The Gladiator

Chapter XVIII

In the days that followed, Carbo did his best to avoid all human company. He fulfilled his duties as second-in-command of his cohort, marshalling the men together and ensuring that they were all ready to leave the smoking ruins of Forum Annii behind. He followed Egbeo’s orders, keeping the slaves in line as they marched and supervising them as they set up camp each evening. He even persisted with the training of the new recruits, hundreds of whom were joining them every day. But Carbo did it all automatically, because he had to. Inside, his anger and grief knew no bounds. Navio was the one person he confided in, and that was just once, the day Chloris had died.

Navio had gripped his shoulder in sympathy. ‘I know how hard it is,’ he’d said.

Aware that his friend had had terrible things happen to those he cared about, Carbo had nodded and turned his rage further inwards. Locking it deep inside was all that allowed him to continue functioning. Only the sight of Crixus or Lugurix caused his volcanic emotions to overflow. It was fortunate that Navio had been present on each occasion he’d spotted the Gauls. He’d physically held Carbo back. ‘You’ll end up dead.’

‘So what?’ Carbo had hissed. As long as he gained vengeance, he didn’t care. Thoughts of death occupied his every waking moment. Each night, his dreams were the same. Yet some small part of him had retained its sanity, because he’d let Navio restrain him, although he ground his teeth in frustration and rage. He was grateful that the army’s large size now meant that seeing the Gauls was quite a rare occurrence. All the same, the knowledge that they were alive and unpunished ate away at his soul.

One evening some three weeks after the sacking of Forum Annii, he was startled to see Spartacus approaching his tent. Carbo’s memories of the stand-off with Crixus flooded back, and he ducked his head down, hoping that the Thracian was looking for someone else.

‘Carbo.’

Unwillingly, he looked up. ‘Spartacus.’

‘Can I sit?’

‘Of course,’ he replied guiltily. He gestured at the rock where Navio, who was checking on his men, sat. ‘I’d offer you some wine, but I don’t have any. A piece of bread?’

‘I’ve eaten, thank you.’ Spartacus’ grey eyes regarded Carbo keenly. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘No. I’ve been busy.’ Carbo cursed his poorly chosen words even as they left his lips.

Spartacus smiled. ‘I know how it is.’

Blushing to the roots of his hair, Carbo looked down.

‘I have some news for you.’

Carbo’s gaze rose slowly. ‘Oh?’

‘Lugurix has had a nasty accident.’

His heart filled with a dark joy. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. This morning, he slipped off a narrow section of the path. He fell about two hundred paces and landed on a ledge just above the river at the gorge’s foot. He didn’t die from the initial fall. From the look of it, he’d broken his back, because he was screaming like a man gut-shot by an arrow. Rescuing him was out of the question, so we had to leave him there. If he’s not dead yet, he will be by morning. A terrible way to die,’ said Spartacus casually.

Carbo’s head was pounding with rage and happiness. ‘He fell?’

Spartacus winked. ‘Well, he had a little help from Atheas. No one else saw, naturally. Crixus won’t suspect a thing.’

Carbo stared at Spartacus, uncomprehending.

‘I understand what Chloris meant to you. I also wanted you to know that I hadn’t forgotten about Lugurix, or what he did. He was always going to be punished. The time had to be right, that’s all.’

A pulse hammered in Carbo’s throat. ‘And Crixus?’

‘I told you before: he’s too important to the rebellion. For now anyway. Can you live with that?’

Carbo swallowed. He was overjoyed that Lugurix had suffered a lingering death, but the sweetness of that knowledge was soured by what Spartacus was asking of him. ‘You want me not to kill him?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Spartacus gravely. He was very aware that while Carbo had little chance of achieving his aim, the desperate, or those who have little desire to live, sometimes succeeded where others failed.

Carbo, unaware of his leader’s perceptiveness, was grateful to be shown such respect. He sat for some moments, thinking. He was conscious that Spartacus couldn’t be kept waiting, but he wasn’t going to agree unless it felt correct. ‘You said “for now” when you mentioned me getting my revenge on Crixus. What do you mean by that?’

The pup has real balls, thought Spartacus wryly. He wouldn’t tolerate this from anyone else, but Carbo had brought him Navio, whose efforts had worked wonders on his men. Because of that, this once he was prepared to be less hard on the lad. ‘If the day ever comes when Crixus decides to break away on his own, you can do what you want.’ When it comes, Spartacus added silently.

