Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter XIII

Near the town of Croton, on the Ionian Sea

Carbo eyed the headland that jutted out into the sea about a mile away. Above the town’s tumbledown stone walls, he could just make out the impressive pillars of the sanctuary to Hera Licinia, the Greek goddess. Croton might be a ghost town compared to its heyday half a millennium before, but its remaining inhabitants were still civilised, he thought. The men in the cove he was spying on couldn’t have been more different.

After seven fruitless weeks of trawling up and down the coast, he had found some pirates.

Carbo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or alarmed: they looked even more cutthroat than the gladiators in the ludus. Black-, brownand fair-skinned, they were for the most part clad in ragged tunics or simple loincloths. The number of weapons each man carried more than made up for their lack of clothing. There was hardly an individual that didn’t have a knife, or two, as well as a sword, on his belt. Spears were stacked up near their tents. There were catapults on the decks of the two shallow-draughted, single-masted vessels that were drawn up on the beach. Carbo felt grateful for the presence — a couple of hundred paces back — of the century of soldiers that Spartacus had insisted he take with him.

The small bay to his front was protected from the worst of the weather by a large sandbar that ran outwards from a rocky promontory to his right. That had to be why the pirates had chosen it as their mooring point. There were perhaps eighty of them — forty to a boat, thought Carbo — sprawled about, sleeping, cooking food over fires, or wrestling with one another. They looked to have been busy. About thirty young people of both sexes sat wretchedly on the sand, ropes tied around their necks. A number of the women were being raped by some of the pirates, while others watched and made comments.

Carbo considered his options. There was no benefit to going in alone, or with just a few men. They’d end up dead, or captured as slaves. All he could think of was to march in peacefully, and to ask for the renegades’ leader. He slid backwards, down the landward side of the large dune that had served as concealment from the beach. It was fortunate that the pirates on sentry duty were too busy watching the violation of their captives to have spotted him.

A short while later, Carbo and his men — some of his own cohort — came tramping over the dune and down towards the beach. They made no effort to be quiet. Panic reigned as they were seen. Men ran for their weapons, and the captives were kicked to their feet and hurried to the boats. That didn’t worry Carbo as much as the sight of the catapults being manned. The light artillery pieces would have an accurate range of two hundred paces.

He raised his hands in the air, and began shouting in Latin and Greek, ‘We come in peace. PEACE!’

As they advanced on to the flat ground, the mayhem did not lessen. About half the pirates arrayed themselves in a rough phalanx before their boats, while the rest were frantically helping to push the vessels into the water. The catapults were aimed straight at Carbo and his men.

He cursed. This was what he had thought might happen. In the pirates’ minds, safety lay at sea. If they succeeded, he would lose all chance of making a deal with them.

There was a loud twang, and his stomach lurched. ‘Shields up!’

A heartbeat’s delay, and then the first stones from the catapults — chunks half the size of a man’s head — landed with soft thumps in the sand, about thirty paces in front of their formation.

‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Very soon, he was going to start losing men. And for nothing. ‘Halt!’

His soldiers gladly obeyed.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Carbo. He dropped his shield and unslung his baldric, letting his sword drop to the sand.

‘What are you doing?’ asked his optio, a block-headed gladiator.

‘Showing them that I mean no harm.’ Carbo took a step towards the pirates. He did well not to flinch as the next stones landed. They were wide this time, but a lot nearer. ‘If I’m killed, return to the army and tell Spartacus what happened.’

‘You’re crazy!’

‘Maybe I am,’ replied Carbo, his heart thumping. But I’m not going back empty-handed. Not after Spartacus has placed such trust in me. He lifted both hands, palms out, and walked forward. ‘I COME IN PEACE!’ He repeated himself in Greek and Latin, over and over.

Another volley of stones came flying over, and he heard them rattle off his men’s upturned shields. There was a shout of pain as someone was hit. Carbo began to grow angry. ‘You stupid bastards. Can’t you see that we’re not attacking you?’ he muttered, continuing to advance. ‘PEACE! PEACE!’

A moment later, to his great relief, he saw a short man in the phalanx bellowing orders at the crew working the catapults. No more stones were loosed, and Carbo walked a little closer. He heard curses being shouted at him in a number of languages. Weapons were still being brandished, but no one threw a spear or charged him. Yet. Wary of going too near, he stopped about fifty paces from the pirates, careful to keep his hands in the air.

