Spartacus: Rebellion

Chapter XVIII

The upper Silarus valley, north of Paestum

Spartacus’senior officers began assembling outside his tent when the sky was still full of stars. Hearing their low murmurs, the Thracian stirred from his position by the cot, but he didn’t move further. It was hard to turn away from his sleeping son. Tousle-headed, beautiful, with a thumb stuck in his mouth, Maron was the picture of innocence. Long may he remain like that, thought Spartacus. Before life changes him. Makes him hard. He kissed the first two fingers of his right hand and trailed them across Maron’s forehead. Sleep well, my son. I will see you later.

He was already fully dressed. Tunic, padded jerkin, mail shirt, studded sandals. Baldric over his shoulder, sica in its scabbard by his left side. A leather belt with a sheathed dagger on it. He reached down to the stool by his bedding and picked up his Phrygian helmet.

‘Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

Ariadne let out a dismissive snort. ‘I’ve spent the night praying. Staring at the ceiling. Or you.’ In fact, she had slept for a time, but her head had been filled with the crucified men again. She wasn’t going to mention that now, or ever. It was just her imagination running riot. Let it be no more than that, Dionysus.

‘At me?’ He sounded amused.

‘Why wouldn’t I? You’re a handsome man.’ She reached up to trace the line of his jaw with a finger. ‘I’ve thought that from the first time we met. When you saved me from Kotys’ men.’

‘That seems a lifetime ago.’ There was a touch of wistfulness in his voice. ‘But I can remember your face as if it were yesterday. You were quite the beauty. And still are,’ he added, smiling.

‘Don’t leave like this,’ she said, trying to keep the emotion from her voice.

‘I’ll come back in when I’ve finished talking with the officers.’

She nodded, grateful that the semi-darkness concealed the tears welling in her eyes.

Helmet under one arm and carrying his shield, Spartacus walked outside. His stomach knotted in a familiar reaction. It felt similar to the times he’d emerged from the tunnel into the gladiatorial arena. Instead of a single opponent, he found Pulcher, Egbeo, Navio and Carbo waiting for him. All four were dressed for a fight. Plumes of exhaled air rose above them into the cool air, and they stamped from foot to foot in an effort to stay warm. Rather than banks of seating full of baying spectators, the black outline of a huge massif loomed to their rear.

After nearly a week of marching north and west and aware that Crassus was closing in, Spartacus had been grateful to find this valley. It was bounded on both sides by mountains. To the east, the sheer-faced plateau behind him, and to the west, a line of similarly high, but more undulating peaks. At the valley’s bottom was a river, the Silarus, which meandered westwards to Campania’s coastal plain. The land here was fertile. Farmhouses were dotted throughout the olive groves and fields. On this side of the river, there was a significant amount of open space given over purely to the cultivation of wheat. It was what had attracted Spartacus’ eye as he’d spied out the terrain from the top of the massif two days earlier. There wasn’t too much flat ground — he estimated it was about two miles wide. That was enough for his troops to deploy without giving Crassus’ legions the space to envelop them. It would constrain the effectiveness of his cavalry, but that couldn’t be helped. Time was not on their side, so this battlefield would have to suffice.

They hadn’t been here for long — twelve hours? — before the Roman scouts had found them. It had only taken another night and day for the legions to appear. They had come from the opposite direction to Spartacus’ army: up the valley from the west, a snaking column that had taken five hours to arrive fully. It was clear from the outset that Crassus was keen for a fight. Instead of using the Silarus as a natural barrier, first his cavalry and then his legionaries had forded the watercourse. They had set up camp on the bank, at the edge of the open ground that led up towards Spartacus’ men’s tents. The provocative move had blocked off all avenues of retreat, except to the east, and short of attacking on the spot, had issued the most direct challenge possible.

Spartacus murmured a quiet greeting to his officers, who gave him tense nods in reply. He had already decided that Egbeo would command the left flank and Pulcher the right. Navio would be with him, in the centre. Carbo would stay with Ariadne and Maron, his job as before. ‘Have the sentries seen anything overnight?’ He had ordered pickets to be set up far beyond their own lines in case Crassus tried any tricks.

‘There hasn’t been a thing until just now, sir,’ said Pulcher.

Spartacus’ gaze fixed on the smith’s face. ‘What have they seen?’

‘It’s been too dark to see, sir. But they heard the sound of digging.’

‘Where?’

‘On the ground before both ends of Crassus’ camp, sir.’

‘The bastards must be digging trenches, to prevent our cavalry from charging.’

‘That was what I thought, sir,’ replied Pulcher with a scowl.

‘In that case, there’s only one thing to do.’

They stared at him without speaking.

‘Attack now. Disrupt the soldiers who are digging. With the Rider’s help, they’ll have to abandon the trenches without finishing them. Egbeo, you can take charge of the left flank, eh?’

The Thracian’s craggy face split into a smile. ‘Be my pleasure!’

‘Pulcher, you take the right.’

‘Of course.’

‘How many men will we take?’ asked Egbeo.

‘Six cohorts each should be enough. Any more, and they might not hear your orders. Take a few trumpeters each to be on the safe side. Push the Romans back, out of their trenches. When you’ve done that, withdraw. The rest of the army will be ready by then. Before you go, remember to instruct your officers to ready their men. Lastly, send the cavalry commanders to me. Well, what are you waiting for?’

With broad grins, the pair hurried away.

‘Where do you want us, sir?’ asked Navio.

‘You’re to stand with me, in the very centre.’

Navio grinned. ‘I’d be honoured.’

Spartacus’ eyes moved to Carbo. ‘My most loyal of men.’

Carbo’s stomach lurched. He suspected what Spartacus was going to say.

‘I want you to stay behind, to protect Ariadne and Maron. Today will be harder fought and more desperate than any of the battles we have fought. If things go wrong-’

‘Leave someone else!’ interrupted Carbo. ‘I won’t do it! Not this time!’ Beside him, Navio stiffened in surprise.

Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I could order you to do so.’

‘But you won’t,’ replied Carbo furiously.

‘Why in Hades won’t I?’

‘Because Crassus is the man who ruined my family. He’s the reason that my parents ended up in Varus’ house. He’s to blame for their deaths! This is the first chance since Rome that I will have had to kill him. It might be the only opportunity I’ll ever get, and you’re not going to take it away from me.’ Carbo glared at Spartacus, afraid yet unwilling to back down.

Navio’s worried eyes shot from one to the other.

‘Well, well,’ said Spartacus. ‘The young cock stands his ground at last!’

Carbo set his jaw and prepared for Spartacus’ rebuke, punishment, or even dismissal.

‘Very well, you can fight. Who am I to stand in the way of a man’s need for vengeance? I would ask that instead of positioning yourself with Egbeo and your cohort, you stand with me and Navio in the centre. Will you do that?’

Carbo’s throat closed with sudden emotion. ‘I–I’d be honoured.’

