The Gladiator

Chapter XIX

Another shower of javelins was exchanged, and then the two sides struck each other with a sound like a giant thunderclap. Varinius’ legionaries reeled with the impact, the sheer fury of it. At least two score soldiers went down, or were knocked from their feet. They never got a chance to stand up. Gladii lanced down, thrusting into their flesh with a terrible hunger. Normally, the gaps left by such casualties would be filled immediately. Not this time. With froth spraying from their lips, the Gauls that Varinius had spotted thrust themselves, uncaring, screaming, into the breaches. Punching with their shield bosses and stabbing with their swords like men possessed, they drove the legionaries of the second rank back several steps. A centurion who jumped into their path was hacked to pieces in a storm of vicious blows. A signifer was killed and his standard raised into the air by a triumphant Scythian.

Varinius’ troops, so sure of success just a few moments before, quailed at their enemies’ sheer ferocity. This was a world away from what they’d been told to expect. These were no frightened, easy-to-kill slaves. They were more like ravenous, indestructible beasts.

The legionaries fell back another step.

Baying for blood, Spartacus’ men pressed forward with renewed strength.

‘Hold the line,’ roared Galba. ‘Hold the line, you fucking dogs!’ With contemptible ease, the veteran centurion lopped the sword arm off a short slave with a rusty helmet. Smashing him aside with his scutum, Galba ran the next man through the chest. He pulled out the blade, laughing as blood spattered all over his face. ‘Is this all you can do, you miserable sacks of shit?’

There was a momentary pause, and the nearest legionaries glanced at each other.

Listen to him, prayed Varinius. Listen to him!

‘Come on, you scumbags,’ screamed Galba. He leaped forward, using his shield to drive a big Gaul backwards into the arms of his fellows. Galba slipped his gladius around his scutum, running it deep into the man’s belly. An agonising scream split the air, and the legionaries took heart. Locking shields, they advanced towards Galba, whose heroic attack had left him alone.

‘FORWARD!’ shouted Varinius. ‘FORWARD!’

But someone else had also realised that Galba’s position was vulnerable.

A figure emerged from the enemy ranks. Those around him held back, and Varinius’ breath caught in his chest. The man was of average height, but his magnificent Phrygian helmet marked him out at once as someone to be reckoned with. He was clad similarly to his comrades, in a mail shirt, and he carried a scutum. Instead of a gladius, however, he bore a sica. A Thracian. He has to be. Without a word, the newcomer pointed the bloodied weapon at the senior centurion.

Galba’s lip curled. ‘Think you can take me? Come on, then!’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, lads. I want to carve this piece of dirt a new arsehole.’

Grinning with newfound confidence, the legionaries did as they were told.

Snap! The Thracian’s sword clicked into its scabbard. He stretched out his right arm. ‘Javelin!’

Stepping forward, a fierce-looking Scythian slapped one into his palm.

‘Scared of sword work?’ Galba sneered. ‘Slave scum!’

‘Not at all,’ replied the Thracian in accented Latin. Hefting the weapon, he drew back and hurled it with all his might. It covered the distance to Galba in less than a heartbeat. Punching through his scutum, the pilum ripped a hole in his mail shirt and sank deep into his chest. Galba’s eyes bulged with the agony of it; his mouth opened in shock. Froth poured from his lips in a bloody spume. He staggered and fell on to his back, his shield still pinned to his body.

‘It’s just that I’m better with a spear,’ said the Thracian mildly.

Varinius goggled. He’d never seen a throw like it.

Nor had the watching legionaries. Dismay and fear rippled across their faces, as when a stone lands in a pond.

With a savage grin, the Thracian drew his sica and aimed it at the Romans.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ roared his men. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Acid-tipped claws of fear ripped at Varinius. Gods above. This is no halfwit rabble-rouser.

By now, the nearest legionaries were looking terrified. Their heads began to turn, seeking a way to retreat. The men in the front rank pushed back against those behind them. There was little resistance.

With a maniacal yell, Spartacus threw himself forward.

In a devastating surge, the slaves followed.

