The Gladiator

Chapter X

Marcus Licinius Crassus exited the great bronze doors that framed the entrance to the Curia, the building where the Senate met, and where he had just spent the morning listening to debates. Scores upon scores of toga-clad senators were also leaving. When they saw Crassus, the vast majority were careful to move deferentially out of his way. Many smiled; most murmured a respectful greeting as well. Keeping his expression genial, Crassus returned every salutation, no matter how lowly the politician who had made it. A friendly word of recognition today can become a new friend tomorrow. As always, his efforts bore rich fruit. In the time it took Crassus to reach the Curia’s front steps, he’d received the promise of two votes in his favour in the upcoming bill on slave ownership, been offered first refusal on the purchase of a newly discovered silver mine in Iberia and had a grovelling request for more time from someone whose debt to him was due the following week. Catching sight of Pompey Magnus nearby, accompanied only by his immediate coterie of followers, Crassus permitted himself a tiny, internal gloat. You might have come back to Rome on a flying visit to bask in the Senate’s adulation over your so-called victories in Iberia, but you’re still an arrogant young pup. Watch and learn, Pompey. This is how political success is achieved.

Crassus had been irritated by Pompey from the very time that his star had begun its meteoric rise to prominence. His initial reason was simple. Crassus had had a much harder climb to the top. His ancestors might have included those who had served as censor, consul, and pontifex maximus, the highest-ranking priest in Rome, but that hadn’t stopped Crassus’ family fortunes from plummeting during the reign of first Marius, and then Cinna. Times for those who had supported Sulla were bitterly hard for several years. Not for you to lose your father and a brother in the proscriptions, thought Crassus, eyeing Pompey sourly. Not for you to flee Italy with a handful of followers and slaves, there to live in a cave for eight months, like skulking beasts. No, you somehow escaped the Marian bastards’ attentions. Yet for all the way you raised three legions when Sulla returned, and your victories in Africa since, you weren’t the man whose forces won the battle at the Colline Gate; who, with one masterstroke, restored Sulla to power. I was!

Crassus flashed a practised, false smile at Pompey, who responded similarly. Like the misery of autumn rain, both of them had to accept the other’s presence on centre stage. That didn’t mean they had to like each other but it was important to remain decorous. To appear friendly, even when the direct opposite was the truth. Such is the way of politics, thought Crassus. It’s a way of life that I was born into, Pompey Magnus, while you’re nothing but an upstart provincial. He cast a jaundiced eye at the handful of army veterans who’d been waiting for Pompey to emerge. Raucous cheering broke out when they noticed him. It stung Crassus to see it. Few ex-soldiers of his sought him out to praise him to the skies, yet it happened for Pompey all the time.

‘Look at the scumbag! For all his vaunted military credentials, Pompey has made a dog’s dinner of sorting out Sertorius in Iberia. Three damn years it’s taken him so far,’ said a high-pitched voice in his ear.

Startled, Crassus looked around. Recognising Saenius, his major domo, he relaxed. Not many people knew his mind as Saenius did. Twenty years of faithful service meant Crassus trusted the thin, effeminate Latin as no other. ‘Yes, it’s been an overly long campaign,’ he replied acidly.

‘It only looks like ending now because Perperna recently assassinated Sertorius and assumed control of the Marian forces. Everyone knows that Perperna couldn’t organise a hunting party, let alone an army. If it hadn’t been for that piece of good luck, the fool Pompey would have been in Iberia for the rest of his life,’ Saenius hissed. ‘You would’ve finished it long since.’

‘I’d like to think so,’ said Crassus modestly, before adding, ‘I should have been given the command in the first place.’

‘Of course you should.’

The discreet major domo didn’t mention the reason that the Senate had passed his master over, but Crassus brooded over it anyway. I didn’t have the standing army that Pompey had back then. The Senate could hardly deny the prick his demand to be sent to Iberia. Crassus wouldn’t admit it to a soul, not even Saenius, but when the next opportunity for serious military advancement presented itself, he needed to seize it. To be utterly ruthless.

