The Gladiator

Chapter XV

Time dragged on. Carbo’s heart was thudding like that of a trapped beast. Where are they? A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked to his right. Through the gaps in the branches, he saw the red tunics and silver mail of rank upon rank of legionaries marching past. His nausea returned with a vengeance. Carbo bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood. To his relief, the pain pushed the nausea into the background. He refocused his attention on the enemy. The enemy, because that’s what they are. Ten rows went by, then fifteen and twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Still they kept coming, none so much as glancing to either side. They were so near that their banter was discernible. Some were singing ribald tunes; others complained about the distance they’d marched; still more cursed Spartacus and his cowardly slaves, whom they’d butcher to a man. Cheers rose up at that prospect.

The tension was growing unbearable. Carbo glanced at Spartacus, whose whistle was clenched between his lips. Then at Navio, whose face was strained too. Even Atheas and Taxacis were leaning forward like hounds eager to slip the huntsman’s leash. Beyond them the slaves were looking ever more nervous. Carbo wanted to scream at Spartacus. Are you going to give us the damn signal?

Spartacus was oblivious to his men’s anxiety. He still had not decided what to do. The wrong decision would see his men massacred. What he most wanted to know — how many Romans there were — would not be clear until they’d all passed by. By then, it would be too late. Another line of legionaries came into view. Not one of them was more than twenty-one or-two years of age. However many there are, they don’t look like seasoned veterans. With that realisation, Spartacus’ uncertainty vanished. He took a in a deep breath and blew with all his might.

Peeeeeeep!

The shrill sound rose to the very heavens. No one in any proximity could fail to hear it.

Spartacus’ right arm went back, and he threw his javelin, low and short.

Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! went the Gauls’ whistles.

Carbo’s instincts took over and he threw his pilum. Beside him, he sensed Navio and the two Scythians also hurling theirs. Hundreds of other javelins joined them from either side, and, for the briefest moment, the tops of the bushes were topped by a bizarre layer of wood and metal. Then the missiles were gone, dropping down among the unsuspecting legionaries in a deadly, barbed rain.

Peeeeeeep!

Spartacus began hauling branches out of the way. Carbo and Navio rushed to join him.

The screams and shouts of confusion hit their ears in a cacophony of sound.

‘Move! Move!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Speed is everything!’

Two heartbeats later, the gap had been cleared. Carbo stared wide-eyed at the mayhem their javelins had caused. The column’s neat formation had fallen apart. Instead of precise ranks of legionaries, all he could see was a heaving mass of yelling, confused men. Fallen soldiers lay everywhere. Many were dead but the majority were wounded, roaring in agony and clutching at the javelins that had pierced them through. Carbo couldn’t see an officer anywhere.

Spartacus clattered his sica off his scutum, once, twice, thrice. ‘CHARGE!’ With that, he was gone, bounding up like an Olympic sprinter of old.

Roaring like madmen, Atheas and Taxacis were next.

I can’t let Navio get out there before me, thought Carbo. He felt his feet begin to move of their own volition. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, watch over me. He’d already drawn his gladius, holding it close to his right side. With only his eyes visible over the metal rim of his shield, he charged forward. Other men were scrambling out with him. The legionaries were ten to fifteen paces away. What surprised Carbo was the shocked expression on their faces. They don’t know what’s hit them!

Awestruck, he watched Spartacus.

‘For Thrace!’ shouted Spartacus, smashing his shield boss into that of a soldier who looked even younger than Carbo. The impact drove his opponent back several steps and off his feet. Spartacus was on him in a flash. His sica flickered in the sunlight; a stream of blood spouted into the air. The young legionary’s legs kicked spasmodically and relaxed.

‘Watch out!’ Navio cried.

Too late, Carbo’s head spun away from Spartacus, to his front. He had barely enough time to take in the snarling face of an unshaven legionary not three steps away, his gladius lunging at Carbo’s eyes. He ducked down behind the curve of his shield and heard the blade whistle overhead. There was a thump as the legionary’s scutum connected with his, and Carbo staggered. Frantically, he shifted one foot back and managed to brace himself as the legionary drove into him again. The man’s sword came sliding around Carbo’s scutum and grated off his mail shirt. Carbo lifted his head, aware that if he didn’t get a blow in quickly, the show was over. He was just in time to see Navio’s sword thrusting through the legionary’s armour and deep into his side. The man crumpled untidily to the ground. With a snarl, Navio ripped his blade out. Rage replaced Carbo’s panic and he stepped in and rammed his gladius into the legionary’s open, screaming mouth. His arm came to a juddering halt when the hilt of his weapon chinked off the man’s few remaining teeth.