Varinius was struck dumb with shock. Mesmerised, he watched as the structure of his central cohort disintegrated before his eyes. Some legionaries fought desperately against the wave of attackers, but theirs was a hopeless cause. Once the line of shields was broken, and men presented their backs on the enemy, there was no way back. The soldiers at the front — the first to have turned to run — were also quickest to die. They were hacked down, like rotten branches torn off a tree by a gale. In the time it took Varinius to drop his shield, grab his horse’s reins and swing up on to its back, scores of men had been slain. The ground was carpeted with mangled, bloody bodies. Uncaring, the slaves trampled over the dead to reach their next victims. The slaves’ swords rose and fell in a dreadful, hypnotic rhythm. Their job couldn’t have been easier. Riven by fear, the legionaries were shoving and fighting with each other to get away. The screaming was absolutely deafening.

Despite himself, Varinius quailed. This cohort is finished.

Then he glanced to either side, and his desperation reached new levels. Seeing, hearing, sensing that their comrades had broken, the legionaries of the other two cohorts were also in full retreat.

A hand pulled at his leg, and Varinius glanced down in horror at a blood-spattered legionary. He had neither sword nor shield. ‘Help me, sir!’

Without thinking, Varinius smashed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face. He heard the crunch as the soldier’s nose broke, and then he was dragging his horse’s head around and drumming his heels into its sides. Not liking the chaos, it took off willingly.

What of the other cohorts? Varinius wondered. To the south, he could see Toranius’ units engaging with the slaves, who looked to have turned and formed up. Toranius wouldn’t be coming back to help any time soon. Damn it all to Hades! Varinius’ worst fears were confirmed when he looked towards the woodland to the north. Hundreds of horsemen — far too many to be his Germans — were swirling gracefully around a large cluster of armoured men. Varinius struggled to make sense of it. How could Spartacus have cavalry? It wasn’t possible that his riders had been driven off.

Was it?

He felt the thump as something struck his mount hard in the haunch. He shot a look over his shoulder. A javelin! Even as Varinius took it in, his horse reared up in pain, throwing him free. He landed on the flat of his back. All the air was driven from his lungs, and for a moment Varinius lay there, looking dazedly up at the sky. It was completely cloudless, he saw.

‘Are you hurt, sir?’

Varinius squinted. An optio whom Galba had praised was stooping over him. ‘Eh?’

‘If you want to live, sir, get up!’ A filthy hand was shoved in his face.

Varinius took it, and the optio heaved him to his feet. They had to brace themselves against the tide of men who were shoving past, blind to their commander’s presence.

‘All right, sir?’

‘Y-yes,’ muttered Varinius.

‘You go first, sir. I’ll guard your back.’

‘Where to?’

‘Anywhere, sir.’ The optio actually gave him a shove. ‘Quickly!’

Normally, Varinius would have been incensed by such audacity and had the optio punished on the spot. Now he was happy to turn and run like everyone else. It was that option, or die. Varinius was very aware, however, that fleeing did not guarantee his survival.

Mars, the Bringer of War, forgive my poor judgement. Let me live.

By mid-afternoon, the battle was over. It was a spectacular victory for the slaves. The Romans had been completely driven off, suffering massive casualties in the process. Spartacus estimated from the bodies littering that field that more than two-thirds of Varinius’ force had been killed. Several senior officers were among the slain. No doubt hundreds more enemy soldiers would die before nightfall. Crixus and his men were pursuing them northwards on the Via Annia. Then there were those who would die of their wounds in the following days. Serves the bastards right. Grim satisfaction filled Spartacus as he surveyed the field from one of the wall towers.

Grinning with exhilaration, his men descended on the town like a cloud of locusts. In their eyes, it was now time for the pillage that they’d been denied the previous night during the successful assault on Thurii. The defenders had been cut down then in their scores, but Spartacus had prevented any killing of the city’s denizens, who had been cowering in their houses ever since.

He was waiting for his troops at the main gate. Half a dozen Thracians surrounded him, carrying the fasces that had been dropped by Varinius’ lictores as they fled.

