Carbo had been ecstatic when Spartacus had told him of Heracleo’s arrival. His trust in the pirate had been repaid, and his leader would think well of him for succeeding in his mission. They would escape from Crassus’ legions! He had talked for hours with Navio, Publipor and Arnax about it. Navio had been to Sicily, and knew the lie of the land. ‘Spartacus has made a good choice,’ he had declared the first night. ‘The latifundia there are immense. Most have hundreds of slaves. Some have far more. Tough bastards, the lot of them: you know what agricultural slaves are like. When the word gets out that we’ve arrived, they’ll flock to us in their thousands.’
Publipor had winked. ‘More men for you to train.’
‘Good. The more soldiers we have, the more legionaries we can kill,’ Navio had snarled.
Carbo had flinched, but said nothing: he knew his friend’s insatiable appetite for the blood of his own kind was born from the anguish of losing both father and brother to Pompey’s troops. As far as Navio was concerned, his war would end only when the Senate burned down and Spartacus had destroyed the Republic. It was an impossible dream, thought Carbo, but it made Navio the perfect soldier. He, on the other hand, was fighting because he was loyal to Spartacus. He would fight whomever the Thracian did and follow him anywhere, because he believed in him. Loved him.
That was why, by dawn on the fourth day after Heracleo’s departure, Carbo’s spirits had plummeted. There had been no storms, no intemperate weather to send the bireme off course. No Roman vessels to scare it away or to stop it from anchoring offshore. Heracleo must have reconsidered, thought Carbo miserably. He would not be coming back. Later that morning, he wasn’t surprised to be summoned to Spartacus’ tent. No doubt their leader wanted to grill him again about what had been arranged, or even to punish him.
Atheas and Taxacis greeted him in a friendly manner but the Thracian’s face was as black as thunder.
‘You called for me?’ Carbo asked.
‘I did.’
Carbo shifted from foot to foot. ‘Is it about Heracleo?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ blurted Carbo. ‘I never should have trusted him. It’s all my fault.’
Spartacus reached down to pick up a leather bag. He tossed it at Carbo. ‘A Roman catapult shot that over the ramparts earlier. Take a look inside.’
Seeing the red stain on the bag’s bottom, Carbo’s stomach wrenched. Gingerly, he peered in and was stunned to recognise Heracleo’s waxen features, still twisted in an expression of terror. Revolted, angered and a little relieved, Carbo dropped the bag.
‘I wanted to be sure. You think it’s Heracleo too.’
‘I do,’ said Carbo. ‘The Romans caught him then?’
‘Evidently,’ replied Spartacus in a dry tone.
Carbo wanted to scream at the sky. ‘How? They have no ships worth talking about!’
‘My guess is that Heracleo put in for water and was unlucky enough to be surprised on the beach by a Roman patrol. Maybe they questioned him; maybe they found his money. Either way, they discovered what he was up to. Why else would he have been killed and had his head thrown over the wall? I can’t think of a better way for Crassus to say, “Fuck you, Spartacus.” Can you?’
‘No,’ he muttered.
‘A real shame that we didn’t manage to kill him in Rome, eh?’ Spartacus’ right hand bunched into a fist for a moment. ‘But what’s done is done. We have to deal with the present, and the fact that we have no way of crossing to Sicily. There must be men of every profession under the sun in my army — except shipbuilders! Apparently, some fools tried to build rafts yesterday, but after a score of them drowned, the rest soon gave up. It only leaves one option as far as I can see. Unless you’ve got any bright ideas?’
Carbo shook his head.
‘Cheer up, man! It wasn’t down to you,’ cried Spartacus, his eyes flashing. ‘And you don’t think a stinking wall is going to hold us in, do you? We’ll just smash the fucking thing to pieces. Focus your anger on that.’
Carbo’s misery lifted somewhat. ‘When do we attack?’
‘Tomorrow or the day after. There’s no point hanging around. The grain won’t last much more than a week, maybe two at the outside. Rhegium has more within its walls, but we have no way of getting in there.’
‘It’s all thanks to you.’ Gannicus came striding up, the Scythians dogging his footsteps. ‘No wonder the grain’s nearly gone. We’ve done nothing but waste our time here.’
‘You’ve heard the news then,’ said Spartacus.
‘Just a rumour.’ Gannicus eyed the bag at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s the evidence, is it?’
‘Yes. It’s the pirate captain who agreed to find us the ships.’
‘How in damnation did he get captured?’
‘No idea. It’s immaterial now anyway,’ Spartacus replied. ‘We need to talk about getting out of here.’
‘Damn right we do!’ cried Gannicus.
‘Where’s Castus?’
‘He wouldn’t come.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘He was furious. Said he wouldn’t trust himself if he saw you.’
Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘It would be more in character for the lowlife to come storming up here with a drawn sword.’
Gannicus said nothing and Spartacus didn’t probe further. ‘I take it that you’ll both be doing your own thing from now on?’
‘Without a doubt!’
‘Will you help to break through the Roman defences?’
‘That depends. What are you planning?’
‘The ridge is the only place to do it. Anywhere else, and we’d have to fight nine legions on the other side.’
Gannicus tugged on his moustache, thinking.
You bastard, thought Carbo. You and Castus can just hang back while Spartacus’ men take all the casualties.
‘I’ll bring one cohort of my best men,’ said Gannicus after a moment. ‘That’s it.’
‘My thanks.’ Spartacus knew he was wasting his breath, but he had to ask. ‘And Castus?’
‘He won’t help.’
‘Was he scared of saying that to my face?’
Gannicus shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s in a funny mood today.’
‘A funny mood? Him and me both!’ growled Spartacus. ‘He had better be armed and ready the next time we meet. If he’s got any wits, though, he’ll stay well clear of me.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ replied Gannicus with a sneer.
‘You know the ridge where the Roman defences are?’
A nod.
‘Have your men there no later than midnight. The rest are to follow at dawn. By the time they reach the top, it will all be over one way or another.’
‘What’s your plan?’
