‘Of course.’ Carbo wondered why his leader was being so foolhardy, but he didn’t say so. Instead he returned his narrow-headed arrow to his quiver and pulled out a barbed shaft.
‘Fine,’ said Navio with a crooked smile and did the same.
‘W-what are you going to do?’ Arnax’s voice was quavering.
‘Slip down to the edge of the trees and see what’s going on.’ Spartacus pointed a finger at the ground. ‘You’re going to stay here, where it’s safe.’
‘But-’
‘But nothing. You’re too young to fight, yet the Romans — if that’s who the riders are — would cut you down in the blink of an eye.’
‘You’re to do as Spartacus says,’ ordered Carbo loudly, trying to calm his own nerves. ‘You can hide easily here, and see what happens. If the worst comes to the worst, return to the camp. Can you retrace your steps to find it?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. When you get there, find Pulcher or Egbeo and tell them what happened,’ Spartacus directed.
‘Pulcher. Egbeo. Yes.’
‘If I have been killed, they are to lead the army.’ Or however many of the men will follow them rather than Castus or Gannicus, he thought cynically. ‘Atheas and Taxacis are to look after Ariadne. Let’s go.’ Taking his spear from Arnax, Spartacus trotted off with Navio on his heels.
Carbo paused long enough to clap the boy on the arm. What had he got Arnax into? he wondered. He glanced at the dust cloud, which had grown larger. Now he could see the shapes of individual riders, at least fifteen of them. What the hell was he getting himself into? His pulse raced as he began to descend the slope.
Reaching the bottom first, Spartacus moved at once along the edge of the trees, searching for the best spot to observe what was going on. He was careful to keep far enough back to prevent his being seen. He soon spotted the fugitives. They were definitely slaves, he decided. All three were thin, barefoot and dressed in ragged tunics. The men had almost reached the shelter of the woods, but they looked more terrified than ever. That was because the front riders — three Roman cavalrymen in mail shirts and bronze helmets, carrying long, slashing swords — were nearly upon them. Behind thundered many more.
‘Quickly!’ he hissed at Carbo and Navio. Darting to the shelter of a holm oak at the very limit of the trees, he dropped his spear and stabbed a row of shafts into the earth in front of him. Nocking an arrow to the string, Spartacus drew a bead on the first rider, an unshaven man with long hair. He glanced to either side. A few steps away, Carbo and Navio were also ready. ‘How far?’ he muttered.
‘Eighty to a hundred paces, give or take,’ replied Carbo. Navio growled in agreement.
Spartacus pulled back to full draw. ‘On my count. One. Two. Three!’
Their arrows shot through the air. Two punched the first rider off his horse’s back, and Spartacus swore under his breath. He should have named his target. The last shaft, Carbo’s, struck a man behind the leader straight through the throat. He was dead before he even hit the ground. The men’s companions roared with anger, but they did not slow down. Leaning forward across his mount’s neck, one swung down with all his might at the last of the three fugitives. An excruciating scream shredded the air. A sheet of blood sprayed from the man’s back, and he fell to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
‘In here! In here!’ shouted Spartacus. He took aim and let another arrow fly. ‘Loose as fast as you can,’ he roared. ‘We have to make the scumbags think that there are plenty of us.’
Hiss! Hiss! Hiss! The trio released shafts as fast as they could.
Two more horsemen went down. A steed that had been struck in the chest reared up in agony, unseating its rider. The man immediately behind could not react fast enough, and with a massive thump, the horses collided. Carbo’s delight at this faded as a yelling cavalryman closed in on the second fugitive, delivering an almighty blow to his right side. The slave stumbled and cried out, but incredibly he kept running. Carbo took a little satisfaction as his next arrow took the Roman rider in the groin, below the bottom of his mail shirt. Hiss! Hiss! Two more shafts scudded out, striking another pair of riders.
The wounded slave’s gaze scanned the trees. He’d seen their arrows. He shouted something at his companion, and they changed direction slightly, aiming for where Spartacus and the others were standing. Carbo stared at the man’s face, twisted with effort. ‘Paccius?’ he whispered. Disbelief filled him. It couldn’t be the Samnite who had been his family’s best slave, and who had trained him to use a sword and shield. Could it? Then the man staggered and almost fell, and one of the nearest Romans whooped with triumph. Before Carbo knew what he was doing, he was sprinting out of the cover of the trees. Into the open.
‘What are you doing, you fool?’ Spartacus yelled.
‘Come back!’ Navio roared. ‘You’ll be killed.’
The taste of Carbo’s fear was acid in his throat, but he kept running. He nocked an arrow to his string. ‘I’m coming, Paccius. Hold on!’
A cavalryman closed in on the injured fugitive and Carbo swore. There was no way that he could loose accurately as he ran. Zip! Something flashed past him, striking the Roman in the chest. The shaft punched through his mail shirt, throwing him backwards off his mount. Another arrow shot by, hitting a horse and causing it to stumble. Its rider did well not to be unseated, but he was still out of the fight. Carbo felt a surge of gratitude towards Spartacus and Navio.
The first slave was now only twenty paces or so away. His mouth gaped open with the impossible effort of trying to outrun horses.