He waited.

The short man emerged from the midst of his comrades. He was dark-skinned, but not black enough to be a Nubian. His beady eyes were set in a calculating and cruel face. Gold earrings flashed in his ears, and his tunic was of a richer cut than his fellows. He took a dozen steps towards Carbo. ‘Who in damnation are you?’ he demanded in bad Latin.

‘I am one of Spartacus’ soldiers,’ replied Carbo as loudly as he could. He was pleased when a murmur of recognition rippled through the pirates.

There was a suspicious scowl from the short man. ‘Spartacus? The gladiator who is fighting Rome?’

‘The same. Do you always greet visitors in the same manner?’

‘Usually we just butcher them.’ He grinned, and his men snickered. ‘But I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll let you and your men piss off instead.’

‘No, chief! Let’s kill him,’ said a large man, brandishing a rusty sword.

There was a rumble of agreement from the rest.

The captain winked at Carbo. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that.’

Carbo resisted the urge to order his men to the attack. ‘I have a proposition for you, from Spartacus himself.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is. My name is Carbo. What do they call you?’

‘Heracleo.’

Given half a chance, Heracleo would turn on him like a stray dog, but Carbo still felt encouraged. ‘Can you locate ships bigger than these?’ He indicated the two shallow-bottomed boats, which were now afloat.

There was a laugh. ‘Of course I can. I’ve got a lembus at another anchorage.’ He saw Carbo’s confusion and laughed again. ‘You’d know that as a liburnian. Like everything they admire, the Romans copied it.’

Apart from triremes, Carbo’s knowledge of ship types was vague. ‘How many men can that carry?’

‘Sixty oarsmen, and about fifty slaves. Passengers.’ He corrected himself with an evil leer.

‘I need bigger vessels than that.’

‘There are other captains knocking about the area in biremes. There’s even a trireme or two. Why do you need them?’

‘We want to get to Sicily.’

There was a long, slow whistle. ‘The whole army?’

‘No. Just a couple of thousand men.’

‘Why so few? I’ve heard that Spartacus’ army is massive.’

‘None of your damn business.’

‘It’s my bloody business if you’re on my ship,’ retorted Heracleo.

The last thing his leader wanted any pirate to know was that he was considering retreat. Carbo had his lie ready. ‘Spartacus wants to start a rebellion on Sicily.’

‘Ahhh. To divert the Romans’ attention?’

‘Something like that,’ said Carbo stiffly, as if annoyed.

‘That’s smart. I’ve heard that he’s a canny one, your Thracian. You’d want to cross at the straits, I take it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How soon?’

‘Whenever you can get the ships there.’

A cunning glance. ‘He’s in a hurry. What’s he willing to pay?’

‘Two hundred and fifty denarii per man. Say five hundred thousand in total.’

There was a collective gasp from the pirates. Each of their slaves was worth between two hundred and four hundred denarii, but they only had thirty. Slaving was profitable work, yet the securing of captives was unpredictable and irregular. This would be a prize haul.

‘One and a quarter million,’ replied Heracleo without even blinking.

‘That’s outrageous,’ cried Carbo with all the bluster he could manage.

‘Getting four or five ships that are large enough to carry your men won’t be easy, you know. I’ll have to cut the other captains in. Then there’s the Roman navy to worry about.’

‘I don’t give a shit. It’s far too much!’

Heracleo’s grin was predatory. ‘Spartacus needs me more than I need his money. I can tell. Take my price or leave it — it’s up to you.’

Scowling, Carbo didn’t say anything for several moments. Heracleo’s greed was no surprise. Spartacus had told him he could pay up to a two and a half million denarii, but he had to play the part, to look annoyed.

Heracleo yawned, but a good number of his men seemed keen to carve Carbo up.

‘We could pay nine hundred thousand, but no more than that.’

‘It’s what I said, or nothing, you ugly son of a whore!’

Carbo flushed. He hadn’t been insulted about his pox scars for a long time. His gaze went flat. ‘If you didn’t have so many men with you, I’d cut you a new arsehole.’