A brief smile. ‘Good. Best get to rousing the men, eh? I want the whole army ready to fight in within two hours.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Stunned at the ease with which Spartacus had given way, Carbo beat a hasty retreat. As well as obeying his orders, telling Arnax what to do if things went against them was paramount. Navio followed, threading his way between the dense lines of tents.

Spartacus watched them go. He glanced at the eastern sky, which was lightening fast. Daybreak had arrived. He caught first Atheas’ and then Taxacis’ eye. ‘With Carbo out of the picture, I had a mind to ask you, Taxacis, to protect Ariadne with Atheas if things went badly. I would feel better knowing that you were both by her side, but I think you would attract too much attention.’

Taxacis’ lips peeled upwards, and he pointed at the tattoos on his cheeks and arms. ‘These… get noticed.’

‘Which would not be the best thing for Ariadne or the baby. The less attention, the better. I will ask someone else.’ Aventianus, the slave with the scar on his cheek, Spartacus thought. He seemed a decent sort, and trustworthy.

‘I not… want miss fight anyway,’ muttered Taxacis.

‘Good! First, though, find a man called Aventianus — he’s in Navio’s cohort, I think — and bring him here.’ Putting down his helmet and sword, Spartacus ducked back into the tent.

‘What have you planned?’ Ariadne asked in a whisper. She was up, and fully dressed.

‘You look beautiful.’ Even in the poor light, he could see her blush. ‘It’s true!’

Ariadne’s emotions were surging between utter terror that she might never see him again, and pride in what he was about to do. ‘Hush. Tell me your plan.’

Spartacus told her about the Roman trenches. ‘My hope is that we can push the bastards back. If Egbeo and Pulcher can achieve that, the cavalry will still be of use. While the main part of the army is getting ready, they can be darting in and out like clouds of mosquitoes, annoying the legionaries, preventing them from forming up properly. Panicking them a little.’

‘Then you’ll advance?’

He nodded. ‘Our first charge will be the one that counts. It nearly always is. With the Rider’s help, we’ll break through. The cavalry will be working their flanks, and I hope to roll the bastards up until their backs are against the river. That’s when they’ll break, and the slaughter will start.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll be back before dark.’

Ariadne forced herself to return the smile, but she wanted to break down and cry. She had never thought to find a man she could love, but then she had met Spartacus. Now, after all they had been through, this might be the end. Her pain was exquisite, but she made herself speak. ‘What happens if you don’t come back?’

His eyes met hers without wavering. ‘Know that I will have died fighting. All my wounds will be on my front.’

A sob escaped her lips at last. She moved forward, into the welcome circle of his arms. ‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘I have to, Ariadne, you know that. This is the most important battle of my life. My men need me.’

Your men, it’s always your fucking men! Ariadne wanted to rage. What about me and Maron? She didn’t say a word, however. There was no point.

There was silence between them for a long time. They stood, savouring the warmth of the other’s flesh, the rhythm of each other’s breathing.

Great Rider, Spartacus prayed. I ask that you watch over Ariadne and my son, especially if I should fall today. Dionysus, look after this woman, your loyal priestess, and her baby, who will learn to follow your ways.

Ariadne was offering up similar, fervent prayers. All too soon, she felt Spartacus’ grip fall away. Stricken, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. ‘Come back to me.’

He smiled, more gently than she could ever remember. ‘If I can, I will. I swear it. Atheas and a man called Aventianus will watch over you here. If the battle goes badly, they are to take you and Maron to safety. There are bags of coin under my spare clothes, enough to last you for many years if you’re careful.’

She nodded, unable to speak.

He walked to the cot and scooped up Maron, who stirred and then woke. He scrunched up his eyes and stretched. Enfolding him in his arms, Spartacus rocked his son to and fro for several moments. Maron soon settled. ‘Grow up to be strong and healthy. Honour your mother, and my memory. Remember that Rome is your enemy,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘Know that I will always be watching over you.’

He handed Maron to Ariadne. Tears trickled from her closed eyelids as he embraced them both. Ariadne did not open her eyes as Spartacus let go, because she could not bear to see him leave. Instead, she buried her face in the crook of Maron’s neck, letting his baby smell wash over her.

‘Goodbye, wife.’ He spoke from some distance away.

Panic ripped through Ariadne. In the dreadful eventuality that he did not return, she did not want his last memory to be of her avoiding his gaze. Nor that hers would be of letting him walk away without a last look at his face. She lifted her head, dabbed away the tears. ‘Goodbye. I will see you after it’s over.’

He smiled. ‘You will.’

And then he was gone.

Ariadne’s tears began to flow in earnest. Gone was the composed priestess that most people knew. In its place was a woman who had just sent her husband into battle, perhaps for the last time. Although Maron was in her arms, she had never felt more alone.

The sun had emerged from behind the massif to their rear and was bathing the valley by the time Spartacus’ troops were ready. He had assembled them in two strong lines, more than thirty cohorts wide rather than the typical Roman triplex acies pattern that Crassus’ legionaries were adopting five hundred odd paces opposite. His attack, a gamble, required the maximum force his men could muster. He had therefore placed his best soldiers, the ones who possessed mail shirts and Roman shields and weapons, in the centre with him. It was where the fighting would be hardest, bloodiest, deadliest.

Beyond these eight cohorts slightly more than half of the men were as well armed. Of the rest, few had helmets. Some had shields; others had mail. Their weapons were swords, spears and even axes. He hoped that what they lacked in equipment, they would make up in bravery. Egbeo and Pulcher would exhort the best from them, he was sure of that. On the flanks, his cavalry waited, hundreds of riders on shaggy mountain ponies. They didn’t look that fearsome, but Spartacus had seen what they’d done to the Romans on numerous occasions.

Normally, he’d have been cursing the fact that less than half of his original force of horsemen remained. Today it didn’t matter, because there wasn’t room on either side for more riders to manoeuvre. His cavalry’s role would be vital; he had given the officers in charge detailed instructions on what to do. He wanted them to act like Hannibal’s famed Numidian horsemen, whose tactic of attacking and withdrawing had so often led enemies to break ranks, thereby exposing themselves to danger. If his cavalry could replicate that even to a small extent, Egbeo and Pulcher would capitalise on the advantage to its fullest, which in turn would increase the likelihood of the Roman flanks folding. And if that happened, Crassus’ legions would break.

As he’d supervised the men, Spartacus had kept half an eye on the struggle around the enemy trenches and half an eye on what Crassus’ soldiers were doing. Thus far, the legions were making no move to advance. Like him, Crassus was merely marshalling his forces in case the battle proper began. Spartacus began to give the clashes on the flanks his full attention. The two bouts were some distance away, making it difficult to see what was happening. It was clear, however, that neither Egbeo nor Pulcher had succeeded in driving the Romans back far, if at all. The figures of fighting men ebbed to and fro, accompanied by the usual clatter of weapons, shouts and screams. ‘What the hell’s going on down there?’

‘The Romans have brought up their catapults, sir,’ said Navio. ‘Listen.’