Romans liked smooth politicians, who were friends to all. They honoured those who kept an open house, who feasted the people, and who donated a tenth of all they had to Hercules. Crassus knew that he fitted the bill well for all of those qualities, but he had not yet been the recipient, as Pompey had, of the greatest accolade that Rome could award to one of its citizens.

A triumph.

And the public adoration that, like the spring after winter, inevitably followed.

Crassus couldn’t help but feel jealous as he watched the veterans proudly salute Pompey, who responded with gracious nods. Ordering Saenius to follow, he prepared to stalk off into the Forum.

It was then that a man on a lathered horse came clattering across the cobblestones. Indignant cries rose into the air as people scattered to avoid being trampled. Crassus’ gaze fixed on the new arrival like that of a hawk. What in Hades’ name is going on? Dragging on the reins, the rider halted on the Graecostasis, the waiting area reserved for dignitaries who wished to address the Senate. Abandoning his mount, he darted forward towards the Curia. ‘Where are the consuls?’ he shouted. ‘Are they still within?’

The crowd of senators recoiled from the man, who was unshaven and wearing a sweat-soaked tunic. A corridor opened before the messenger and, with a curse, he sprinted up the steps. He looked exhausted, thought Crassus. And frightened. He must be carrying urgent news. Crassus stepped into the man’s path, forcing him to come to a juddering halt. ‘They are still inside, I believe,’ he said smoothly.

It took a heartbeat for his words to register. Then the other’s faded blue eyes took him in. ‘My thanks, sir,’ he said, and made to move past.

Turning nimbly, Crassus fell in with him. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Capua.’

‘And you bring important news from there?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the terse reply.

‘What is it?’

The faded blue eyes regarded him again. ‘I don’t suppose it matters if you hear it first. A band of gladiators has broken out of the ludus in Capua.’

Crassus’ interest soared. ‘The ludus? I know it well. Did many escape?’

‘Only about seventy.’

‘That’s of little consequence,’ declared Crassus in a bluff voice. ‘Hardly a matter to trouble the consuls of Rome with, is it?’

The man gave him a nervous glance, but then his chin firmed. ‘I’d argue the opposite, sir. Within the day, we, the townspeople of Capua, sent a force of more than two hundred men after the bastards. A simple matter to deal with, you’d think. Yet our lads were virtually annihilated. Less than a quarter of them made it home.’

Crassus sucked in his surprise. ‘That’s remarkable,’ he said casually.

Looking vindicated, the messenger made to go.

A finger of recognition tickled at Crassus’ memory. ‘Wait. Do you by any chance know any of the renegades’ names?’

The man turned. He made the sign against evil. ‘Apparently, the leader is called Spartacus.’

‘Spartacus?’ echoed Crassus in real shock.

‘Yes, sir. He’s from Thrace.’

‘Who cares what the whoreson is called?’ growled a senator who’d overheard. ‘Get in there and tell the consuls. They’ll soon organise enough troops to go down there and butcher the lot of them.’

‘They will,’ purred Crassus. ‘Capua need not worry. Rome will seek vengeance for its troubles.’

With a grateful nod, the man hurried off.

The gladiator whom I saw fight has even more balls than I thought. A pity I did not order his death when I had the chance. Crassus put the matter from his mind. A few hundred legionaries under the command of one of the other praetors would sort it out. He had far bigger fish to fry.

Standing on the very lip of the cliff, Spartacus looked over the edge. He squinted into the brightness of the abyss, spotting a number of eagles and vultures hanging in the air at roughly the same dizzying height. Above was a turquoise sky, filled by a warm spring sun. Below, the view was stupendous. A dense carpet of holm oak, turpentine, beech and strawberry trees spilled down Vesuvius’ slopes from Spartacus’ fastness on the summit. He let out a long breath. No one lives up here but birds of prey, wild beasts — and us. I am truly a latro now, Phortis.