Heracleo’s face hardened. ‘You cheeky bastard!’ He opened his mouth, but Carbo interrupted.

‘You drive a hard bargain. One and a quarter million it is.’

Heracleo’s demeanour changed in a flash. His eyes glittered with avarice. ‘You have the money?’

Carbo threw back his head and laughed. ‘For the last year and more, we’ve been pillaging whole towns from here to the Alps!’

‘Of course, of course.’ Heracleo managed to sound obsequious as well as annoyed.

‘How soon can you have the ships at the beach near Scylla?’

Mention of the mythical beast who guarded the straits made Heracleo purse his lips. ‘A month. Six weeks.’

‘Can’t you do it sooner?’

A frown. ‘I will do my best. Before that, however, a down payment will be necessary. I was thinking-’

‘Twenty-five thousand denarii today. A hundred and twenty-five thousand when you arrive with the ships, and the balance when the last of our men set foot on Sicily,’ interjected Carbo harshly. ‘That’s my final offer. Take it, or leave it.’

Heracleo smiled. ‘You can pay me now?’

Carbo turned his head. ‘Optio! Bring a chest over!’

Heracleo spoke a few words in a guttural argot, and his men cheered.

As half a dozen of his soldiers trotted over, Carbo eyed the grinning pirates sidelong. Not one of them could be trusted, yet with the gods’ help, they were now the most important allies Spartacus had ever had. He sent up an urgent prayer to Neptune, the god of the sea, and Fortuna, the goddess of luck, that Heracleo kept his side of the bargain.

If this plan failed, they had ten legions to face.

That was without taking the Gauls and the spy into account. Carbo scowled. Sometimes it felt as if they had as many enemies within as without. He hoped that Crassus had not got wind of what he’d been up to. It seemed unlikely. Once it had been decided that he would leave, Carbo had packed his gear and departed. On Spartacus’ orders, he had told only Navio where he was going.

From the hills that surrounded the ruins of Forum Annii, Spartacus and a party of his scouts — among them Marcion and his comrades — were looking down on to the Via Annia, the main road that led from Capua to Rhegium, the town at the southernmost point of Italy. After what he and Carbo had discovered in Rome, the sight of enemy soldiers was unremarkable, yet it was shocking nonetheless. This host dwarfed the others that they had seen, and it had arrived sooner than Spartacus had expected. Having had word the previous day, they had been waiting for it since dawn. He observed it with a jaundiced eye. His service with the auxiliaries meant that he knew intimately the formation taken by Roman armies on the march.

A couple of hours after the enemy scouts had come stealing through the woods on either side of the road, the vanguard had come into sight, one legion picked by lot to lead the column that day. After that had come the surveyors, a unit comprised of one man from every contubernium in the army, whose job it was to help lay out the camp. Next were the engineers, who removed any obstacles in the legions’ path, and then the senior officers’ baggage. The general in charge and his bodyguard of infantry and cavalry had been easy to spot. A succession of messengers rode from this position up and down the verges, carrying orders to various parts of the host. The commander had been followed by the remainder of the horse. Scores of mules carrying the dismantled artillery preceded the senior officers and their escort. After came the legions, each one signified by a large group of standard-bearers at its front. The ranks of marching legionaries filled the road entirely. Each legion was strung out over a mile or so, but they seemed to go on for far longer. Spartacus’ own forces took up a similar amount of ground, but he and his troops never got to watch them from such a vantage point. It was an awe-inspiring and, even in the best of men, fear-inducing sight.

‘Crassus is here,’ said Spartacus softly. Gladly. It had been more than two months since he’d been in Rome. At last his waiting was over.

‘You’re sure, sir?’ asked Marcion.

‘I’d wager my life on it. We’ve seen, what, five legions so far, and they’re still coming. There’s no way that Crassus would let one of his subordinates lead that many soldiers against us.’

‘What’s your plan, sir?’

All eyes swivelled to Spartacus.

‘We’ve done what we came for. Every grain store within twenty miles has been emptied. If we loaded any more on to our mules, they’d collapse.’

His men chuckled. They liked the idea of so much food.