With a grunt, Carbo tugged it free. He had the briefest impression of a red, ruined maw and two dead, staring eyes before Navio thumped his helmet. ‘Keep moving! Stay close to Spartacus!’

Everything then became a blur, a succession of disjointed tableaux that Carbo struggled to remember afterwards. Shoving his way with Navio to stand by Spartacus. Seeing Atheas and Taxacis on their leader’s other side. The clash of arms and men’s shouts being so loud that he could barely hear himself think. Having to tread on bodies, some of which were moving. Or screaming. Forming a shield wall with several others. Driving forward. Seeing the fear blossom on the legionaries’ faces. The crash as they hit home. Spartacus’ deep voice, urging them on. Atheas and Taxacis’ ululating cries, which to Carbo sounded like those of demons in Hades. Repeatedly thrusting with his gladius. Seeing legionaries go down, one after another, with blades buried in their faces, chests, bellies and groins. Laughing manically. Advancing. Killing again. Noticing that the blood of the men he’d slain coated not just his entire blade, but his right arm too. He had totally forgotten that the men he was fighting were his own countrymen.

‘There! There!’ shouted Spartacus.

Carbo peered, seeing the scarlet crest on a centurion’s helmet bobbing up and down behind the nearest legionaries. Beside the officer was a man with a lion-skin headdress carrying a gilded standard. He heard the centurion’s frantic cries to rally around the standard-bearer. Spartacus pointed at the silver hand surrounded by a wreath. ‘Take that and they’ll break!’ He threw himself at the Roman ranks, not looking to see if anyone followed.

Spartacus had no idea how the battle was going elsewhere, but in his section, his men were more than holding their own. It would take but one great effort to turn the tide of battle in their favour. He’d seen before the effect when a Roman standard was taken. Courage leached from the legionaries’ veins as quickly as if their throats had been cut. Their legs turned to jelly, and they ran like cowards. It wasn’t that simple, of course. To retain a standard, they would commit suicidal acts of bravery. But in the immediacy of battle, Spartacus knew that this was his next task. He could only hope that the Gauls were doing well too.

Right on cue, a legionary carrying the jagged stump of a gladius threw himself at Spartacus. The Thracian parried the broken weapon easily with his shield and hooked his sica around to take the soldier in the groin, below his mail shirt. It slid in like a hot knife through cheese. Spartacus didn’t bother with a second stroke. He’d severed a major artery in the Roman’s groin.

Atheas’ scutum clinked off the left side of his. Stained teeth shone from his laughing, open mouth. ‘We take… standard?’

‘Yes!’

Working together, they dispatched a pair of legionaries, and another lone one. And then there was nothing between them and the standard-bearer but the centurion, a squat man with a beaked nose. A leather harness over his mail was covered with phalerae, and a gold ring encircled his upper right arm.

‘I’ll fight you one-to-one!’ the centurion shouted.

Spartacus sensed Atheas’ eyes on him, felt the Scythian begin to draw back. A deep, coursing anger took hold of him. ‘What do you think this is — the damn ludus?’ he shouted at the centurion. ‘You’re just another fucking Roman. With me, Atheas.’

They split left and right, sliding their feet carefully across the gore-spattered ground.

The centurion was a brave man. He didn’t back away. He couldn’t advance without endangering the standard-bearer, so he raised his scutum and grimly prepared to meet their attack. ‘Come on, you bastards,’ he growled. ‘I’ve killed better men than you before!’

Spartacus was in no mood for skilful sword play. ‘Ready?’

The Scythian bellowed his assent.

‘Now!’ shouted Spartacus. He’ll try to kill me first. He knows I’m the leader.

Sure enough, the centurion went for him. He used the classic one-two of punching with his scutum and following through with a huge thrust of his gladius. Except Spartacus was ready for the move, twisting to meet the Roman’s shield side on, missing the other’s deadly iron blade, and letting the centurion’s momentum carry him to the left. Where Atheas was waiting. Unbalanced, the officer had no time to react, to defend himself properly. The Scythian’s weapon hacked in, shearing off the cheekpiece of his helmet and rupturing one of his eyeballs before coming to rest deep in his skull. Gobbets of grey brain matter came showering out as Atheas heaved his gladius free, and the centurion dropped like a stone down a well.