Spartacus’ gaze followed the gradient as it flattened far below. There the land changed. An intricate network of farms, resembling a crazy mosaic pattern, extended out on to the Campanian plain as far as the eye could see. The vineyards were innumerable. Between them were vast fields of young wheat. Beyond, twenty miles away, lay Capua and the ludus. To the west and south-west were the towns of Neapolis and Pompeii, and the sea. The Via Annia, a minor road linking Rome with the south, was situated east of Vesuvius, along with the town of Nuceria. Beyond those lay the Picentini Mountains, a tall range of peaks which could serve as a refuge if needs be.

Memories of the events three days prior filled Spartacus’ mind. It hadn’t surprised him, or any of the gladiators, that a strong force had immediately been dispatched from Capua to crush them. Arrogant and sure of success, the ten-score veterans and townspeople had been easy to ambush. The gladiators had fallen upon them like howling wraiths. Only a fraction of the ragtag militia had escaped to tell the tale. Despite this, Spartacus’ sour mood deepened. The matter wouldn’t end there. Rome doesn’t work like that. Ever. Already the message would have reached the Senate in Rome. Already the plans for reprisal would be in train.

He glanced around at the massive crater that formed the top of the mountain. Its enclosing walls were covered in wild grapevines, and the green space was filled with vegetation: twisted juniper trees towered over spurge olive bushes, myrtle and sage plants. A number of large pools provided ample rainwater to drink. The gladiators’ camp was spread out over a wide area. It comprised a dozen or so tents — seized the previous day — and the same number of makeshift wooden lean-tos. Spartacus scowled. Seventy-three of us escaped the ludus. When the four women are taken into account, that’s sixty-nine fighters. Just over a third of Batiatus’ men. Hardly even a decent-sized war band. His gut instinct replied at once. The Senate won’t look at us in that light. Not only did we arm ourselves with the gladiator weapons from that wagon train heading for Nola, but we’ve smashed a superior military force. If there was ever a time to strike out for Thrace, it was now. Ariadne had mentioned this possibility, but so far Spartacus had resisted it. He hadn’t admitted it to Ariadne, but he liked having men follow him. He liked being a leader. If he left for Thrace, only a few loyal supporters would go with him.

A man by one of the lean-tos lifted his hand in greeting, and Spartacus returned the gesture. At least new recruits are starting to trickle in. So far it was only a handful of agricultural slaves. That number had to grow, and fast. If it didn’t, any troops sent against them would crush them as a man swats a fly. Spartacus’ fists bunched. Even if their numbers did increase, what real difference would it make? It took weeks — no, months — of training to turn men who were used to pushing a plough into soldiers who could stand against Roman legionaries. They’d be lucky if even a fraction of that time was granted to them. Seeing Crixus wrestling with one of his comrades, Spartacus’ frustration grew.

Any semblance of unity among the gladiators had dissolved the moment that they’d reached Vesuvius. Like oil separating from vinegar, the different groups had re-formed under their original leaders. They camped apart too: three parties of Gauls; the Germans under Oenomaus, and the Thracians and other nationalities with Spartacus. The physical separation had increased their differences even further. From the word go, Spartacus had struggled to get enough sentries. Unsurprisingly, his men weren’t too happy standing watch while the others relaxed in the crater. But at least they followed their orders, he reflected.

Intoxicated by their newfound freedom, Crixus, Castus and Gannicus had laughed in his face when he’d confronted them over it the previous evening. ‘We’re free now! Relax and enjoy it, why don’t you?’ Gannicus had said. Castus had simply shrugged and pointed to his men, who were guzzling down the wine they’d taken from the dead after the ambush. ‘What need have we of sentries?’ Crixus had roared. ‘Look what we did to those whoresons from Capua! No one is going to come near us in a hurry. Unless they want to commit suicide, of course.’ He grinned at his supporters, who guffawed in approval.