‘Very well,’ said Carbo, looking satisfied. ‘I swear that I will stay my hand until then.’

‘Good.’ Spartacus stood.

‘Thank you for killing Lugurix,’ Carbo blurted, also rising.

‘It’s Atheas you want to be grateful to.’

‘You know what I mean,’ protested Carbo. ‘It means the world to me.’

‘I know it does.’ Spartacus clapped him on the arm. ‘The hurt lessens with time. You’ll see.’

Awe filled Carbo as the Thracian walked away. He knows just what to say. Somehow the idea of leaving Crixus unharmed now mattered less than it had. Carbo felt much better for it. Sitting down by the fire, he began to whistle a happy tune that he and Paccius had both been fond of.

Spartacus sat on an open area of the wooded hillside, looking out over the glittering turquoise of the Ionian Sea. Ariadne was beside him. On the flat plain some distance below them, and adjoining the shore, was their camp. It was enormous, sprawling over more ground than that occupied by eight legions, or even ten. There was order to it too, thought Spartacus proudly. The tents were in reasonably straight lines. A stout earthen rampart and deep ditch ran around the perimeter; sentries walked to and fro, patrolling the fortifications. Outside the walls, thousands of men were being trained by their officers: marching up and down in formation, making shield walls and sparring with each other. Slingers stood in lines, firing stones at straw targets a hundred paces away. Squadrons of riders on shaggy mountain horses wheeled and turned together, their spears shining in the bright sun.

‘It’s an army now,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘A damn big one.’ And nearly as good as any I might have raised in Thrace.

‘It is,’ replied Ariadne. ‘And all thanks to you.’

He pulled her to him. ‘You’ve had a hand in it as well. Men flock to hear Dionysus’ priestess speak. They long to hear the god’s words.’

She smiled her thanks. ‘Maybe. But the forty thousand men who’ve joined us in the months since Forum Annii didn’t come to listen to me. They came to follow you. Spartacus the gladiator. The man who dares to defy Rome. The man who gives slaves hope.’

‘Hope can be a dangerous thing,’ said Spartacus with a frown.

It had been clear that there was something on his mind since dawn. He’s ready to talk. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘On the surface, things couldn’t be better. Our numbers have quadrupled. We’ve given Varinius the slip, and found somewhere remote to live for the winter. It’s fertile here, in the “arch of Italy’s boot”, and the farms and towns to raid are plentiful. Metapontum alone provided us with two months’ worth of grain. Heraclea was just as rich. Thurii is ours for the taking if we want it. Hundreds of wild horses have been captured and broken, to use as cavalry mounts. Pulcher has more than a score of smiths making weapons from dawn until dusk. Slaves are still coming in their hundreds to join us.’ He gave her a brittle smile. ‘Even Crixus has been quiet of late.’

‘Ever since the fight at Forum Annii, he’s done his own thing, hasn’t he?’

‘The shitbag is probably recruiting supporters so that when the time comes, as many men as possible will follow him, but at least he’s not constantly looking for a fight. Despite that bonus, we’re still living in a dream world.’

Ariadne was no longer enjoying the warm sunshine. ‘Rome hasn’t forgotten us, you mean.’

‘That’s right,’ he said grimly. ‘This might seem like paradise, but it won’t last much longer than the snow on the mountains to the north. Sure as the melt comes in spring, the legions will come in search of us.’ His lips gave an ironic twist. ‘Hannibal survived in this area for more than a decade. He was perhaps the finest general in history, and he outwitted Rome at every turn. But the stubborn bastards didn’t ever admit that they’d been defeated by him — even after Cannae. They simply recruited more men and fought on. It took nearly a generation, yet Hannibal was defeated in the end.’ Spartacus sighed. ‘And he had professional soldiers. I have slaves.’

‘They are no longer slaves,’ said Ariadne sharply. ‘They are free men. All of them.’

‘True enough,’ he admitted. ‘But they are not legionaries.’

‘They have been trained mercilessly for months — as recruits to the legions are,’ she countered.

‘Maybe so. Yet most of them didn’t come into the world with the warlike attitude that is every Roman’s birthright. They’re not combat veterans either. When Rome sends its finest men against us, as it inevitably must, will my soldiers stand and fight? Or will they run?’ Weirdly, he felt relief at having voiced his greatest worry.

Ariadne pointed at the myriad of figures on the plain below. ‘Those men love you!’ she cried. ‘They would follow you to the ends of the earth.’