‘We climb up there once it gets dark. Make a full-scale frontal assault through the centre-’
‘Have you seen the defences?’
‘Of course I have!’ snapped Spartacus.
‘Desperate measures for desperate times.’
‘You’d be well advised to follow the same plan, or you’ll find yourself in Hades quicker than you think.’
‘D’you think you’re the only tactician in this army?’
Spartacus’ anger overflowed. He no longer cared whether Gannicus worked with him or not. ‘Maybe not, but I’m certainly the best! You and Castus wouldn’t know how to surround an army of blind men.’
‘Hades take you! You can do this on your own, and when you cock it up, we’ll be there to finish the job for you.’ Gannicus spun on his heel and walked off.
‘So ends the pretence,’ said Spartacus quietly. Although his casualties the next day would be heavier, it was a relief. He was better off without the murderous, quarrelsome pair. It was a pity about their followers, but it couldn’t be helped. With the help of the Great Rider, I will replace them once we get out of here.
The next day would be hell, thought Carbo, his guts twisting. It was easy to imagine the bloodshed when trying to scale a wall manned by thousands of legionaries armed with javelins and catapults.
‘Are you ready for this?’
Carbo met Spartacus’ gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said calmly. Given the choice between a chance of survival and the certainty of death, he would take the former.
‘Good. Thirty-five cohorts will march up with me tonight.’
‘What about Ariadne and Maron?’
‘You’re to stay here, with your unit.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As before: I want you to protect them.’
Carbo felt a mixture of relief and guilt. ‘But I-’
‘This is as important as being in the first rank when we attack,’ said Spartacus in a low voice. ‘Please.’
Carbo swallowed hard. How could he say no? ‘Very well.’
‘Once we we’ve broken through, and it’s safe, I’ll send a messenger. The rest of the army can make it up there under Egbeo’s command. We’ll meet on the far side of the Roman wall.’
‘Very well.’ Carbo was pleased how firm his voice sounded.
‘We march at sundown, from the eastern edge of the camp. Tell Navio to be ready.’ Spartacus turned his back.
Carbo was about to go when he remembered Heracleo’s head. ‘Can I take this?’ he asked, lifting the bag. ‘The poor bastard deserves for this part of him to be buried at least.’
‘Do as you wish.’
Carbo walked away with his grisly trophy.
Ariadne awoke as Spartacus re-entered the tent. Worn out by a sleepless night looking after Maron, she had been asleep for much of the morning and had missed Spartacus’ conversation with Carbo and Gannicus. His grim expression hit her like a bucket of cold water in the face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The pirates won’t be coming.’ He filled her in quietly. Emotionlessly.
Ariadne felt sick. She wondered again if she should have left and instantly hated herself for it. ‘So we’re trapped?’
‘Trapped?’ His laugh was fierce. ‘No more than a wild boar that’s been caught in an old, worn hunter’s net.’
Ariadne had not seen the Roman fortifications on the ridge, but she had heard about them. ‘Many men will die.’
‘They will,’ growled Spartacus, ‘but by the Rider, that won’t stop us forcing our way through. Nothing and no one will. And as for Castus and Gannicus — fuck them!’
‘They’re not going to help?’
He shook his head angrily.
Ariadne’s pulse quickened. ‘Were they here?’
‘Gannicus was. Castus didn’t have the balls to come and tell me what he was going to do.’
He was too damn scared that I’d told you what happened, thought Ariadne with relief. She knew Spartacus well. If he’d found out, nothing would have held him back from killing Castus. She would have liked nothing more than to have seen the Gaul bleeding to death outside their tent, but their position was precarious enough without trying the gods’ goodwill further. For whatever reason, Castus was not to be punished at this time.
Ariadne took in a deep breath. ‘Where will we go?’
‘North.’
She gave him a blank look.
‘I was thinking of Samnium, east of Capua. The people there hold no love for Rome. The farms are rich too. There will be plenty of grain to be had.’
‘Crassus will follow us.’
‘He will, but the whoreson can’t march as fast as we can. By the time he catches up, we’ll have thousands of new recruits.’ He flashed a confident grin and kissed her. ‘I’d best start spreading the word. There’s a lot to arrange by nightfall.’
Hiding her concern as best she could, Ariadne nodded. She had made her decision to stand by Spartacus and she would stick to it. Great Dionysus, she prayed, watch over us all. After the way the snake had saved her, Ariadne’s belief was still fervent. She felt her resolve stiffen. Heracleo’s death was nothing more than a setback. They would win tomorrow, and escape Crassus’ blockade.
Zeuxis was first to notice Marcion swaggering up to their tent with Arphocras at his heels. ‘Hey! You fuckers are supposed to be cooking! It’s nearly dinner time, and you haven’t even started.’
There was an angry rumble of agreement from the others. Marcion eyed his comrades as he approached. They were slouched around the fire, picking their nails with their daggers or pretending to scrub rust spots from their mail shirts. He wasn’t surprised. Since their hopes of sailing to Sicily had vanished, his tent mates’ morale had been suffering, like everyone else in the army. Their mood had soured even further since the order had come around, not two hours since, that their cohort was to take part in an attack on the Roman defences at the ridge. With stress rising to new highs, routine, especially that to do with meals, was not to be disturbed. Hopefully, this will cheer them up.
‘Where in Hades have you been?’ demanded Zeuxis.
Marcion lowered the sack from his right shoulder with a contented sigh. ‘That’s better.’
‘Quite the joker, aren’t you?’ sneered Zeuxis. ‘I’ll soon wipe the smile off your face if our dinner isn’t ready on time. I bet the other lads will help me too, eh?’
‘Damn right!’ growled Gaius. ‘A man has to eat well before battle. Woe betide the cook who doesn’t provide a decent-’ He turned the word last into a muffled cough. ‘-meal for his contubernium.’ An unhappy silence followed his words. Flushing, Gaius made the sign against evil.
‘Aye, well,’ muttered Zeuxis after a moment. ‘There might only be fucking porridge to eat, but we want it hot, and we want it now. Get on with it!’
