The Gladiator

Chapter XI

It was mid-afternoon when Glaber and his soldiers were spotted. Hearing the lookout’s yell, everyone in the camp stopped what they were doing and climbed up to the crater’s lip. In the middle distance, a long, winding black line could be seen on the road that led from Capua. It was too far away to make out the individual figures of men or beasts, but after Aventianus’ news, the column could be but one thing. The instrument of their doom. For a long time, none of those watching spoke to, or even looked at, another. All eyes were locked on the approaching troops. The ominous silence was broken only by the faint whistle of the wind.

Eventually, Spartacus stirred. It wasn’t just pointless staring at the Romans, it was dangerous. He could feel the gladiators’ morale diminishing with every moment that passed. ‘Back to work! There is still plenty to do,’ he shouted. ‘I want hundreds of large rocks ready to roll down at the enemy. Thousands of stones to throw, and for the slingers to use. Every sword and dagger needs an edge on it that will shave the hairs off your arm. Those whoresons are going to regret that they ever came here!’

All the men did as they were told, but few smiled. Even fewer laughed.

Spartacus threw Ariadne a questioning look. The tiny, dismissive shake of her head that he received in return felt like a punch to his solar plexus. Is this it, Great Rider? He shook his head, pushing away his worry. ‘Atheas, Taxacis. Follow the path down the mountain. Get as close as you can to the Romans without being seen. I want to know their every move. How their camp is laid out. The number of sentries. Be sure to return before sunset.’

Grinning fiercely at their new duty, the Scythians trotted off.

Spartacus went to pray to the Great Rider.

And to sharpen his sica.

Thanks to the trees blanketing Vesuvius’ upper slopes, the Roman column was lost to sight as it reached the base of the mountain late that afternoon. If anything, its disappearance increased the tension. Tempers grew short, and men snapped irritably at each other. Some distance from the camp, a German gladiator who was collecting rocks ran away when his comrades’ backs were turned. Angry shouts went up when he was spotted, but Oenomaus ordered that the fugitive should not be pursued. ‘Who wants a man like that by his side when the fighting starts?’ he bellowed.

The sun was low in the sky when Atheas and Taxacis reappeared. Spartacus was conferring with Oenomaus and the three Gauls, but their conversation stopped the instant the warriors approached. ‘Well?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘They have made… camp. Typical type,’ Atheas began.

Spartacus saw the others’ confusion. Born into slavery, they would never have seen the temporary fortifications thrown up every night by Romans on the march. ‘It will be rectangular, with an entrance on each side,’ he explained. ‘The whole thing will be surrounded by an earthen rampart the height of a man, topped with stakes. Outside that, they’ll have dug a waist-deep protective ditch.’

Atheas nodded in agreement. ‘We count… one picket in front… each wall. Hundred paces out.’

‘Is that all? Arrogant bastards,’ sneered Crixus.

‘Any activity on the path to the peak?’ asked Spartacus, his stomach clenching.

‘Yes. Three hundred legionaries… stationed across it. And several small groups marched… good distance up… mountain. They hid… both sides of track. No tents.’

‘Sentries then,’ grated Gannicus.

Spartacus cursed savagely. Oenomaus was right.

‘Those men are just to prevent us escaping tonight! The sons of whores will attack in the morning, surely?’ demanded Crixus. He looked at each man. Something in Spartacus and Oenomaus’ expressions made his face harden. ‘Neither of you think so.’

‘It makes more sense to lay siege,’ admitted Spartacus. ‘They can wait down there in relative comfort until we simply run out of food.’

‘The chicken-shit, toga-wearing, motherless goat-fuckers!’ raged Crixus. He stamped up and down, filling the air with more colourful expletives. When he had regained some control, he fixed the others with his stare. ‘Like I said, let’s choose a hero’s death. We’ll go down there in the morning and charge their lines. Make an end that will be remembered by slaves forever.’

Scowling, Castus and Gannicus stared at the ground.

‘We can do better than that,’ said Oenomaus.

‘How?’ demanded Crixus.

Oenomaus had no immediate answer.

Spartacus racked his brains. They had no armour and no shields. They were totally outnumbered. Their supplies would be finished within three days at most. Maybe their only option was a suicidal attack? He glared at the heavens. Very well. I submit to your will, Great Rider.

‘Gannicus, are you with me?’ asked Crixus.

‘I’ve nothing better to be doing.’

‘Good. And you, Castus?’

‘Damn it, why not?’ came the snarled response.

‘Count me in too,’ said Oenomaus harshly.

‘Spartacus?’

He didn’t reply. What a useless way to die.

‘Spartacus?’ Impatience mixed with anger in Crixus’ tone.