‘We’ve got to help your friend,’ Carbo yelled, gesturing madly. ‘Go back and help him.’
The slave looked at him as if he were mad, but he obeyed.
Things were not good. The Romans had split up. Three were coming at him from the left, and four from the right. The remainder were aiming for the injured slave and his comrade. Carbo felt nauseous. What had he done? There was no way that he could release enough arrows to kill, or even injure, all his opponents. Even if he took down a few of them, the rest would slice him up with ease. I’m a dead man. His conscience spat back at once. At least you tried to save Paccius.
That was when the wounded slave looked straight at him. Carbo realised with horror that while he bore more than a passing resemblance to the Samnite, he was a different man. I’m going to die for nothing. Carbo sucked in a ragged breath. He prepared to sell his life dearly. The cavalrymen on the left were nearest. He tugged out an arrow, put it to the string and loosed in one smooth movement. Instantly, a horse was riderless. His next shot missed, however, and his third glanced off a rider’s helmet. Nonetheless, the Romans’ charge checked a little. The injured man, helped by his companion, limped past Carbo towards the trees. He risked a glance to his right, and his gorge rose. Four riders were thundering down on him. Maybe the slaves will reach cover before I’m dead. It was a faint hope, but it was all Carbo had as he aimed at the lead horse.
Hiss! Hiss!
Two arrows flew by him. The front rider was struck in the leg, and he pulled up, screaming blue murder. The other shaft missed. Nonetheless, Carbo’s spirits rallied. He let fly, hitting the first Roman himself, this time in the arm.
‘You fucking idiot!’ Spartacus came hammering in on his right side, bow at the ready. ‘If you want to live, run! In twenty paces, stop, turn and shoot one shaft. Then run and do the same again.’
Filled with awe, and the screaming hope that he might survive, Carbo obeyed. Ten paces on, he saw Navio. The Roman’s face was twisted into a terrible rictus of concentration. He had arrows gripped in the same fist that held his bow, and was drawing and loosing with incredible speed. ‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’
The next few moments passed by in a blur. Carbo ran and shot, shot and ran. He had no time to see if any of his arrows hit their targets. All he knew was that there were still enemies attacking them and that he was nearest cover, while Spartacus and Navio were the most exposed. When he’d reached the relative safety of the tree line, he looked around. Dismay tore at him. ‘Spartacus, look out!’
Fifty paces out, Spartacus knew that he’d made a grave mistake in deciding to try and rescue Carbo. It had been an unconscious choice, spurred partly by his regard for the young Roman and partly by the devilment that had made him intervene against the horsemen in the first place. A small part of him wanted to prove that he was even braver than Carbo. But now, with an enemy charging in from both left and right, he knew that the Rider had deserted him at last. Good cavalrymen worked in unison, and he did not have time to release two arrows. By the time he’d loosed at one, the other would be cutting him in half. Navio was busy with his own opponent, and Carbo’s aim left something to be desired.
This is not the way I wanted to die.
But he wouldn’t go without a struggle. He made an immediate decision which rider to shoot. The nearest one. Closing his ears to the hammering of hooves and the Romans’ war cries, Spartacus took aim at the rider, who was less than fifteen paces away. At this range, he could not miss. He didn’t even watch the arrow fly. The instant it left the string, he let go of his bow, and flung himself to the ground. The blade that would have decapitated him scythed overhead. There was a shouted curse, and Spartacus rolled to his right, away from where he thought his enemy’s horse would go. He ripped free his sica. With it gripped in his hand, he felt a fraction better.
‘Die, you whoreson!’
Spartacus flung his arm up and met the downward swing of the Roman’s long sword. Sparks flew as the two lengths of iron scraped off each other. He slid away again, desperate to get to his feet. The rider guided his horse back a step and, leaning over, drove the point of his weapon at Spartacus’ stomach. With a lunge to the side, Spartacus prevented it skewering him to the ground. As it was, it shredded the side of his tunic and cut a flesh wound in his side. Pain flared, and he groaned. Great Rider, help me! His opponent’s comrades would soon be on them.
‘Hades is waiting for you!’ cried the Roman.
With the strength of sheer desperation, Spartacus came up on to his knees. He met another blow with a savage overhand parry that caught the rider off guard. Before the man could bring down his blade again, Spartacus leaped up and grabbed his nearest foot with his left hand. With a great heave, he wrenched the Roman’s leg upwards, unbalancing him. Arms flailing at the air, the man toppled off the other side of his horse.
Spartacus had no chance to savour this tiny victory. Three more riders had nearly reached him. It was pointless running. The trees were still too far. ‘Gently,’ he muttered, gripping the horse’s mane with one hand and balancing his right fist and sica on its haunches. He threw himself up on its back just in time to see the closest cavalryman take an arrow in the belly. That left two men who were about forty paces from him. Spartacus tensed as they rode forward, but to his delight, another shaft almost struck one of their horses. Cursing, they reined in.
Spartacus didn’t wait to see what happened next. He aimed a hefty kick at the Roman he’d unhorsed, sending him sprawling to the dirt again. Then he dragged his steed’s head around and, drumming his heels into its sides, aimed it at the trees. Navio gave him a fierce grin as he rode up. ‘Grip the mane,’ Spartacus ordered.