Pride filled Spartacus’ eyes. ‘You’re right. I do them a disservice. But the outcome will be the same. Even if we beat the Romans another time, and another, they will not have been defeated. A man cannot kill all the ants in a colony. It’s not possible.’ His expression grew calculating. Yet this is also the hard path that I would have chosen in Thrace.

Ariadne felt her heart begin to race. They hadn’t spoken about leaving Italy since their conversation months before, but it was filling her mind right now. His too, from the look of it. But she would not be the one to mention it first. Spartacus did not yet know that she was pregnant. He mustn’t believe that she was trying to influence him.

He cocked his head at her. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I was wondering what was in your mind to do,’ she said evasively.

‘I do not fear dying in battle,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But if there was another path to take — a path that did not avoid confrontation with our enemies — then I would strongly consider it.’

Ariadne waited. Please guide him, Dionysus.

‘It’s not as if the Romans will stand by and let us march past to the Alps,’ Spartacus said with a harsh laugh. ‘They’ll place every damn legion they have in our way.’ That image made Ariadne feel physically sick. ‘If our army can pass those tests, well…’ Spartacus hesitated before saying, ‘Outside Italy we can truly be free.’

Ariadne wanted to cheer.

‘Crixus will not follow me, of course. He was never going to anyway. But when they hear what I have to say, I think that Castus and Gannicus will. They have learned that I am a better general than their fellow countryman.’

‘After the way you’ve organised the army, only a fool would think otherwise.’

He glanced at her quizzically. ‘You’ve said little about my suggestion, yet you were the one to mention it some time ago. Do you still think it’s a good one?’

She smiled. ‘I do. Rome is far too great a quarry for us to bring it down. I also think that you are destined to return to Thrace. That’s why you were pointing east in your dream.’ That’s what you want to think, chided her conscience. Ariadne harshly quelled the thought.

He looked pleased.

I must tell him now. Ariadne squeezed his hand. ‘There is something else.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘I have missed my cycle for two months.’ She made a tutting noise at Spartacus’ incomprehension. ‘I’m pregnant.’

His face lit up. ‘Pregnant?’

Ariadne smiled as she leaned over to kiss him. ‘That’s what I said.’

‘That’s wonderful news. Praise the Rider!’

‘I’d be more likely to commend your keeping me in bed each and every morning,’ Ariadne replied archly. Her dancing eyes belied her scolding tone.

‘A man has his needs,’ he said with a lopsided grin. ‘Is it to be a son, as you said?’

She caressed her belly. ‘Yes, I think so. Your firstborn would have to be male, wouldn’t he?’

‘I’d like that.’ Spartacus did a quick mental calculation. ‘He’ll be born around harvest time.’

‘That’s my thinking.’

‘Good. It will be warm and sunny then, and he’ll have grown strong by the winter,’ said Spartacus with satisfaction. ‘It gives us time to head north as well.’

‘When will you speak to the other leaders?’ The sooner the better.

‘Now,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Spring is nearly here. I want to be ready to move the moment it arrives.’

A flicker of movement caught Ariadne’s eye. She glanced down, seeing a horse and rider galloping towards the camp from the west. The frantic whip strokes being delivered by the horseman told their own story. The gods always place something in the way. She tried not to worry. ‘Your conversation might have to wait.’

Spartacus’ gaze followed hers. His jaw tightened at the sight. ‘Maybe so. I’ll still be needing to talk to the others, though.’

‘What is it, do you think?’ she asked softly, suspecting what he’d say.

‘Varinius,’ grated Spartacus. ‘He’s found us.’

‘The prick has had a few months to lick his wounds and recruit more men,’ said Spartacus. The rider had been carrying just the news he’d expected. The man was standing off to one side now, sweat-stained and weary, and watching Spartacus confer with Castus, Gannicus and Crixus. ‘It’s not that surprising that Varinius has been looking for us. He can’t go back to the Senate without some kind of success to report. They’d hang him up by his balls.’

‘So far all he’s had are defeats,’ said Gannicus with a predatory smile.

‘He’s soon going to have another one,’ rumbled Crixus.

‘The messenger says that Varinius has over six thousand men now,’ warned Castus. ‘He’s been busy recruiting at Cumae.’

‘Is that all? That’s a drop in the ocean compared to our forces!’ scoffed Crixus.

‘All the same, let’s not underestimate him,’ said Spartacus. ‘That’s more than a legion.’

