Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter XVII

A week later…

Northern Lucania, near the town of Paestum

Followed by a gaggle of his senior officers and an escort of legionaries, Crassus had come to survey the battlefield. The site was about five miles inland, on a plain below a range of hills that ran eastwards to join the Apennines. The earth was littered with thousands of bodies: bloodied, mangled, mutilated. There was a disquieting order to the dead. Crassus paced slowly to what had been the front of the enemy position. There lay the victims of the artillery volleys. Thousands of acorn-shaped pieces of lead or baked clay dotted the ground here too, the work of his slingers, who could rain down a withering hail of fire from about three hundred paces out. The slingshot bullets had caused few casualties at this distance. Not so the artillery, which had wreaked a terrible slaughter. It was a revolting sight, Crassus reflected, taking care not to get the splattered gore on his red leather boots. There was no dignified way of describing men whose innards had been ripped out by a bolt the length of one’s forearm, or whose flesh had been crushed to a crimson, oozing pulp by a large chunk of rock.

‘Interesting, eh?’ He gestured at an enemy soldier who had been decapitated. The body lay like a puppet with cut strings, a half-circle of scarlet staining the earth around the stump of its neck. There was no sign of its head.

‘What is, sir?’ asked Lucius Quinctius, the officer in charge of his cavalry.

Today, Quinctius was in Crassus’ good books. Rather than rebuke him, therefore, he smiled. ‘Normally, an injury like that would put undisciplined savages to flight. Not today.’

‘It was unusual, sir. A measure of their determination.’

‘Indeed. And you know about determination, Quinctius. You showed real skill in tricking Spartacus earlier today. If your horsemen hadn’t succeeded in making him think that you wanted a fight, matters here could have taken an entirely different course. It was annoying enough yesterday when he arrived just as I was about to crush these slaves.’

‘You do me great honour, sir,’ said Quinctius proudly. ‘Taking Spartacus off on a wild goose chase while you got to grips with this lot was the least that I could do.’ He didn’t mention what had happened to Mummius or his men. If anything, the memory of their fate had been the greatest spur to his efforts.

‘Which way did he go?’ asked Crassus. There had been no word from the spy for days now. The fool had either run away, or was dead. It was annoying, but of little consequence. The man had served his purpose.

‘North, sir.’ Quinctius’ smile was wolfish. ‘They haven’t gone that far either. I had some of my men follow their trail.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ With luck, I will still have defeated him before Pompey gets here.

‘This group had clearly split off from Spartacus’ main force, sir. I wonder why he tried to intervene on their behalf twice?’ asked Quintus Marcius Rufus.

Inbred fool. Crassus threw him a patronising frown. ‘It’s not that odd at all. Imagine that you took a quarter of my strength away, the result of which was that my enemies outnumbered me. In such a situation I’d do my best to win you back, even if I thought you were a useless whoreson.’

A couple of the others hid their smiles, but Rufus flushed as red as his hair. He knew better than to say more. Crassus didn’t care that what had happened the day before wasn’t his fault. The main reason that the enemy had escaped was because Spartacus had mounted a surprise attack and driven the legions away from his former followers. However, Crassus wasn’t going to admit to that. Nor was he about to let Rufus forget his ‘mistake’ in a hurry. The redhead just had to suck on the bitter marrow of it until his general’s attention moved on.

Fortunately for Rufus, Crassus was more interested in today’s triumph and the carnage it had left. They walked on, disturbing the crows which were hopping from one corpse to another, pecking out the men’s eyeballs. Despite the strong sea breeze, a low moaning sound carried through the air — the sound of those still alive, but too weak to move. Some of the officers studied the fallen with revulsion, but Crassus strode ahead, oblivious. ‘After the catapults and ballistae come the pila,’ he mused.

His men’s javelins had accounted for fewer of the slaves’ losses than the artillery. It was easy to see where the first volley had landed. There the ground was covered in peppered shields, but not that many bodies. The second volley of pila had showered down thirty paces on, a rain more lethal than any clouds could emit. A good number of the slaves had not possessed mail shirts; after the fashion of their own kind, many had gone into battle wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. Some were stark naked, carrying only their weapons. As a consequence, the human toll here had been far heavier. Even the smallest slingshot bullet could stave in a man’s skull if it hit the right spot.

Crassus paused by a dead slave who had been struck by no less than three javelins. He pointed to the pilum that had run through the victim’s thigh and pinned him to the earth. ‘This must have hit first.’