His eyes dropped from the skies above, and caught on the vines that covered the steep slopes of the crater. Suddenly, the bones of an idea began to form in his mind.

‘Are you going to answer my damn question?’

‘Not right now.’ Spartacus walked off, leaving the others open-mouthed behind him.

‘He’s fucking lost it,’ Crixus declared. ‘I knew it would happen.’

‘What the hell is he doing?’ demanded Castus. ‘This is no time for a stroll!’

Spartacus was pleased to hear Oenomaus growl, ‘He’ll be back.’

Returning to the other leaders a short time later, Spartacus held out his hands. ‘It was in front of us all along.’

‘That’s a length of wild grapevine,’ said Gannicus in an incredulous voice.

Crixus’ scorn was clear. ‘What shall we do with it? Strangle Roman soldiers?’

Castus laughed.

‘Can you explain what’s going on?’asked Oenomaus, looking bewildered. The place is overrun with vines. So what?’

‘It’s clear as the sun in the sky.’

Crixus’ lip curled. ‘Put us out of our misery.’

‘These vines are excellent for weaving baskets, are they not?’

‘Yes,’ replied Oenomaus, visibly controlling his irritation.

‘Instead of baskets, we can make ropes. Ropes strong enough to take the weight of a man. Once it’s dark, we can lower ourselves down one of the cliff faces on to the slopes below. I don’t imagine that the Romans expect to be attacked from anywhere other than the path.’ Spartacus’ confident smile belied his churning stomach. The odds against us are still terrible, but this will be a damn sight better than committing suicide in the morning.

‘That’s a fantastic idea!’ Oenomaus clapped him on the arm.

‘It would give us a fighting chance,’ admitted Gannicus.

Spartacus glanced at Castus. His sour expression had weakened. ‘I thought you had gone mad. But you haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a good plan.’

‘It might work,’ said Crixus with a dubious shake of his head. ‘Or then again, we could all break our damn necks.’

‘It’s worth a try,’ said Oenomaus.

To Spartacus’ delight, Castus and Gannicus rumbled in agreement.

Crixus scowled. ‘Very well.’

Thank you, Great Rider. It’ll be easier with him on board. Spartacus made a quick calculation. ‘It’s at least a hundred paces from the lowest part of the cliffs to the ground below. We’ll need a minimum of two ropes. More if they can be woven in time.’

‘And then?’ asked Oenomaus.

Spartacus was pleased to see that this time, all four waited to hear his response. He offered up more silent thanks. ‘Wait until it’s nearly midnight. Pray for cloud cover. We’ll blacken our faces and limbs with ashes from the fires. Climb down to their camp. Kill the sentries at their pickets. Fall upon their tents in silence.’

‘The bastards won’t know what hit them!’ interrupted Gannicus.

‘They won’t. We’ll slay as many as we can before the alarm is raised,’ said Spartacus.

Oenomaus frowned. ‘What will happen after that?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll escape!’ He didn’t voice the other, more likely outcome. No one looked disheartened, however, which satisfied Spartacus. ‘An offering of thanks to Dionysus is imperative now. These are his vines.’

No one argued with that.

By the time darkness had fallen, the gladiators had three ropes, each 120 paces in length. Every man and woman present had laboured to complete the cords. Some had stripped vines from the crater walls while others had trimmed them down to a central stalk. Plaited in threes and securely knotted into four sections, the ropes were tested by having a pair of the heaviest men haul with all their might on each end. To Spartacus’ delight, none broke. He ordered the fighters to prepare themselves, but they were to wait until he gave the word before making a move.

While the other leaders drank wine with their followers, Spartacus sat by the fire with Ariadne. They did not talk much, yet there was a new, intimate air between them. This might be the last time I ever see her, he thought regretfully. Across the fire from him, Ariadne’s mind was racing. Those vines belong to Dionysus. Did he make Spartacus aware of them? It seems too much of a coincidence to be anything else.

Despite the blanket around his shoulders, Spartacus eventually began to feel chilled through. He glanced upwards. The sliver of moon in the sky had been covered by a bank of cloud. There was little wind. ‘Time to move.’

‘I have asked Dionysus to lay a cloak of sleep over their camp.’

‘Thank you.’ He rubbed a final bit of ash on to his arms and stood. ‘By dawn, it will be over. I will see you then.’ He shoved away a pang of uncertainty. Great Rider, let it be so.

‘Yes.’ Ariadne was unwilling to trust her voice further. Come back to me safely.

Without another word, he walked off into the darkness.