‘There’s one more thing to find out before we head south, though. I want to test the mettle of Crassus’ soldiers.’ He saw their questioning, slightly nervous looks. Marcion was alone in seeming excited. ‘Most of them are new recruits. I need to see how good their discipline is, so we know what we’re up against.’

‘We’re up against ten legions, sir,’ growled an unhappy voice from the back. Marcion scowled. As usual, it was Zeuxis.

‘And if they’re shoddy soldiers like those of Lentulus and Gellius, we have nothing to be concerned about. But if they’re not, then we’ll need to treat them with a sight more respect.’ He threw them a warning glance. ‘I’ve told you before: Rome is not an enemy to be taken lightly. Just because you’ve beaten its troops on a number of occasions doesn’t mean that you will always do so. Those legionaries you can see might be a very different proposition to meet face to face.’ They didn’t like that, but Spartacus didn’t care. The brutal reality of what they could expect to see for the rest of their lives lay on the valley floor below. If it wasn’t this army, it would be another one.

There was far more, but Spartacus didn’t say it. To his immense frustration, his forces — including the soldiers who answered to the increasingly hostile Castus and Gannicus — now only outnumbered those of Crassus by perhaps fifteen thousand men. If the new legions proved to be cowards, and he picked the right battlefield, that could be enough. Yet while Spartacus didn’t like to admit it, there was a chance that Crassus’ soldiers would stand and fight. If they did, he needed more troops than he currently had.

The days of his huge numerical superiority over Roman armies were but a memory; the deluge of runaway slaves joining them that had been the daily norm since their first remarkable victory had all but dried up. The news of Crassus’ ten legions had to be part of the reason. Or maybe it was because every herdsman and farm worker in the south with any courage had already joined him? Only the gods knew, Spartacus thought bitterly.

His mind was made up. He would go head to head with Crassus now if they were somehow cornered, but otherwise he would seek out a skirmish and then move south, towards Sicily. There, for a while at least, they would have fewer enemy forces to deal with. There would be more recruits and supplies. More options.

He winked at Marcion. ‘Don’t worry, lad, we’ll still have a fight. A chance to bloody Crassus’ nose good and properly.’

Ignoring Zeuxis’ sour expression, Marcion grinned. With Spartacus to lead them, what could go wrong?

Two days later…

Since their confrontation, Spartacus had met with Castus and Gannicus only twice. The encounters had been less than friendly, but there had been no open conflict, and no more threats to leave. While the Gauls and their followers had continued to march with the other soldiers, they had begun to do their own thing. Raids on estates and villages. Attacks on a small town. Refusing to train daily. To all intents and purposes, they had already split off from the main army. Yet while they were still physically present, Spartacus’ hunch was that if the situation demanded it, they would fight alongside him.

On this occasion, the pair arrived outside his tent still dressed for battle, wearing mail shirts, crested bronze helmets and Gaulish patterned trousers. Both had long since given up their native longswords in favour of gladii, finding the stabbing blades easier and more efficient to use in a shield wall.

Hearing Atheas’ challenge, Spartacus came out to meet them. He was pleased to see that they had no retinue. They weren’t here to quarrel. ‘Will you have wine?’

‘No,’ growled Castus.

‘Gannicus?’

‘Say what you have to say and have done.’

‘Fair enough. I know that you took part in the fight earlier.’

‘Of course we did. We’re no cowards,’ retorted Castus.

‘You’re both brave men, I know,’ Spartacus acknowledged in a peaceable tone. ‘All the same, it wasn’t easy today. Those legionaries were keen to fight, and they didn’t give way easily.’

‘They were better than the soldiers we’ve faced before,’ admitted Gannicus grudgingly.

Castus scowled, but he didn’t argue, which told its own story.

‘Imagine if all ten legions fought like that,’ said Spartacus.

They glowered at him.

‘We’ll fight them anyway,’ snapped Castus. ‘And if we lose, at least we’ll die like men.’

‘You both know that I’ll also take them on if I have to.’

Resentful nods.

‘There is an alternative, though. To take the army over to Sicily.’

They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Rallying his patience, Spartacus explained his plan.

‘Has Carbo returned?’ asked Gannicus. ‘Did he find a captain willing to help?’

‘He’s not back yet.’