Navio had never run with a horse before, but he knew of the Iberian skirmishers who’d fought for Hannibal. They often went into battle in such a manner. Coming in close, he grabbed a handful of the thick hair and as the beast trotted off, let its momentum give him extra speed.
As they reached the tree line unharmed, Carbo loosed an arrow. He shouted with pleasure as it sank into a horse’s rear. The rider lost his seat as his steed bucked and kicked with the pain of it.
Spartacus threw himself to the ground. ‘Quick! Get under cover.’
Throwing glances over their shoulders, they ran into the trees. The horse trotted off aimlessly.
‘Stop. Ready an arrow.’
Chests heaving, they stared out at the Romans, of whom five or so remained uninjured. The cavalrymen made no attempt to dismount or to enter the woods.
‘If they come in here, they’ll lose all their superiority. The whoresons have had enough!’ said Spartacus with savage delight. He was still alive! Never had he survived such insane odds.
Carbo and Navio began howling like wolves. Was there anything Spartacus couldn’t do? Following his example, they loosed more shafts until the horsemen had retreated further. ‘Keep an eye on them,’ Spartacus ordered Navio. ‘Best check on the men whom we nearly died for, eh?’ he barked at Carbo. They trotted to the two fugitives, who were a little further under the canopy. The man who’d been injured was lying on his back, moaning.
Carbo winced as he drew near. The Roman’s sword had sliced in above the hipbone, opening his abdomen like a ripe fruit. Blood was oozing, pouring, jetting from the scarlet-lipped edges of the massive wound. Numerous loops of bowel were exposed. Everything was coated in a layer of grit and dirt from where the man had rolled on the ground. Carbo’s nostrils twisted in distaste. ‘I can smell shit.’
‘Me too,’ came Spartacus’ grim reply.
That was it, thought Carbo bleakly. Even if he lived until they got him back to the camp, even if the surgeons could close the horrific cut, the man would die. No one survived when his guts had been pierced. No one.
They stooped over the third fugitive, who was trying to comfort his companion. ‘You made it, Kineas. Well done.’
Kineas groaned. ‘Water.’
‘Here.’ Spartacus pulled the stopper from his leather carrier and handed it over.
Kineas’ comrade helped him to take a tiny mouthful. Rather than swallow the water, he inhaled it, which sent him into a paroxysm of coughing that set off a fresh wave of bleeding from his wound.
‘What are they doing?’ Spartacus called.
‘Still sitting on their horses, waiting,’ shouted Navio.
The hairs on Spartacus’ neck prickled. ‘Go back and see what’s happening. I want no more stupid risks today,’ he said to Carbo. He knelt down. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Publipor,’ replied the third man, who was perhaps thirty. His thin face was pinched by hunger and suffering, and now sorrow.
‘We can do nothing for your friend. He’s dying,’ whispered Spartacus.
‘I know,’ said Publipor bitterly.
Carbo reached Navio, who was watching the group of horsemen. They had withdrawn perhaps a hundred paces, beyond accurate bow range. ‘I don’t like it,’ said Navio. ‘Why haven’t they either dismounted and come in here after us, or just pissed off? There could be other troops in the area.’
Carbo squinted into the dust cloud that yet hung in the air behind the Romans. He could see nothing. Navio was right, however. Something didn’t feel right. ‘Spartacus?’
‘What?’
‘They look as if they’re expecting reinforcements.’
Spartacus caught the tone of Carbo’s voice. ‘Time to go.’
Kineas’ eyes opened. For a moment, they wandered, unfocused, before settling on Publipor. His forehead creased. ‘Why-?’
‘Easy,’ murmured Publipor. ‘Don’t try to talk.’
Kineas finally took in Spartacus. His frown deepened, and he pointed a finger at Publipor. ‘He-’ A fresh bout of coughing took him. More blood gouted from his wound and what colour was left in his hollow cheeks vanished. He sagged down on the earth and his eyelids fluttered closed.
Publipor let out a deep sigh.
‘It’s hard when a comrade dies,’ said Spartacus quietly. I have seen it too many times.
Publipor’s lips twisted with an unreadable emotion.
‘We have to leave him.’
Kineas’ eyes jerked open and he tried to sit up. ‘I should never have-’
The effort was too much for him, and he slumped back down on to the crimson-soaked ground. He drew one more shuddering breath, and let it out with a loud rattle. Publipor bent over him, catching the last gasp. Then he gently closed Kineas’ staring eyes.
Spartacus only let him grieve for a heartbeat. ‘We must go.’
Publipor got to his feet and eyed them awkwardly. ‘I do not like to ask anyone for money, but I have none. Kineas needs a coin for the ferryman.’
Spartacus fumbled in the little purse that hung around his neck and produced a denarius. ‘Here.’
Publipor accepted it with mumbled thanks. He bent, opened Kineas’ mouth and slipped the coin on to his tongue. ‘Rest in peace,’ he said heavily.
Carbo and Navio came trotting in. ‘There’s another dust cloud coming,’ said Carbo.