It had taken all of Spartacus’ self-control not to leap on top of Crixus again, fists pounding. But he’d done nothing. While the Gaulish leaders were infuriating, ill-disciplined and prone to drunkenness, they and their men represented a sizeable — and vital — chunk of their forces. There were twenty-five Gauls, of whom one was a woman. Spartacus could not alienate them totally. With the recent addition of some runaway agricultural slaves, he had twenty-nine men and two women, including Ariadne and himself. If it came to a real fight, however, he could only rely on the seventeen of his followers who were gladiators. Oenomaus had a few more followers than the total number of Gauls: twenty-six men and two women, but the Germans’ unity gave him the most powerful grouping by far.

Fortunately, Oenomaus also had more sense than the others. He’d listened to Spartacus’ complaints about the sentries, and immediately agreed that his men should share the duty. His goodwill had not extended further, however. When Spartacus had mentioned weapons drill, Oenomaus had frowned. ‘We had enough of that in the damn ludus.’ Spartacus’ argument about facing legionaries had met with simple indifference. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,’ the German had said.

When we come to it. A grim sense of foreboding filled Spartacus and he turned his eyes back to the Campanian plain. The roads he could see were as small as the ribbons on a doll’s dress, but he could still make out the tiny shapes of wagons and oxen. For now. As sure as the wheat ripened at summer’s end, one day he’d see the distinctive column of a Roman army, marching towards Vesuvius. Even if it only comprised a thousand men, it would look the same as the ones Spartacus had grown used to during the conquest of Thrace. Scouts and skirmishers to the front. Cavalry, and then the main body of infantry. The camp surveyors and their equipment, followed by the commander and his bodyguards. More cavalry. The senior officers with their escort. The rearguard. And after them, the raggle-taggle that trailed in the wake of every army since the dawn of time. Whores, traders of every description, soothsayers, shysters, entertainers and slave traders. Perhaps even the man appointed in Phortis’ place, sent by Batiatus to bring back those unfortunate enough to be captured alive.

I won’t be among them. Nor will Ariadne, Spartacus thought grimly. Death was far more attractive than returning to captivity, especially when it was achieved by hacking apart as many legionaries as he could. While that end appealed, it was impossible to deny that it was futile. Why not just leave?

‘Was this the mountain you dreamed of?’

Ariadne’s voice by his ear made Spartacus jump. ‘You crept up on me!’ he muttered, a trifle embarrassed. He studied his surroundings more closely. In the adrenalin rush of events since their escape, he hadn’t had the leisure to reconsider his dream. ‘Possibly. It’s certainly remote enough.’

‘And you have a sica.’ She tapped the sheathed weapon hanging from his baldric.

‘True.’ He’d been delighted to find a Thracian sword in the consignment that they’d chanced upon on the road from Capua.

‘You’re at altitude.’

‘Yes, but I’m not alone.’ He gestured at the camp below.

‘Not everything about a dream has to be accurate.’

Spartacus’ stomach tightened, and he scanned her face for clues. She spent much of her time praying to Dionysus. Maybe her prayers had been answered at last. ‘Have you gained an understanding of what I saw?’ He saw the regret flare in Ariadne’s eyes, and once again, he felt the snake wrapped around his throat. Does it represent the soldiers sent by Rome? Or the fate that awaits me if I try to return to Thrace? He lifted his eyes balefully to the heavens. What end have you planned for us, Great Rider?

‘It might not mean what you think.’

‘It’s hard to see how it doesn’t.’ Patting his flat belly, Spartacus changed the subject. ‘I’ve a mind to fill this with meat. Any meat will do. Beef. Pork. Lamb. Even goat. We need supplies too — particularly blankets and leather for making sandals. I’ll round up the men and search out an easy farm to raid. I’ll take everyone except Getas. He will stay here with you.’

Ariadne knew better than to ask if she could come. As a priestess, her value to the gladiators was incalculable. Besides, she didn’t want to see the casual slaughter and rape that would be an integral part of the expedition.