Spartacus pricked his ears. After a moment, he heard the familiar twangs that signalled the release of bolts and stones. The noise was coming from both Egbeo’s and Pulcher’s positions. He hoped that Crassus didn’t have too many of the deadly machines. Suddenly, his attention was drawn by a large formation of troops marching towards the enemy’s left flank. His eyes swivelled, seeing a similar force moving in the direction of the right flank. Crassus was reinforcing the men in the trenches, not ordering them to withdraw. His decision had just been made for him. ‘We advance. Now.’

‘The whole army?’ asked Carbo nervously.

‘Yes.’ He pointed down the slope. ‘Look at those cohorts. We’ve got to move now, or Egbeo and Pulcher’s troops will get massacred.’ He glanced at them both. ‘Ready for this?’

They both gave him a grim nod.

‘Egbeo and Pulcher will be up to their eyeballs with what’s going on. Someone else needs to lead their men down there. Navio, I want you to take charge of the left flank.’

Navio saluted. He exchanged a quick glance with Carbo and then trotted off at the double.

Spartacus called for a messenger. ‘The most senior centurion on the right flank is to take command there. The order to advance will come very soon.’ The man saluted and sprinted away. ‘Bring me my stallion!’ cried Spartacus.

A soldier who’d been waiting off to one side hurried forward, leading the horse.

Beckoning, Spartacus walked out some thirty paces from his troops.

Gods, but he looks magnificent, thought Carbo. Spartacus’ Phrygian helmet glittered in the sun, drawing everyone’s attention. His mail shirt had been burnished until it shone like silver, and on his left hip sat his sica, the blade that had led them to victory so many times before.

Spartacus cupped a hand to his lips. ‘You see this magnificent beast?’

There were puzzled nods of agreement. ‘We see him,’ shouted a voice. ‘And we all wish that we had one too!’

This raised a few laughs.

‘In Thrace, a white horse is regarded as a mount fit for a king. They are to be honoured, and treated with respect. It is why I picked this stallion to ride. He has served me well, but today I will use him for another purpose. He is to be a sacrifice to the gods! To ask them for victory at any cost.’

The shock among his troops was palpable. This was a powerful rite indeed. Men whispered to one another, and the word began to spread.

Spartacus smiled. This had been his intent. ‘Instead of riding into battle, I would fight beside you, my brothers, in the shield wall. I would take every blow that you do. I will bleed with you, and kill Romans beside you. I will stay to the bitter end with you, though my shield be shattered and my blade broken!’

The oath made Carbo shiver, and stirred his passion as never before. The men around him were comrades, whom he would die for, as they would for him. He glanced to either side, seeing the same emotion on others’ faces.

Drawing his dagger, Spartacus stepped up to the horse. Recognising him, it whinnied and nibbled at his arm. ‘Gently, brave one. I thank you for your faithful service. I ask one more thing of you. This will be your finest moment, and give you a rapid journey to the Great Rider’s side. There you will be received with great honour.’ To the soldier, he whispered, ‘Pull out his head.’

With Spartacus rubbing his shoulder, the stallion let the soldier extend his neck forward.

Great Rider, this is for you. In return, I ask for victory.

Spartacus brought up the knife under the horse’s chin. In one swift movement, he brought it back towards him. The wickedly sharp blade slashed a gaping hole in the stallion’s flesh, severing both its jugular veins and setting free a tidal wave of blood. It staggered, blowing red froth from the hole in its windpipe. Spartacus leaned into it with all his strength, stroking its shoulder with his free hand. ‘Steady, brave heart, steady. The Rider awaits you.’

The horse’s knees buckled, and it dropped to the ground like a stone. More blood flowed, creating a huge pool of crimson around its forequarters. One of its back legs shot out to the side. It kicked madly several times and was still. Spartacus reached down and worked the knife deeper into the stallion’s neck. This time, he cut an artery. Bright red blood sprayed over his hand. He continued to whisper calm reassurances. The broad chest went in and out, in and out, slower and slower. At last it stopped.

Spartacus let his hand rest on the stallion for a moment, honouring its life and its death. Then, dipping his hand in the blood, he smeared a liberal coating on to his cheeks and forehead. Wiping his blade clean, he sheathed it. When he turned to regard his troops, he saw that all eyes were on him. In the cohorts further away, men had moved out of position so that they could witness what was going on. ‘My soldiers! The offering to the gods has been made. My stallion died well, and without protest. The sacrifice has been accepted!’

They roared their approval at that. Clash, clash, clash went their weapons off their shields.

Sica in hand now, Spartacus took a few steps forward. ‘Today, we shall have… VICTORY — OR DEATH!’

A heartbeat’s delay.

‘VICTORY — OR DEATH!’ roared Carbo. Taxacis’ voice echoed his.

‘VICTORY — OR DEATH! VICTORY — OR DEATH!’

Letting his men’s chant wash over him, Spartacus resumed his place in the line, between Carbo and Taxacis. Without ado, he signalled at the trumpeters, and at the riders who would carry the order to advance to the cavalry on the wings.

The instruments’ strident notes had no difficulty carrying through the noise. Still shouting, the soldiers were urged forward by their officers. They walked at first. It was a good five hundred paces to the Roman lines. There was no point in tiring themselves out. They would need all the energy they had to win the fight that was to come.

Carbo could taste bile in the back of his throat. Grant us victory, and give me one chance to kill Crassus, he begged. I don’t care if I die after that. Prayer over, he glanced at Taxacis, who was to his far right. The Scythian gave him a fierce grin. Carbo returned the smile. He couldn’t ask to be in a better place. Spartacus to his right. Beyond him, Taxacis. Both were deadly fighters. On his left was a broad-chested man with a strong chin. Carbo vaguely recognised him, but he wasn’t sure why. He was just proud to be included in their number, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly at home.

‘Keep walking,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Hold the line!’

As they drew parallel with the dead stallion, more than one soldier copied their leader by daubing his face with its blood. Carbo didn’t — the Rider wasn’t his god — but he understood why men were doing it. In a situation such as this, anything that might help one to survive was useful. One hundred paces went by. The Romans were advancing to meet them. Carbo watched Spartacus, who was scanning the enemy lines. He did the same, eventually spotting a scarlet-cloaked man riding back and forth behind the central cohorts. ‘There’s Crassus! The cocksucker!’

‘That’s him,’ agreed Spartacus with a scowl. ‘We’re right where we want to be: directly opposite his position.’

Tramp, tramp, tramp. Carbo counted his footsteps. Another hundred paces, and he could differentiate the Roman officers from the ordinary soldiers. He had never seen so many transverse-crested helmets in the front rank. It was a measure reserved for the most desperate of situations. Crassus was also gambling everything on this throw of the dice. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back, made gripping his pilum more difficult. He’d be lucky to be alive by nightfall.

