might ride by our position every day or two, but that’s it,’ complained Zeuxis. ‘The rest of the time, we’re stuck in the column, without a damn clue about what’s going on. Just following the men in front like shitting ants. No wonder it takes three hours for us even to leave the camp each morning – which means we’re always the last damn soldiers to reach the new one every day.’ Encouraged by the others’ nods and mutters, he went on, ‘Getting our grain ration takes an age, never mind about the wine. And as for spare equipment—’
    Marcion gave up his intention of keeping silent. Everything Zeuxis said was true, but it was part of life when one served in such a vast army. They could no more change it than force the sun to rise in the west and set in the east. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’
    ‘I’ll talk if I want to. Men are interested in what I’ve got to say,’ retorted Zeuxis over his shoulder.
    ‘No, they’re not. They just can’t compete with your bloody monotone.’
    Hoots of laughter rang out, and Zeuxis scowled. He swung around, nearly braining Gaius with the pole carrying his gear. ‘You cheeky bastard!’
    Gaius gave him an almighty shove back into his rank. ‘Why don’t you do as