‘Poor bastard, he would have known what was coming afterward,’ muttered Quinctius, looking up at the sky. ‘No signs of any of them fleeing, though, sir,’ he added. ‘They continued to advance in good order.’

‘I’ll give them that much,’ admitted Crassus. ‘Outnumbered, without artillery or horse of their own, they didn’t back away from this fight. Even when it came to hand-to-hand combat.’

They moved on, to where the main fighting had taken place. Soon there was barely space to see the ground for the corpses. More scavengers, both animal and human, were at work here. Vultures flapped down awkwardly in ones and twos, their target the men whose bellies or arses were on view. Ripping open these soft areas with their strong beaks, they fought over the purple loops of intestine that came spilling out into the spring air. Peasants of all ages skulked among the dead, rifling for purses or jewellery, even amputating fingers for the rings thereon. They were careful to keep well clear of the large, well-armed party.

Crassus was not interested in the living. He was here to glory in what his legionaries had done. He took immense satisfaction that almost none of the bodies were Roman. So far, there had been perhaps a dozen. The victory here had not just been decisive, he thought triumphantly, it had been total! An outstanding example of how the legions could win a battle. Proof of the effectiveness of discipline, and the deadliness of scutum and gladius.

As far as the eye could see lay men who had lost legs or arms; or who had taken a blade in the guts; or who had suffered wounds to their lower legs or ankles, easy targets on men without shields, and been finished off with thrusts to the belly or chest. The ones who had died most easily, Crassus reflected, were those who had had a gladius rammed into their throat in the textbook manoeuvre taught to all new recruits. Open-mouthed, blank-eyed, they lay; the gaping wounds under their chins a mark of his legionaries’ good training. Crassus could hear the centurions repeating over and over: ‘Ram the scutum boss at your opponent’s face. When he pulls back, stick the fucker in the neck. Twist the blade to make sure, then tug it out. Job done. Man down.’

Finally, he began to see Roman casualties. It was inevitable, he supposed. Thousands of soldiers cannot stand face to face with their enemies, hammering blows at one another, without suffering some losses. Yet his men had not broken and run as so many of their comrades had done in the two years prior. Crassus knew this from the evidence before him, but also because he had watched the entire battle from a vantage point on the slopes of Mount Camalatrum, the first of the peaks that rolled off to the east. It had been an incredible sight, watching the hordes of slaves sweeping forward at his regimented cohorts. Their ranks had been swept by bolts and stones from his artillery, and then by slingshot bullets and javelins, but their charge had not checked. The crash when they had struck his men’s lines had reverberated through the air like a thunderclap. Yet the slaves had not broken through. Instead, they had washed off the shield wall like waves off a rock. ‘How many legionaries did we lose?’

‘Just over three hundred killed, sir,’ answered Rufus quickly.

‘Injured?’

‘Two hundred men and fifteen officers will never fight again, sir. About twice that number suffered minor injuries.’

‘And the number of enemy dead?’ Crassus had been told the figure already, but he had to hear it again.

‘At a rough count, sir, something over twelve thousand, sir,’ said Rufus with great satisfaction.

‘So the enemy lost about forty men for each of ours, or my mathematics isn’t what it was.’

‘That’d be about right, sir.’

He glanced around, smiling. ‘We can live with casualties like that, eh? Especially when five eagles and more than two dozen standards have been recaptured in the process!’

His officers muttered in agreement.

I can lose a damn sight more men than that, thought Crassus ruthlessly, just as long as I do it before the others get here. There had been no recent word of Lucullus’ progress towards Italy from Thrace, but the man would certainly arrive within the next two months. And unless the gods had done him a huge favour, Pompey’s legions would reach them within a matter of weeks. Curse him! Time was of the utmost. Spartacus had to be brought to bay, and fast.

‘Were many prisoners taken?’

‘Three or four score, sir,’ said Rufus. ‘Perhaps three times that number got away.’

‘Let them go.’

Rufus goggled. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard me! They are to be released.’

‘I don’t understand, sir. They’re vermin, who deserve nothing but a cross. Some of them might try to rejoin Spartacus.’

‘That’s precisely what I want them to do, fool. A few slaves less or more in the rabble we fight is nothing to me. I want Spartacus to hear of this defeat as soon as possible.’

‘A shrewd move, sir,’ said Quinctius smoothly; behind him, Rufus coloured again.

Crassus’ gaze turned to the north. He wasn’t a man for continually asking things of the gods, but at times, it felt right. Great Jupiter, All Powerful Mars, I ask you to help me find Spartacus. Soon.