‘There’s the picket,’ whispered Spartacus, pointing at a huddle of shapes no more than a long javelin throw away. Fierce satisfaction filled him at what they’d achieved thus far. They’d scrambled down the cliff face with little problem. One man had broken his ankle, and had been left behind, but the others had moved like eager, silent wraiths, scrambling through the darkness to their present position. A hundred paces beyond the Roman sentries lay the southern rampart of Glaber’s camp. Spartacus was lying on his belly in the scrub grass, the Scythians to his right, and Getas and another Thracian to his left. The remainder, including the new recruits, were waiting some distance to their rear. Given their small numbers, Spartacus had decided not to bother assaulting the other sides. Their best hope lay in a savage, frontal attack using all of their force. The other leaders had seemed happy with that idea too.

‘We go,’ muttered Atheas, lifting his dagger.

Taxacis grunted in agreement.

‘Make it quick. Keep quiet,’ warned Spartacus. ‘The slightest sound could screw it up.’

‘Have you forgotten?’ hissed Getas. ‘I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to wield a knife. The Scythians are no different.’

‘I know.’ Spartacus tried to relax. He couldn’t stop his throat from constricting, however, as the four crept forward and disappeared into the pitch black. He waited, counting his heartbeats and trying to calculate how long it would take to reach the Roman sentries. He had nearly reached five hundred when a rush of movement reached his ears. Spartacus froze. The sound of fierce struggling rapidly ended with a couple of short, choking cries. They’ve done it. Did anyone hear? A cold sweat bathed Spartacus’ forehead, but the silence that followed remained unbroken.

His men returned not long after, grinning fiercely. They were soon joined by the three Gaulish leaders and Oenomaus. ‘It’s time to move,’ said Spartacus.

‘Let us thank Dionysus again,’ whispered Oenomaus. ‘May he continue to watch over us. What lies ahead may cost us all our lives.’

Eighty of us are about to attack a camp containing three thousand legionaries. It’s complete madness. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else,’ hissed Spartacus. ‘Not for all of Crassus’ gold. Whatever the outcome, this will show the bastards that we are no ordinary latrones.’

Rather than argue, Crixus made a low, growling sound in his throat. Castus’ teeth flashed in the darkness, signalling his agreement. ‘It’ll show them we’re not just fodder for their games,’ added Gannicus.

With that, they shuffled back to fetch the gladiators.

Spartacus had the men trail him in a long line as they padded towards the Roman camp. None of the others protested at this. Grim satisfaction filled him that they were prepared to let him take the lead. He paused by the dead sentries, allowing some of the more poorly armed fighters to strip the corpses of their weapons. Then he carefully walked on, pleased that those following him were making almost no sound. They reached the ditch without being challenged, and Spartacus’ heart began thumping in his chest so hard that he wondered if it was audible. Breathe.

He eyed the ramparts. Without doubt, there would be sentries patrolling. How many, Spartacus did not know, but it would be no less than two per side. The nearest ones would have to be neutralised as the pickets had been. Scrambling out of the other side of the trench, he lay down. ‘Stay where you are,’ he hissed at the men behind him. As his order spread, the gladiators’ advance stopped.

It wasn’t far to the earthen fortifications, which were little more than a long, raised mound running from left to right in front of them. Spartacus scanned the top of the wall, finally picking out the shapes of two helmets off to his left. Straining his ears, he could just make out the murmur of voices. ‘See them?’

‘Yes,’ hissed Atheas.

‘I want them silenced in the same way as the pickets. Think you can do that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Make a noise like an owl when you’ve finished.’ As the warriors crept away, Spartacus inhaled deeply and slowly let the air out again. The tension was as great as the final moments before any of the battles he had fought. Calm, stay calm. Focusing on his breathing, he closed his eyes.

When the eerie sound reached him, Spartacus felt a surge of relief. The Romans might think of an owl’s call as bad luck, but he certainly didn’t. Another obstacle had been removed.

They stole up to the entrance — little more than a gap between two overlapping portions of the rampart — without difficulty. Spartacus immediately conferred with the other leaders. ‘The men should file out on to the open space that lies behind the rampart when they get inside. They must maintain complete silence. Wait until my signal. The more tents that are attacked simultaneously, the better, eh?’

‘Fine,’ replied Oenomaus. ‘I’ll take the left flank.’

‘You three to the right,’ said Spartacus. ‘And I’ll take the centre.’

The Gauls nodded.

‘Try not to let your men spread out. If we attack in groups, it will make us seem like a bigger force.’ He waited, but no one argued. Excellent. ‘Wait for my signal: a raised sword, and an owl call.’

Spartacus watched as the four vanished to advise their men. Sudden doubt reared up in his mind. What are we doing? This is fucking crazy. Then his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sica. Far better to die like this than to be overrun by thousands of legionaries in the morning. He began to walk towards the tents.