‘Is that so?’ snapped Spartacus.
Carbo didn’t see the fist that cracked into the side of his head. Stars burst across his vision, and he dropped to the ground. A kick in the belly made him retch. Dazed and nauseous, he looked up at Spartacus.
‘What in the name of all the gods were you thinking? Did you want to die?’
Navio glowered at him, adding to the pressure.
Carbo spat out a gob of phlegm. ‘No.’
‘What then?’ Spartacus’ voice cracked like a whip.
‘I–I thought one of the men was a slave belonging to my family. A man who was dear to me. I couldn’t stand by and watch him be butchered like a pig.’
‘Were you right? Was it he?’
‘No,’ replied Carbo miserably.
‘Even if you had been correct, charging out like that was the wrong decision to make. You answer to me! Unless I tell you, you do not run off like a fucking maniac trying to commit suicide.’ Another mighty kick was delivered.
Carbo rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself. No more blows landed.
‘Look at me!’
He dragged his eyes up to meet Spartacus’ flinty stare.
‘If you ever do such a damn stupid thing again,’ and he bent over, ramming a forefinger into Carbo’s chest for emphasis, ‘I will shoot you in the back myself. I only risk my life for a soldier once. Do. You. Understand?’
Carbo had never seen Spartacus so angry. ‘Yes.’
‘LOUDER!’
‘YES!’
Without another word, Spartacus led the way up the slope.
Carbo stumbled to his feet. Navio didn’t help him, and he knew that if he couldn’t keep up, they would leave him behind. I deserve no less, he thought miserably. His stupidity had nearly got them all killed. He was fortunate that Spartacus hadn’t slain him.
Spartacus’ pace was brutal but no one complained. Apart from picking up Arnax, he didn’t stop running until they had gone a couple of miles. Even then, it was but a brief pause to listen for sounds of pursuit. I have tested the Rider’s regard for me enough for one day. He only let up when the army’s tents came into view.
Publipor’s jaw dropped at the sight. ‘You must be some of Spartacus’ men.’
Carbo was able to raise a grin at that. ‘You’re not far off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re looking at the man himself.’ He indicated his leader.
‘Y-you are Spartacus?’
‘I am.’
‘The gods be praised!’ Publipor clutched at Spartacus’ hands like a supplicant to a king. ‘I owe you and your men my life. Thank you.’
‘It’s Carbo you should be grateful to.’ Spartacus’ smile did not reach his eyes.
Publipor’s attention moved to Carbo. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘Join our army. Swear allegiance to Spartacus,’ replied Carbo awkwardly. He knew that this gesture would not restore him to the Thracian’s favour, but he wanted to show that he was still loyal.
‘Of course. That is all I want to do.’
‘You were trying to reach my army?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Yes. We had been on the run for four days.’
‘You did well to evade the riders for that long.’
Publipor shuddered. ‘No, they only happened upon our trail today, about three miles back. We hid as best we could, but they kept finding our tracks. When they flushed us out, the woods were the best cover we could see. We had no chance, but then the gods intervened to bring you here with your men.’ Awe filled his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that mad charge that you did to save me and Kineas.’
‘The gods were definitely on hand,’ agreed Spartacus. Acting in combat as I did today wouldn’t just get me killed. It would get scores of men slain, perhaps even lose the battle. I am eternally in your debt, Great Rider. I will not make the same mistake again. ‘You want to become a soldier?’
‘Yes.’ He bobbed his head. ‘I’d be honoured to serve you.’
‘Good. Have you come far?’
‘I detect a southern accent in your words,’ added Carbo.
‘You do.’ Publipor sounded surprised. ‘I’m from Apulia.’
‘You’ve travelled as far as we have, or further,’ said Spartacus. ‘Did your master bring you up here?’
‘No. I was with Publius, my master, on business when I heard news of Crixus’ army in the area. I ran away and joined them, to be free. That’s where I met Kineas and the other man. Things went well for a while, until Gellius arrived.’
‘By the Rider! You were at Mount Garganus?’
‘Yes.’
‘No other survivors have reached us thus far. I’m glad to have you.’ Spartacus gripped Publipor’s shoulder, which elicited a small smile. ‘It must have been a black day.’
Publipor’s eyes clouded over again. ‘It was terrible.’
‘But you survived. You did not run?’
‘No,’ replied Publipor steadily. ‘I did not run. At least not until Crixus had been killed, and it was clear that all was lost.’
‘I want to hear the full story,’ Spartacus announced. ‘But not here.’
He was keen to understand how, despite his superior numbers, Crixus had lost the battle. Maybe Gellius had outmanoeuvred him? Just because Spartacus’ own forces had had the better of him didn’t mean that the consul had not directed his forces skilfully. Roman generals were famous for their resourcefulness. I must be careful with Longinus. The smallest error and we could lose tomorrow. Even this close to complete freedom, we could fail.
The thrill of saving Publipor, of surviving when he shouldn’t have, vanished.