‘That’s it, lads,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Stay together!’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ roared the man to Carbo’s left. He hammered his pilum off the metal rim of his scutum with each syllable. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Inevitably, the shout was taken up all around them. Carbo roared at the top of his voice, but the din was so loud that he couldn’t hear himself. It felt as if he was miming in a stage play, except that instead of an audience, he had a wall of legionaries approaching him. Apart from occasional blasts from their trumpeters, Crassus’ men came on in silence. It was a typical Roman tactic, designed to send fear into their enemies’ hearts. It wasn’t working yet, thought Carbo, his heart thumping, because the crescendo from their soldiers was so overwhelming.

On they marched, trampling the young wheat back into the earth. Because they were still descending the slope, Carbo had a good view of the ground to his left and right. On the periphery, he could see their cavalry moving forward like a dark stain across the landscape. With any luck, the Roman trenches wouldn’t extend far enough out to prevent them from sweeping around the enemy flanks. Carbo couldn’t see Navio’s position, but he sent up a prayer for his friend, and for them all. Bring us victory, great Jupiter, great Mars. Let me reach Crassus. One more chance, that’s all I ask.

Two hundred paces until the enemy lines. Carbo had grown used to the routines of battle, and his eyes flickered warily to the air above the legionaries. Were there enough artillery pieces to target them as well, or were they taken up with the struggle on the flanks? He didn’t hold any ill will towards the men there, but he hoped that it was the latter.

It was wishful thinking.

Perhaps two heartbeats later, a volley of darts came scudding in. Carbo felt his bowels loosen. He’d seen the carnage that the missiles could do. Around him, more than one man cried out in fear. Their advance slowed, and then stopped.

‘Close order! All ranks except the front, shields up!’ bellowed Spartacus.

They’d been drilled to do this a thousand times before. With a loud clattering noise, the scuta of those behind Carbo came up, forming a giant cover, the famed Roman testudo. He and the men of the front rank closed their shields together, forming an almost solid wall to the front. It was good protection against lighter missiles such as javelins, but, as everyone knew, it could not stop larger ones, such as the darts that were humming down towards them with frightening speed.

‘STEADY!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘STEADY, BOYS!’

Other officers shouted similar reassurances.

Carbo didn’t look up. If he was going to be transfixed by a barbed dart, he wanted it to happen without him knowing. His heart was thumping off his ribs like a wild thing. The soldier to his left was muttering the same prayer over and over. A man nearby began to vomit. Carbo started counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. Gods above, slow down. He forced himself to exhale as slowly as he could.

Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. With a noise like thunderbolts, the missiles arrived. Carbo closed his eyes. Sent skywards by a torsion catapult that had to be cocked by two legionaries winding a handle, the darts had huge penetrative power. They punched through scuta like a hot knife through cheese, maiming and killing the unfortunate men beneath. Arm bones were shattered, skulls smashed open, chests ripped apart. Howls of agony marked the spots where soldiers had only been injured. The dead just collapsed to the ground.

Carbo blinked. He was still alive, and whole. So too were Spartacus and the man to his left. They exchanged a relieved look.

‘Lower shields. Forward, at the double!’ shouted Spartacus.

Carbo needed no encouragement. The quicker they closed with the Romans, the fewer volleys would land among them. The risk of death from a blade seemed far more appealing than having his brain pulped to mush or his chest split asunder by a dart. Cocking back his left arm, he trotted forward. Soon there would be an exchange of javelins. Then a final charge.

A hundred and fifty paces. Still the Romans made no sound. Carbo didn’t like it one bit.

Another volley, this one of stones, came sweeping over the enemy lines. He was hypnotised by their trajectory. Part of him wanted to sprint forward, to miss the deadly rain if he could. Another part wanted to drop his shield and pilum and run away. But he couldn’t. Spartacus was by his side, relying on him. And Crassus, the cause of his parents’ deaths, was skulking behind a wall of legionaries. He focused his attention on the lines nearing him. All he could see was their eyes, peering over their shield rims, and their javelins, which were already aimed at the sky, ready for the order to release. Carbo was suddenly aware that he needed to piss. More than anything, he needed to piss. He swallowed hard, forcing the urge away.

Thump. Crash. Bang. The stones landed, splintering shields into kindling, crushing men’s ribs and stopping their hearts.

Carbo shot a glance at Spartacus, who seemed oblivious. He rallied his courage. Here was the closest thing to a god that he’d ever seen. Was the man scared of nothing?

‘Ready javelins!’ Spartacus drew back his left arm. ‘On my order!’

Carbo squinted at the enemy lines, which were about ninety paces away. Too far for an accurate throw. He could see the Roman officers watching them, waiting until they drew closer. Bastards.

Spartacus was doing the same. His lips moved as he counted down the distance. Eighty. Seventy. Sixty. The legionaries’ pila flew up into the air.

Damn it, thought Carbo, give the order!

‘Aim short! LOOSE!’

Carbo heaved his javelin into a low, curving arc. He tried to follow its progress, but it was joined by scores of others. He watched in fascination as they sped towards the Romans.

‘Shields up!’ roared Spartacus for the second time.

The javelins caused far less consternation than the artillery barrage. They crashed down, turning many shields into useless lumps of wood, but injuring and killing fewer men. Behind him, Carbo heard a couple of soldiers wagering with one another about who would get hit first. He felt an elbow in the ribs from his neighbour.

‘Crazy the things that men can laugh about, eh?’

Carbo’s dry lips cracked as he smiled.

‘Zeuxis is the name. Yours?’

‘Carbo. Do I recognise you?’

A sour grin. ‘Maybe. You were with Spartacus when he shoved me arse first into a fire.’

Carbo’s chuckle was drowned by Spartacus’ shout. ‘Anyone with a second javelin, LOOSE!’

Half as many pila as had gone up the first time took to the air. In the same instant, a far greater number of Roman javelins were launched.

‘Raise shields, draw swords! FORWARD, AT THE DOUBLE!’

Ducking his head in a futile attempt to make himself smaller, Carbo broke into a run. His world had narrowed. All he could see was the Romans directly opposite him. Crassus, even the line of standards that waved above their lines, had vanished. He was aware of Zeuxis on his left, Spartacus on his right, his shield in one hand and his gladius in the other. That was it.

Little more than thirty paces separated the two sides.

The legionaries had drawn their swords now. Finally, an almighty roar left their throats, and they ran forward.

Carbo and every man around him responded with an ear-splitting yell. He heard Spartacus shout something unintelligible in Thracian. A quick glance sideways. Awe filled him. He’d never seen his leader look so angry. The veins in Spartacus’ neck were bulging. His face was bright red, and his eyes were flat and dead. The eyes of a killer. Carbo had never been more glad to be on the same side as this man.

Gaze back to the front. Twenty-five paces. Carbo felt the scream crack in his throat, but that didn’t shut him up. He must sound like a madman, but that was a good thing. The aim before they struck was to cause as much fear in their enemies as possible.

The two sides closed in on one another with frightening speed. Twenty paces. Fifteen.

Carbo focused on the designs emblazoned on the shields nearing him. The majority were a red colour with a swirling yellow line decorating each quarter, but the most striking one had lightning bolts radiating from the shield boss. The eyes above its rim were calculating, the helmet battered. A veteran, thought Carbo, his fear bubbling up. And they were heading straight for each other.