Spartacus slipped to Carbo’s side as they followed the game trail downwards through the forest. Atheas and Taxacis, the two Scythians, followed him silently, barely moving the thick bushes as they passed. Atheas was the one with the bushy black beard, while Taxacis had a broken nose like a squashed sausage. Since escaping the ludus, the pair had become his shadows. They even slept outside his tent, like faithful hunting dogs. Spartacus didn’t know why the skilled warriors had chosen to become his bodyguards, but he rested easier because of them. Getas couldn’t do it all on his own. Having to contend first with the fearsome Scythians would make any disgruntled gladiators think twice before trying to kill him.

He eyed Carbo sidelong. With all that had been going on since their escape, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the young Roman. This was a chance to gauge Carbo’s loyalty once more. Inside the ludus, it hadn’t truly been tested, but things were about to change. ‘With luck, this little jaunt will bring us some sheep, or even cattle. Nothing like fresh meat roasted over a fire, eh?’

‘My belly’s rumbling already,’ admitted Carbo. His face clouded. ‘Will anyone be killed?’

‘I hope not. We’ll only be facing farm slaves and whatever arsehole owns them.’

‘I didn’t mean any of us.’

Spartacus shot him a sharp look. ‘I expect there’ll be a few casualties, yes. Don’t be surprised when escaped gladiators take their vengeance on some of the people that treated them like animals.’

‘I thought you were looking for food.’

‘We are,’ replied Spartacus innocently. ‘And if we happen to kill a Roman or two, it will be an added bonus.’

‘That’s not right!’ The words had escaped Carbo’s lips before he could stop them.

‘Is it not?’ Spartacus jabbed a finger into Carbo’s chest. ‘Your fucking legions have done far worse to my people. I’ve watched innumerable settlements being razed to the ground. Lost count of the old and infirm who were butchered because they were no use as slaves. Have you ever seen a baby that’s been gutted? Or a woman who’s been raped so many times that she’s lost her mind?’

Carbo flushed, and had the wits not to reply. He’s probably right.

‘If you don’t want to be part of it, you can piss off.’

Carbo’s feet stayed on the path.

There was a long pause.

‘Well?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘I’m staying.’

‘And when the time comes to fight?’ demanded Spartacus in a grating tone. ‘It’ll be legionaries who come against us next. Will you run rather than kill your own countrymen?’

‘No.’ Where would I go? To Rome, to become a lawyer? I’d rather be a latro.

‘How can I be sure?’ Spartacus’ grey eyes were threatening. ‘I have no need of a man I can’t rely on.’

‘You looked out for me in the ludus. No one else did, so I’m loyal to you,’ said Carbo passionately. ‘Even if it means fighting my own kind.’

Spartacus’ anger subsided a fraction. ‘I’ll be watching you,’ he warned.

Carbo nodded in grim acceptance. It’s no different to the arena. Kill or be killed. That’s my only choice.

An hour later, Spartacus genuinely felt like a latro. The estate they’d found had seemed perfect. It was typical of the large latifundia in the area. Sprawling fields full of crops and livestock surrounded a yard, farm buildings and an enormous villa. The gladiators had headed for the latter before bothering with the sheep and cattle. It was unlikely that anyone would come to the owner’s aid but it paid to be cautious. They’d rounded up all visible slaves too. Spartacus didn’t understand it but some slaves felt an allegiance to their owners. He didn’t want anyone running off to spread the news until they were gone.

The killing had started soon after they reached the buildings. Hearing the commotion, the owner had emerged from his front door. A stocky man in early middle age with close-cut hair, he’d looked like an army veteran. Taking in the yelling gladiators and his wailing, terrified slaves, he’d plunged back into the villa. A few heartbeats later, he’d emerged at the head of a group of armed retainers. Waving an old but serviceable gladius, the Roman had charged straight at Crixus. Whooping with delight, the Gauls had closed around their attackers like a pack of hungry wolves.

