Spartacus: Rebellion by Ben Kane Page B

Marcion asked, eh? Give us all a break. Enjoy the scenery. Look up the blue sky. Sing us a song, even. Anything but more of your grumbling!’
    Marcion grinned as everyone within earshot loudly agreed.
    Frowning, Zeuxis subsided.
    ‘Thanks,’ muttered Marcion to Gaius.
    ‘S’all right. It won’t keep him quiet for long.’
    ‘Nothing ever does,’ said Marcion, rolling his eyes. ‘Better just enjoy the moment.’
    Taking a deep breath, Gaius began to sing.
    Recognising the bawdy tune, Marcion and the rest joined in with gusto.
    The miles went by far faster when thinking about wine, women and song.
    Ten days later . . .
    Rome
    Marcus Licinius Crassus was tired and hungry. Seeing his house in the distance, he sighed with relief. Soon he’d be home. He had spent a long day in the Senate, listening to, and taking part in, the most interminable debate about building new sewers on the Aventine Hill. The fools spout enough shit as it is without literally having to talk about it, he thought, smiling at his own joke. It was incredible. Despite the recent defeat of both consuls by the renegade Spartacus, the sewerage needs of the plebs were being addressed as a matter of urgency.
    Yet there was no doubt in Crassus’ mind which was the more pressing matter. Spartacus. The man and his slave rabble had become a festering sore in the Republic’s side. Lentulus, the first consul to be disgraced, had presented himself to the senators some weeks before. His attempt to explain his actions had not gone down well, but after a severe reprimand he had been left in command of what remained of his army. Gellius, his colleague, had appeared in the capital just a few days prior. Like Lentulus, he was a self-made man, and lacked the support of a major faction in the Senate. Like Lentulus, he had suffered considerable casualties at Spartacus’ hands; he had also lost both his legions’ eagles. What had brought the senators’ opprobrium raining down on him, however, had not been these factors. It had been the presence of Caepio, the only surviving witness to the humiliation and killing of four hundred Roman prisoners.
    Crassus’ lips pinched at the memory of Caepio’s testimony. Few men in the Republic could demand more respect than he, a centurion with thirty years of loyal service under his gilded belt. Everyone in the Curia had been riveted as he’d spoken. The wave of sheer outrage that had swept through the hallowed building when he’d finished had been greater than any Crassus had ever seen. He had been no less affected. The idea of slaves holding a munus, forcing Roman legionaries – citizens – to fight to the death was outrageous. Unforgivable. Vengeance had to be obtained, and fast. Crassus’ fury and frustration mounted even further. At that moment, revenge seemed unlikely. If the rumours were to be believed, Spartacus was leading his men north, to the Alps. Only Gaius Cassius Longinus, the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, who commanded two legions, stood in his way, and it was hard to see how he would succeed where his superiors had failed. If Longinus were defeated, they would discover if Spartacus really was thinking the unthinkable: would he leave Italy?
    Even if Lentulus or Gellius were granted the opportunity of fighting Spartacus again, Crassus didn’t think that either consul was capable of crushing the slave army. Both of them, especially Gellius, had seemed cowed by the senators’ furious reaction. That was just three hundred angry politicians – not fifty thousand armed slaves. Although the pair had now joined forces, in Crassus’ mind they lacked the initiative – and the balls – to bring the insurrection to a swift and successful conclusion. He had brought some of his fellow senators around to his point of view that change was needed. Getting them to agree to anything further was another matter, however. The traditions surrounding high office that had evolved over half a millennium were set in stone. For