‘Lost your appetite for a fight with all this easy living?’ taunted Crixus.

Spartacus’ eyes went flat and hard. ‘What do you think?’

‘I-’ Crixus began.

Spartacus cut him off. ‘I agreed before that we would fight Varinius, and I’m a man of my word. But we need to be wary of that many legionaries. We might outnumber the whoresons eight or nine to one, but on more than one occasion, I’ve seen Roman armies take on worse odds than that — and still come out victorious.’

Castus’ expression turned wary. Gannicus rubbed his nose and said nothing.

‘That’s not going to happen to us!’ replied Crixus furiously.

‘Damn right it’s not!’ Spartacus caught the messenger’s eye. ‘How far from Thurii did you say they were?’

‘About two days’ march, sir.’

‘Two days…’

Gannicus pounced on Spartacus’ thoughtful expression. ‘What have you in mind?’

‘I think that we should lay a little trap for Varinius. Something that he won’t expect from slaves.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ said Castus, looking more cheerful.

‘Spit it out then,’ muttered Crixus grudgingly.

‘Carbo’s made friends with one of the guards on the main gate at Thurii,’ Spartacus revealed. ‘He brings him fresh venison and boar now and again. If Carbo asks him to open the gate late at night for some more, the fool will do it.’

Castus’ eyebrows rose. ‘You mean to seize the town?’

‘Why not? There can’t be more than a few hundred defenders. Most of them will be old or out of shape. If we move tonight, the place will be ours by dawn.’

‘Why would we do that?’ demanded Crixus.

‘Come a little closer and I’ll tell you,’ said Spartacus with an evil grin.

Publius Varinius shivered and pulled his cloak closer around his bony shoulders. He shuffled nearer to the brazier that stood in the centre of his sleeping quarters. The damp wood in it sputtered, giving off little heat. Wiping his streaming eyes, Varinius cursed. Since leaving the comforts of Cumae, it seemed he had been cold all the time. Nothing he did, or wore, could take the chill from his bones. It wasn’t surprising. Every damn day was a repetition of the one before. Wake up to a freezing tent. Eat a cold breakfast. Break camp. Send out the scouts. Follow in their wake, riding through the winter rain and sleet in steep, muddy, inhospitable terrain. Find nothing. Make a fresh camp. Eat half-cooked, half-burned meat and porridge for dinner. Sleep the sleep of the exhausted — or the dead. Wake the following day and do it all over again. A fresh bout of coughing racked him.

Fucking Spartacus. He and his men had spent weeks following rumour here and gossip there. To Varinius’ extreme frustration, every single lead had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. Although the name Spartacus was on everyone’s lips, there was no sign of the runaway gladiator in all of Campania. So far, Lucania had been no different. It was worse than trying to find the centre of the maze without a ball of string, Varinius thought sourly. At least they would reach the town of Thurii the following day. There he’d be able to commandeer a house. To lie under warm, dry blankets and a solid tile roof. If he never had to sleep in a tent again, it would be too soon.

He eyed the scroll on his table with a jaundiced eye. It had reached him by messenger earlier that day. No doubt Marcus Licinius Crassus, the man who’d written it, was at this very moment comfortably tucked up in bed. If the smug bastard could see me now, he’d probably laugh until he cried. Varinius didn’t have a good feeling about receiving a personal letter from one of the men who guided the Republic’s course. If he’d already met with some success, he’d have hurried to open it, but since leaving the capital, his whole damn mission had seemed doomed to failure. Varinius didn’t like to dwell on this, but he made himself, because Crassus would have heard of his woes by now. His vague, misleading reports thus far would not have pulled the wool over the eyes of an imbecile, let alone the richest and one of the shrewdest politicians in Rome. Worryingly, his misfortune couldn’t all be put down to bad luck on his and his officers’ part. In retrospect, reflected Varinius, it had been a bad idea to split his forces.

After their startling successes against first Lucius Furius and then Lucius Cossinius, Spartacus’ men had had the effrontery to raid two of Varinius’ encampments, inflicting numerous more casualties, and stamping his soldiers’ weakened morale into the glutinous Campanian mud. Disease had thinned his troops’ ranks further. It was a miracle that more hadn’t deserted, thought Varinius morosely. When word had come that the slaves had withdrawn from Glaber’s former camp, there had been no question of leading an assault on it, or of pursuing Spartacus into the hinterland. It might have looked cowardly, but withdrawing to Cumae to regroup, and to bolster his force with new recruits, had been the only sensible option. Anything else, and he’d have had a mutiny on his hands.