Spartacus swarmed forward at the standard-bearer, who had only a small round shield to defend himself. The man knew that death was facing him in the eyes, but he did not run. He backed away carefully, roaring for his comrades. From the corner of his eye, Spartacus saw several legionaries’ heads turn in their direction. Adrenalin surged through him. If he didn’t win the standard now, he never would. He’d be dead too. With a savage grimace, Spartacus feinted with his shield. Then he swung his sword arm around and brought it back in the opposite direction a man would expect — from left to right. The soldier saw it coming, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but raise his standard. If he hadn’t, he would have lost his head. As it was, Spartacus’ sica carved clean through the standard’s wooden staff and cut a deep flesh wound in his neck.

A thin, keening cry left the standard-bearer’s throat, but Spartacus wasn’t interested in that. He exulted as the gilded hand, severed from the rest of the staff, angled to one side and crashed to the ground. There were instant wails of dismay from all around him. Snatching up the stump with the hand attached, Spartacus shoved it at Atheas. ‘Guard that as you would me!’

Taxacis, Carbo and Navio reached him an instant later.

‘Form a ring around the standard!’ shouted Spartacus.

Quickly, the four surrounded Atheas and readied themselves to defend him at all costs.

At least ten legionaries were already closing in on them, and Carbo prepared to sell his life dearly.

It was then that a bloodcurdling roar shredded the air.

Carbo gasped; Castus had arrived on the scene. He had four Gauls with him, all screaming war cries at the tops of their voices. The five men were spattered from head to toe in scarlet gore. Their helmets, their faces, their arms and their mail were covered in it. It was impossible to tell whether the blood was Roman or their own, but the effect was the same. Their appearance was shocking, turning them into very devils of the underworld. The legionaries’ advance stopped dead in its tracks. Laughing, Castus and his men threw themselves at the Romans, whose faces crumpled in complete terror. Without hesitation, they turned and ran.

‘After them!’ yelled Spartacus. ‘Don’t give the fuckers time to think!’

Howling like a pack of wolves, Carbo and the others followed him.

An hour or so later, it was all over. Spartacus paced up and down, staring at the figures of hundreds of legionaries fleeing to the north. There was scarcely room to move on the road. Mangled bodies lay everywhere: ringed by crimson stains, missing limbs, with pila jutting from their bellies. Discarded Roman equipment littered the ground as far as the eye could see.

‘We did it.’ Carbo’s three words conveyed all kinds of disbelief and awe.

‘That’s right,’ replied Spartacus with grim satisfaction. ‘It often takes just one little thing to create panic. But when it starts, it’s like the plague. Unstoppable.’

‘The tipping point was your seizure of the standard.’

‘And Castus’ manic charge. It’s a pity we didn’t kill more of them. Still, it’s to be expected.’ Spartacus jerked a thumb at the nearest slaves. Whoops of delight rose up as they stalked among the Roman injured, killing whomever they found alive and looting choice pieces of equipment. ‘They’re not soldiers yet. In the circumstances, we did well.’

Well? thought Carbo. It was incredible! ‘How many got away, do you think?’

‘It’s hard to say. Half of them; maybe more. It doesn’t really matter. What counts is that we won!’ Spartacus’ teeth shone white amid the blood on his face. ‘We won, Carbo, and that’s what the men will remember. It’s what the slaves in a hundred-mile radius will hear. Mark my words: our numbers will double again in the next week.’

Spartacus’ enthusiasm was infectious, and Carbo’s spirits rose even further. ‘What will you do next?’

‘Keep training the men.’ Spartacus paused, before fixing Carbo with his steely grey eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten when you brought Navio to the camp, you know. There was a time when I’d have had a man executed on the spot for such a transgression.’

Carbo’s brow went slick with sweat.

Spartacus’ face softened a fraction. ‘I’m glad that I didn’t. I watched him fight today. Navio’s no friend of Rome. He’s also excellent at military instruction.’

‘I-’

Spartacus held up his hand. ‘I’m convinced that the men fought better today because of what Navio has taught them. You have my thanks. And so does he.’

Carbo grinned like a fool.

‘We can’t remain complacent. On the scale of things, today was but a minor victory. The rest of the six thousand legionaries have to be tracked down. I want to know what they’re up to.’

‘Are you going to fight them?’

‘In open battle? Not if I can help it. We’ll try and surprise the dogs as we did here.’ As I would have done in Thrace, if I’d ever got the chance.

The idea of ambushing more of his own countrymen filled Carbo with excitement. Why don’t I feel like a traitor? he wondered. His heart gave him an instant answer. Spartacus believed in him. Trusted him.