The regular lines which came into view felt weirdly familiar to him. During his service with the legions, Spartacus had slept in many such camps. He had sat around campfires, singing and drinking wine with men such as those they were about to attack. That is all in the past. I am here to kill. We are here to kill. Spartacus muttered instructions to the Thracians following. Silently, they spread out on either side of him. Behind, he spotted the dim figures of men — Gauls and Germans — trotting to the left and right.

And then they were ready.

Spartacus raised his sica and glanced to either side. Seeing swords lifted in acknowledgement, he cupped a hand to his mouth and let out the owl call he’d practised as a boy. The distant figures began to move, and Spartacus gestured to the men behind him, whom he’d ordered to work in pairs, staying along the same line of tents. He noticed Aventianus nearby, a club gripped tightly in his fist. Carbo was beside him, his face tense. Seeing Spartacus’ look, the lad gave a resolute nod. He’ll do all right.

Closer and closer they went. Still there was no alarm, no noise unless a legionary coughed in his sleep, or grunted in the midst of a dream. Ten steps from the nearest tent, Spartacus could take the waiting no more. He quickened his pace to a trot. Getas was right on his heels. As soon as he was close enough, Spartacus slashed down with his weapon, cutting through the leather panelling with ease. The blade’s trajectory came to an abrupt end when it sank deep in human flesh. A heartbeat later, the silence was shattered by a terrible scream. Getas chopped down several paces away with similar success. ‘Quickly!’ hissed Spartacus, pulling back his arm and swinging down in a different direction. There was a meaty thump as the sica sliced into another man. Another bawl of pain. Take that, you Roman bastard!

Ariadne sat alone by the fire, staring into the glowing embers and brooding. Did Spartacus’ dream signal his death at the hands of Roman soldiers? Would it happen tonight? She was unsurprised but dissatisfied to find nothing to inspire her in the red-orange flames. The occasional shower of sparks that rose lazily into the night sky were no different. Dionysus had never revealed anything to her through the medium of fire before. He wasn’t about to start now, she thought. Ariadne tried, and failed, not to feel bitter. Only once could she recall needing guidance this much — in Thrace, when Kotys had been threatening her.

Do not lose faith. The god had come through in the end, bringing Spartacus into her life. She pictured him in her mind’s eye. It was easy to do so — did she not gaze at him secretly whenever she got the chance? Especially when he was undressing. Ariadne was glad that there was no one present to witness the sudden flush that coloured her cheeks. Yet she had long ago stopped denying to herself that Spartacus was damnably attractive. Gods, she was only human! He was handsome, with a powerful physique. He was slow to anger, quick to laugh, and deadly with a sword or his bare hands. He was a natural leader of men. Most importantly of all, he had consistently looked out for her when there was no gain in it for him. He had not argued on the occasion when she had rebuffed him. Moreover, he had not tried it on with her again.

Now I want him to. Shocked by her own daring, Ariadne started forward from her seat. She sat down again, her heart pounding in her breast. Why in hell’s name not? With Dionysus’ blessing, it will expunge the only other memories I have of sex. My father. Phortis. Dread overtook her excitement at once. For anything ever to happen between us, Spartacus has to survive tonight. And if his dream -

‘Stop it!’ Ariadne said out loud. She saw the other women’s heads turn from their fires, and quickly regained control. He will survive, she thought fiercely. But without a sign from the gods to the contrary, it was entirely possible that the snake Spartacus had seen foretold a terrible doom for him.

Ariadne resolved to make her best effort yet to seek guidance from Dionysus. The deity had already shown his goodwill in prompting Spartacus to use the wild vines. Perhaps he could be persuaded to extend some more aid? With new determination, Ariadne went to fetch her two statues of Dionysus. Spartacus, her husband, was fighting for his life on the plain below. The least that she could do was to spend the rest of the night on her knees in search of divine inspiration.

Spartacus delivered no more than four huge blows with his sword before he realised the effect of what he and Getas had done. The surviving men within — some of whom were wounded — were yelling and thrashing about, trying to free themselves from the collapsed tent. Even if the whoresons get out, they won’t want to fight. They’re absolutely terrified! ‘We can’t kill them all. There’s no need,’ he whispered to Getas. ‘Tell the others: “Attack and move on. Attack and move on.”’

Moving between the gladiators was already hellishly difficult. The only things visible in the darkness were the outlines of tents, and the shadows in between that were his men. The screaming and shouting that now filled the air added to the confusion. Spartacus gave up all pretence of being quiet. ‘It is I, Spartacus,’ he bellowed. ‘Hack at every tent a dozen times and move on. Speed is of the essence!’

Spartacus turned. ‘Getas?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Remember the Maedi war cry?’

‘Of course!’