Now, covered in stab wounds, and with his head almost severed, the man lay in a huge pool of blood. Similarly treated, the corpses of his domestic slaves lay all around him. His wife and two teenage daughters were on their backs nearby, screaming at the top of their lungs. On top of each was a bare-arsed gladiator, shoving away between their open legs. Laughing and joking with one another, a dozen others waited their turn. Spartacus, who was sitting on the edge of a fountain by the entrance to the yard, kept his gaze averted. He was waiting for the most disciplined of his men — the Scythians and two of the Thracians — to return and report what they’d found in the way of weapons, grain and other supplies.

‘Can’t you stop this?’ Carbo waved at the baying mob of fighters. ‘It’s disgusting.’

‘It is,’ agreed Spartacus wearily. ‘But it’s also inevitable. Moreover, if I tried to stop what was going on, those men would kill me without batting an eyelid. So I let them get on with it.’

‘They’re animals!’ spat Carbo.

‘No. They’re warriors who haven’t had a woman in months, or even years. Do your precious legionaries act any differently when they sack a town? I doubt it very much.’

‘Legionaries would never carry on in such a sickening manner.’ Carbo knew the words weren’t true as they left his lips.

‘Believe that if you will.’

Carbo flushed and fell silent.

‘Why don’t you make yourself useful? Go into the house and search for weapons.’

With a relieved look, Carbo disappeared.

A new set of high-pitched screams reached Spartacus. It was coming from the slave quarters. That’s where the other warriors are. Stupid fools, he thought. Carbo had a point. We need more recruits, not enemies. Who’ll want to join us if our men have raped their womenfolk? Calling for Atheas and Taxacis, he marched towards the wailing sounds.

Some discipline had to be maintained.

Two weeks passed without any sign of Roman soldiers. With every day that went by, however, Spartacus’ tension grew. It was inevitable that the Senate would send a force to crush them. The only unknown was when it would arrive. The sands of time were slipping away, and while they did, the other gladiators did nothing to prepare. Together with their leaders, they watched and jeered as Spartacus mercilessly trained his men and a number of the slaves who’d joined them. Most of his followers were now better armed than their erstwhile comrades. They had Carbo to thank for it. He was the one who had found a large stash of weapons — swords, javelins, spears and daggers — at the villa. The weapons were a major addition to the Thracians’ cause, but they still lacked shields and helmets. It would make little difference to the outcome, but it galled Spartacus. His men deserved more.

Spartacus also poured energy into instructing Carbo. It was a pleasure to have a pupil so eager to learn. The young Roman appeared to have learned his lesson at the latifundium, and had not mentioned the episode again. It’s as well, thought Spartacus, because rapes will happen anyway. Ugly as it is, it’s an integral part of war. Carbo’s keen attitude also helped to take Spartacus’ mind from his concerns. During this time, he did not ask Ariadne about his dream either. There was little point. He’d come to the conclusion that the snake symbolised Rome and its legions, and that it was his fate to die in battle against them. Spartacus brooded about it each day as he sat on the lip of the crater, studying the countryside far below. It wasn’t the worst fate a man could have. It was better than dying in the arena while thousands of Romans bayed for his blood. His decision to stay had been the right one. He was returning the loyalty of his followers by leading, not abandoning them. His men were also the reason it had been better not to head for Thrace. I cannot desert them. What of Ariadne, though? Troublingly, to this he had no answer.

Spartacus was in this spot one morning when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Atheas quietly approaching. He didn’t turn his head. ‘What is it?’

‘Important… visitor.’

Spartacus’ focus drifted away from the panorama below. ‘Spit it out, then.’

‘A farm slave has come… to join us.’

‘And?’

‘He has seen soldiers… marching towards… mountain.’

Spartacus spun around. ‘How far from here?’

‘A day away, he says.’