Arphocras, who had unslung his sack, swung it on to his back again with one smooth movement. He turned as if to go. ‘Very happy to jump to the conclusion that we’ve been skiving, aren’t you?’ He glanced at Marcion. ‘I reckon we should keep this grub for ourselves. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re right. It’ll last us at least a week.’
‘Hold your horses,’ said Zeuxis, suddenly keen. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Nothing much,’ replied Marcion in an offhand tone. All eyes were on him, however, as he reached into his bag. With a flourish, he pulled out a whole ham. ‘Just this.’
Amazed gasps rose from around the fire. There were jealous looks from the soldiers outside other tents. Gaius gave an appreciative whistle. ‘Where in the gods’ names did you get that?’
Marcion didn’t answer. He just looked at Arphocras, who produced a large round of cheese. He clutched it to his body so that others could not see what he was holding. ‘No point upsetting our neighbours even more,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘What else have you got?’ asked Zeuxis greedily, his bad temper forgotten.
‘A pot of garum and another of olives,’ answered Arphocras. ‘And Marcion has an amphora of wine.’
‘You’re a pair of magicians,’ said Gaius, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Damn right,’ agreed Zeuxis with a rare smile. He whipped out his knife. ‘Are you going to let us starve to death looking at your haul?’
Zeuxis hadn’t thanked them, but the lift in his comrades’ mood was so marked that Marcion didn’t care. He took out the wine and then laid the ham on the sack. ‘Get stuck in.’
There was a rush forward. Soon the only sounds were those of chewing and loud appreciation. Marcion’s belly grumbled, reminding him that it had been many hours since he’d eaten. He didn’t mind. There was enough food for all. Life was still good, he thought. Tomorrow was another day.
Conversation vanished as the eight soldiers devoured Marcion and Gaius’ haul. It wasn’t long before most of it was gone. Satisfied belches and farts filled the air, and the soldiers’ faces grew more contented than they had in a long time.
Zeuxis gave Marcion and Arphocras a friendly nod. ‘My thanks for that. You can prepare dinner again tomorrow if you like!’
‘Don’t think that I don’t know that it’s your bloody turn to cook tomorrow, Zeuxis!’ retorted Marcion to hoots of amusement.
‘All right, put us out of our misery,’ demanded Gaius. ‘Where did you get it?’
Marcion glanced around the fire and was gratified by the intense interest in his comrades’ faces. ‘We were heading back here to cook, when I spotted a patrol returning to their tents. They seemed particularly happy, so we hung about for a bit to see why. It became obvious that they had come upon a farm that hadn’t been raided before, and ransacked it. Naturally enough, their officer took much of it for himself. He had his men put it in his tent while he went off to report whatever he’d seen.’
‘He must have left a guard, surely?’ asked Zeuxis in a disbelieving tone.
‘He did,’ replied Marcion with a grin. ‘Two of them. At the front of his tent.’
His comrades exchanged delighted looks.
‘Arphocras kept watch while I slit a hole in the back and took all that I could carry.’
‘Hades below, it’s as well that you weren’t caught,’ said Zeuxis, whistling in appreciation. ‘You’d have been whipped within a hair of your life!’
‘The things Arphocras and I do for you miserable whoresons, eh?’ said Marcion. ‘Nothing’s too good for you!’
As their laughter rose into the night sky, it was almost possible to forget that the following dawn, they would be facing death once more. Almost, but not quite.
By sunset the next day, Spartacus had suffered his first defeat. Of the thirty-five cohorts that he had led up to the ridge, only five thousand shattered survivors remained. More than twice that number had been left bleeding, screaming and dying in the lethal traps that were the Roman defences.
Spartacus realised he had badly underestimated his enemy’s ability to build fortifications and to defend them with obstinate determination. Having rallied the last of his men into a semblance of order, he led them away from the carnage, from the churned up, glutinous, red mud and the ground covered in mutilated corpses and discarded weapons. The air was thick with the reek of blood, piss and shit, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. So too did the Roman taunts that followed them through the trees. A last stone was fired from a ballista, thumping into the earth some distance to their rear, its purpose not to kill but to hammer home the depth of their defeat. The slaves had lost more than two-thirds of their force, but no more than a hundred legionaries had been slain.
Spartacus hawked and spat a defiant lump of phlegm in the stone’s direction. What in the Rider’s name had gone wrong? The march up to the ridge had passed without major incident, and the day itself had started well enough. His men had been full of high spirits, laughing and joking, and boasting to one another about how many legionaries they would each kill. Looking at them, he had been full of pride, sure that they were capable of taking on any enemy. The reality of the fight at the bottleneck had been very different. In retrospect, the Roman defences reminded him of the way fishermen caught vast numbers of tuna, placing complex systems of nets across their migration routes. That thought stopped him in his tracks. A trap. It had been a trap. Crassus had known he was coming, told no doubt by the same damn spy who had managed to thwart his assassination attempt on the general.
He cursed. Why hadn’t he anticipated that his cover might have been blown? The answer was simple. All he’d seen was a way out, a road north, away from Crassus’ ten legions. He had let his desire for that prize dull him to the dangers of the Roman defences. His troops had gone along with his wishes. Despite taking horrific numbers of casualties during the first attack, they had not argued when he had ordered them to advance for a second time. There had been less shouting, less enthusiasm, but they had bravely walked into another withering hail of enemy projectiles. Spartacus had seen the effect of such concentrated missile attack when he had fought as a Roman auxiliary, but he had never been on the receiving end. It was impossible to blame his soldiers for breaking and running. Only a madman or a god would continue to march forward when his fellows are being cut down in their hundreds. He hadn’t run, but he had eventually pulled back. There had been no option. A handful of men had stood with him; if he hadn’t retreated, they would have all been slain, and that would have served no one but Crassus.