‘Make it now! Let’s do it for Seuthes!’ Throwing back his head, Spartacus let a primeval roar rip free of his throat. Getas echoed his cry. Theirs was the same ululating sound that all Thracian warriors used when going to war. Named the ‘titanismos’ by the Greeks, it curdled the blood in the veins of a coward. Three thousand of the whoresons are waking up to it, thought Spartacus grimly. I can think of no better way to die than like this. He cut down at a fresh tent with a blur of blows. One, two, three, four. Each strike hit a target, caused a fresh victim to scream at the top of his lungs. Spartacus sensed rather than saw Getas alongside him, his sword flashing up and down in imitation of his own.

They moved on to the next silhouetted structure. And the next.

It wasn’t until Spartacus had reached his fifth tent that he saw his first legionary. The man stumbled into the night air. Clad only in his undergarment, he was unarmed. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted in Latin.

‘Hades is come, that’s what!’ Spartacus swung his sword across in a scything blow that took the Roman’s head clean off his shoulders. A dark jet of blood spurted into the air from the stump of his neck. The man’s right leg actually took another step forward, and then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the headless corpse toppled to the ground.

‘Gaius?’ called a voice. Another figure stepped out of the tent. This one was carrying a sword. Before Spartacus could react, Getas swept in and plunged his blade deep into the man’s chest. The soldier was dead before Getas had shoved him off the iron back into the tent. Inspiration struck Spartacus and he slashed at the guy ropes. The front of the tent collapsed, trapping those within. Standing over the heaving leather mound, they chopped down again and again. The Romans’ confused shouts soon turned to wails of pain and agony.

‘Enough!’ ordered Spartacus. He spotted Atheas and Taxacis nearby. ‘On! On!’

Like maniacs, they plunged deeper into the Roman camp, slicing into tents and hacking down any legionaries who got in their way. This can’t go on, thought Spartacus eventually. All it needs is for an experienced officer to rally twenty or thirty men together. They’ll make a stand against us, and our attack will stall at once.

It was as if the gods had heard him.

Spartacus heard the characteristic cry, ‘To me! To me!’ Bile pooled at the back of his throat. ‘Where is he?’

‘Over there!’ Getas pointed to their left.

Spartacus made out a knot of figures about twenty paces away in the gloom. Five, six men? In the middle was a gesticulating outline wearing a transverse-crested helmet. ‘It’s a fucking centurion!’ He was off like a hound after a hare.

‘It’s just you and me,’ shouted Getas.

‘So what! If we don’t silence the bastard, it’ll all be over for us!’ Spartacus wasn’t surprised that Getas’ pace did not slacken. If I have to die, I’m glad that he’s the one by my side.

‘Great Rider, protect us with your sword and shield,’ Getas intoned.

They did not know it, but Carbo was charging along behind them. I can’t let Spartacus be killed. Not after all he’s done for me.

The odds against them were long indeed, thought Spartacus. Two more soldiers had joined the centurion. There were seven, or even eight, of them now. Most had shields too. Spartacus pictured his men, the gladiators who’d had the faith to follow him out of the ludus. He imagined Ariadne in the camp high above. If he and Getas failed, his men would be butchered. Their women would suffer a degrading fate. A cold, calculating fury descended upon him. I will succeed here or fall in the attempt. ‘Come on, boys!’ he roared at his invented comrades. ‘Ready to send these Roman scumbags to Hades?’ He whooped and yelled in response to his own cry, and understanding, Getas did the same.

Spartacus imagined that he heard a third voice joining in, but he wasn’t sure. In the madness of that moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to hack a great hole in the centurion’s throat and leave him in a bleeding heap. Silence him forever.

They closed in on the group of legionaries. Why the hell aren’t they forming a shield wall? Spartacus wondered. If they did that, we’d be fucked. Blind hope struck him. Maybe they’re panicking? ‘For Thrace!’ he roared. ‘For Thrace!’

He reached the first soldier, who lunged at him with his gladius. Spartacus dodged inside the clumsy thrust, ripped down the man’s scutum with one hand and skewered him through the neck. A horrible, bubbling sound left the other’s lips as his airways filled with blood. Spartacus pulled free his blade and ripped the shield from the dying soldier’s grasp. He let it fall forwards and stooped over it to grab the horizontal grip. Pulling it up to protect his body, he advanced towards the next legionary, who had already missed the chance to cut him down.

‘Kill the bastard!’ shouted the centurion. ‘Just fucking kill him!’

A second soldier joined the first, but Spartacus didn’t hesitate. He could hear Getas shouting a war cry behind him. And a third voice? Spartacus still had no time to consider. He rushed at the pair of legionaries like a mad bull, and they took a step backwards. His spirits rose. Dropping his shoulder behind the scutum, he thumped into the first man, knocking him off balance. Spartacus didn’t bother to finish him off. He simply trampled over the screaming soldier and launched himself at the centurion.