Of course that’s not how Crassus or the Senate would see it. Roman commanders did not withdraw beyond the enemy’s reach. Particularly when the enemy was nothing more than a rabble of escaped gladiators and slaves.

With a muttered oath, Varinius snatched up the letter. Cracking the wax seal with a thumbnail, he unrolled the parchment.

‘To Publius Varinius, praetor of the Republic of Rome: Greetings. I trust that this letter reaches you hale and hearty, and that the gods continue to show you favour?’ Varinius scowled. The sarcasm starts already, he thought. His eyes flickered across the neatly written words: the mark of a professional scribe. ‘It has been some four months since you and your fellow officers set out from Rome on the glorious mission to which you were appointed by the Senate.’ That’s right, rub it in.

The news that has reached me here in the capital has been troubling, to say the least. It was surprising enough to hear of the calamitous ambush on Lucius Furius, but the tragic death of Lucius Cossinius and so many of his men was truly shocking. I believe that the slaves also achieved further success with attacks on your camps. Aside from the troubles during the civil war, the likes of these outrages have not been seen in Italy for generations. They cannot be allowed to continue. While I am personally in no doubt that your withdrawal to Cumae was made for the best of reasons, others in Rome do not look upon your actions in such a benign light. Such caution will not bring about the destruction of those who have dared to defy the Republic so flagrantly. It must not happen again. It pains me to do so, but I feel that I must remind you of the fate of Caius Claudius Glaber, your predecessor. I have every faith, however, that your future is a brighter one than his.

The idea of having to fall on his sword made Varinius break out in a cold sweat. He forced himself to continue reading.

May your resolve remain strong. I ask that Diana the huntress guide your path as you hunt down Spartacus. Let Mars keep his shield over you and your men! Success will soon be yours, and peace will return once more to Campania. I look forward to greeting you upon your victorious return to Rome. With brotherly concern, I remain your fellow praetor, Marcus Licinius Crassus

So there it was, as if he hadn’t known it already. Varinius’ shoulders bowed under the pressure. Succeed, die in the attempt, or be ordered to commit suicide by the Senate. That’s what Crassus’ honeyed words told him. What have I done to deserve this fate? How has a straightforward task become so treacherous? Crumpling the parchment, he tossed it into the brazier, watching with some satisfaction as it blackened and then began to burn.

Its message was engraved in his mind, though.

A discreet cough distracted him from his misery. ‘Sir?’

Varinius turned. ‘Ah, Galba!’ He made a show of being pleased to see his most senior centurion, a balding veteran with bandy legs and a mean aspect. ‘What is it?’

‘Some good news, sir.’

He had Varinius’ attention now. ‘Really? Well, come in, come in. It’s blowing a gale out there.’

Galba entered, letting the tent flap fall behind him. ‘I sent a rider ahead to Thurii this morning as you asked, sir. He’s just returned.’

Disappointed, Varinius frowned. He’d known that there would be a warm welcome for him and his men in the town. What use was there in reminding him now, when he was cold and miserable? ‘Is that all you’ve come to tell me?’

‘You don’t understand, sir. He didn’t manage to enter the town. It’s under siege, from Spartacus’ men.’

Varinius could hardly believe his ears. ‘Vulcan’s balls, really?’

‘So he says, sir. He’s a good lad too, served more than five years in the army.’

‘Is Thurii still ours?’

‘Apparently, sir. There are plenty of defenders on the walls.’

‘Ha! A band of sewer rats could never take a town. What are the fools thinking?’ cried Varinius, his confidence soaring. ‘How many of them were there?’

‘Hard to say, sir. He couldn’t exactly hang about. Upwards of a legion, he said. Six, seven thousand, maybe more.’

‘Spartacus has been busy then,’ mused Varinius, his eyes narrowing. ‘But they’re only slaves, eh?’

‘They’ll be no match for our lads, sir,’ said Galba stolidly.

‘Any catapults or siege engines?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Of course not,’ said Varinius dismissively. ‘What’s the lie of the land around Thurii?’

‘It’s mostly flat, sir. As you know, the sea is some miles to the east of the town. A large area of woods lies to the north, which is probably where Spartacus attacked from. The main road approaches from the west, through heavily cultivated farmland, more of which lies to the south.’