‘So this is based on hot air,’ cried Castus. ‘Who’s to say that the little bastard hasn’t failed? We could march down there to find that we’re cornered like rats in a trap.’

‘Autumn is practically here too,’ warned Gannicus. ‘There’ll be fuck all farms down there to plunder.’

‘Carbo won’t let us down,’ asserted Spartacus. Inside, he was less certain, but his faith in the Great Rider, whom he had been praying to daily, was strong. He winked. ‘When we arrive, there’ll be pirate ships waiting to take us across.’

Gannicus smiled sourly, but Castus was still not happy. ‘I don’t like it. It feels wrong.’

‘What should we do then?’ demanded Spartacus. ‘Fight a battle on ground we haven’t chosen? On Sicily, there’d be an opportunity to continue the war on an indefinite basis! Or have you got another bright idea?’

Castus flushed with a combination of anger and embarrassment, and Spartacus hoped that he hadn’t pushed the hot-headed Gaul too far. ‘We’ll still have the chance to fight Crassus, you know. He isn’t going to let us just march down to Rhegium. The whoreson will be on our tails the whole way. If Carbo hasn’t managed to make a deal with any pirates, we’ll have a battle on our hands within days.’

‘It’s worth the risk, Castus. I don’t fancy staying behind to face ten legions while the majority of the army buggers off,’ said Gannicus. ‘Sicily is big enough for us to do our own thing.’

‘All right,’ said Castus from between gritted teeth. ‘But this is the last sodding time we follow one of your suggestions. I’m leaving the moment that my feet touch Sicilian soil.’

‘Me too,’ added Gannicus with passion.

‘We’re not there yet. More than one party of enemy scouts has been seen watching us. Crassus knows where we are. If he can harry us on the way south, he will. Whoever is in charge of the rearguard will need to be ready to fend off Roman attacks every day, and if things go wrong, we’ll all have to fight. Let’s put our differences aside one last time, at least until we’ve left the mainland behind. Up to then, we remain one army.’ It was pushing things further than necessary, but Spartacus had to be sure. He was pleased and a little relieved when, after a moment, they both nodded.

‘We’ll leave tomorrow.’

Since the first contact with Spartacus’ troops, Crassus had been in ebullient mood. The clash had been inconclusive, but that did not matter a jot. What was important was the fact that, unlike the vast majority of their fellows who had faced the slaves, Crassus’ legionaries had not run away. They had stood their ground against sustained assaults, sending out a firm message to the enemy. Things are different now, Spartacus. I am in charge.

The day after the skirmish, Crassus had been even more pleased by another first. Instead of seeking battle again, the slaves had withdrawn — retreated — down the Via Annia. He’d heard of Spartacus’ plan first from his spy, but hadn’t believed it. When the truth of it became apparent, he’d had it announced to every cohort in the army. He could still hear the cheering now. Without delay, he and eight legions had set out after Spartacus. Mummius’ two legions, both of which contained many veterans of Lentulus’ and Gellius’ defeated forces, had been sent inland, to shadow the enemy host. Mummius was under strict orders not to engage with the slaves. His mission was to discourage them from trying to break away to their previous haunts in the south-east.

A week had passed without event. Crassus issued orders; the legions broke camp, marched and erected another encampment. On the eighth day, surrounded by his bodyguard and with Caepio keeping pace alongside him, Crassus was some two miles from the front of the column. He had spent the morning deep in thought. Spartacus appeared intent on reaching the point of Italy’s ‘toe’. Could he really have delusions of escaping to Sicily? he wondered scornfully. That’s what his spy had thought, although the fool hadn’t known how it would be done. Perhaps Spartacus thinks he can hold us off at the straits while his men try to build ships! That would never happen. His forces were following the Thracian’s too closely.

Soon, thought Crassus exultantly, the door would have closed on the slaves. Beyond Consentia, a town some thirty miles south of Thurii, they would enter a geographical bottleneck, all but doing his job for him. Once a blockade had been built across the peninsula, the legions would starve Spartacus and his men out, or force them into doomed attacks against their fortifications. Crassus already had pictures in his head of the siege of Numantia, which had been successfully prosecuted by Scipio Africanus sixty years before, in Iberia. The incredible feat of engineering was still celebrated. He would do the same. The campaign would end there, within sight of Sicily.