The last steps were covered in a blur. Carbo did his best to make sure that as he hit, his left shoulder was shoved forward. Of course his opponent did the same. Their shields crashed off other with an almighty bang. Both men staggered back a pace; both regained their poise and lunged forward with their swords. Carbo ducked down behind his scutum first, which allowed the legionary to follow through with his thrust, while Carbo’s right arm shot uselessly into the air. Aware that he’d exposed his armpit, Carbo desperately pulled his blade back down. As he tried to peep over his shield rim, his enemy stabbed at him again. Cursing, Carbo hid again. He battered forward with his scutum, wanting to catch the other off balance. It was a faint hope. The legionary’s shield was like a brick wall.

Carbo didn’t give up on his attack. He punched his shield at the other’s, following through with a thrust of his sword. It was what Paccius had taught him. One, two. One, two. The legionary’s response was to do exactly the same thing. Carbo realised that his enemy was stronger and more skilled than he was. It seemed as if the legionary knew it too. His eyes glittered as he redoubled his assault.

Carbo’s need to urinate returned with a vengeance. Is this how I’m going to die? he wondered. Covered in my own piss? He changed tactic, stabbing his gladius down at his opponent’s feet. His effort failed. The legionary blocked the blow by angling out the lower edge of his scutum; he followed through with a lunge of his sword that nearly took out Carbo’s left eye. There was a screech of metal as the iron blade skidded off the brow of his helmet. Stars flashed across Carbo’s vision. Dimly, he heard the legionary roar in triumph. This is it, he thought. Now the bastard will knock me over and finish me off.

What he heard next was an odd, choking sound.

With difficulty, Carbo focused on the legionary again. To his amazement, he saw Spartacus’ sica sliding out of the man’s throat. Blood spattered him in the face; the metallic taste of it hit his tongue. Carbo’s head turned.

‘Come on, lad! Get your wits about you,’ growled Spartacus.

Carbo nodded, still a little confused.

‘Eyes front!’ Spartacus shouted.

Carbo obeyed. The gaps in the enemy ranks had already been filled by those behind. His next opponent was four steps away and closing fast. Carbo let him come, forcing the man to step over his comrade’s body. As the legionary was in mid-stride, Carbo drove into him with all his force. The soldier rocked back on his heels, and Carbo’s sword shattered his left cheekbone, slicing through his nasal chambers to exit at the angle of the opposite jaw. A keening noise tore at Carbo’s hearing, and he shook his head in an effort to stop it. Then he realised that it was the legionary screaming. He’d never heard someone make so much noise. With a grunt, he tugged his blade free. The man dropped, still shrieking like a spitted boar.

Carbo wounded the soldier who followed, slicing one of his feet down to the bone. Bawling in pain, the man drew back, unable to fight. The press was too tight for anyone to get by, so Carbo used the respite to help Zeuxis dispatch his opponent. Two legionaries shoved through the gap left as that man fell. One moved sideways to get at Carbo; the other went for Zeuxis. This fight was as protracted as Carbo’s first struggle, but driven by adrenalin and the knowledge that Spartacus had saved his life, he gave a better account of himself. It was a measure of his opponent’s skill that it took so long for Carbo to put him down. The legionary sank to his knees, the wound in his throat open wider than his gaping mouth. Blood jetted from both openings, covering the ground between them in another tide of crimson.

No one filled the empty space before Carbo. He didn’t understand until the shrill peeeeeeep of whistles hit his eardrums. The Roman line retreated a step, and then another. He tensed, preparing to advance.

‘Fall back!’ roared Spartacus. He thumped the side of Carbo’s shield with his own. ‘Ten paces, no more.’

As he dumbly obeyed, Carbo felt the sweat drenching him. The felt liner beneath his helmet was saturated. There were rivulets running down his forehead and continuing, stinging, into his eyes. He wiped a bloody hand across his face.

‘You’ve done well, lads. Time for a breather!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Help the wounded to move back, away from the front ranks. If you’ve got any water, have a drink. Share it with your comrades. Do the obvious. Those with damaged weapons or equipment, try to find replacements from the dead and injured. Clear the ground around your feet so that you don’t trip up when the fighting starts again. Check the rest of your gear. Make sure that the straps on your sandals aren’t loose.’ He broke out of formation and began to move along the ranks to the left, muttering encouragement to the soldiers.

No more than twenty paces away, the Romans were doing the same thing. Carbo felt odd standing so close to men whom he’d been trying to kill just a moment earlier, and with whom he would shortly resume hostilities. Best to make the most of it. He stabbed his gladius into the earth before him and let his scutum rest against it. Relieving himself of that weight felt so good. Next he tugged up the bottom of his mail shirt and freed himself from his undergarment. At once his urine arched out in a yellow stream. Carbo thought it would never stop. He had never known such relief. From the jokes and sighs of satisfaction he could hear, plenty of other men felt the same way. Finishing, he became very aware of his overwhelming thirst.

‘Here.’

Zeuxis had shoved a small clay vessel with a strap around its neck in his face. Carbo put it to his lips and took a mouthful. The water was warm and stale, but it tasted better than anything he’d ever drunk. ‘Thanks,’ he said, handing it back.

Zeuxis grunted. He took a long pull himself and passed it to the soldier on his left. He leaned back towards Carbo. ‘Never thought I’d stand this close to Spartacus in battle, I can tell you.’

‘He’s some warrior, eh?’

‘It’s like watching a god take to the field.’ The awe in Zeuxis’ voice was palpable.

‘I’d be a dead man if it wasn’t for him.’ Carbo undid his chinstrap and took off his helmet. He let it drop.

‘I saw some of that fight. Sorry I couldn’t help. I was a bit caught up.’

‘It’s all right.’ Carbo pulled off his liner and wrung it out. Streams of water ran between his fingers. A light breeze tickled his soaking hair. It felt wonderful, but he jammed the felt back on his head and put on his helmet again, tying the strap securely. ‘You been in the army long?’

‘I joined before the battle against Lentulus. Marcion here’ — he jerked his head at the man to his left — ‘came along at the same time. So did most of our contubernium. And you?’

‘I was in the ludus with Spartacus.’

Zeuxis’ mouth fell open. ‘Really?’

Carbo nodded.

‘So you took part in the attack on Glaber’s camp? And the fight at the villa when Cossinius was caught naked?’

Carbo grinned. ‘I was there.’

‘Hear this, Marcion!’ He muttered a few words to his comrade, who gave Carbo a look of awe. ‘Those were the days, eh?’ said Zeuxis. ‘When we won every fight.’

Carbo gave him a grim smile. ‘With the gods’ help, this could be another one.’

Zeuxis’ eyes flickered away from his. ‘Let’s hope so.’

Spartacus came hurrying back to his position. ‘READY, LADS?’