Spartacus’ mind was full of shocking images. A soldier struck in the head by a bolt from a catapult, whose skull had burst apart like an overripe fruit. The men for ten paces in every direction had been sheeted in his blood and nervous tissue. A javelin that had taken a soldier just above the top of his mail shirt, running deep into his chest cavity. Spraying pink froth from his mouth and keening like a stuck pig, the man had knocked two comrades to the ground before someone had put him out of his misery. Spartacus could still hear the clatter, clatter, clatter sound of slingshot bullets striking shields and the screams of the soldiers who’d suffered a shattered cheek or jawbone. Could still see the startled expression on the face of the man whose eyeball and following that, his brain, had been ruptured by a piece of lead no bigger than a bird’s egg. Oddly, he’d recognised the unfortunate as one of the tent party he’d overheard on his return from Rome. Spartacus was damned if he could remember the man’s name.
The Romans had ranged their catapults in well, using markers on the ground to show them where to aim. Spartacus had been surprised by the number of enemy artillery pieces. Hundreds of slaves must have toiled like oxen at the plough to transport the heavy weapons up from the coast. Their presence proved that Crassus wasn’t just a canny politician. He was a shrewd general as well. That knowledge made Spartacus even more wary of trying to break through the Roman defences on the flat ground by the sea. His troops might batter their way through, but he doubted if they could then stand up to nine legions. Not without the help of Castus’ and Gannicus’ men at least.
Spartacus ground his jaws with frustration. It would have been better to burn his bridges with the Gauls not when he had, but at the very last moment. He considered his options. It was doubtful that the pair would be open to a new approach. Why even bother trying? he thought savagely, remembering the attempt on his life. Old anger surged through him once more. Fuck them both! I’ll do it on my own.
Where? he wondered. His gut answered at once. The ridge. It had to be the ridge. But if they failed again, Crassus would have won the war. His fury began to glow white-hot. He was damned if that was going to happen. There was little point waiting either. With every day that went by, his troops’ morale would plummet even further, and the chance of escaping would vanish. Men were already deserting — Carbo had seen them with his own eyes. They’d be better off without such cowards, thought Spartacus angrily. Yet he had to act fast, or his numbers would shrink further. And that was before fucking Pompey arrived from Iberia. He hadn’t wanted to believe the taunts being thrown at them as they withdrew, but the legionaries’ voices had sounded so delighted that he suspected they were. The Senate must have grown impatient with Crassus. Pompey was the flashy general who had crushed Sertorius’ rebellion. Before that, he had had a prominent role in Sulla’s war to seize control of the Republic. Would his bad luck never end? Pompey was an able tactician and his legions were battle-hardened. According to Navio, he had at least six of them too. His mood darkened further at the thought of seeing sixteen legions take to the field against his men.
Back at the camp, he went to speak with Ariadne. She gasped with horror as he entered the tent. Surprised, Spartacus glanced at his arms and mail, which were spattered with blood. He guessed that his face bore the same gory evidence. ‘It’s all right. I’m not hurt.’
She rushed to him. ‘Men have been saying that you were thrown back from the Roman wall. That thousands of our soldiers have been killed. Is it true?’
Nodding grimly, he filled her in.
Was this the beginning of the end? wondered Ariadne. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to walk from tent to tent, campfire to campfire. Speak with the men. Make them understand that tomorrow we cannot fail.’
‘You’re going to attack again so soon?’
‘Damn right I am. I have to.’ He saw her confusion. ‘The Romans knew we were coming. The spy must have told them. Attacking again tomorrow and preventing anyone from going near the enemy defences are about the best ways to prevent another slaughter like the one today. There are other reasons I have to act now too. Some men are leaving already. A few more days, and the grain will begin to run out. Imagine what will happen to morale then.’ He touched her cheek, and was glad that she did not recoil from the encrusted gore on his fingers.
‘What about the spy?’
He shrugged. ‘A needle in a large haystack. We keep our eyes and ears open. Tell only those who need to know about important decisions.’
‘It’s so frustrating. I wish there was more you could do.’
Another shrug. ‘I have a notion to send Crassus a message.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Saying what?’
‘Asking him to take me into his fides.’
She looked at him as if he were insane. ‘That’s the same thing as surrendering! Why would you ask Crassus to become your patron?’
‘First, it would force him to acknowledge me as his equal. Second, he could become my ally against Pompey. He must be livid at the idea of that glory hunter coming to steal his thunder. Imagine the strength of his army if my soldiers were added to it!’
‘Crassus would never agree to something like that.’ Ariadne’s laugh was a little shrill. ‘He wouldn’t let your men leave, free to settle where they chose. To him, they’re just slaves!’
‘I know, but it would show him — in the most uncertain terms — that I do not regard him as my superior. He’d also hate that I’ve heard how pissed off he is about Pompey being invited to the party. Infuriating him like that can only be a good thing, surely?’
‘I’d rather stick a knife between the whoreson’s ribs!’
Spartacus grinned. He had always loved her feistiness.
‘Whom will you send?’
‘A prisoner.’
‘A pity that we can’t send a man who could kill Crassus.’
‘He’d never get close enough.’
‘What about Carbo? He’s a Roman. He could pretend to have deserted; that he had information useful to Crassus.’
He gave her a reproachful look. ‘You might as well ask him to commit suicide! Even if I was prepared to ask Carbo, which I’m not, he has another job, which is far more important.’
Ariadne was about to ask when she remembered squeezing the truth of that from Atheas during the battle with Lentulus. Shame scourged her, that she should have asked Spartacus to send Carbo, the most loyal of men, to his death when his mission was to protect her and Maron if things went awry. She was angry next, for reminding herself of such dread possibilities. ‘You should eat something,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Get yourself clean.’
‘Later.’
‘You look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down? Even an hour’s sleep would help.’
His smile was grim. ‘I can rest when I’m dead.’
Ariadne’s fears resurged. She pulled him close. ‘Don’t say things like that,’ she whispered. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’
He squeezed her tight. ‘Not yet it isn’t! The Rider was by my side today. He’ll be with me tomorrow too, when I have my vengeance.’
Ariadne found the fury in his eyes chilling. It almost made her forget her concern for his safety. ‘I will ask Dionysus for his help.’