Apart from Paccius, no one else ever had.

Upon returning to their camp, Carbo fell into conversation with Egbeo, a hulking Thracian gladiator who was one of Spartacus’ most loyal followers. He was stunned to hear from Egbeo that Amatokos, Chloris’ lover, had been slain during the fight with Furius’ soldiers. ‘Apparently, he killed more than half a dozen legionaries when his sword snapped,’ said Egbeo sourly. ‘That was it. The poor bastard had no chance after that.’ A dark joy suffused Carbo at the news, but he quickly faked a sorrowful expression. ‘He’ll go straight to Elysium.’

Egbeo’s frown eased a little. ‘The warrior’s paradise? Aye, there’s no doubt about that. I’ll warrant that the Rider himself will welcome Amatokos inside.’

Carbo murmured in agreement, but he was already wondering when to approach Chloris. If he didn’t move fast, another fighter might muscle in on her. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear ghoulish. Amatokos’ corpse hadn’t even been placed in the ground. In the event, he decided to wait. In all likelihood, the funeral would take place that evening, and the chances of anyone staking a claim to Chloris before the following day were slim indeed.

Carbo was afforded no chance to talk to her the next morning. Many of the Roman dead had been stripped of their weapons and armour but plenty of equipment still littered the field. Spartacus ordered that every able-bodied man was to do his bit, whether that was standing on guard, on the lookout for Varinius, or collecting discarded gladii, shields and pila. Carbo sweated alongside his troops, loading up the mules that they’d taken from Glaber’s camp, and which had proved immeasurably useful. He was glad when the job was done, not least because of the flies that coated the entire area in black, humming clouds and the stench of death that filled his nostrils: a potent, decaying mixture of blood, shit, vomit and piss.

The first thing Carbo did upon his return to the crater was to strip naked and wash the encrusted grime from his body. Then, wearing his only clean tunic, he headed in the direction of the tent that Chloris had shared with Amatokos. Hearing the sound of raised tones as he neared it, Carbo’s pace quickened.

He made out Chloris first. ‘Leave me alone!’

‘I just thought you might like some company.’ Carbo didn’t recognise the gravelly voice.

‘Well, I don’t. Piss off and leave me alone.’

Instantly, the man’s manner changed. ‘Be like that if you want to, gorgeous. I like a bit of rough.’

Chloris screamed, and Carbo broke into a sprint. Thank the gods I’m wearing my sword. A heartbeat later, he burst on to the scene. Chloris was backed up against the entrance to her tent, her hands raised defensively against a wiry figure in a mail shirt. ‘Aren’t you going to put up a fight? I’d prefer it that way.’

‘Hey! Cocksucker!’ Carbo’s blade was in his hand before he even knew it. ‘I’ll fight you.’

Slowly, the man turned. He had a narrow, weasel-like face, and Carbo recognised him as one of the few Samnites who had escaped from the ludus. His lip curled, and his hand strayed towards the hilt of his own weapon. ‘Will you now?’

‘Step away from her!’ Carbo ordered. ‘She wants nothing to do with shitbags like you.’

There was a leer. ‘She wasn’t protesting too much.’

‘You piece of maggot-blown filth! Raping a woman is what it takes to excite you, is it?’ Carbo’s fury boiled over, and he lunged forward, thrusting his gladius at the Samnite’s belly. Alarmed, the man scrambled off to the side.

‘You’re fucking crazy! Going to kill me over a whore like this?’

‘She’s no whore,’ snarled Carbo, stabbing at the other again and again, giving him no chance to draw his sword.

‘All right, all right, I get the idea. I’m not going to argue with one of Spartacus’ cronies.’ Raising his hands in the air, the glowering Samnite withdrew.

Carbo spat after him. Only when the man was out of sight did he relax. Chloris was eyeing him when he turned, her dark eyes full of unshed tears. ‘Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.’

She took a step towards him. ‘You came in good time. Thank you.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Far from it. He would have raped me.’

‘The prick won’t come back if he values his balls.’

She smiled. ‘Why won’t he?’

Carbo coloured, realising that by driving the Samnite off, he had made a very public statement. Weirdly, he felt more scared by that than he had before the ambush. Chloris came closer, gazing at him with her deep, dark eyes. Damn it, say something! ‘Would you like…?’ he faltered.

‘To be your woman? Yes, I would.’ She stepped in, and laid her head against his chest.