‘YES!’ Carbo shouted, his voice one of hundreds. Tugging his gladius free, and picking up his shield, he scanned the enemy lines. The legionaries were moving closer together, and he could hear their officers roaring at them to prepare to advance.

‘Let’s hit them hard, eh?’ said Spartacus to Carbo.

‘Of course!’ His heart began to race again.

‘The left flank looks to be holding its own from what I can see, but I’ve got no idea how things are on the right, or what the cavalry have achieved. To be sure of victory, we have to break through here.’

The pressure mounted. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will.’ Spartacus flashed him a smile, and Carbo’s devotion to him grew yet stronger.

‘READY? CHARGE!’ roared Spartacus.

They pounded forward at the Romans, who shouted a challenge and broke into a run of their own. Carbo was more prepared for the fight this time. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the man closing in on him had a limp. He was already injured: a weakness to exploit. As their shields cracked against each other and they both began to push, Carbo hacked down at his opponent’s sandals. There was a loud cry as the tip of his blade connected with the toes on the man’s left foot. It was only a small wound, but it was painful enough to make the legionary lower his guard a fraction. Carbo raised his gladius and shoved it forward, around the other’s scutum. There was a heartbeat’s delay and then it had punched through the iron rings of the man’s mail shirt. It sank deep into his belly, and his mouth opened in an ‘O’ of pure shock. Carbo twisted the blade as he’d been taught, and wrenched it free.

‘Jupiterrrrrr, that hurts!’ screamed the legionary. He dropped his shield and clutched a hand to the bloody hole in his mail.

Carbo smashed his scutum forward, knocking his opponent into the soldier immediately behind.

‘FORWARD!’ shouted Spartacus.

Blood pounding in his ears, Carbo advanced two steps. Then another. Despite the protests of the man to his rear, the injured legionary staggered backwards. Carbo’s eyes shot from side to side. Zeuxis was at his left shoulder; Spartacus was to his right and beyond him was Taxacis. Further out, their comrades also appeared to be moving forward. His heart leaped. He took another step.

‘FORWARD!’ roared Spartacus again.

Pace by pace, they walked towards the Romans, who continued to retreat. It went on for about twenty steps, and Carbo began to hope that their enemies would break. They didn’t. His attention was drawn to a couple of centurions in the front rank near him. They were screaming blue murder, threatening their men with the most terrible punishments if they did anything but hold the line. Their tactic was working. The legionaries slowed down and came to a halt.

‘When we hit the whoresons, I want every centurion killed! Hacked into a hundred pieces! Do you hear me?’

The nearest soldiers bellowed in assent.

‘If we can do that, they’ll fucking run,’ Carbo heard Spartacus mutter. Then, ‘CHARGE!’

They ran forward. This time, the Romans did not come to meet them. Carbo took some solace from that. The enemy officers didn’t trust their men to advance. That meant they were worried.

Carbo saw that the man to face him would be a centurion, and his breath caught in his chest. The previous bouts he’d fought would be as nothing compared to this. Centurions were veterans of at least twenty years’ service, brave men who led by example, who stuck at nothing to win a fight. He struggled against the first tinge of panic, knowing that if he gave in to it, he was sure to die. The centurion was staring right at him and roaring insults at the top of his voice. Blocking out the sound as best he could, Carbo tried to spot any detail that would help him win. He saw nothing except the scarlet-dyed horsehairs on his opponent’s helmet crest and the merciless eyes beneath its tinned brow. Death was waiting.

Three paces out, it came to Carbo. The centurion was a short man. In turn, that meant that he was a lot heavier than him. Praying that his idea would work, he ducked as low as he could behind the rim of his scutum. Pulling his left arm close in against his body, he slowed down a fraction before throwing his entire body weight forward with his shield. He struck the centurion with such force that the Roman was shoved several steps backwards. Carbo lifted his head, readying himself to land the killer blow. He got the shock of his life. Incredibly, the centurion had maintained his balance, and was waiting for his chance. Carbo had just enough time to register the other’s blade as it swept forward at his face.

I’m dead.

There was a loud crash.

Carbo blinked. The gladius was gone. He looked again. The centurion had been knocked on to the flat of his back by Spartacus, who had driven sideways into him with his scutum. Stooping over the officer, the Thracian ran him through the throat. Dismayed cries rose from the legionaries who’d seen what had happened, and they fell back a step or two. Spartacus quickly resumed his position, throwing Carbo a grin. ‘Push the whoresons back!’ he yelled.

Carbo took a step forward with the rest. He glanced at his sword arm, which was trembling like a leaf. Snap out of it! he told himself. You’re still alive. The battle’s not over. Steeling himself for more carnage, he looked up. The centurion had been replaced by a furious-looking legionary. Perhaps five paces separated them. ‘I’m going to rip your head off and shit down your neck!’ the Roman screamed.

Behind the ranks of enemy soldiers, Carbo caught sight of a red cloak. It was Crassus, dismounting from his horse. Standard-bearers swirled around him, including one bearing a silver eagle. Carbo couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s concerned enough to make a stand right here. ‘Spartacus! This is our chance!’

A moment later, there was a shout of acknowledgement. ‘CHARGE! CHARGE!’

Carbo’s gaze returned to the legionary. Cold rage now filled him. All he wanted to do was reach Crassus. ‘I’m coming for you, you fucking maggot!’

There was a surge behind him as he advanced. It was the men in the ranks behind, Carbo realised with exhilaration. He made short shrift of the legionary, dispatching him with a couple of vicious stabs to the face. The man after him was a barrel-chested individual who spat obscenities with each thrust of his gladius. Carbo had little difficulty in dodging the powerful but inaccurate blows, but soon the press grew so great that he was driven right up against the legionary. Neither was able to use his sword.

‘Slave filth!’ screamed the soldier. ‘You’re dead! Dead!’

‘Fuck you!’ Carbo let go of his gladius, which, jammed between them, didn’t even fall to the ground. With a struggle, he reached around to his left side and tugged out his dagger. Drawing up his arm with great care, he whipped it up, above the crush. Panic flared in the legionary’s eyes, more curses filled the air, but he could not prevent Carbo from hammering the blade down into his neck. Carbo stabbed him several more times for good measure. Gouts of blood splattered his forearm, his face, the front of his shield. He didn’t care. ‘Crassus, I’m coming for you!’ he shouted, spittle flying.

But he couldn’t move — forward or back. In fact, the pressure from both sides was starting to become uncomfortable. The cursing legionary had slumped forward; he was now being held upright by Carbo’s scutum. Blood ran in streams from the wound in his neck, covering Carbo’s left hand and arm. There was nothing he could do about it. He was glad that the Romans in the second rank weren’t trying to get at him. They had to be as tightly compressed as he and his comrades were.

‘Gods above, what do we do now?’ roared Zeuxis.

The red mist receded a little. Carbo glanced at Zeuxis, who had also killed the Roman in front of him. ‘We’re stuck!’

Zeuxis glowered. ‘Bloody genius, aren’t you?’