The smile became savage. ‘My thanks. We will need it.’
Spartacus was more weary than he could ever remember being. His muscles ached, his joints cracked with every movement, and he had a headache worse than any hangover. He had spent half the night moving through the camp, praising, cajoling, injecting new energy into his men. He had drunk wine with some, argued with others and even arm-wrestled a few. He had shouted, railed and threatened. He had warned the soldiers of the fate they could expect if they failed to break the Roman blockade. Spartacus had promised them that he would, as always, lead from the front. Nothing — absolutely nothing — would stop him from carving a path through for his army. They had cheered him then until they were hoarse, even the bloodied, battered soldiers who had been on the ridge that day. He had gone to his bed satisfied that there was no more to be done. Ariadne had been awake, but Spartacus was in no mood to talk. A couple of hours’ rest, and he’d been up again. It was at least three hours’ march to the Roman wall, and he wanted his troops in place before dawn. There was a lot to do before their attack. He had kissed Ariadne farewell and spoken with Egbeo and Carbo — ordering them to take up the rear with his wife and son. Then he had gone to meet his senior officers.
At least five hours had passed since. Normally, Spartacus would have cursed fog. It made finding one’s way treacherous, marching even harder and battle well nigh impossible. But the grey blanket that had fallen over the steep slopes as the army had made its way to the ridge had been a blessing. It had dulled the sound of their advance, and had provided good cover for his men to approach the Roman ditch with their loads of wood. The fog had also shrouded the scene, meaning that his soldiers had only seen groups of their dead comrades lying stiff and cold, rather than the full, terrible extent of the battlefield. To try and alleviate the horror further, Spartacus had ordered that no one was to look anywhere but forward as they marched.
He had chosen five points along the wall as his focus for their assault. At each point, the trench was to be filled if possible to a width of a hundred paces, in order to allow a full cohort the space to attack. Inevitably, the noise of their approach had alerted the enemy sentries. Close to the foot of the wall, Spartacus had heard the hisses of alarm, the call for an officer and the shouted challenges. To protect against missile attack, he’d ordered two ranks of soldiers to stand before the ditch, their shields raised one on top of the other in a protective wall. The men whose job it was to approach with wood exposed themselves at the last moment, when they threw their loads into the trench.
His tactic had worked: when the Roman officers had ordered several volleys of javelins, only a handful of Spartacus’ soldiers had been injured, and none killed. Encouraged by this, he had ordered the mules to be brought forward. As he’d suspected, the ditches hadn’t even been half filled by the timber. The beasts’ braying had again set the confused enemy to scurrying about on the rampart. Another ragged volley of javelins had rattled off the front ranks’ shields, but that had been all until a couple of stones were fired from the catapults atop the wall. One of those had killed two men and a mule, but because of the fog the Romans had not seen this. The enemy officers had sensibly decided to save their ammunition, which had allowed the process of dragging the mules forward and killing them to continue. The beasts’ bodies had levelled the ground in three of the assault points, but in the last two, a significant difference in the level of the earth had remained.
Spartacus didn’t hesitate. The fog was beginning to thin out. Dawn wasn’t that far off. He ordered the soldiers with shields to withdraw, and for the prisoners to be brought forward to the two ditches which still needed filling. They could have used the bodies of his men who had fallen the previous day, but that would have been terrible for morale. Besides, he had a better plan.
Men hurried off to do his bidding. Spartacus watched them go. He had never been keen on taking captives. They needed to be guarded, fed and watched constantly. From time to time, however, some were taken. This had been the case about a week prior, when a Roman patrol that had been sent over the wall to scout out his forces had strayed into an ambush set by Pulcher. More than a hundred legionaries had surrendered. On a whim, Spartacus had ordered their lives to be spared. He was glad of that decision now.
It wasn’t long before the first file of twenty came into sight, emerging from the fog like a line of ghosts. A dozen soldiers shadowed their every move. The prisoners’ wrists were bound behind their backs, and a long rope held by one of Spartacus’ officers secured each by the neck. Many of the Romans had cuts and bruises on their faces, arms and legs from the falls that they had sustained on the nightmarish climb to the ridge. To a man, they looked absolutely terrified. They had no idea why they were here, but it couldn’t be good. Spartacus didn’t bother speaking to them. In his mind, they were as expendable as the mules.
‘Line them up in front of the ditch.’
Realising their fate, the legionaries began to beg for their lives.
Spartacus’ men ignored their pleas. Using their fists and the points of their swords, they drove the prisoners forward.
A sudden gust of wind moved the fog slightly, allowing the Romans to see their comrades. Roars of anguish rose up, but before the legionaries could react further, the cloud settled again. Curses rained down on Spartacus and his men, but there was nothing that the defenders could do. Spartacus’ lips peeled upwards. As well as angering the men on the wall, the executions would drive shards of fear into their hearts. ‘Kill them!’
The ground had already been soaked by the mules’ blood. Now it was bathed anew. With savage dedication, Spartacus’ men set about slaying the captives, who were wailing with fear. A few muttered prayers to their gods, and a couple spat curses over their shoulders at their executioners. It made no difference. With terrible soughing sounds, gladii sliced through the flesh in their backs to emerge, crimson-tipped, from their chests and bellies. A couple of thrusts were enough to inflict mortal wounds. Spartacus’ men shoved their victims off their blades and set upon the last prisoners. The Romans toppled in twos and threes into the ditch, where they twitched and moaned as they bled out. It was over fast.
‘Bring the next lot!’ ordered Spartacus.
‘Spartacus, you whoreson!’ yelled a voice from the ramparts. ‘By the gods, you’ll suffer a thousand deaths for this.’
Shouts of agreement rang out all along the parapet.
‘Go fuck your mother! If you even had one,’ roared Spartacus. ‘At least we’re giving them a swift end.’
His soldiers whooped and cheered.
‘That’s something you won’t have, or my name’s not Gnaeus Servilius Caepio!’
An alarm bell began to toll in Spartacus’ mind. ‘What are you doing here, old man?’