With luck, I could be back in Rome in time for Saturnalia. How the public will love me!

Crassus became aware of a cavalryman clattering along the verge towards him. ‘Message for you from my decurion, sir,’ cried the rider as he drew near. ‘We’ve been scouting along the trails and valleys to the east.’

‘Speak.’

The cavalryman wheeled his horse so that he could ride parallel to Crassus. ‘We’ve just encountered some of Mummius’ men, sir.’

Crassus frowned. ‘Messengers, like you?’

A heartbeat’s hesitation. ‘No, sir. They weren’t messengers.’

‘Are you trying to confuse or annoy me, man? Because you’re doing both.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s not my intention.’ The cavalryman swallowed. ‘It appears that they clashed with some of Spartacus’ forces.’

‘When?’ asked Crassus, his nostrils flaring. Mummius will pay for this!

‘Yesterday, sir.’

‘And the men you met were the wounded sent back by Mummius, is that it?’

‘No, sir. Apparently, they were driven back by Spartacus’ troops.’

Crassus shot a disbelieving glance at Caepio, whose face bore an unhappy scowl. His eyes returned accusingly to the cavalryman. ‘Say that again.’

‘They were driven from the field, sir. Routed, is what some of them said.’

‘Routed,’ repeated Caepio in evident disbelief.

‘Gods above, what part of my orders did Mummius not understand? Under no circumstances was he to engage with the enemy!’ shouted Crassus.

The cavalryman did not dare answer. He locked his gaze on the backs of the soldiers in front.

‘Where is Mummius? Is the fool even alive still?’

‘His men didn’t know, sir,’ muttered the cavalryman. ‘We haven’t seen him either.’

Crassus fought to control his anger. ‘How many of the cowards have you met?’

‘It’s difficult to say, sir. They were straggling in in small groups. Eighty, perhaps a hundred?’

‘That’s all?’

‘There were more following, but my decurion wanted you to know about it, sir.’

‘He did well. So did you. Return to your unit and tell your officer that he is to send every last one of Mummius’ men down to the road. There they are to find Centurion Caepio, who will direct them thereafter.’

Looking immensely relieved not to be punished, the cavalryman repeated Crassus’ orders word for word before saluting and riding off.

‘What do you want me to do with the yellow-livered rats, sir?’ growled Caepio.

‘Take a cohort from the front legion and use it to round them up. Isolate the first five hundred who reach you. Make sure that all of them keep up with the rest of the column. I’ll deal with the mangy dogs when we’ve reached the site for our camp.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Caepio called for a horse. Mounting with an ease that belied his age, he rode off without a backward glance.

Left alone with his fury, Crassus began to plan his course of action. He prayed that Mummius had survived, not because he gave a whit for the man, but because he wanted to punish him. It was rare indeed for such a senior officer to be stripped of his rank, but that wouldn’t stop Crassus. The thought of going further and having Mummius executed was appealing, but with regret, he decided against it. The man might be an idiot, but he came from a good lineage. Seventy years earlier, his grandfather had sacked the Greek city of Corinth while serving as a consul. The family was still well connected. Crassus had been given supreme command of the campaign to subdue Spartacus, but his position wasn’t unassailable. Alienating elements within the Senate before he had succeeded was not a good idea.

It would be enough to humiliate Mummius by demoting him in front of his own men and sending him in disgrace to Rome. His men, however, would have to pay for their cowardice. Their punishment would show every legionary in the army that such behaviour would never be tolerated.

Crassus’ lips thinned with satisfaction.

By the time the day’s camps had been built, Mummius’ soldiers had been in the sun for several hours. They had been denied both food and water. The five hundred men who had been first to arrive back — a virtually untouched cohort — had been made to stand facing the main entrance to Crassus’ encampment. Their muscles were shaking from the effort of standing to attention for so long, but not a single soldier had dared to complain. Any weapons they hadn’t discarded had been confiscated, and their mail shirts lay in a great silver pile alongside. A cohort of veterans with drawn swords had been deployed around them, and a score of centurions, including Caepio, patrolled up and down inside this perimeter, raining blows on anyone who relaxed even a fraction. The remainder of the disgraced legionaries, almost six thousand men, were arrayed in cohort-sized blocs to their right. Mummius stood in front, bareheaded and without a weapon.