‘So they can only retreat the way they came?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Excellent!’ Varinius punched his right hand into his left. ‘If we leave at dawn, we should arrive there when?’

‘The messenger says it’s about fifteen miles, sir.’

‘Early afternoon then. Plenty of time for a battle. I will lead the troops in a frontal assault to relieve the town, and our cavalry can cut off their escape route. We’ll slaughter the whoresons.’

‘They won’t know what’s hit them, sir,’ agreed Galba, leering.

‘The trumpets are to sound an hour before dawn. I want every man ready to leave by the time the sun hits the horizon. Weapons and one day’s food only,’ said Varinius crisply.

‘The catapults and ballistae, sir?’

‘We won’t need them.’

‘And the baggage train, sir?’

‘Leave it one cohort as protection. It’s to follow on behind us. One other thing, Galba. Spread the word about how easy it’s going to be tomorrow.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Grinning, Galba saluted and turned on his heel.

Varinius’ spirits hadn’t been so high for many weeks. He reached for the jug and poured himself a large cupful. The wine tasted far better than it had done just a short time before. That prick Crassus will have his doubts quashed in royal style. He’ll fall over himself to be my friend. Varinius began imagining exactly how he would phrase the letter informing the Senate of his victory. ‘“Spartacus is dead”?’ he mused. ‘That would be a good start.’

Varinius slept like a baby. His day also began well. Even as the horizon tinged rosy-pink, his soothsayer, a buck-toothed ancient from Latium, had slit a chicken’s throat and read its entrails. To Varinius’ delight, the omens had been pronounced extremely auspicious. The day would end with a resounding victory for Rome. The slaves would be driven from the field, with huge losses. Spartacus himself would be captured or killed, and the citizens of Thurii would shower Varinius and his men with rewards. Most importantly, his continuing journey along the cursus honorum would be secured.

To the eager Varinius, the fifteen miles to Thurii seemed no more than five. Pleasingly, the mood among his men was also good. Over the previous months of misery, he had grown used to their sullen expressions and mouthed curses whenever they saw him. Desertions had soared; so too had the numbers of malingerers. Now, for the first time in an age, Varinius heard his legionaries singing instead of complaining. It couldn’t just be because their heavy yokes had been left behind, he thought. They were marching with real enthusiasm. They looked like men who actually wanted to fight. Varinius made a mental note to thank Galba. This was but the latest example. The veteran officer had proved himself indispensable since the campaign had started.

Varinius was so eager to reach Thurii that he had dispensed with usual protocol and was riding before the front ranks of his troops rather than in the commanders’ normal position, some distance to the rear. Only his cavalry, four hundred experienced German auxiliaries, were in front of him and his senior officers. The Germans had been patrolling ahead since the column had set out, reconnoitring the terrain and reporting back to Varinius at regular intervals. Pleasingly, there had been no sign of any enemy scouts whatsoever. The ignorant fools. They won’t even know that we’re coming.

The fertile farmland bordering Thurii to the west resembled any other in the south of Italy. Large fields bounded by trees and hedges had been set aside to cultivate either wheat or vines. The crops of both had long since been harvested, and now the wheat fields stood ploughed and empty. Gaggles of rooks cawed angrily as they were disturbed from the trees’ bare branches by the marching soldiers. On either side of the road stood countless lines of leafless vines, sadly shrunken from their autumn glory. Varinius, a keen oenophile, had sampled enough of the local vintages to consider buying a farm in the area. The eye-watering prices had put him off until now. That won’t be an issue after today, he thought triumphantly.

A dozen Germans appeared on the road, and Varinius’ stomach twisted. He pretended to ignore the approaching riders, chatting idly to Toranius, one of his quaestors. Soon, however, the thunder of galloping hooves could no longer be denied.

‘Ah. Some news, perhaps,’ said Varinius casually.

Spotting his scarlet cloak and horsehair-crested helmet, the Germans clattered to a halt in front of him. The lead rider made a perfunctory salute. ‘Praetor,’ he grated in heavily accented Latin. ‘We have sighted the slave army.’

‘They’re not a bloody army!’ cried Varinius. ‘A rabble, more like.’

The German inclined his head in recognition. ‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Arrayed around the town walls. I could see no troops facing to their rear at all, sir.’

‘Were you seen?’

‘There were a few sentries, sir, but we rode them down.’ The German ran a finger across his throat. ‘As far as I can tell, the rest are oblivious to our presence.’