Spartacus stood outside his tent with a blanket around his shoulders. It was his favourite time of the day — just after dawn. To the east, the sky was marked a vivid pink colour by the rising sun. Tiny trickles of smoke rose from the fires that had not gone out overnight. It was late enough to be light, but early enough that most men were still asleep. In the distance, a mule brayed softly at one of its companions. Apart from that, the huge camp was quiet.

Spartacus’ thoughts had only one place to go. Crassus and his legions. He did not like retreating from the enemy, not without a battle. Retreat? That was what men who’d been beaten did. Yet again, he wished that his assassination attempt on Crassus had succeeded. The man was turning out to be a half-decent tactician. Three days before, Spartacus had been delighted when his arrival had thwarted Crassus’ intended ambush of Castus and Gannicus’ forces. Yet his opponent’s response the following day had stolen all his pleasure.

A daring feint made by Crassus’ horse — a series of stinging attacks followed by measured withdrawals — had fooled first Spartacus’ cavalry commanders and then he himself into thinking that Crassus wanted to fight both them and the Gauls simultaneously. They had pursued the Roman horsemen with haste for some miles. It had been nothing but a ruse, engineered so that Crassus’ full strength could be deployed against Castus and Gannicus. By the time Spartacus had realised, it had been far too late to think about turning his army around. Choose the ground you fight on; do not let it be chosen for you, went the old maxim, and he stuck to that with religious fervency. He hawked and spat. Forty-odd thousand legionaries against thirteen thousand slaves? Such an unequal contest would only ever have one result.

His presumption had been proved correct the previous evening, when a few dozen survivors had straggled into his camp. They had been brought straight to him, bloodied and battered; he’d heard the sorry story from their cracked lips. The Gauls and their men had died well enough, he thought bitterly. They had fought right to the end. ‘What fucking use is that, though?’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’re all dead. If the fools had stayed with me, they would still be alive.’ And my army wouldn’t have been reduced in size by a quarter.

By now, his entire army would have heard of the crushing Roman victory. The shocking news would have passed from tent to tent faster than the plague, and would have a profound effect on his men’s morale. The same would be true of Crassus’ legionaries, but in reverse. They would now be raring to confront his soldiers, and with good reason. While the odds weren’t as badly stacked against him and his men as they had been for the Gauls, Spartacus was still chary of an open battle against Crassus. If it had to happen, the ground had to be right. Otherwise he might as well lay down his arms.

There were other problems to consider too. Crassus’ close proximity and Spartacus’ need to keep his army on the move meant that few slaves were coming to join them. Then there was Pompey. How soon would he bring his legions into the equation? Say a month at the earliest, he thought darkly, three months at the outside. Not long. Scarcely enough time to recruit and train ten thousand men, let alone five times that number. With an army sixteen legions strong, the Romans would hunt them down with ease. It won’t matter where we go. They will find us.

‘Can’t sleep?’

He looked up in surprise. ‘Carbo. I’m just enjoying the quiet. What are you doing here?’

‘I had a poor night’s rest, decided to go hunting. I wondered if you’d come?’

A weary smile. ‘Another time, maybe.’

Carbo glanced at Spartacus, and then looked away. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what will happen when Pompey arrives.’

This is the real reason he’s here. ‘Things will get a lot worse, that’s what will happen.’

‘Maybe we should fight Crassus now, before Pompey arrives?’ Carbo ventured.

‘We might have to,’ came the grim reply. ‘But we need a battlefield that would suit us, and I haven’t seen too many of those in the last couple of days. Somewhere narrow is vital, where Crassus wouldn’t be able to use his superior numbers to flank us. Or a good spot for an ambush. That would do.’

Carbo did not know how to say what he’d been brooding about all night, so he just came out with it. Spartacus might think he was mad, but he had to try. ‘Have you considered Brundisium?’

‘The town in the south-east?’

‘That’s the one. From what I know, it’s not that well defended. There’s no need for it to be. We could easily take it.’

Spartacus frowned. ‘Why would we do that? Crassus would hem us in there, as he did in the toe.’

‘It’s the biggest port in Italy. I don’t know how many ships would be tied up on the quay at any one time, but it’ll be a lot. Certainly enough vessels to carry a few thousand men, but there could be more. From Brundisium, it’s not far to Illyria, or even Greece.’

Spartacus’ mind began to race. The Alps were too far, and his men had balked there before, but this, this was news he hadn’t expected. He chewed on it for a moment. ‘How far is it to Brundisium?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Two hundred miles, maybe a bit less? It’s straight down the Via Appia, which is only half a day’s march from here. We could make it in ten days.’