Spartacus began brooding again about the Alps. He had been trying to avoid the question, although it swirled around in the back of his mind like a repetitive bad dream. Going on the hunt had been a way to forget his troubles, albeit briefly. Don’t try to deny it, he thought. When it comes down to it, it’s not certain if the army will follow me out of Italy. And if they won’t leave, I’m not sure I want to either.
The answer will come to me. The Rider will show me the way.
For once, his staple prayer rang very hollow.
Some days later…
Rome
Crassus pursed his lips in disapproval as Longinus’ lictores filed through the Curia’s massive bronze doors. ‘The man has some nerve allowing them to precede him in here,’ he hissed.
A nearby senator heard. ‘As a proconsul, Longinus is entitled to eleven bodyguards.’
‘I’m fully aware of how many lictores a proconsul merits,’ Crassus shot back. ‘My point is that he is showing an indecent amount of cheek to show up in this fashion. If the stories are to be believed, Longinus didn’t just lose to Spartacus, he was thrashed! His legions were almost wiped out, losing yet more eagles in the process, and the man was fortunate to escape with his life. It would be more appropriate if Longinus came in with no pomp, no ceremony. Humbly, seeking our forgiveness for his failures.’
The senator considered replying, but Crassus’ fury made him think better of it. He turned his back.
‘It is unbecoming that he’s making such an entrance,’ commented Caesar, who was standing close by.
Crassus smiled. Thus far, he was pleased with his decision to lend Caesar the three million denarii. His new ally had brought scores of the younger senators into his camp, and was being proactive in recruiting more. His attention returned to the lictores. His face went a shade of purple. ‘The arrogant bastard hasn’t even had them remove the axes from their fasces!’
His words sent a ripple of shock through the six hundred senators. Within Rome’s sacred boundary, only a dictator’s lictores were allowed to carry the axes in the fasces that signified the right to execute wrongdoers. To break this rule was sacrilege of the most serious kind.
‘A bad time to seek out such bad luck,’ said Caesar loudly.
Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Clodianus and Lucius Gellius, the two consuls, strained their ears to hear the scandalised whispers, but their rosewood chairs at the end of the rectangular room were placed too far from their senatorial colleagues.
Longinus’ lead lictor rapped his fasces on the marble floor.
A disapproving silence fell.
‘I announce the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, Gaius Cassius Longinus.’
‘Savour your position, because you won’t be in it for much longer,’ said Crassus, making no effort to be quiet.
His supporters, who now numbered more than 150, tittered.
‘Silence!’ said the lictor, but his bark lacked its customary authority.
Crassus’ pleasure grew. He didn’t yet have enough senators to command a majority, but Longinus’ defeat would only lend fuel to his fire and, by all the gods, he would make the most of this situation. Since the news of Spartacus’ latest victory had reached Rome a day and a half before, Crassus had spent every waking moment considering what he would say.
A couple more derogatory comments were made about Longinus. Crassus was pleased to note that they came from the other side of the floor, traditionally the area where Pompey’s faction stood. He heard the words ‘A disgrace to his office’ and ‘Another stain to the Republic’s honour’ and exulted. I will gain control of the legions — I know it, he thought. Be careful, warned his cautious side. Let Longinus place his own head on the block.
Lentulus, who was an unremarkable-looking man with receding brown hair, spoke to his chief lictor, who rapped out an order. At once his fellows hammered their fasces off the floor.
A hush fell. When the consuls — even those who had been defeated — demanded silence, they got it.
‘Let the proconsul approach,’ cried Lentulus’ lictor.
The bodyguards’ formation parted, and Longinus stepped smartly forward. He was a man of medium height and build, with a hard-bitten look. As a general who had been on campaign, he was wearing a red tunic. A sash of the same colour was tied around the lower part of his gleaming bronze cuirass. Layered linen pteryges covered his groin, and he wore a magnificent crested helmet. Even his calf-high boots were polished. He very much looked the part, and under normal circumstances, his appearance would have garnered approving comments from the senators. Not so today, Crassus observed with delight. In a clear sign that his peers were unhappy with his conduct, Longinus walked the length of the Curia in complete silence. He halted at the low dais upon which the two consuls sat, and saluted.
‘Proconsul,’ said Lentulus.
Gellius inclined his head. ‘You have returned.’
‘Yes, consuls,’ replied Longinus stiffly. ‘I have come to make my report about recent events in the north.’
Crassus held in his explosive reaction. He mustn’t move too soon.
Someone else did it for him. ‘“Recent events”?’ cried a senator off to his right. ‘Is that what you call your humiliation by a rabble of slaves?’
A loud growl of agreement met these words, and Longinus scowled.
‘Order! I will have order!’ shouted Lentulus. Twin spots of scarlet marked his cheeks. Crassus revelled in the consul’s anger. Lentulus had had precisely the same experience at Spartacus’ hands just a short time prior. The taunt could as well have been aimed at him or Gellius as Longinus, and there was nothing that Lentulus could do to deny it.
A resentful silence fell once more.
‘Why are your lictores’ fasces still decorated with axes, Longinus?’ Caesar shouted. ‘Are you trying to anger the gods even further than they already are?’
Longinus was stunned by the intervention of the Pontifex Maximus. ‘I-’
Lentulus’ eyes bulged as he took in the lictores standing by the entrance. He exchanged a look of outrage with Gellius. ‘What is the meaning of this, proconsul?’