‘Goddamn latrones!’ The centurion lifted his shield high and took a step forwards. ‘Sneaking in on us like the animals that you are!’

Spartacus didn’t bother answering. He banged his scutum off the other’s, but there was to be no easy barge over as he’d done with the legionary. The centurion’s sword came probing over the side of his shield like the tongue of a snake. Spartacus lifted his scutum as hard as he could, smashing the blade up and out of the way. He followed through with a brutal thrust at the other’s face, but the centurion dodged to one side, and the sharp iron gouged a line in the cheekpiece of his helmet instead.

‘You’ll have to do better than that!’ He slashed downwards at Spartacus’ feet.

Spartacus had to move backwards to avoid losing several toes.

‘Scum!’ Snarling with delight, the centurion advanced. His blade skimmed over the top of Spartacus’ shield. Spartacus ducked down so that his face wasn’t sliced into ribbons. Coming up, he braced himself against the charge that would follow.

The centurion slammed into him, but Spartacus stood firm. With their faces two handsbreadths apart, they stared at one another with utter hatred. In unison, they raised their swords. This is it, thought Spartacus. I’ll kill him, but he’ll do the same to me. It was all happening so fast. He had to thrust first, and hope that the centurion’s blow would not land, or at least that it would only injure him.

‘For Thrace!’ Getas came barging in from the side, his weapon lunging wildly.

Spartacus could nothing but watch in horror as the centurion smoothly moved his arm, letting Getas run on to his blade. It sank to the hilt in his belly, a death blow if there ever was one. Getas gasped in pain, and dropped his sword.

Hot tears of grief and rage half blinded Spartacus, but he savagely blinked them away. Before the centurion could react, or pull his gladius from the ruin of Getas’ stomach, Spartacus had reached around to hack deep into his left knee. Keening with agony, the centurion fell to the ground like a bar of lead. Spartacus leaped on him, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Animal? Who’s the fucking animal?’ He drew his sica across the base of the centurion’s neck, laughing as the severed jugular veins pumped out gouts of dark blood. He didn’t stop there. With a series of powerful chops, Spartacus beheaded the officer. Discarding his shield, he pulled off the transverse crested helmet and lifted the head by its hair. There was still a startled expression on the centurion’s features.

When he straightened, Spartacus saw the demeanour of the three legionaries before him change. Their fear morphed into complete terror, and then panic. ‘Catch this, you miserable bastards!’ he shouted in Latin, and tossed the still bleeding head straight at them. ‘You’re next!’

As one, they turned and ran.

Wild-eyed, Spartacus glanced to either side. The bodies of legionaries lay everywhere. He registered Carbo standing nearby, his sword at the ready. The third voice. Beyond, bright orange-red flames lit up the night sky. The silhouettes of men ran hither and thither, accompanied by screams and the clash of arms. ‘Someone’s fired a tent. Good idea. Better light to kill by,’ he muttered. There was a moan nearby, and Spartacus’ attention came crashing back.

Getas lay several steps away, both hands clutching a fearful wound at the top of his belly. Spartacus dropped to his knees. Even in the poor light, he could see the blood oozing thickly between Getas’ fingers. ‘What kind of fool are you?’ he chided.

‘He was going to kill you.’ Getas coughed weakly, and the flow of blood from his injury became a tide. ‘Better me than you.’

Spartacus’ throat tightened with grief. ‘Oh, my brother,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

‘Yes, I should. You’re the leader. I’m only a warrior.’

‘The finest warrior ever to come out of Thrace.’

The trace of a smile flickered across Getas’ lips. ‘Don’t talk shit.’

‘I’m not,’ protested Spartacus. ‘The Great Rider himself will welcome you into paradise.’

‘The Great-’ Getas stopped. His eyes went wide and he took in a rattling breath.

Spartacus gripped him by the shoulder. ‘He’s waiting for you. Go well, my friend.’

Getas’ mouth went slack, allowing the last gasp to go free. His body sagged back, going as limp as a discarded toy.

Accept this brave man into your presence, Great Rider. If ever a warrior was worthy to serve you, it is Getas. Spartacus reached out and slid down Getas’ eyelids. With a heavy heart, he stood. As he registered what was going on, his grief was sublimated into a dark, brooding joy. Everywhere he could see, the legionaries were running. Running! ‘The fuckers have broken!’

‘Yes,’ said Carbo in an awed voice. ‘It happened after you killed that centurion. All the men who saw it turned and fled. They were screaming that there were maniacs and demons on the loose. That there was no hope.’