Fighting a crazy urge to smile, Carbo looked to his right. Unsurprisingly, Spartacus had slain his man. He was helping Taxacis to slaughter his opponent. Carbo waited until it was done. ‘What do we do now?’

Spartacus’ head turned. His face and helmet were covered in blood, and his eyes had a mad gleam to them. Carbo had difficulty holding his gaze.

‘We’ll have to withdraw a few steps. The sheep-fucking Romans won’t do so, that’s for sure. This kind of stalemate suits them. Crassus will be trying to wear us out.’

Carbo was suddenly aware that his muscles were screaming for a rest.

‘Fall back!’ cried Spartacus. ‘Fall back ten steps. Only ten! Pass the word along!’

Carbo leaned over to Zeuxis. ‘Tell your mate to spread the word. We’re to pull back ten steps, no more.’

Zeuxis nodded and did as he was asked. Spartacus was doing the same to Carbo’s right. Soon the air was filled with the shouted command. As the men in the ranks behind realised, they began to shuffle backwards. Feeling the pressure on his chest reduce, Carbo sucked in a deep breath. He gripped his gladius again and took a couple of steps away from the big legionary. The man’s corpse slumped to its knees. A heartbeat’s delay and it toppled on to its face. Carbo tensed, preparing himself for an enemy charge, but it didn’t happen.

Keeping in line with Zeuxis and Spartacus, he walked back six, seven, eight more paces.

‘HALT!’ roared the Thracian.

His command was obeyed.

Carbo saw Spartacus eyeballing the Romans, but they did nothing. They had to be grateful for the breather too, he thought.

‘Pull back another ten steps!’

Carbo glanced at Spartacus in alarm. ‘Why?’ he hissed.

‘I need to see what’s going on at the flanks. This is the only damn way I can do it.’

The word went out again. Counting carefully, they withdrew. Still the Romans did nothing. Carbo’s eyes travelled up and down their line. All he saw were men heaving bodies out of the way, spitting or drinking from water bags. Some legionaries shouted insults, but most were ignoring them. It was a small relief.

Spartacus strode out into the gap between the armies. His head swivelled from side to side for a few moments. A javelin was hurled at him, and another, but he ignored them, standing on tiptoe to get a better view. Then a third pilum came scudding in and he had to dodge out the way in order to avoid being struck.

‘They’ve recognised him,’ muttered Carbo. He could see enemy javelins being handed forward for the men at the front to throw. The taste of fear was acid in his mouth. Spartacus’ extraordinary charisma was what held the centre together. If he went down, they were finished.

‘What in Hades is he doing?’ growled Zeuxis.

Carbo explained.

‘A bit fucking risky, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe, but there’s no other way.’ Even as he defended Spartacus’ actions, Carbo wanted to scream at him to return to safety.

He soon got his wish. Turning his back on the Roman lines, Spartacus sauntered back to their position. Two javelins followed him, one landing right by his feet. He didn’t even look at it. A smile played across his face. ‘Is that the best they can do?’ he shouted, turning to make an obscene gesture at the Romans.

Whoops and cheers rose around Carbo, and a sea of hands went up in the air, mimicking Spartacus’ sign.

Doing the same, Carbo grinned. He couldn’t help it. ‘Fuck you all!’ he bellowed.

Spartacus shoved in beside him.

Carbo turned, his face alight. Spartacus’ words hit him like a hammer blow.

‘It’s not going well with Pulcher on the right. The Romans must have brought up every spare catapult they have. The whoresons are hammering our ranks behind where the fighting is going on. The men there are starting to waver.’

Carbo’s next insult turned to ashes in his mouth. If the rearmost soldiers turned and fled, the ones at the front wouldn’t be far behind them. And if that happened, the enemy’s left flank could wheel around to hit the centre — their position. An abyss had just opened at their feet. ‘And the left?’

‘It’s all right, thanks to Navio. I can’t see the damn cavalry anywhere, though. On either side. I’m concerned that the ditches were too deep for them. That they haven’t been able to sweep around to the enemy’s rear. We’d have heard something, seen something by now if they had.’

Carbo’s hopes plummeted. He searched Spartacus’ face for a hopeful sign. ‘What can we do?’

A savage, unforgiving smile. ‘I’d wager that we’ve got the time for one more roll of the dice before the left flank gives way. Will you come?’

Carbo knew in that moment that his death was near. He fought the urge to vomit. ‘I’m with you.’

Spartacus’ eyes softened. ‘I never thought to say this, but I’m proud to stand and fight beside a Roman.’

Carbo had to fight back tears. Unable to speak, he just nodded.

Spartacus threw back his head. ‘My soldiers, listen to me!’

Somehow, amid the din from the fighting to either side, the nearest men’s heads turned.

‘I ask you for one more effort. One more charge! I can see Crassus there, opposite us. Do you see the bastard, in his red cloak, behind his legionaries?’

Silence for a moment as men’s eyes searched for their enemy, and then an angry roar went up.

‘Let’s kill Crassus right now. End the battle at a stroke. Are you with me?’

‘YES!’

‘ARE YOU WITH ME?’ Spartacus began hammering his sica off his shield.

‘YESSSS!’ Carbo screamed with everyone else.

‘THEN CHARGE!’ Spartacus shot forward so fast that he caught Carbo and the man on the other side by surprise. He was five strides ahead before they had even started running. Carbo sprinted to catch up. To his left, he sensed Zeuxis. He knew in his gut that the rest were coming too. Every man who had heard that cry would answer it. Would give his life to be with Spartacus as he descended on the Romans in a dreadful, killing rage. The words ‘Victory or death’ had never been more true.

He drew alongside the Thracian. Heard him muttering.

‘Great Rider, watch over me. Great Rider, protect me. Great Rider, help me to kill Crassus.’

The prayers made Carbo’s spine tingle. He could feel the gods’ presence. Let them be on our side.

Ten strides until the Roman lines. Carbo could see Crassus at the back. His heart jolted with hope. The legionaries opposite him were no more than six ranks deep. They could do it! Five steps. Imagining that he’d been stabbed in the guts, Carbo let out a piercing shriek. The man facing him flinched, which was what he’d wanted. He covered the last two paces in a blur, smashing into the soldier with all the pent-up hatred that he’d ever felt towards Crassus. He felt the impact as Zeuxis and Spartacus hit their opponents. Still yelling like a madman, Carbo rammed his gladius into the space between the two scuta before him. His blade struck, and then slid deep into something. A scream, and the legionary facing Spartacus dropped his sword. Surprised, Carbo’s eyes shot to his own opponent who, with teeth bared, was trying to reach around and stab him in the belly. Too late, Carbo pulled his right arm back to retaliate.

When Zeuxis’ gladius slid over to take the Roman in the throat, he could have cried with relief. ‘Thanks.’

Zeuxis threw him a broad wink. ‘Just do the same for me if you can.’

‘I will.’

‘ON! ON! ON!’ roared Spartacus.