So near. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

Atheas hurried off, returning soon after with a strapping figure in tow. Curious, Spartacus eyed the unarmed newcomer, who was clad in a coarse tunic that was little more than rags. He was young, broad-shouldered, and his skin was burned dark brown from a lifetime working outdoors. His round, pleasant face was marred by an ugly purple scar that ran across his left cheek.

‘Stop,’ Atheas ordered when they were ten steps from Spartacus.

Gazing at Spartacus with open curiosity, the slave obeyed.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Aventianus, master.’

‘There are no masters in this camp, Aventianus. Here we are all equal. Free men.’

‘They said that you treated everyone in this way, but I put it down to rumour. Until now.’

‘It is no rumour. You bring news, I believe?’

‘Yes. Yesterday, a large force of soldiers-’

‘How many?’ interrupted Spartacus.

‘About three thousand.’

Spartacus mouthed a curse. What was I thinking? Eighty of us do against that many? The figure might as well be a hundred thousand. ‘Go on.’

‘They reached the edge of my master’s land by mid-afternoon. The commander, a praetor, asked permission to camp for the night; my master was happy to oblige. He invited the detachment’s senior officers to dine with him. During the evening, it was revealed that the troops had been sent by the Senate itself. Their mission is to come to Vesuvius… and crush your uprising.’

Spartacus lifted a hand, stopping Aventianus again. ‘There are men who need to hear this.’ He glanced at Atheas. ‘Fetch the other leaders. Tell them it’s urgent.’

Spartacus was surprised that his dominant emotion was one of relief. The waiting is over.

It wasn’t long before Atheas returned with Oenomaus and the three Gauls. All four men’s faces were concerned and angry.

The word is already out.

‘What in Toutatis’ name is going on?’ demanded Crixus.

‘Fill them in on what you’ve told me so far,’ Spartacus ordered.

As Aventianus obeyed, Crixus began to swear violently under his breath. Oenomaus, his face impassive, listened in silence. Castus and Gannicus gave each other sour glances.

‘Three thousand fucking legionaries!’ spat Oenomaus. ‘Any cavalry?’

‘No.’

‘They’d be useless up here anyway,’ said Crixus.

‘Do we know their commander’s name?’ asked Spartacus.

‘Caius Claudius Glaber,’ replied Aventianus. ‘He’s a praetor.’

‘Never heard of the prick,’ Castus growled.

His name’s irrelevant. Spartacus rubbed a finger along his lips, thinking. ‘Has he any military experience?’

‘No. He seemed confident, though.’

‘Of course he did, the cocksucker,’ snarled Castus. ‘He has almost forty men to every one of ours.’

Aventianus cleared his throat. ‘They’re not regular legionaries.’

The Gauls were so angry that they didn’t take in Aventianus’ words, but Spartacus did. So did Oenomaus. ‘Say that again,’ ordered Spartacus.

‘Glaber said that the Senate refused to classify this as an uprising, merely naming it an emergency. It didn’t warrant a levy of troops on the Campus Martius. Glaber protested, but was overruled, so he had to recruit his soldiers on the march south from Rome. There are some veterans, but most are citizen farmers or townspeople without much military experience.’

‘Some good news!’ said Spartacus. Will it make any difference, though?

Castus made a contemptuous noise. ‘I imagine that there will be plenty of them to do the job.’

‘At least we can make a glorious end for ourselves.’ Crixus mimed a savage sword thrust, and then another. ‘One that the gods will have to notice.’

Castus and Gannicus glowered in silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Aventianus.

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ responded Oenomaus at once. ‘You have come here to warn us, risking your life of your own accord. It is we who are in your debt.’

‘I tried to get others on the farm to join me, but no one would. They said there were too many soldiers.’ Aventianus hung his head.

‘You are a brave man.’ Spartacus stepped over and gripped his shoulder. ‘How long did it take you to get here?’

‘I ran for about three hours.’

‘So they will get here by this afternoon,’ said Spartacus, approximating.

Aventianus nodded. ‘It’s what Glaber was counting on.’