The slaves greeted Spartacus like a conquering hero, roaring their approbation until their throats were hoarse.

‘You did well,’ he cried to the first arrivals. ‘I’m proud of you. The fat senators in Rome will tremble when they hear of your deeds.’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they bellowed delightedly.

He held up a hand, and silence gradually fell. ‘Two things, though, before you go inside the city to claim your just rewards.’

‘What are they, Spartacus?’ yelled Pulcher, the smith.

‘I want no killing of children or babes. Enough of them were slain in Forum Annii.’ Spartacus stared from face to sweat-grimed face. Many could not meet his hard stare. ‘Any man seen harming a child or an infant will be executed on the spot. There will be no exceptions. Clear?’

An uncomfortable silence fell.

‘We hear you,’ said Pulcher, glaring all around him. ‘Don’t we, lads?’

Men grunted in assent, or shook their heads.

Spartacus nodded, satisfied. ‘The second thing is to remember that Rome will not regard this loss as anything more than a spur to raise new armies. We have not won a war today. We haven’t even won a campaign. To those parasites in the Senate, this will be little more than a nasty shock. They will send far more soldiers next time, and not under the command of a mere praetor. I’d say it would be fair to expect a consul, at the head of an entire army.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Pulcher with a scowl.

‘We can’t stay in this area forever. Think on that as you celebrate tonight.’

Spartacus was glad to see that many men bore sober expressions as they passed by into Thurii. They might forget his words in the haze of wine that would undoubtedly follow, but the seed would have been planted.

He stood by the gate, receiving the adulation of his men, and repeating his words until night fell, and Crixus returned. Like his men, the Gaul was spattered in blood from head to foot. Seeing Spartacus, he raised a fist. ‘You should have come with us. The hunting was good, eh?’

Several of his men howled like dogs.

‘The Romans won’t forget Crixus in a hurry.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Spartacus.

‘The last twenty legionaries that we captured had their eyes gouged out, and their right hands amputated,’ revealed Crixus with a cruel smile. ‘I ordered them to carry my name to Rome, and to warn the Senate that the same fate would befall every soldier they sent against us.’

A loud cheer went up from his men, and Crixus glared at Spartacus.

So now he makes his move to take control. Spartacus was even more glad that he’d spoken with the slaves as they entered the city. ‘A powerful message,’ he conceded.

Crixus grinned triumphantly.

‘I’ve done similar things myself, in Thrace. What it does is to make the Romans come back in even greater numbers.’

Crixus’ brows lowered. ‘Is that right? Always bloody know better, don’t you?’

He’s never going to agree to my plan. This final, stark realisation unleashed Spartacus’ anger. ‘Not all the time, no,’ he replied sharply. ‘But when it comes to fighting the Romans, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever learn.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ bellowed Crixus, the veins on his neck bulging dangerously. ‘Won’t we, boys?’

His voice was lost in the torrent of shouts that followed.

Spartacus waited until the noise died down. ‘I’m going to assemble the army tomorrow. Make an announcement.’

‘Which will be?’ demanded Crixus.

‘I’m going to head north, to the Alps. Leave Italy.’

Crixus’ eyes widened. ‘Do Castus and Gannicus know about this?’

‘Not yet.’ I think they’ll stay with me rather than go with you, the hothead.

‘So you’re going to ask the men if they want to follow me, or you?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Spartacus. ‘Unless of course you want to come with me.’

‘Eh?’ Crixus threw him an incredulous look. ‘Why would I want to leave behind the riches that can be plundered here? Why would anyone? Everything in this land is ripe for the plucking.’

‘Not everything,’ warned Spartacus. ‘Two full-strength consular armies will stop you in your tracks.’

But his words were drowned by Crixus’ men’s jeers and catcalls.

Spartacus shrugged and stood aside. He watched as the Gaul led his followers into Thurii. Each man chooses his own fate. It’s not for me to try and change their destiny. Yet a trace of unease tickled the back of his mind. Who would listen to him tomorrow? How many would cleave to Crixus? What would Castus and Gannicus do? Maybe it had been premature to bring the matter to a head.