Ariadne’s voice broke in. ‘Make where in ten days?’

Spartacus lifted a finger to his lips and beckoned her closer. Quickly, he explained.

Her face lit up. ‘You think we could do it?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘What about Crassus?’ she asked warily. ‘His cavalry are shadowing us as if their lives depended on it.’

‘He knows our every move,’ Spartacus admitted. ‘The prick will be after us like a hound on a hare if he suspects what we’re up to.’ His eyes glittered. ‘We’d have to act fast. Take the town in the first attack.’

‘I could ride ahead with Navio, see if I can bribe a guard on one of the gates,’ offered Carbo. ‘If that didn’t work, we might be able to lower ropes over the wall at night for an assault party.’

‘You’re a good man, Carbo.’

Ariadne murmured her agreement, and Carbo flushed with pride. He eyed his leader, his heart thumping. What would Spartacus decide?

‘Very well. We’ll head south-east.’ Ariadne let out a little cry of happiness and Spartacus held up a warning finger. ‘But if the right site offers itself on the way, I’m going to make a stand. This idea might come to nothing, and Pompey’s legions will get here soon. Defeating Crassus before they join up would nicely reduce the numbers facing us. It would also give us more breathing space to reach Brundisium and possibly get the entire army out — not just part of it.’ He clapped Carbo on the shoulder. ‘My thanks.’

Carbo grinned. It was risky, but there was a way out of their predicament after all.

Two days later, Spartacus had begun to believe that his future was finally brightening. They had reached the Via Appia without incident, camping the first night in a valley that was split into two by a fast-flowing river. The following afternoon, he’d been brought news that the Roman horse dogging their trail were drawing closer and closer to his rearguard. Spartacus had seized the chance to take on the enemy again. Sending his cavalry into the wooded hills that ran along their right side, he had made his way to the army’s tail. An hour or so later, he’d heard a single trumpet sound from the treeline some distance behind the Roman horsemen. It had been the signal for the rearmost cohorts to turn about face and present arms.

As the enemy cavalry had reined in, pondering their best course of action, his riders had charged from cover. The ambush had been a resounding success. Mad for revenge because of what had happened to Castus and Gannicus and their men, Spartacus’ soldiers had fought like demons. The Romans had been driven from the field with heavy casualties. Among the injured had been one of their commanders, who’d been lucky to escape with his life. Crassus would have discovered that the scorpion was still well able to sting, thought Spartacus with great satisfaction. He hadn’t seen an enemy scout or horseman since. The legions were still following, but at a safer distance.

He grinned. There was no way that Crassus could yet know of his intention to make for Brundisium. Carbo and Navio had set out on horseback at dusk two days previously, leading a pair of spare mounts each. Because their extra horses would attract unwanted attention — normally, only official messengers or cavalry travelled in this way — they would travel while it was dark, and conceal themselves during the day. With a little luck, Spartacus would have some news within two weeks.

In the meantime, he could march his army south — not at breakneck speed, for that would raise Crassus’ suspicions, but at a more leisurely pace of twelve to fifteen miles daily. This in turn meant that in the eventuality of a battle, his soldiers would be more rested than if they were marching hard. Spartacus’ men had no idea of his intent. He had told Egbeo, Pulcher and a few of his other senior officers, but the rest thought that they were in search of more supplies. He didn’t want a reaction similar to the one when he had suggested that they cross the Alps. For his plan to have any chance of working, the army had to do exactly as he wished.

If a confrontation with Crassus had been avoided by the time Carbo returned, he would tell his men then. There would be no mention of their previous glories, just a heavy emphasis on the sixteen legions that they would soon have to face. If that didn’t persuade the dogs to leave Italy, thought Spartacus, nothing would.

If, however, an opportunity presented itself to fight Crassus, there would be no mention of Brundisium until afterwards. As at the Alps, however, a recent victory might make it harder to win over his soldiers. Spartacus estimated that the majority would see sense. Being penned into the toe by the legions for two months had given a clear indication of what could happen to them. It wasn’t as if he was planning to end his fight against Rome either — far from it. The war could continue in Illyria, and then Thrace. His homeland.