‘Maniacs and demons, eh?’ Spartacus laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Let’s gather the men and terrify them some more. Hound the bastards completely out of the camp!’

Is he scared of nothing? wondered Carbo as he followed Spartacus.

It seemed not.

It was soon apparent that the gladiators’ success was complete. Routed like an unruly mob charged by disciplined cavalry, the legionaries had fled into the night. They left behind everything: their clothes, weapons, food and supplies. The mules that had carried their heavy equipment from Rome were still tethered in lines by one entrance. To cap it all, the various units’ gilded standards and the very fasces of the lictores were found in a tent beside Glaber’s quarters. The magnificent armour found within proved that Glaber had also left in a hurry. Seeing the Romans’ most precious items abandoned hammered home to Spartacus the enormity of what they’d done. While the victorious gladiators engaged in looting, he stood in Glaber’s luxurious pavilion alone, marvelling. If it doesn’t signal my death, what in the Rider’s name does my dream mean?

‘Spartacus! Where is Spartacus?’

Outside, he found Carbo confronting a black-bearded German. It was the same man who’d refused him an audience with Oenomaus. ‘I’m here. What is it?’

The German pushed past Carbo. ‘You must come.’

The first needles of suspicion pricked Spartacus. ‘Why?’

‘It’s Oenomaus.’ The German’s blood-spattered face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘He’s hurt.’

‘How badly?’

‘He’s dying. He asked for you.’

‘Take me to him.’ Spartacus glanced at Carbo. ‘You come too.’

Without another word, they ran along one of the straight avenues that bisected the camp. The German led them to a group of silent figures standing in a rough circle by the irregular outline of a collapsed tent. The corpses of at least a dozen legionaries littered the area. Cursing, the bearded man pushed through the throng. Spartacus and Carbo followed.

Oenomaus lay on his back within the ring. He was pale-faced, and his eyes were closed. Someone had laid a cloak over him, but the massive red stain in the fabric over his chest told its own grim story. No one can lose that much blood and live, thought Carbo.

Spartacus looked at the black-bearded German, who gestured that he should approach. He knelt and took Oenomaus’ hand. It was cold to the touch. Is he dead already? ‘It is I, Spartacus.’

Oenomaus did not respond.

‘Spartacus is here,’ said the black-bearded man loudly.

Oenomaus’ eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then opened. Dimly, he focused on Spartacus, who leaned in close. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Your plan… worked.’

Spartacus squeezed Oenomaus’ hand. ‘It did, thanks to you and your brave men.’

Oenomaus’ lips gave the tiniest twitch upwards.

Spartacus knew that the German’s life was ebbing out fast. ‘What did you want to say?’

Oenomaus’ mouth opened, but instead of words, a torrent of blood gushed out. It covered Spartacus’ hand, and dripped to the ground as Oenomaus relaxed for the last time. Spartacus looked at his reddened fist before clenching it and lifting it in the air. ‘Oenomaus shed his blood for us! He was a good man and a strong leader. Let us honour his passing!’

A great roar went up from the German gladiators. Carbo joined in, oddly feeling more at ease with these hairy barbarians than he’d ever done with his peers in Capua.

Spartacus felt weary to the marrow of his bones. Getas is gone. Oenomaus, my only ally among the other leaders, is dead. That is a heavy price to pay for victory. A meaty paw was thrust in his face, and Spartacus stared at it, surprised. Then he accepted the grip, letting the black-bearded man haul him upright.

‘My name is Alaric.’

‘You have lost a great man here tonight.’

Alaric nodded. ‘The thread of his weave came to a fine end. I saw him kill at least six Romans before he took the mortal wound.’

Spartacus cut to the chase. ‘Who will lead you now?’

With a frown, Alaric turned to the assembled men and barked out a few sentences in his guttural tongue.

Spartacus clenched his jaw. It’s probably Alaric. Soon none of the other leaders will listen to me.

There was a rumble of agreement from the Germans. Alaric smiled.

Spartacus steeled himself for the inevitable.

‘We all agree. You must lead us.’

Spartacus blinked. ‘Me?’

‘That’s right. We are fighters, not tacticians or generals. None of us would have thought of using the vines, not even Oenomaus. That was pure genius.’

Spartacus looked from face to grim face. He saw the same certainty in each. ‘Very well. I would be honoured to lead you.’ Thank you, Great Rider! Now I have the largest faction. Crixus and the others are more likely to continue following where I lead.

In that moment, the loss of Getas and Oenomaus seemed a fraction less heavy.

The gladiators’ losses were light, all things considered — eight men had died, and a dozen had been injured. Of those, four would never fight again. The dead were buried where they’d fallen. It was as good a place as any, thought Spartacus sombrely, as he stood over Getas’ grave. Lying in Thracian soil would have been better, but that was impossible. Sleep well, my brother.