Varinius could taste his success already. It was sweeter than he could ever have imagined. There would be no more slogging through the mud, enduring the bitter weather. Just a short, sharp battle, with a foregone conclusion. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You know what to do.’

‘We circle around to the north, and wait near the tree line for the slaves to begin retreating. Then we fall on them like the hammers of hell,’ replied the German.

‘Give no quarter. None! I want your men to kill until their right arms can no longer hold a sword,’ instructed Varinius.

‘Yes, sir.’ The German grinned eagerly. Repeating Varinius’ words in his own tongue, he wheeled his horse back towards Thurii. His men followed.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Toranius.

‘I want a triplex acies formation the moment that the town walls come into sight.’ Varinius could see no reason not to use the method of attack that had been tried and tested by generations of Roman generals. ‘We’ll advance on the dogs at walking pace, and charge them from a hundred paces.’

‘Will they fight, sir?’

‘I doubt it very much! On flat ground, no one can master the Roman legionary. Especially not a band of fucking slaves.’ Varinius smiled happily. ‘Mark my words, Toranius. They will run the instant that they clap eyes on us. We probably won’t even get close enough for a volley of pila.’

Half an hour later, Varinius’ blood was well and truly up. He’d finally withdrawn behind his men — after all, there was no need to be stupid — but from the back of his horse, he had an excellent and central view of the battlefield. Toranius and the four tribunes stayed close by, ready to relay his orders during the fighting. Running off to Varinius’ left and right were the neat ranks of his twelve, full-strength cohorts. Five were arrayed in the front line, four in the second and three in the rear. Short gaps separated the three manoeuvring lines. Trumpets blared as the men assumed their final position. Pride filled Varinius. Gods, but they look good. The centurions were blowing their whistles and bellowing orders from the front rank of each cohort; near every officer, the unit’s gilded standard was being held aloft for everyone to see. The optiones stood behind the last rows of soldiers, their vine staffs at the ready. Their job was to beat any man who tried to back away, or retreat. That won’t happen today.

Content that his forces were ready, Varinius looked towards Thurii, which lay perhaps half a mile away. The messenger had been correct in his estimation. The black stain around the walls told him that the slaves had surrounded the entire town. Just to do that meant that they outnumbered his legionaries by a considerable margin. What of it? he thought scornfully. There was no visible order to the seething mass of men before him. Far from it. Instead of battle cries, the sound of frightened shouts wafted through the air from Thurii. Excellent. ‘They’ve seen us. Sound the advance!’ Varinius shouted.

The musician beside him raised his instrument to his lips and blew a short series of notes. This was taken up at once by the other trumpeters. Then, with measured tread, the lines of legionaries began to march forwards. Tramp, tramp, tramp.

With his excitement growing, Varinius walked his horse some twenty steps to the rear.

‘Hold the line, men,’ bellowed a centurion. ‘Have your first pilum ready!’

‘Steady,’ ordered Galba. ‘We want to hit the bastards all at the same time.’

‘Revenge for Lucius Furius and his lads!’ roared a voice.

‘And for Lucius Cossinius,’ added another.

‘REVENGE!’

The cry began echoing up and down the line, drowning out the slaves’ noises of distress.

‘SI–LENCE!’ screamed Galba, clattering the flat of his blade on the helmets of the men around him. ‘We close in on the fuckers in silence!’

It took some time, but the centurions and junior officers regained control eventually. An odd quiet fell over the legionaries. Varinius had not fought many battles, but he recognised the atmosphere well. The air was laced with the smell of leather and men’s sweat. The dominant sound once more was the heavy tread of his soldiers’ studded caligae on the muddy ground. Interspersed with this was the clash of pila shafts off the sides of shields and the metallic jingle of mail. Everywhere, men were hawking and spitting. They muttered prayers to their favourite gods and surreptitiously rubbed at the amulets hanging from their necks. Varinius felt his own stomach tighten with anxiety. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Think of the effect this will have. It’s absolutely terrifying to have an enemy advance in complete silence. That’s why we do it.

The distance between them and the slaves closed to perhaps 250 paces. Varinius’ anticipation grew. They were still well beyond javelin range, but close enough to mean that battle was likely. Sensing the slaves’ fear, his men were growing keener by the moment. But the seasoned centurions stayed calm, ensuring that no one broke ranks.

At two hundred paces, the legionaries were ordered to begin smacking their pila rhythmically off the metal rims on the tops of their scuta.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

It was an unnerving sound. A sound designed to send fear darting into men’s hearts. To promise the kiss of death from javelin tip or gladius blade. To ensure a trip to the River Styx, there to meet the ferryman.