‘Right.’ Awkwardly, because of the sword in his right hand, he put his arms around her. His fingers traced the flesh of her back, and she folded herself against him. They stayed like that for a few moments. Carbo didn’t know what to do next. He felt as bashful as a virgin. When Chloris lifted her face to his and kissed him, he felt a surge of relief. The electric sensation rocked him back on his heels. He had never imagined kissing could be so pleasurable. Opening his mouth, Carbo felt her tongue dart lightly against his. He responded awkwardly, terribly aware that he had never done this before. Chloris didn’t appear to notice, and he slowly grew more confident. He brought a hand around to her chest, and cupped a breast. It was deliciously pliable beneath his touch. Finding the nipple, he squeezed it gently. Chloris made a throaty little sound of pleasure, so Carbo did it again. His left hand wandered lower, towards her groin, and she pulled away.

‘Come with me.’ She took his hand and led him to her tent.

Inside, with the leather flap closed, words failed Carbo as Chloris reached down and took hold of the hem of her dress with both hands. Lifting the garment up and over her head, she dropped it to the floor. Beneath, she was naked apart from a ragged piece of cloth around her hips.

His eyes focused instantly on her pert breasts, which were tipped with brown nipples. His gaze dropped appreciatively, but then his mouth opened in horror. A meshwork of scars extended around from Chloris’ back, under her arms, their long, livid tails marring the smooth skin of her chest and belly. ‘Gods above.’

As if he’d ordered her to, Chloris turned, revealing the full extent of her injuries. Her back was a ruin. Carbo’s eyes were drawn to the worst cicatrice, a long, purple mark that looked like a burn. ‘Who did that to you?’

‘The pirate captain who abducted me from Greece,’ she whispered.

‘He must have been a complete savage,’ spat Carbo. ‘Why did he do it?’

‘It gave him pleasure. He could only get hard by beating me. Then he would…’ she stopped.

Carbo felt sick. The Samnite was no different. And here I am, wanting sex as well.

She picked up her dress and covered herself. ‘You think I’m disgusting. Everyone does.’

‘No! I don’t,’ protested Carbo. ‘I think you’re beautiful. You look like a statue of Diana or Juno come to life.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Carbo passionately.

Chloris’ dress fell to the ground again. She reached out to stroke his arm, sending a jolt of energy through his flesh. She laughed deep in her throat at his reaction. ‘You are romantic as well as courageous. I like that.’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course. I’ve liked you since the first time we met in the ludus. I was with Amatokos then, so-’

‘It was a shame that he was killed,’ lied Carbo.

‘The gods have their own purpose. And now you’ve come into my life.’ She was so close now that Carbo could feel her breath against his lips. No girl had ever willingly been this close to him, and he trembled with nervousness and desire.

‘So you find me attractive?’

His tongue felt thick and useless, like a plank of wood in his dry mouth. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’

He dragged his eyes up to hers. ‘Gods, yes!’

‘Then kiss me.’

Carbo obeyed. The fact that Chloris wanted him to protect her from other fighters, that she might well have approached other men and been rebuffed because of her scars, was immaterial. She seemed to like him, and that was what mattered. He wasn’t going to say a word of protest, for that risked breaking the exquisite magic of the moment. This was what he had dreamed about for so long. Her hand dropped to his groin and within a few heartbeats, Carbo had lost all ability to think.

Lucius Cossinius sighed with pleasure and lay back, his eyes closed, luxuriating in the warm water. After the heat and dust of the march from Rome, this was pure bliss. Seeing the large outdoor pool in the grounds of a fine villa as his men searched for a place to camp had been too much temptation to avoid. Naturally enough, the property’s owner had been delighted to welcome one of the officers sent by the Senate to deliver the locals from Spartacus’ menace. I deserve no less, thought Cossinius righteously. He was sunburned, his back ached, and he had saddle sores on the insides of his thighs. Of course he’d ridden rather than marched as his two thousand legionaries had, but Pompeii was still more than a hundred miles from the capital. It was considerably more exercise than Cossinius was used to. Going on an occasional hunt with his friends was a different prospect to sitting on a horse’s back from sunrise to sunset for five consecutive days. And although this was his first year of office as a praetor, he’d been living in Rome for far longer, travelling everywhere by litter. As is my right.