Crassus had ordered that a hundred individuals from each legion should witness the punishment that was to be meted out. The selected soldiers marched in when the day’s camps had been finished. They placed themselves opposite the main body of Mummius’ troops, forming the third side of a large square.

Informed that the scene had been set, Crassus let the assembled legionaries bake in the heat for close to an hour. He wanted everyone present — not just the legionaries who had run — to be tired, sunburned and uncomfortable when he arrived. Finally, riding his best horse, a spirited grey stallion, and accompanied by his senior officers, he made his way to the platform that had been built by the engineers on the square’s last side, parallel to the camp’s wall. In front of it lay a large pile of wooden clubs, the ends of which had been studded with nails. As Crassus led the way up the steps, trumpeters blew a short, sharp fanfare.

Crassus began to speak the moment that the musicians had finished. He pitched his voice to carry. ‘You all know why you are here! Some men, that is Mummius and the “tremblers”, are to be punished severely. Their comrades can also expect to be disciplined. The rest of you are present to learn that the cowardice shown by these so-called “soldiers” cannot and will not be tolerated. EVER. You are to act as witnesses, so that every man in the army hears about what happened here today.’ He let his words sink in, saw with satisfaction the condemned ponder their fates.

‘Lucius Mummius Achaicus, present yourself!’

Mummius marched smartly forward and came to a stop in front of the platform. He saluted, but avoided Crassus’ eye. ‘Sir!’

‘I sent you to shadow the enemy army. You were to avoid confrontation with Spartacus’ troops, but when the chance presented itself, you did so anyway, in the process disobeying my commands. Is that not correct?’

‘It is, sir,’ answered Mummius in a low voice. ‘Some of his troops had fallen behind the main body of-’

‘Silence! Not only did you flout my orders, but you fell into Spartacus’ trap. When the battle began, your men proved to be cowards of the first degree. They ran from the enemy in their thousands, leaving their weapons and standards behind. The first soldiers to appear consisted of an entirely unharmed cohort. Did they fight at all, I wonder, or did they just run when the slaves advanced as they did before when they fought with Gellius and Lentulus?’ Crassus’ tone was withering.

Mummius didn’t say a word.

‘Most of the cohorts that returned afterwards had suffered heavy losses. That doesn’t excuse them fleeing the battlefield, but it shows at least that they are not complete cowards,’ Crassus declared. ‘I will come to them later. First I must deal with you. Lucius Mummius Achaicus, legate. Or should I say, former legate.’

Mummius’ head lifted. His face was stricken, but not unsurprised.

‘I strip you of your rank and your command with immediate effect,’ Crassus cried. ‘Only the memory of your glorious forefathers, who were far greater men than you, prevented me from punishing you further. You are ordered to return to Rome with all haste, where you are to present yourself to the Senate and explain your actions. The senators can do with you as they see fit.’ He glared at Mummius. ‘Are my orders clear this time?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hope so. Get out of my sight!’

Head down, Mummius trudged back to his position.

‘Every man apart from the tremblers is to be fined six months’ pay. They are to be issued with new weapons to replace the ones that were thrown away or lost.’ Crassus noted the relieved looks of those in the front ranks. ‘But first, I would have you pledge that you will never again discard your sword or javelins. You will swear this upon pain of death. Anyone who refuses will be executed.’ He eyed the legionaries again. ‘Are there any men who do not wish to take the oath?’

Not a man stirred.

Crassus smiled. ‘Repeat after me then: I, a soldier of Rome…’

When the assembled men had finished swearing, Crassus turned to the soldiers directly before him. ‘In case you didn’t know, you whoresons, the term “trembler” is a Spartan phrase. It was coined to describe the worst of men, the soldiers who didn’t come back with their shields or on them, but without them entirely. Not only did you do that, but you were the first to run. The first to leave your comrades to the mercy of the enemy. You are all cowards. DAMN COWARDS!’ He glared at them, daring anyone to meet his eye. No one would. ‘There is just one punishment suitable for such men. Decimation!’

The word hung in the hot air.

‘That’s right, you maggots!’ roared Crassus. ‘Decimation is what you deserve.’