‘Not much. Polishing my sword. Making sure that the legion I guided up here last night is ready to repel your attack.’
Spartacus’ heart thumped in his chest. Had the spy somehow got word to Crassus, or was Caepio just trying to put the fear of the gods into his troops? He glanced at the nearest men and was angered to see the first traces of panic in their eyes. ‘You’re lying, Caepio! I know you are.’
‘Am I? Why don’t you climb up here and see what awaits you then?’ retorted the centurion.
‘We’ll do that. After the ditches have been levelled,’ Spartacus announced loudly. The next group of prisoners shuffled into view. ‘Kill them! Quickly!’ He moved to the second ditch, making sure that it was also being filled, and gauging the mood of his soldiers there. He was angered to see that Caepio’s words had also affected them. The idea he had considered was required. He ordered one from the last group of prisoners to be spared. The final captive, quaking with fear, was forced by the Scythians to walk with Spartacus as he returned to the first of his cohorts. They were waiting some two hundred paces from the wall — the outer limit of accurate catapult range. They stood silently, three cohorts wide, with their centurions in the front ranks. Behind them, the densely packed soldiers extended for more than a mile. He would have had them spread out further, but the beech trees prevented it.
The distance hadn’t been enough to mask Caepio’s voice, Spartacus noted sourly. The front cohorts had clearly heard what he’d said too. There was no chanting of his name, no clashing of weapons off shields. Those who were holding ladders looked less than enthusiastic. Few soldiers would meet his eye. The officers he could see were scowling, or reprimanding their men.
Steely resolve took hold of him. It was time to stiffen his troops’ morale with a savage demonstration of what they could all expect. If he didn’t, their attack was doomed before it even began. He drew his sica and began walking along the face of the cohorts. Atheas and Taxacis followed, shoving the prisoner before them. ‘What’s my name?’ Spartacus shouted.
‘Spar-ta-cus!’ cried a voice he recognised.
He gave Marcion a tight nod. ‘That’s right. I want to hear it again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ Many more men joined in this time.
He strode on, stabbing his sword into the grey, clammy air. ‘Again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
‘That’s more like it.’ He bestowed a wintry smile on the nearest soldiers.
Up and down he went, until all three cohorts had seen him. He returned to the centre of the line. ‘Bring the cross! Now!’
Men gaped at him, and the prisoner’s face went grey with fear.
Orders rang out; led by an officer, half a dozen soldiers, Marcion and Zeuxis among them, broke away from their positions and scurried off to the side. They soon returned. Marcion and a pair of his companions were carrying two lengths of roughly carved timber that had been prepared the night before. The longer piece had had an iron hook hammered into one end. The others were carrying mallets, a set of wooden steps, lengths of rope and bags of nails.
‘Put it up thirty paces out there,’ commanded Spartacus. ‘Get a move on!’
His men hurried to a spot opposite him. Fastening several ropes to the longer of the two pieces of wood, they pulled it upright. The steps were moved in close, and two soldiers began hammering the timber into the ground. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The legionary’s mouth worked in silent terror.
Soon the vertical post had been pounded in to the depth of a man’s forearm.
Spartacus gestured at the prisoner. ‘Strip him naked. Then take him out and crucify him.’
‘I’m a citizen! Please! You can’t do this to me!’ screeched the Roman as his tunic and undergarment were ripped off.
‘Bullshit! You’re identical to every man here!’ roared Spartacus, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You eat and drink, breathe, sleep and shit the same as us. This punishment is no different to what your kind would do to us.’ He scanned his men’s faces. ‘Do you hear me? This is what you can expect if we don’t break out today.’
Yelling at the top of his voice, the legionary was hauled out to the vertical post and forced down on to what would be the crosspiece. A soldier knelt on each of his arms, holding him so that his wrists and hands were exposed. The officer in charge glanced at Spartacus.
‘Get on with it!’
A barked order, and Zeuxis touched a long iron nail to the point where the bones of the legionary’s right arm met those of the wrist. The prisoner began gibbering in fear, praying to the every god in the pantheon. Zeuxis raised his mallet high, and without hesitation, brought it down with all his strength. ‘This is for Gaius,’ he hissed. A shriek of indescribable pain shredded the air, but the mallet came down again and again. Marcion looked away, but Zeuxis didn’t stop until the nail was flush with the legionary’s flesh. The captive’s screams reached a new pitch as the same process was repeated with his left wrist.
Spartacus studied his men, and was pleased to see how shocked and revolted they looked. The message had to sink in. If it didn’t, they were all damned. Angry shouts carried from the wall. The Romans’ blood would be up, but that couldn’t be helped.
Lapping a rope around the hook at the top of the vertical post, his soldiers fastened it around both ends of the crosspiece and then hauled the crucified legionary up until his feet came off the ground. He roared in agony as his arms took the strain of his body weight. The steps were moved in front of him, and a number of nails were pounded in over his shoulders, fixing the crosspiece to the vertical length of timber.
Without ado, his left leg was seized and his foot nailed to the cross. He kicked frantically with his free leg, striking Zeuxis in the face. Cursing, he heaved the man’s right foot sideways on to the timber and hammered in another nail through his heel. It was too much for the legionary. ‘Mother! Please, Mother,’ he babbled. ‘Mother, help me!’ Piss began leaking from his shrunken member, spattering Zeuxis. He leaped back in disgust as his fellows roared with laughter. Even Marcion’s lips twitched.
Zeuxis grabbed the mallet again and stepped up to the cross. ‘Can I break his legs, sir?’
‘No. Leave him,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘I want the bastard alive for every man to see as he marches by.’
With a disappointed look, Zeuxis stepped away. Marcion wondered if it would have been better to let him take his revenge. No one deserved to die in such pain, not even a Roman. But the decision wasn’t down to him. He was just a foot soldier.
‘Back to our place in the line,’ hissed their officer. They hurried to obey.
Spartacus turned his back on the crucified legionary and began pacing along the front of the cohorts again. ‘Watch his suffering, you maggots, and learn! It could take two or three days for the dog’s pain to end, perhaps even longer. Is that the death you want? Do you want to end your life begging the Romans to break your legs so that you can die quicker?’