Aware of the need to show one’s willingness to lead troops into battle, Cossinius had leaped at the chance to join Publius Varinius, his friend, as an adviser. Their mission was to seek out and destroy the rabble that, months before, had somehow put Caius Claudius Glaber’s troops to flight. Cossinius’ top lip curled. He’d heard Glaber’s account with his own ears, but it was still hard to believe. It was laughable. Three thousand legionaries had been defeated by a tiny number of runaway gladiators and slaves! Another surprise defeat had transpired just a week previously, but Cossinius dismissed the matter out of hand. Lucius Furius, the legate who’d commanded one-third of Varinius’ force, was also a fool. To have been ambushed near Vesuvius, losing hundreds of men, could only mean that he was an incompetent of the highest order. After hearing his report, and absorbing the remnants of Furius’ men into his own force, Varinius had sent the man to Rome in disgrace. Good riddance. The remaining five thousand legionaries are more than enough to sort out a few hundred slaves. There’ll be all the more glory for me and Varinius.

Cossinius opened his eyes. Excellent. The slave, an attractive black-haired girl in a revealing shift, was still there. He’d made her take off his cloak and dusty armour, which had been very titillating. He lifted his arm. ‘More.’

Carrying a small amphora, the girl moved forward to the edge of the pool and carefully filled his proffered glass.

Cossinius slurped the wine down in two swallows. The villa’s owner — what was his name again? — had said it was his best vintage, and by all the gods, he wasn’t lying. It tasted like ambrosia, the wine of the gods. Cossinius shoved his glass at her again. ‘More.’ Turning in the water, he was afforded an excellent view of the slave’s breasts through the top of her shift as she stooped over him. It was most rewarding. On impulse, he caught her by the wrist. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join me?’

‘Yes, master.’

Her voice was a monotone, but Cossinius didn’t care. It had been a long day. He was feeling horny. She was a slave. Her master wouldn’t care if he fucked her. Even if he did, the fat fool wouldn’t dare say a thing. Once they realised, the soldiers who were on guard twenty paces away would know better than to look in his direction. He, Lucius Cossinius, was a praetor, second in rank only to the consuls, and one of just eight men chosen to fill that position. He could do as he damn well pleased. Putting down his glass, Cossinius pushed back from the edge of the pool to get a better view. ‘Take off your clothes. Slowly.’

Placing the amphora on the tiles, the girl stood up. Her face wore a resigned look. Oblivious to this, Cossinius squinted appreciatively at her. He wasn’t one for the typical pale-skinned Roman matron. Thanks to the late afternoon sunlight, the slave’s skin was a delightful olive tone. He could see her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress too. His groin tightened. The hell he’d endured on his horse for the last five days was beginning to seem worth it, even before they’d crushed Spartacus and his band of outcasts.

She pulled up the hem of her shift slowly, as he’d ordered her, stopping just below her groin. Cossinius held his breath as she lifted it further, revealing a linen undergarment. Wonderful. He didn’t like it when they were naked underneath. Having to wait a little longer increased his desire no end.

Her belly came into view next. It was flat, and its smooth skin was only a little paler than her arms or legs. The bones of her hips sat high on either side, enticing him to grip them from behind. Cossinius licked his lips as the bottom of her breasts peeked from under the edge of the fabric. ‘Wait. Stand like that.’

Mutely, the slave obeyed.

Cossinius drank in her beauty for a few more moments. ‘Take it off.’

She pulled the shift up and over her head. Dropping it to the ground, she stared off into the distance.

‘Look at me.’ Unwillingly, her eyes crept back to his. They were bright blue, he noticed with surprise. They made her even more desirable. ‘Now the undergarment.’

Her fine-boned fingers reached down and began sliding the fabric downwards.

Cossinius could feel his excitement growing.

Her gaze moved upwards again, taking in the ground behind him. Her hands stopped.

He frowned. ‘Well, get on with it!’

A trace of fear crossed her face.

Cossinius began to grow impatient. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, I’m not going to beat you. Take it off and get into the water.’

Instead of obeying, the slave opened her mouth and screamed.

At last, Cossinius took in her degree of terror, and he realised that she wasn’t screaming at him. His head spun around, to the magnificent lawns that rolled away on either side of the pool. What he saw was surreal. Perhaps twenty men — armed men — were running across the grass towards him. More were emerging from the trees at the edge of the villa’s garden. The leaders were no more than thirty paces away. Many of the intruders wore crested bronze helmets and carried scuta, but they were clearly not legionaries. No Roman soldiers had moustaches or wore their hair long. No Roman soldier ran into battle bare-chested or yelled such unearthly battle cries. Cossinius’ blood turned to ice in his veins. Spartacus’ men.