‘It was an oversight, nothing more. We had been riding all night to get here. Of course I did not wish to upset the gods!’ He called to his lictores: ‘Remove the axes at once! Sacrifices of atonement are to be made at the major temples. See that it is done!’ His bodyguards hurried from the building, and Longinus regarded the consuls again. ‘I will perform my own penitence to the gods as soon as I may,’ he said humbly. ‘It will never happen again.’
‘Damn right it won’t,’ snapped Crassus.
Other comments — angry and concerned — filled the air.
‘Let us have your report,’ ordered Gellius.
‘As every senator here knows, I have command of two legions. The slave Spartacus leads in excess of fifty thousand men. Knowing that these men had come fresh from their victories’ — Longinus cleared his throat while pointedly ignoring the consuls — ‘over other Roman forces, I decided that my best option was to mount a surprise attack on his army as it marched towards the Alps. To this end, I located a suitable position a short distance from the road near Mutina. Upwards of thirty ballistae were built and transported there in secret. My plan was for the catapults to rain down an intense bombardment on the unsuspecting slaves, creating havoc, before my legions advanced on them from the north.’
‘Something tells me that it didn’t quite happen that way,’ said Crassus quietly.
Beside him, Caesar’s lips twitched.
‘A good plan,’ admitted Gellius. ‘What went wrong?’
‘Somehow Spartacus got wind of what I was up to. A strong force of slaves attacked the soldiers guarding the ballistae at night. They caught my men off guard. The cunning dogs were armed with axes, and they brought barrels of oil. The catapults that weren’t incinerated were chopped into kindling.’ Longinus sighed. ‘Spartacus’ army marched north the following morning. I could not just let the whoreson pass by Mutina without a fight, so I led my men out and confronted him.’
A few senators made sympathetic noises. ‘He doesn’t lack courage,’ said one.
Crassus was pleased to note, however, that the faces he could see were still registering disapproval.
‘Go on,’ directed Lentulus.
‘I had my legions deploy in the classic triplex acies formation. We had trees on our left, which prevented any use of cavalry, so I deployed all of my horse on my right. The enemy came to meet us in much the same fashion. Spartacus has learned to fight as we Romans do. His troops are, for the most part, well armed and well disciplined.’
Shocked cries rang out.
I told you months ago that Spartacus was not to be underestimated, thought Crassus. But you didn’t listen. Secretly, he had been amazed by the degree of the Thracian’s successes, but he would not admit that to a soul.
Longinus waited until there was silence again. ‘His horsemen have been well trained too. They outnumbered my six hundred Gauls by at least five to one. As the armies engaged, my cavalry was driven back, allowing the enemy riders to sweep around to my legions’ rear. After that, the fighting grew very heavy. Despite this, my soldiers held their ground for a long time. In the end, however, the fierce attacks from both front and behind were too much.’ Longinus paused to compose himself. ‘My men broke and ran.’
‘Your eagles?’ asked Gellius.
A shadow passed across Longinus’ face. ‘Lost.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes. I stayed until the bitter end, trying to retrieve one. I would have died on the field if it hadn’t been for one of my centurions, who, with his men, forcibly removed me. I wish that I had been slain, but it is also my duty to report my failings to the Senate. This I have done. I now await the sentence of my peers — whatever that may be.’ Longinus bowed his head.
Despite himself, Crassus was impressed by the proconsul’s performance. He is courageous, both in battle and here on the treacherous ground that is the Senate. Crassus soon hardened his heart. He is just another general who failed. His failure will gain me more support. Perhaps today I can make my move. He glanced around the room and was annoyed to see that Longinus’ words appeared to have aroused sympathy in a good number of senators.
The consuls conferred with each other before Lentulus raised a hand for quiet. ‘Our thanks for doing your duty by reporting what happened. While the news of your defeat and the loss of your eagles is calamitous, it is not without precedent.’ He glanced at Gellius. ‘My colleague and I have both failed against Spartacus.’
‘Damn right you have,’ shouted Crassus. ‘Along with all the fools that you sent before that. You bring shame on the Republic!’ His heart raced in the brief pause that followed. Had he gone too far?
‘Shame! Shame on you both!’ cried Caesar.
‘Shame!’ yelled another senator.
The call took on a life of its own, growing in size and volume until the very walls of the Curia rang with it. ‘Shame! Shame! Shame!’
Crassus’ glee knew no bounds. The news of their armies’ previous defeats had produced nothing like this level of discontent. It would surely provide him with more supporters.
The uproar took some time to subside. When it did, Longinus was still in his position before the consuls, straight-backed, head bent in composed acceptance of his fate.
Perhaps because he had defeated Crixus, thereby retaining some honour, Gellius was the first to speak. ‘Longinus must be made to pay for his failure. What punishment would you hand down, senators of Rome?’
A pregnant silence fell.