No one had the balls to speak.
Spartacus shoved his face into that of the nearest soldier. Their helmets knocked off each other. ‘Answer me, or by the Rider, I’ll do the same to you!’
‘NO, SIR!’
Spartacus stepped back. ‘That’s one man who knows what he wants at least. What about the rest of you? Is that the end you want?’
‘NO, SIR!’ they yelled.
He walked for fifty paces, eyeballing every soldier that he passed. ‘Are you fucking sure?’
‘YES!’ they roared.
On he went, defying any man to answer him back, to look in any way uncertain. ‘Sure? Sure?’
‘YES!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ yelled Marcion. He glared at Zeuxis, who joined in.
This time, the chant was taken up with gusto.
Finally. Spartacus stepped up and clashed his sica off a man’s shield boss. ‘Louder!’
The soldier’s companions quickly copied him. So too did the men behind, and to either side. Clash. Clash. Clash. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Soon the racket was deafening.
Spartacus let them shout for some time. He wanted every soldier in the army to hear the noise, to feel the blood rush in his ears, the battle rage begin to stir. When he saw the confidence appearing in men’s faces, he knew it was time. A signal, and the waiting trumpeters sounded their instruments, a strident call to arms that no one could mistake.
The fanfare was met by an equally forceful set of blasts from behind the wall.
Spartacus hastened back to his position with the Scythians, who slotted in to his left and right. Atheas took a ladder from someone. A shield was handed to Spartacus; grounding it, he rested it against his body. He glanced to either side. Atheas and Taxacis gave him their usual feral grins; the men beyond looked tense but ready. ‘On my command, advance at the walk! Open order!’ His words went echoing both ways down the line. Spartacus took hold of the brass centurion’s whistle that hung from a thong around his neck and stuck it between his lips.
Peeeeeeep! Spartacus emptied his lungs.
The shrill sound repeated itself through the cohorts.
‘ADVANCE!’ Spartacus walked forward with an even tread. On either side, his soldiers matched his pace. His gaze travelled along the enemy ramparts. The catapults would start shooting at any moment. So too would the ballistae. In the Romans’ eyes, the more bolts and stones that could be launched before he and his men arrived, the better.
Sure enough, he heard the familiar noise of thick gut strings being ratcheted back, and the thump as stones were loaded into place. Next, the indistinct sound of officers’ voices, followed by a shouted order. ‘Close order! Raise shields!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Keep moving.’
All around him, men moved shoulder to shoulder. If they were in the front rank, they lifted their scuta up, so that the curved shields protected them from eye level to their ankles. Those behind heaved theirs up to protect their heads. Only those who were carrying ladders remained unprotected, needing both their hands to carry their awkward burdens.
They drew near to the crucified legionary, whose legs were now soiled with urine and faeces. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning softly, ‘Motherrr…’ He kept shifting position, letting his bloodied arms take the strain, and when that was too much, trying to stand on his nailed feet. Poor bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s served his purpose. He was going to slide his sica into the man’s belly as he passed, end his suffering. But he didn’t. His troops had to witness the savagery of such a death. Spartacus threw up a heartfelt prayer. I ask for any end but that. Grimly, he moved on.
The Romans let them approach for another ten paces. Then, with a rush, the air between Spartacus’ soldiers and the wall filled with missiles. Stones the size of a man’s head. Metal-tipped arrows the length of a man’s forearm. Slingshot bullets smaller than a hen’s egg. Whoosh. Whirr. Whizz. They covered the distance in a frightening blur of movement.
Great Rider, let Caepio be lying about the legion. Let my casualties be few, Spartacus prayed. We have to succeed here.
With loud crashes, the stones landed. Their effect was devastating. Whatever they hit, be it man or scutum, was struck as if by the fist of a god. Shields were smashed in two, ribs splintered into fragments, and limbs and skulls crushed. The rocks’ force was so great that often the soldier behind was also killed, his final moment a screaming terror as his comrade’s head burst apart before his eyes. The bolts were no less lethal, slicing through shields, mail and flesh with ease. Gutting the first man, they drove on, wounding others grievously or just lodging in another scutum, forcing the bearer to discard it.
The only consolation during the barrage was that the slingshot bullets were far less dangerous than the other missiles. For the most part, they clattered and banged off the soldiers’ shields like massive hailstones off a roof during a summer storm. On occasion, they shot through the little gaps between scuta, making men yelp in pain as their mail shirts took the brunt of the strike. More unlucky individuals were hit in the face, suffering fractured cheekbones or, if the clay hit their foreheads, a mortal blow.
‘Close the gaps! Move on!’ yelled Spartacus. He blew his whistle again. If they faltered at all, men would lose heart.
Stepping over the wounded and dying, they walked on. It was a hundred paces to the wall, he judged. The trees had thinned out, exposing them entirely to the enemy barrage. The legionaries manning the catapults were working at blinding speed. Scores more bolts and stones came humming towards them. Soon the javelins would come scudding in too. It was now, or never, he thought.
‘Cohort to my left, cross at the first space over the ditch. Cohort to my right, take the third. My cohort takes the middle one. CHARGE!’ Trusting that the officers leading the following units would remember to advance towards the final two crossing points, Spartacus began to run. As always, he counted his steps. It helped to keep him focused, to ignore the sounds of men going down screaming, the curses of their comrades as they tripped over the unexpected obstacle, the prayers of soldiers trying to conquer their fear.
Eighty. A shower of javelins arced over them in a graceful pattern. Reaching their zenith, they sped downwards, their barbed points promising injury or death to those who were unprotected. Spartacus raised his shield so that his head was protected, and prayed that a catapult stone didn’t take him in the belly instead. Seventy. His stomach was a balled, painful knot, and there was a tang of fear in the salty sweat that ran down his face and into his open, gasping mouth. With an almighty bang, a pilum hit his scutum. The barbed head punched through, missing Spartacus’ helmet by a finger’s breadth. He dropped the useless shield with a curse. Fifty steps. Run. Run. The Great Rider’s shield is before me, protecting me from harm.