Since seeing his troops’ reaction to their first defeat on the ridge, he had begun to long for Thrace and his own kind. That major setback — their first — had been enough to knock the confidence out of most. Yes, they had flocked to him in their tens of thousands previously — not of late, he thought bitterly — yes, they had just won another clash against the Romans, but they had not been born to war as he and his kind had. He still felt great loyalty towards them, but Thracian tribes were more used to fighting Rome. Although many had been subjugated, the flames of their hatred towards the foreign invaders still burned. Spartacus wanted to fan those flames into a conflagration once more. His people’s fierce independence would be an obstacle to uniting them, but would it be any worse than having to manage men such as Castus and Gannicus?

The prospect now seemed better than facing ever larger armies here. If he left, Rome would still want vengeance, but Spartacus doubted that they would send sixteen legions after him. A few maybe, but those he could deal with.

Another two days passed in similar fashion. Spartacus’ army marched south-east without hindrance; the Romans did not attempt to move any closer to his forces, which Spartacus assumed meant that Crassus hadn’t realised that he might break for Brundisium. Yet the changing terrain would soon force Spartacus’ hand one way or another. The Via Appia was angling out from the shadow of the Apennines, threading a route through the countryside that would soon take it close to the east coast. Away from the mountains’ protection, his intention would be obvious to anyone but an imbecile. Frustratingly, it would be at least a week until Carbo and Navio got back. Spartacus didn’t like it, but he was going to have to make the decision to continue travelling south-east or to double back on his trail before the pair returned.

To help him decide, Spartacus rode his stallion to the army’s vanguard, the better to spy out the land. Atheas and Taxacis trotted on either side of him, keeping pace without even breaking sweat. The tattooed pair could ride — what Scythian couldn’t? — but the shortage of horses since the fight at the ridge precluded them having any.

The farms here were not as large as the latifundia of Campania and Lucania, but impressive nonetheless. Artificial terraces spilled down the lower slopes of the mountains, affording level ground for countless thousands of olive trees. More of them marched right up to the road, their characteristic grey-green foliage concealing the ground behind. Spartacus was glad that he had scouts patrolling in advance of the army, for it would have been easy to set an ambush among the dense network of trees.

Grapes and grain were also cultivated in abundance, but the neat rows of vines and the open fields of slow-growing wheat provided no cover for enemy troops. There were few villages in the area; the majority of people lived on farms. Spartacus had his soldiers checking houses and buildings for supplies, and most importantly, for food. All flocks of sheep and goats and herds of cattle found were to be rounded up and driven to join the army. Even the poultry were to be taken. Nothing was to be left behind; any resistance could be met with lethal force.

Spartacus felt no remorse for the farmers whose livelihoods he was devastating and whose lives he threatened with famine. He didn’t worry either about the stubborn individuals who refused to abandon their properties, and who died as their wives and daughters were being gang raped. Before, he had made some effort to minimise the atrocities, but not now. Rome was out to destroy him, so he would do it and its people as much harm as possible. Besides, what his men did was but a small taste of bitter medicine for a few of those whose fathers, sons or brothers had done the same in Thrace. It was a form of retribution.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith in the sky, it had grown pleasantly warm. Larks fluttered high overhead, their lilting song providing a welcome break from the sound of hooves striking off the road’s stone paving and the heavier tread of thousands of hobnailed sandals. Men bawled out verse after verse of filthy songs about the carnal proclivities of a young man on the island of Lesbos, or the habits of a sexually rapacious merchant’s wife. Half listening, Spartacus was considering whether he would save the piece of cheese in his pack or eat it now when through the haze that shimmered over the road, he spotted a pair of riders. A dust cloud trailed behind them, evidence that they were riding hard.

The cavalry officer he was riding with saw them at the same time. ‘Who in Hades could that be, sir?’

‘Good question.’ The news of their approach had taken all traffic off the Via Appia. Only an occasional slave came walking along it now, their mission to join them. But slaves didn’t generally ride. The horsemen wouldn’t be Roman envoys either. The bastards hadn’t tried to negotiate with him before. Why would they start now? ‘I’d say it’s Carbo and Navio,’ he said with a scowl.

Hearing the anger in Spartacus’ voice, the officer did not reply.

Spartacus’ tension grew as the parties drew nearer. It was all he could do not to gallop out to meet the pair, but that would have looked panicky. Who else could it be? His mind tossed around every possible answer to their early return. Unless the pair’s horses had grown wings, they hadn’t had time to ride to Brundisium and back. Could they have been ambushed by latrones, and lost their spare mounts?

Finally, Spartacus urged his horse forward, away from the front ranks of riders. He wanted to hear their report in privacy. Only the Scythians loped beside him. Close up, there was no mistaking Carbo and Navio’s dejected expressions, or the sweat lathering their mounts’ flanks. Spartacus’ belly gave a painful clench, but he smiled in greeting anyway. ‘Gods above, those horses you have must be related to Pegasus! Either that, or it’s not nearly as far to Brundisium as you thought.’