Crassus was surprised to find himself undecided. Others who had failed, among them the miserable Varinius, had been ordered to commit suicide, although naturally enough, the two consuls had escaped such sentences. Yet neither of them were men of Longinus’ stature. Here was a man from an illustrious family, who had served the Republic as master of the state mint, praetor and, only the previous year, as consul. Why should he have to suffer the ultimate punishment — death — when his inferiors did not? Was exile a better alternative? Crassus regarded Longinus. He’s an able man. It would be pointless to have him fall on his sword. ‘After he has made amends with the gods, let him be stripped of his office, and pay a large fine to the treasury.’
A short pause.
‘I think that would be a fitting punishment,’ said Caesar loudly.
‘Agreed,’ called one of Crassus’ supporters.
Loud murmurs of concurrence rose from his faction. No one else spoke.
Crassus seized the moment. ‘There’s no need for Longinus to die. Not when others who’ve failed also have escaped such a fate.’
‘Too true!’ Caesar’s tone was acid.
Crassus smiled beatifically at the consuls’ futile glares. This is only the start, you fools.
‘Longinus must stand down,’ cried a senator who followed Pompey.
‘Stand down! Stand down! Stand down!’ went the chant.
Irritated, Gellius waved his hand. ‘All right. It seems, Longinus, that your fellows wish you to resign as proconsul. And to pay a fine?’ He glanced out over the floor.
‘YES!’
‘You are to pay a fine to the state treasury of…’ He conferred with Lentulus. ‘… five hundred thousand denarii.’
‘Don’t forget his penance before the gods,’ said a voice.
Longinus lifted his head. ‘It will be the first thing I do when I leave the Curia. I thank my fellow senators for their clemency. I will continue to serve the Republic in every way that I can.’ Undoing the red belt that signified his status as a general, he let it fall at the consuls’ feet. He saluted them, and then, without looking to either side, walked proudly from the room.
An audible sigh rose up from the gathered politicians.
‘And so to the real issue of the day,’ whispered Crassus to Caesar.
‘What to do about Spartacus.’
‘Precisely. The consuls must also be made to pay for Longinus’ failure. The poor choices that he made reflect upon them as leaders of the Republic.’
‘Do you think that this is the time to make our move?’
Our move, thought Crassus with some satisfaction. Caesar is definitely with me. He glanced around, trying to gauge the mood. ‘I’m not sure. Let’s hound them for a little bit and see what happens.’
Fasces clattered on the floor, interrupting their conversation.
‘Longinus’ news may have been catastrophic, but it only firms our resolve. Rome does not take defeat lying down,’ Lentulus announced in a confident voice.
‘The slave Spartacus and his followers must be brought to bay and defeated once and for all,’ added Gellius.
‘Defeated!’ yelled a voice. ‘Rome must be victorious!’
‘Victorious! Victorious!’ shouted the senators.
The consuls gave each other a pleased look. The tide of anger against them seemed to be turning.
‘And who precisely will lead the Republic’s legions to victory?’ Crassus’ loud question cut through the clamour like a hot knife through cheese. Silence descended. He cast a scornful glance at the consuls. ‘You are the elected consuls, the most senior magistrates in the land. I honour your positions, but I am no longer inclined to support you in this war.’ He looked around, smiling at the senators’ shock. ‘Yes, this is now a war. Should we support two men who have already been convincingly beaten by Spartacus? Who have lost no fewer than four silver eagles between them? Who have made Rome the laughing stock of the Mediterranean? I say that to do so would be to imperil our very Republic.’
‘What are you suggesting, Crassus?’ bellowed Lentulus. ‘Are you wishing to seize power, as Sulla did?’
Suddenly, Crassus felt the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him. He cursed inside. Had he misjudged the senators’ mood? ‘I-’
Lentulus gave him no time to finish. ‘Didn’t you do well enough out of Sulla’s proscriptions?’
Laughter broke out at once. Crassus glared, but he had lost the initiative.
‘Are you not rich and greedy enough already? Let us not forget how you preyed like a vulture on those who fell foul of “the Butcher”. As a consequence, your riches are immense, but they are also stained with blood,’ said Lentulus loudly.
‘Any purchases that I may have made were entirely legal,’ Crassus declared. But it was too late. Everywhere he looked now, he saw revulsion on his peers’ faces. Even Caesar had moved a step away. ‘They were all legal, I say!’
‘Maybe they were,’ retorted Gellius, ‘but you didn’t see us queuing up to buy those properties!’
Utterly furious, but now powerless, Crassus bit his lip.
In a clever move, the consuls did not address the floor for a few moments. They let the senators’ outrage at Crassus dominate the mood. Then Gellius, who was the better speaker, rose from his chair. He took two steps forward, to the edge of the dais, and waited.
The hubbub abated.
‘Lentulus and I have made our mistakes, but we are still the elected consuls of Rome. Is that not true?’
A low rumble of agreement.
‘And, until recently, we have performed our duties to the satisfaction of the majority, have we not?’
‘You have,’ called out a voice.
No one said another word.
‘For all our faults, we are both possessed of Roman virtus. It is indeed a scandal that Spartacus has defeated so many of our armies. It will not happen again! Lentulus and I have brought our legions together. Reinforcements made necessary by our problems have been recruited. The remnants of Longinus’ command is to be brought south to join with ours, making a combined force of more than four legions. Auxiliaries are being sought out in Cisalpine Gaul as I speak. Word has been sent to Gaul and Iberia that we need horsemen. In a matter of six to eight weeks, we will have an army that numbers more than thirty thousand men.’