Forty paces to the wall. There were gaps in the line to either side of him now, but Spartacus did not order them closed. Everything was moving far too fast. What mattered was reaching the base of the Roman wall, and getting out of the withering hail of missiles. They’d have a moment’s respite before more stones were dropped on their heads, but that would be enough time to encourage his men to swarm up their ladders.
They reached the filled-in ditch. Because of the prisoners who had been dumped in last, it looked as if it contained only corpses. Except, as Spartacus realised, they weren’t all dead yet. Here and there amid the careless sprawl of bloodied men, an arm or a leg moved, a voice called out for a comrade, or for someone to end the pain. Even if he had been inclined to provide the killing stroke, there was no time. In two heartbeats, he had pounded over the soft ‘ground’ and was tearing across the forest floor again.
Twenty paces. They had passed under the lower limit of the catapults’ arc of fire. The Roman slingers had redoubled their efforts. So many of Spartacus’ men had dropped their shields that their work was now easy. It was the same for the legionaries still with pila. Despite this, Spartacus’ front rank, which had been eighty men wide, was ragged but unbroken. ‘Ladders at the ready!’ he yelled, increasing his speed to a sprint. He sensed the Scythians matching his pace. Encouraged, the soldiers to either side swarmed forward, screaming insults at the defenders atop the wall. Ten paces. Five, and then Spartacus slammed into the fortification’s wooden stakes. ‘Ladder!’
Atheas was already by his right shoulder, shoving the ladder’s foot into the ground, leaning it against the wall, supporting it, gesturing at him to start climbing.
Spartacus eyed the remaining scuta held by his men. Things would be far worse on the rampart without them, but there was no way they could safely ascend carrying such a weight. ‘Leave your shields!’ he shouted. ‘Grab one from the first Roman you kill. Up! Up! Up!’ More and more ladders came smacking in against the barrier. Spartacus gritted his teeth and began to climb. This was the most dangerous part. He peered grimly up at the pointed stakes that formed the lip of the rampart. It was difficult to climb with one hand — the other held his sica — and easy to miss his footing on the rungs. Even more perilous were the defenders who awaited him. He was two-thirds up the ladder when a legionary appeared above, gripping a forked length of stick. With fierce concentration, he placed it against the top of Spartacus’ ladder and began to push.
Shit! Adrenalin surged through Spartacus’ veins and he shot up several more rungs. His ascending body weight made it much harder for the Roman to push the ladder outwards. Cursing, the legionary braced his feet and put all of his strength into it. Spartacus felt himself begin to move backwards. He climbed another rung and stabbed forward with his sica. His blade skidded off the Roman’s mail, causing no injury. For an instant, however, it distracted the soldier from what he was doing.
Spartacus came up another rung. A quick glance to the right revealed no defenders close enough to skewer him in the armpit. Up went the sica. Down it came, striking the legionary in the neck. The curved blade nearly clove him in two. His torso split apart, exposing neatly bisected muscles, the white of ribs and the purple-blue of pumping organs. Spartacus was showered in blood as he came leaping on to the walkway. The Roman’s body fell backwards off the wall, spraying sheets of crimson over the soldiers below.
Spartacus’ heart leaped. There weren’t more than five thousand of them. Caepio had been lying; the spy had not been able to get the word through to Crassus. After the previous day’s fighting, his enemy had assumed that the slaves had had enough. How wrong he was. Spotting a scutum leaning against the palisade, he scooped it up. He had just enough time to spin and raise it as a legionary thundered in from his right. With a heavy thump, the two shield bosses met.
Spartacus shoved his blade at the Roman’s eyes, but his opponent saw it coming. Sparks flew as the sica hit the iron rim of his shield. The legionary lunged forward with his gladius, and Spartacus twisted desperately out of the way, smacking his back off the rampart. There was almost no room to manoeuvre. All the advantage was with the Roman, whose blows hammered in, away from the void. With every strike of his own, Spartacus risked hurling himself into space.
He clenched his jaw. If they didn’t gain a foothold on the wall, their attack would fail. Placing his left shoulder behind the scutum, he advanced a step. Clash, clash. Their swords battered off their shield fronts. Spartacus punched forward with his scutum and then his sica. One, two. One, two. He pushed the legionary back a step. And two more. They traded blows again before the Roman’s heel caught on a pilum that had been left lying on the walkway. He stumbled, and Spartacus was on him like a hawk on its prey, barging him backwards so that he fell on his arse, squawking with surprise. The last thing he ever saw was the Thracian’s blade scything in towards his open mouth. The legionary choked to death on a gobful of iron and blood.
Air moved past Spartacus’ head. Instinct made him pull back, which just saved him from being struck in the neck by a pilum. Instead it scudded harmlessly by, over the palisade. He glanced down. The soldiers below were launching volleys at the rampart, regardless of the fact that they could hit their own men. Exultation gripped him. That meant the enemy officers thought the fight on the walkway was being lost. He leaned out over the front of the wall. He could see at least five ladders. ‘Come on!’ he roared at his men. ‘It is I, Spartacus! We have the whoresons on the run!’
Eager shouts met his words.
He spun back to the walkway to find a grinning Taxacis at his side. Behind him, Atheas’ head was emerging into view. ‘Which… way?’ asked Taxacis. ‘Left… or right?’
To his left was a large bunch of enemy soldiers, and in their midst, the scarlet transverse crest of a centurion. It was Caepio. We won’t get through there quickly enough. Spartacus pointed to his right and the nearest set of steps. ‘There!’ Six legionaries blocked the walkway, but before them, there was a gap perhaps ten paces wide where more and more of their men were spilling over the palisade. He darted forward. The Scythians were right behind him. ‘Get to the stairs!’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘Kill those bastard Romans! MOVE!’
They hurried to obey.
Spartacus shoved in behind them. The outcome of the attack still hung in the balance, but at last he had a good feeling in his belly.