Carbo and Navio exchanged a quick glance. ‘We didn’t get as far as Brundisium,’ said Carbo.

‘Oh. Why not?’ Although he longed to shout, Spartacus kept his tone light.

‘Two nights ago, we hid the horses in an olive grove and went to a nearby roadside inn for some wine,’ said Navio, shooting a guilty glance at Spartacus. ‘I know you’d told us to avoid public places, but we were both dying of thirst.’

‘You both seem to make a damn habit of disobeying my orders,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘What you’re going to say had better be good.’

‘It’s not good, sir, it’s fucking awful,’ said Navio.

Spartacus became very still. ‘Go on.’

‘There was an official messenger staying in the inn. The prick was telling anyone who’d listen that he’d been sent to find Crassus at all costs.’ Carbo hesitated.

‘Why?’

‘Lucullus has been recalled from Thrace,’ said Carbo quietly. ‘He’s already marched his legions over the mountains and into Epirus. A fleet of ships was sent there to meet him.’

Time felt as if it had stopped. Spartacus was acutely aware of his horse shifting beneath him, of the sun beating down on his face, of the larks trilling above. Of all the reasons for their return, he had not expected this hammer blow. ‘How many soldiers?’

‘It depends whether Lucullus brings his entire army or not. He has six legions, two of which have already landed. The messenger seemed to think that he would leave one behind to garrison parts of Thrace.’

Five extra legions to fight. Five. ‘When will the rest arrive?’

‘He wasn’t sure. Apparently, two of the legions are much closer than the rest. They’ll sail within the next week to ten days. The last will embark within a month or so.’

Spartacus wanted to curse every god in the pantheon. This was the cruellest joke that had been played on him yet. What had he done to deserve this? Gritting his teeth, he held his fury in. It was pointless to insult the gods, even if they had sent him this misfortune. With luck, he could win back their favour yet, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t need all the help he could get. ‘Did you kill the messenger?’

‘We were going to,’ said Navio, ‘but it seemed pointless. He mentioned being one of four. They had been sent out separately, to make sure that Crassus received the news.’

‘And if by some small chance we’d been caught doing it, you wouldn’t have found out,’ added Carbo.

Screw the consequences. I would have killed the messenger anyway. Spartacus took a deep breath and let it out again. That was just his fury speaking. He stared east, towards the sea, imagining that he could see the glitter of the sun off the waves, and a fleet of ships bobbing at anchor. Shoving away the fantasy, he returned his gaze to Carbo and Navio. ‘Crassus could well have already heard the news. If not, he’ll receive it today, or tomorrow at the latest.’

They nodded miserably.

‘There’s no point continuing towards Brundisium. Knowing what he does, Crassus would march after us at double pace. Once he’d caught up, the prick would seek battle on open ground. Even if we somehow manage to evade him on the road to the coast, he would hound us all the way. We could arrive with him at our backs, to be greeted by two or even four of Lucullus’ legions. Being caught between the hammer and the anvil is not a good place to be.’

Carbo and Navio glanced at one another. This was what they had talked about, argued about, since they’d set out. ‘What can we do?’ ventured Carbo.

‘There’s only one damn option left,’ grated Spartacus. ‘Turn around and head for the mountains again. We have to find a suitable place to fight Crassus, and fast. With him defeated, we can try for Brundisium again, and smash Lucullus on the way there.’

Apart from the defeat on the ridge, thought Carbo, Spartacus had always led them to victory. Despite the fearful odds that were stacking up against them, why should that change now?

‘And Pompey?’ asked Navio.

‘We’ll just have to keep our ears to the ground for him. In our favour, it’s likely that Crassus will want to fight us without Pompey’s help. If I know one thing about the fucker, it’s that he’s arrogant. He’ll want the glory for himself. Yes, he will unite with the other generals eventually — he’ll have to. But if we can stay two steps ahead of them, we’ll be fine.’ He searched their faces for signs of dissent. He didn’t see it. There was a hint of fear in Carbo’s eyes, which Spartacus had expected, but the young Roman gave him a resolute nod. Navio looked as keen as ever, which didn’t surprise him either. All he wanted was vengeance for his dead family. It was a quest that could never end until Navio, or every Roman who lived under the Republic’s rule, was dead. Spartacus wondered which would come sooner.

He wondered the same thing about himself.