‘That’s useful to know.’ Spartacus pointed north. ‘Leave now, and you could reach your master’s property by nightfall. They might not have even noticed your absence.’

‘No,’ protested Aventianus. ‘I came here to join you!’

‘We’re all going to be killed,’ advised Spartacus softly.

‘I don’t care!’ Aventianus pointed at the irregular scar on his face. ‘See this? That was made by a hot poker. My punishment for a minor offence two years ago. Dying here with you — as a free man — is far more appealing than returning to that.’

Spartacus threw a meaningful look at the three Gauls. Why can’t you pricks be like him? ‘In that case, we’d be proud to have you join us.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You must be tired and hungry,’ said Spartacus. He glanced at Atheas again. ‘Take Aventianus to the cooking area. See that he is fed and watered. Afterwards, he’ll need a weapon and somewhere to sleep.’

As the pair disappeared, he turned to the others. The news had made his determination resurge with a vengeance. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that we’re fucked,’ snapped Castus.

Spartacus bit down on his anger. If you and your men had bothered to do some training, you might not be so damn pessimistic. ‘Oenomaus?’

‘It’s hard to disagree with Castus. Unless we want to find ourselves alone, however, we should keep it to ourselves. I’m not running away and I’m not about to surrender. I’m here to fight.’

Crixus bristled. ‘So am I!’

‘And me,’ added Gannicus quickly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Oenomaus replied. ‘The first thing to do then is to come up with a plan of action. Decide on the best way to cause maximum casualties among the whoresons before they overrun us.’

A cruel smile spread across Castus’ face. ‘Sounds appealing.’

‘And to me,’ said Spartacus. Well handled, Oenomaus. ‘I’ve been giving it some thought. With only one decent path to the summit, it’s obvious which way they’ll come. I’ve earmarked a good position at the steepest point. If we stockpile large stones and boulders there, they can be easily rolled down on any attackers.’

‘The track is very narrow,’ added Crixus. ‘By my reckoning, three men with shields standing abreast could hold it against all comers.’

‘Shields?’ asked Spartacus.

‘I know, I know. We don’t have any. But once we’ve killed a few of the dogs, that will change.’ Crixus glared at them, daring them to challenge his idea.

‘I was thinking along the same lines,’ said Spartacus. He didn’t say what else was on his mind. How many men will we lose in the process? ‘The two Nubians have slings. They can rain down stones on the Romans the moment that they come within range; smaller rocks can be gathered for the rest of us to throw. Their shields will give the bastards some protection, but we’ll injure plenty of them. They won’t be able to do a thing about it.’ Don’t fool yourself. It will be like trying to halt a column of ants. Easy to stamp on a few hundred, but impossible to stop them all.

But his words had the desired effect. Castus in particular looked much happier. ‘I’ll get my men to start searching out boulders. The more we have, the better,’ he said, stamping off. Gannicus walked away with Crixus, already arguing over who would stand in the front line.

Oenomaus waited until the Gauls were out of earshot. ‘What if they don’t attack?’

Spartacus had half thought of this option, but dismissed it. After all, the Romans were fond of confrontation — open battle. But not always. ‘You think they’d do that?’

‘Unless Glaber wants to lose scores of soldiers before they’ve even reached our lines, it’s the sensible choice. I would set a couple of hundred men to watch the path and then just sit and wait.’

‘Starve us out of here, you mean,’ growled Spartacus.

‘Yes. It’s slow, but effective, and far less costly in human lives.’

‘If we charge down to attack them, we lose our only advantage. That of height.’

They stared at each other without speaking. The good feeling that had been present a few moments before had vanished. Their cause seemed hopeless once more.

Spartacus set his jaw. This is no time to give up. I chose to be here. ‘Let’s prepare everything as we discussed. There’s no point worrying about things we can do nothing to prevent.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I’ll talk to Ariadne. Maybe her god will give us some guidance at last.’

Oenomaus grinned. ‘That’d be most welcome.’

If it doesn’t come soon, it will be too late.