Having smashed the first enemy rank, they shoved into the next. Punching with their shields, thrusting with their swords, howling like wolves. Blood sprayed in the air, covered their faces, showered on to the muddy ground. Cries of triumph mixed with shrieks of pain and the gurgles of men drowning in their own blood. They pushed forward another hard-fought two steps. A few paces to his left, Carbo saw a legionary lose an arm to a sword cut; with a stunned expression, he raised the stump into the air, showering his comrades in crimson liquid. As if he’d only realised what had happened, an inarticulate wail left his throat. Those of Spartacus’ soldiers who could see laughed and jeered. The man wasn’t just useless, he was now a danger to his comrades. It didn’t take long for a legionary to stab the unfortunate in the neck from behind and step over his body to fill the gap.

Carbo was vaguely aware that Spartacus was fighting another centurion, but his next opponent was a skilful legionary who pre-empted his every move. For long moments, they each battered their shield off the other’s and thrust at one another’s faces to no avail. Carbo’s throat was so dry that he couldn’t shout any more. His arms kept moving of their own volition — punch, thrust, punch, thrust — but he began to feel as if he were no longer within his body. Deep inside his head, a voice was screaming at him to come back to reality or he’d end up dead, but it was more than Carbo could do to obey.

To his surprise, the legionary’s gaze shot to his left. A gasp of dismay, the briefest moment of hesitation. Carbo didn’t know what had caused the distraction, but he took his chance, ramming his gladius into the soldier’s open mouth so hard that the blade ran out of the back of his neck. Gouts of blood and pieces of broken tooth flew into the air. Making a terrible choking noise, the legionary dropped out of sight. Carbo glanced first to his left. Zeuxis was still there. Beyond him, so too was Marcion. A look to his right then. Creeping exultation filled him. The centurion was down, screaming. They had broken through another rank.

A stifled gasp by his side doused his joy like a lamp that is suddenly snuffed out. His head turned. Wincing, Spartacus met his gaze. Blood was running from a cut on his forehead into his eyes. ‘The bastard got me, Carbo.’

‘That’s only a flesh wound!’

‘Not that. In my sword arm.’

Time stood still. Carbo wanted to weep, but he had no tears. ‘Can you fight?’

‘For a while.’

A shout to his front dragged Carbo’s attention back to the fight. This time, an optio was coming for him. I’ll kill you too, cocksucker! Then he saw the fresh legionaries piling in behind the back ranks, and his heart sank. There were now at least eight rows of men between them and Crassus. Even if Spartacus had been uninjured, they might not have been able to reach him. As it was, they had no chance. He met the optio’s shield with a fierce drive of his own. To Spartacus, ‘We’ve got to pull back!’

‘Never! We can still kill that son of a bitch Crassus!’

Carbo parried a gladius thrust by raising his scutum. In return, he lunged forward with his blade; withdrawing, he looked again. Crassus now looked as far away as the moon. It was asking the impossible even to try. He wasn’t going to leave Spartacus, though. Never. A strange madness took him. ‘All right then! CRASSUS! CRASSUS!’ He saw the ornate helmet turn; saw the arrogant expression he’d seen in Rome. Hatred twisted his guts. ‘We’re coming for you, Crassus!’ It gave Carbo the most intense satisfaction to see a flicker of fear pass across the general’s face.

Punch. The optio’s shield boss smacked into him. Carbo was driven back a step; he fought not to fall over.

‘Think you can kill our general?’ roared the optio. ‘You’ve got to get through me first.’

Bellowing with rage, Carbo went on the attack. His speed caught the officer by surprise, and he managed to slice open the Roman’s cheek, a minor but painful injury. Encouraged, Carbo pressed forward.

‘You’re crazy,’ spat the optio. ‘Don’t you know when you’re beaten?’

‘Piss off!’

‘Take a look around you, fool! You’re almost alone.’

The back of Carbo’s throat filled with acid. The optio pulled back a step, as if to invite him to check the veracity of his words. At first glance, all seemed well. Taxacis was still on Spartacus’ far side. Carbo could see other soldiers beyond. Then his head turned to the left. Horror filled him. Zeuxis was still on his feet, but the deep gash on his neck told its own brutal story. Marcion was there, ducking to avoid the thrusts of a bearded legionary, but that was it. He twisted his neck further. No, please, no. Perhaps forty or fifty men were still behind them. The rest were backing away, some slowly, fighting the Romans who were charging forward, but the majority had turned to run. Shields and swords already littered the ground. Despair took Carbo. The dream was over.

‘Convinced?’ The optio swept forward, lunging with his gladius.

Carbo spun back, raised his guard too late.

With incredible speed, Spartacus’ sica came scything around from the right. It took the optio in the neck, removing his head with ease. Carbo had never seen blood fountain so high in the air. It rose in a thick jet to eye height as the head, helmet and all, spun gracefully to one side. The optio’s body took another step forward before it crumpled, twitching, to the ground. The nearest legionaries pulled back in instinctive horror, granting the pair momentary respite.

Even injured, he’s still more skilful than me, thought Carbo in amazement.

‘Help me take off my helmet.’

He didn’t understand. ‘Eh?’

‘Do as I ask!’

Carbo shoved his gladius under his left armpit, then leaned over and fiddled with the chinstrap. After a moment, it came undone. Spartacus ripped off the helmet and flung it to the ground.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Go. Leave. Get away. It’s over.’ There was a touch of grey to Spartacus’ face now, but his voice was still commanding.

With sickening insight, Carbo understood. He threw it away so he can’t be recognised after he’s been killed. ‘I’m staying right here!’

‘Find Ariadne. Protect her and the baby. Get them away from here with Atheas, before the madness begins.’

‘What about you?’

A harsh laugh. ‘I’m going nowhere. The Rider is waiting for me.’

‘And me!’ Taxacis had never sounded fiercer.

Carbo’s mind raced as it had never done. He knew the chaos that descended on battlefields when one side began to run away. That was when most casualties were suffered. Panicking men without weapons made the easiest targets. Apart from women and babies, that was. Even with Aventianus and the Scythian to hand, they would have little chance of survival. He stared at Spartacus, torn between his need to stay loyal and the desire to honour his leader’s request. ‘I-’

‘Please. I ask you as a friend.’ Spartacus’ eyes held his like a vice.

Throat closed with emotion, Carbo nodded.

‘Go, or it will be too late!’ Spartacus pushed at him weakly with his shield.

Carbo obeyed, stumbling away like a drunk man. The tears that had not come before flowed at last, half blinded his vision. He wiped them away savagely, aware that if he wasn’t careful, he would trip over a body. Around him, soldiers were shouting, crying, turning to flee. The sense of panic was thick enough to cut with a knife. At times like this, men lost all reason. If he went down, he’d be trampled into the bloody earth. Carbo didn’t care about himself, but he had to save Ariadne and Maron. He’d given his word.

Gripping his sword and shield tightly, Carbo began to run. With every step, shame cut at him like butcher’s knives. He had abandoned Spartacus, who had saved his life so many times. Left him to his death.

Carbo did not look back.