With his respects paid, he turned his attention to more practical matters. Every last weapon and scrap of food had to be taken from the camp. Crixus and his men had found the stores of wine, and were already making deep inroads into it. Spartacus didn’t even try talking to him. It took all of his powers of persuasion to get Castus and Gannicus to stop their followers joining in. Moving the provisions in the darkness was hard enough without everyone being paralytic. Waiting until sunrise meant risking the return of the legionaries, but Spartacus considered that unlikely. He placed men on watch in any case. After their stunning victory, it would be stupid to have the tables turned upon them.

Those gladiators who weren’t drunk were organised. Using a stock of torches that had been found to illuminate the scene, systematic checks were made of every Roman body. Unsurprisingly, many legionaries were still alive — injured, unconscious or simply playing dead in the hope of escape later. On Spartacus’ orders, every single man was to be executed. Universal whooping broke out at this announcement. ‘It’s better treatment than the bastards would give us,’ he snapped, catching the burst of anguish in Carbo’s eyes. ‘All we would get is a cross. The women too. Have you ever seen someone die on one of those?’

‘Yes. My father took me when I was a boy to witness a local criminal being crucified.’ If he concentrated, Carbo could still hear the man’s piercing screams as his ankles were nailed to the wooden upright. Within a short time, his noises had died away to a bubbling, animal whimper. It only increased in volume when he attempted to take the pressure off his roped arms by standing up on his ruined, pinioned feet. The criminal had lasted until the next afternoon, but his body wasn’t taken down for weeks. Walking past the stinking, blackened thing, seeing all the stages of decay before it ended up as a grinning skeleton, had almost been worse than seeing the crucifixion, Carbo thought. Almost. ‘It was horrific.’

‘Exactly. It’s far better to have a sword slide between your ribs and end it in the blink of an eye.’

‘I suppose,’ admitted Carbo. He’d slain at least two legionaries that night. He had no desire to kill more of them in cold blood. He surprised himself with his next thought: I would if I had to.

It must be hard for him, reflected Spartacus. But he fought well during the attack. That is sufficient evidence of his loyalty.

Ariadne tried tossing her knucklebones over and over, but she saw nothing of any relevance in the patterns in which they fell. She was relieved, therefore, when her meditation carried her far beyond the levels she’d achieved in recent weeks. Although she was used to long periods when Dionysus would give absolutely no indication of his intentions, it had never been more frustrating. Spartacus’ dream about the snake was of great importance. Was it a good omen or a bad one, however? Like Spartacus, Ariadne burned to know. Her concerns over it ate her up, yet she knew they paled in comparison to the unease Spartacus must feel. He hid it well, but she saw it all the same. As far as she was concerned, matters had reached the stage where it would be better to know — even if the indications were bad. An enemy named was an enemy that could be fought. Unnamed, it was like a disease, eating the flesh from within.

All the same, it was horrifying when an image of Spartacus, with the snake around his neck, flashed into her mind. No wonder he was frightened. Ariadne could feel her own heart beating faster. She waited. The serpent uncoiled and reared up in Spartacus’ face and, terrified, Ariadne prepared for the worst. The characteristic pattern on its skin was the same as that on her own lethally poisonous snake. If Spartacus was bitten, he would die as fast as Phortis had.

Ariadne could not quite believe her eyes when Spartacus lifted his left arm. The serpent did not attack. Instead, it smoothly uncoiled from his neck and slithered over, coiling itself around his arm, as Ariadne’s did. Spartacus raised his right arm and, with a thrill, Ariadne saw the sica in his hand. Armed thus with sword and snake, he turned to the east, the direction in which Thrace lay. He called out in a great voice, but she could not make out the words. With that, he was gone.

This can mean only one thing. He has been marked by Dionysus.

A great and fearful power surrounds him.

Ariadne’s vision wasn’t over, however. The mountaintop he’d occupied was none other than Vesuvius. And the crater was filled with tents. Hundreds of them.

Do they belong to his followers?

Ariadne waited for a long time, but nothing more was forthcoming. She offered a last heartfelt prayer for Spartacus’ safety, and then she covered herself with her blanket and lay down. If the god wished to send her more insight, he could do it as she dreamed. Falling asleep was not as easy as Ariadne might have wished, however. Her mind raced endlessly. What was going on in the Roman camp? Had Spartacus’ plan worked, or had the gladiators all been massacred? Ariadne batted the various outcomes around until she was exhausted. Just because Dionysus had marked him out didn’t mean that a stray sword couldn’t find its home in his flesh, ending the dream before it even started. Do not let it be so. When sleep finally claimed her, the first pink-red fingers of light were tingeing the eastern horizon.