Still shrieking, the slave turned and ran away, back towards the villa.

His erection vanished, Cossinius scrambled frantically out of the pool. It was all he could do to grab his scarlet cloak from the bench where he’d left his clothes and sprint for safety. Everything else, from his polished muscled cuirass to his ivory-handled gladius, his magnificent crested helmet, his finely woven tunic and his padded subarmalis, was left behind. There was certainly no time to pull on and lace up his open-toed boots.

Cossinius could see his own shock mirrored on the faces of the ten soldiers he’d brought here to guard him as he bathed. Their commander, a weak-chinned optio, gaped at the sight of his superior sprinting in his direction, prick and balls bouncing up and down. Cossinius didn’t care. ‘Form the men up!’ he yelped. ‘Prepare to fight a rearguard action while I raise the alarm!’

The order was a death sentence, and the optio knew it. He blinked, and then regained control of himself. ‘Yes, sir!’ He glared at the ten legionaries, some of whom had begun shuffling backwards. ‘You heard the praetor! Form a line! At the double!’

Cossinius slowed his flight long enough to see that the legionaries were doing as they were told. Breathing a tiny sigh of relief, he ran for the stables, where his horse had been stabled. Gods willing, the savages hadn’t had the wits to attack from more than one side of the villa. All he needed was a moment’s grace and he’d be up and away. The camp was literally five hundred paces away. Cossinius prayed with all his might that Spartacus hadn’t attacked it at the same time.

The short ride to his camp was the longest of Cossinius’ life. Frantic glances over his shoulder soon told him that he was being pursued. Dozens of armed men had spilled on to the road, and more were still emerging from the villa’s grounds. Acutely aware of the fact that he was wearing nothing but his cloak, Cossinius urged his already tired horse on with desperate thumps of his heels. Before long, he saw off to one side, the shapes of hundreds of legionaries standing in a loose semicircle around a large rectangular mound of earth — the rampart for the temporary camp. He had never been more glad of army routine. Fully half of his command — one thousand soldiers — were standing guard as the remainder built an enclosure for the night. There would be more than enough to defeat the slaves. ‘Sound the alarm!’ he squawked. ‘Sound the alarm!’

No one heard him. Cossinius spat a savage curse and saved his breath. He was too far away, and the lazy bastards were probably gossiping rather than looking out for signs of danger. The fact that they were in safe territory, just a few miles from Pompeii, was irrelevant, he thought furiously. After the slaves had been annihilated, he would have the duty officer flogged within a whisker of his life. Perhaps he’d even have him tortured.

‘Enemy in sight! Sound the alarm!’ he bellowed again.

Finally, heads began to turn. Cossinius saw the legionaries’ faces crease in recognition, shock and then hilarity. Laughter broke out in the ranks. Even the officers were struggling not to smile. Cossinius flushed crimson. He could only imagine what he looked like, a bollock-naked praetor astride a horse, with his red cloak billowing behind him. There was nothing for it, however, but to keep riding, straight up to his men. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ he yelled as he drew nearer. ‘Sound the alarm!’

The nearest centurion’s mirth suddenly vanished. ‘The alarm, sir?’

‘Yes, you fool! The villa has been overrun. My guards are dead, and the road behind me is full of Spartacus’ men. Stand the troops to arms!’

The centurion was a veteran, even if his soldiers weren’t. ‘You heard the praetor!’ he roared at the trumpeter. ‘Sound the fucking alarm! NOW! The rest of you, form up. Twenty men wide, four ranks deep. Double quick!’ He turned back to Cossinius. ‘Get yourself inside the rampart, sir. Your baggage is already in there. We’ll contain the bastards until you return.’

Giving the centurion a tight nod, Cossinius rode on. As the trumpet blared a series of short, staccato sounds, he was pleased to see all the legionaries in sight being hurried into formation by their officers. No one was laughing at his nakedness now. It won’t take me long to get dressed. Then we can sort the scumbags out. He permitted himself a small smile. I’ll have that slave brought to my quarters tonight. Might as well fuck her in comfort.

A short time later, all thoughts of sex had left Cossinius’ mind. Hastily donning one of his spare uniforms and a pair of sandals, he’d slung a baldric suspending his second-best sword over his right shoulder and shoved a helmet on his head. When he was fully dressed, the terror he’d felt in the pool vanished to be replaced by red-blooded fury. How dare they? he raged silently. Filthy slaves. I’ll make them pay. Accompanied by a couple of confused-looking staff officers who’d been milling around by his tent, Cossinius headed straight for the front entrance. Thanks to the rampart, which was already higher than a man, he couldn’t see the ground before the camp. However, the sounds of battle, unfamiliar to his ears, formed a deafening crescendo as they trotted along. Sword clattered off sword; trumpets shrilled over and over; incomprehensible shouts echoed to and fro. Intermingled with this cacophony was the unmistakable sound of men screaming.