Shock filled the faces of those who were watching; utter terror twisted the faces of the condemned soldiers.

‘You are to march before me in groups of fifty. You will draw lots, and then one man in every ten is to be beaten to death by his companions. Fifty of you in total will die, and the rest of you will be forced to pitch your tents outside the walls of the camp until I say otherwise. For the same period, you will be issued barley to eat, as the horses and mules are. Every one of you will be docked a year’s pay. You can also expect to fight in the front ranks in any subsequent battles.’ Crassus’ eyes flickered left and right. ‘Caepio, where are you?’

‘Right here, sir.’ The old centurion strode forward from the tremblers’ ranks.

‘You are to supervise. Any man not taking part in this punishment with sufficient enthusiasm is to suffer the same fate as those who are being decimated. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Begin at once.’

Caepio swivelled about. ‘You heard the general! Fifty men, step forward in groups of ten!’

With dragging heels, the first couple of ranks began walking towards him. Other centurions shoved them into files of ten. Caepio produced a bag, which he shook vigorously. ‘This contains nine white pebbles and one black. Each of you is to take one. Obviously, the one who gets the black stone is to die.’ He held open the bag. ‘First!’

Encouraged by a centurion wielding a vine cane, a soldier stepped up to Caepio. Plunging his hand into the bag, he pulled out a stone. It was white. His face sagged with relief.

‘Next!’ yelled Caepio.

The second pebble was white.

So were the third, fourth and fifth ones.

But the sixth was black. The man who drew it let out a cry of anguish.

‘Stay where you are!’ roared Caepio. The shaking soldier obeyed, and Caepio gestured at the pile of clubs. ‘The rest are to pick up a weapon and get back here.’ When the nine had returned, he bellowed, ‘Form a circle.’

As soon as the legionaries had done as they were told, Caepio shoved the chosen man into the rough ring’s centre. ‘Get on with it!’

No one moved except the condemned, who fell to his knees and began praying in a loud voice.

‘Roman citizens are not supposed to be crucified, but that won’t stop me ordering it for every last one of you fools!’ screamed Crassus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘Kill him! NOW!’

For a heartbeat no one reacted, but then a big legionary took a step forward. And another step. He was joined by three others, and in a rush, by the five remaining men. They closed in on their comrade, who was now begging for mercy. No one replied, and no one would meet his eye.

The big legionary acted first. As he brought down his club, the condemned man raised his right arm in defence. Thump. The heavy blow snapped his arm bones like a twig, and the nails in the club’s head ripped scarlet lines all through his scalp. Screaming, he fell on to his back. ‘Help me, Jupiter, please! Help me!’

Like a pack of wolves falling upon their prey, the nine soldiers surrounded him. Their clubs rose and fell in a terrible rhythm. Spatters of blood flew up, covering their arms and faces. The screaming quickly died to a low moaning sound, and that too was silenced fast. Yet the legionaries kept pounding away. It was only when Caepio called them off that they stood back, chests heaving. A combination of horror and demented rage contorted their faces. It wasn’t surprising, thought Crassus. Their comrade resembled a badly butchered piece of meat. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, and his features were unrecognisable, a bloody mess of torn flesh, fractured bone and exposed teeth. Crassus fancied he could see brain matter on several of the clubs, which was curiously satisfying. ‘Leave his body where it lies,’ he ordered. ‘Next!’

The dazed soldiers were marched away and the next group of ten forced to come forward. Each picked his pebble from Caepio’s bag. When it was time to take a club and do the unthinkable, no one protested. The mould had been broken by the initial decimation, and everyone knew that if they resisted, a cross awaited them. Soon a second bloodied corpse lay beside the first. Then it was a third and a fourth. As the number of dead grew, Crassus had the bodies heaped on one another, like carrion.

And so it went on, for more than an hour.

When the last man had been beaten to death, silence fell over the assembled troops. Crassus’ gaze moved over the legionaries, assessing their mood. He saw no resentment or even anger, just resignation, disgust and fear. ‘Let this be a lesson to you and to your comrades.’ He pointed at the pile of broken flesh and bone, and the pool of blood that was spreading around it. ‘Spread the word. This is the end that awaits anyone who runs from the enemy!’