Few enemies could take the terror of its approach.

A wall of incoherent shouts rose up from Spartacus’ men, and then, before Varinius’ very eyes, the main body of slaves broke in two. Half began running to the south, and the rest broke and fled for the trees to the north.

Varinius stifled a cheer. ‘Two cohorts wheel to the left, three to the right!’ He waited while the trumpeter sounded his commands, before directing the four cohorts in the second line to split equally and follow their comrades, and the final line of three to halt and hold the centre. ‘Toranius, I want you to lead the chase to the south. It’s open farmland, so the sheep-fuckers will have nowhere to go but face down in the mud. Chase them hard. Kill them all if you can!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Toranius’ teeth flashed white in his swarthy face.

‘You stay here,’ said Varinius, glancing at two of his tribunes. ‘The rest of you, follow the cohorts to the left. I want you to run them right on to the Germans. They’ll charge when it’s time and smash the whoresons against your shield wall.’ To his trumpeter: ‘Sound the charge. Javelins at will.’

He watched with great satisfaction as his orders were rapidly obeyed. The charging legionaries began to roar battle cries, and this time the centurions did nothing to stop them.

‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’

The air to Varinius’ left darkened as hundreds of pila were thrown after the retreating slaves. They soared up in graceful, lethal arcs and he counted his heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The missiles’ tips turned to point earthwards. Six. Seven. Eight. The screaming began, and Varinius stopped his count with a smile. There’s nothing like javelins to create panic in a fleeing mob.

Varinius glanced to his right, seeing the same scenario unfold. Toranius would do a good job. He was young, but steady.

His gaze casually returned to the front. The town’s main gate was opening. The defenders are making a sally, he thought with some amusement. The sluggards best hurry if they want a piece of the action. Or maybe they’ve come to thank me for saving their miserable hides.

Hundreds of armed men swarmed out of Thurii. Dressed in Roman mail shirts and wearing typical plumed bronze helmets, they ran with their shields close together. In total silence. Straight at Varinius’ three cohorts.

Varinius blinked. ‘What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?’

He glanced around, but Toranius and the tribunes were all long gone.

When he looked back, the men were twenty paces nearer. Varinius was startled to see that some of them had long hair and moustaches. His eyes flickered across their lines and his heart nearly stopped. There was a Nubian in the front rank too. And a man with facial tattoos who could only be a Scythian, or similar. ‘T-they’re not Romans! It’s a trap!’ he screamed.

With an anxious look, his trumpeter half raised his instrument. ‘What are your orders, sir?’

‘Close order,’ bawled Varinius. ‘A volley of javelins at fifty paces.’

Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.

The legionaries’ shields slammed together almost as one. ‘Right arms back,’ yelled the centurions. ‘Pila ready!’

Dismounting, Varinius threw his reins to his orderly, who began to lead his horse out of harm’s way. He took up his shield and drew his sword. Varinius had wielded the weapon in battle just once before, but he took comfort from the firmness of its carved ivory hilt. ‘All right, men. Let’s how the scumbags the meaning of courage. FOR ROME!’

‘FOR ROME!’ they roared back. ‘FOR ROME!’

Varinius’ courage rallied. ‘Is this all you can throw at me, Spartacus?’

It wasn’t.

His eyes widened in horror. The tide of men issuing from the town gate had not stopped. Instead, it had grown even denser. Now his three cohorts were outnumbered, and the balance was fast tipping further in the slaves’ favour. Moreover, the men running at his legionaries looked every bit as determined as the most hardbitten Roman veteran. They still hadn’t uttered a word either. Fifty paces separated the two sides now, no more. Right on cue, orders rang out from the centurions and a tide of Roman javelins flew up. The slaves slowed in response, and sent a volley soaring in the opposite direction. Then, to Varinius’ complete amazement, they raised their scuta to protect themselves.

‘Raise shields!’ went the cry from the centurions.

Foolishly, Varinius looked up. Seeing something flashing towards him, he ducked down behind his scutum. The movement saved his life. There was a sharp, whistling sound, and a pilum flew through the space where his head had been. It sank more than a handspan into the dirt. Two more thrummed down to his left, and a sickening scream behind him told Varinius that his orderly had been hit. He shook his head like a drunken man trying to find his way home. ‘This can’t be happening.’

But it was.