Cossinius didn’t like it. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ muttered the younger of the two staff officers, an arrogant youth who had been appointed to his position thanks only to his father’s wealth. Although Cossinius’ background was similar, he loathed him.

‘Why in Hades’ name don’t you know? It’s your bloody job to inform me of what’s going on!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the second officer. ‘Last we saw, our lads were holding their own.’

‘Holding their own?’ Cossinius spluttered indignantly.

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure that when you appear, we’ll soon drive them off.’

‘Damn right!’ Cossinius drew his sword and made for the entrance, which was a narrow passageway ten paces long, formed in the specially constructed gap between two overlapping parts of the earthen rampart. He stumbled back in surprise as a wild-eyed legionary came storming inside. Cossinius glared at the soldier, who had no shield or sword. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped.

The legionary’s eyes came back into focus, registering Cossinius’ ornate armour and the two staff officers by his side. ‘I… we… they’re all over us, sir. There are hundreds of them… hundreds.’

‘So, what, you ran away?’ accused Cossinius.

The legionary’s eyes flickered from side to side, like a cornered rat. ‘I-’

Grimacing, Cossinius rammed his sword into the soldier’s groin, below the edge of his mail shirt. Letting the screaming man fall off his blade, he stared down the staff officers, whose faces were the picture of horror. ‘That’s more than the piece of filth deserves! Now follow me.’

He stalked outside, determined to end the farce once and for all. Like chastened pups, they clung to his heels.

Cossinius could not have imagined the scene of utter chaos that met his eyes. Instead of serried ranks of legionaries pressing home the attack under the calm direction of their officers, he saw isolated pockets of men fighting desperately against encircling groups of yelling slaves. In the time it took him to scan the field from left to right, Cossinius saw at least six soldiers hacked to pieces. Slowly but inevitably, his troops were being driven backwards or, more often, wiped out. Scores of the attackers were already pressing forward into the gaps in the Roman lines, towards the camp. There was no one to halt their progress.

The ground was littered with the injured and dying, the maimed and the blind. In threes and fours, legionaries were retreating, or even running from the fight. Here and there, a centurion valiantly tried to regain control, but there was no order, no design to the bitter struggle. Of the troops who’d been laying out the camp, Cossinius could see no sign. He looked to the defensive ditch, where he’d last seen them working. It was full of discarded tools. Alongside the trench stood neat stacks of shields and pyramids of javelins. The cold realisation of what had happened clutched at his vitals. The shitbags have left their weapons and run already. Suddenly, Cossinius’ mouth was as dry as the bed of a desert stream. This kind of misfortune did not happen to him. Half the men under his command did not just run away. Slaves did not overwhelm regular legionaries. The world’s gone mad.

‘Sir?’

Cossinius was dimly aware of someone tugging at his arm.

‘What are your orders, sir?’

He looked stupidly at the more senior staff officer. ‘Eh?’

The officer gestured at the carnage with a trembling arm. ‘What shall we do, sir?’

An image of Glaber falling on his sword filled Cossinius’ mind. Not for him the ignominy of that end. He would not leave such a shameful stain on his family’s good name. Far better to die in battle, facing the enemy with a sword in his hand. He felt a passing twinge of regret. He’d never get to screw the attractive slave now. ‘We advance,’ Cossinius said calmly.

‘A-advance, sir?’

‘You heard me. Roman senators and noblemen do not run from slaves!’ He reached down and picked up a discarded scutum, the back of which was spattered with blood. Its owner’s blood, thought Cossinius vaguely. ‘Find shields, both of you. We’ll show these whoresons how Romans can die.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The officer grabbed a scutum. Shamefaced, his companion did the same. They drew their gladii.

‘Form up either side of me,’ ordered Cossinius. ‘Stay close.’

As the officers obeyed, a group of nearby slaves saw their pathetic shield wall. Without hesitation, they charged in a heaving, screaming mass. Swords and javelins waved, promising death in all kinds of ways.

‘Prepare to meet an enemy attack,’ ordered Cossinius. Crassus was right, he thought wryly. Spartacus is a man to be respected.