Crassus wasn’t beaten yet. ‘What if Spartacus seeks battle again before that time?’
‘We will meet him on ground of our choosing, and wipe him from the face of the earth. This I swear to Jupiter, Minerva and Mars,’ declared Gellius to loud shouts of approbation.
‘And if, as some suspect, he leaves Italy?’
‘Lentulus will remain here, to raise more legions and to safeguard the Republic. I shall track the slave rabble by land or sea with our armies. He won’t get far. When I find them, I shall destroy them completely. If by some small chance Spartacus reaches Thrace, I can unite with Lucullus’ forces there. Between us, we shall smash him into pieces. Either way, we shall have victory!’
‘Victory!’ cried the senators. ‘Victory!’
In that moment, Crassus knew that his opportunity had been lost. He wasn’t above laying one more baited trap, however. ‘Very well. You will defeat Spartacus together?’
‘We will,’ the consuls declared.
‘May Jupiter be your witness,’ said Caesar, giving them a pointed stare.
Gellius’ blood was up. ‘May he strike me down if we fail!’
Lentulus looked less than pleased with his colleague’s fervour, but he couldn’t back down either. ‘I make a vow to Jupiter Optimus Maximus that we shall succeed.’
‘Excellent,’ said Crassus with false enthusiasm. ‘The Republic will be triumphant once more!’
The unsuspecting senators were delighted. They cheered and whistled like an excited crowd watching a gladiatorial contest.
Crassus moved closer to Caesar. ‘Thank you for speaking when you did,’ he said from the side of his mouth. ‘Gellius fell into your snare without even noticing.’
Caesar inclined his head in recognition. ‘But Lentulus knows he’s been manoeuvred into a corner. He looks as if he’s swallowed a bowl of hemlock.’
‘What do I care?’ whispered Crassus. ‘If by some miracle the fools succeed, the problem of Spartacus will have been dealt with. If they fail, they will not have a leg to stand on. No general can be defeated twice and stay in office, especially when he has taken a sacred oath in front of six hundred of his fellows.’
‘It was a clever move. You turned the situation around nicely.’
Crassus demurred politely, but inside he was exultant. If anything, what had transpired was better than if he’d achieved his aims that day. The legions in Italy were shrunken, battered and demoralised. Taking charge of them and attempting to defeat Spartacus would be to risk disaster.
This way, he had all eventualities covered and now he would have time to continue planning his best course of action. One thing was certain, thought Crassus. The Republic needed more soldiers than it currently had on its home territory. Pompey had a good number of legions in Iberia. So too did Lucullus, in Pontus. If either man were recalled to defend the Republic, they would not hand over the command of their troops to anyone. They would want all the glory. The glory that should be mine. Crassus decided at once to talk to Caepio, the sole survivor of Spartacus’ munus. He would provide a strong rallying point for any legions Crassus might raise. Men would flock to serve under him.
Crassus’ mind tracked back to the time he had fought for Sulla. Many of the soldiers who had fought for the Butcher in the civil war would still be alive, tending the little plots of land that had been granted to them upon their discharge. Sulla had known well that nothing made a veteran of twenty years’ service happier than to receive exactly what he’d been promised on the day of his enlistment. Crassus thought of Pompey, and scowled. That prick is good at honouring his soldiers’ discharge, just as Sulla was. If the truth be known, he hadn’t done as well by his legionaries in the past, but fortunately there hadn’t been that many of them. Sulla’s, on the other hand, numbered in their thousands. They will remember me, the man who won the battle of the Colline Gate, the man who was Sulla’s loyal captain. A popular saying came to mind, making him smile. ‘Everyone who has a soldier’s heart remains a soldier, even if his body has grown old,’ Crassus said softly. ‘Nor will they refuse the handsome wages I offer.’
It was time to set Saenius another task. His major domo had done much already to try and recruit spies within the slave army, but the day’s developments meant that there was plenty more to be done. Raising new legions took time, and although he didn’t yet have the jurisdiction to do so, Crassus was sure that he could implement the first steps of the lengthy process. With a decent number of veterans, he would have a nucleus around which he could build an army when the time came.
Crassus knew in his bones that the consuls would soon meet Spartacus in battle. Nothing that he had seen today told him anything other than Lentulus and Gellius would lose. When they did, he would seize his chance.
We will meet again, Spartacus, thought Crassus. This time, you will learn the lesson that I should have taught you the first time we met. We Romans have no equals, and you are nothing but a savage. A talented, intelligent savage, perhaps, but a savage nonetheless. When your army has finally been ground into dust and you are choking out your last breath, you will understand that.
How I look forward to that day. I will take the credit for saving the Republic, and the masses will love me — for saving their lives and their livelihoods. That upstart Pompey can forget being the most popular man in Rome. In taverns and shops, on every street corner, the citizens will talk of no one but Crassus. My fame assured, I will be held in the same regard as men such as Sulla and Marius — for ever.