Spartacus clenched his jaw. His words could not be unsaid. Now is as good a time as any. He glanced up at the darkening sky. Great Rider, you have my thanks for what happened here today. I ask for your help again tomorrow.

Spartacus waited until late the following morning before having his order to assemble on the ground outside Thurii put about. Thanks to the amount of wine that had been consumed during the night, it took several hours to rouse everyone from their stupor and force them outside the walls. Egbeo, Carbo and their troops were the unlucky ones to be given this duty, and it won them no friends as they scoured the city’s houses and alleyways for their sleeping comrades. Curses rained down on their heads, as well as helmets, cups and plates. Even the occasional amphora was lobbed at them. The former slaves had changed markedly over the previous months, Carbo decided. They had discovered their bark, and with it, their bite. Before, he would have been frightened of such a sea change. Now, it thrilled him. Spartacus had really forged an army.

No one actually put up a fight and gradually the bleary-eyed, filthy men were chivvied on to the open area before the main gate. Few had bothered to wash the previous day’s blood from their arms and faces. The reek of sweat and stale wine hung everywhere. Mixed with it was the first faint smell of decay from the hundreds of Roman bodies that lay among the slaves. High above on the battlements, Spartacus’ nostrils were filled with the sickening miasma. It was fortunate that spring was only starting, he thought. If it had been summer, the stench would already have been unbearable.

He had picked the position because it meant that everyone could see him. Crixus was there too, of course, glowering like an angry bull. Castus and Gannicus stood alongside, looking irritated. Spartacus cursed silently. He’d gone to tell them about his plan the previous evening, but Crixus had already got to the pair. I could have managed that far better, he reflected, giving them a confident grin anyway. He was heartened somewhat by Gannicus’ nod, but Castus looked away rather than respond. Spartacus’ doubt grew. Great Rider, help me. Do not let them turn from me now.

Carbo came clattering up the nearest set of stairs. ‘That’s just about everyone. There are probably a few stragglers sleeping it off somewhere, but we couldn’t find them.’ He threw a hate-filled glance at Crixus, but the Gaul didn’t notice.

‘Well done.’ Giving a signal to the trumpeter beside him, Spartacus turned to face the thousands of men below. Pride filled him at the magnificent sight. May the gods let them follow me, he prayed.

Tan-tara-tara-tara.

An expectant hush fell over the assembled troops.

‘Friends! Comrades! I salute you!’ Spartacus shouted. He waited as his words spread through the watching host.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ It began as a low, rumbling cheer, but soon grew in volume until the very walls of the city rang with it. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Spartacus ignored Crixus, who was glowering at him. He began to speak, and men quickly fell silent. ‘Yesterday, we won a famous victory. Our first in open battle against the Romans! Much of it was thanks to Castus, Gannicus and Crixus.’ He indicated the Gauls beside him. Castus and Gannicus were quick to raise their arms in acknowledgement. Crixus looked furious as he did so, however.

Nonetheless, a huge cheer went up from the slaves.

Directly below the leaders, Pulcher stood forth from the crowd. ‘But we owe most of our thanks to you, Spartacus,’ he shouted.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ A sea of weapons was borne aloft. Men hammered their swords off their shields, making an unbelievable din. Crixus’ face grew even more sour, while Gannicus’ grin grew a little strained. Castus didn’t bother to hide his scowl. Spartacus nodded and smiled, waving in acknowledgement. This augurs well. Eventually, the racket died down.

‘I asked you to be here today because we have a choice to make. Staying in this area is not an option.’

‘Why not?’ yelled a voice. ‘Look at the cities we’ve sacked. Metapontum, Heraclea and now Thurii. Why give up on a good thing?’

Many men shouted in agreement. ‘Good point,’ shouted Crixus.

‘Three reasons,’ answered Spartacus. ‘The first is that here we have our backs to the sea. If the Romans block off the way to the north, we would be trapped.’

At this, there were unhappy grumbles.

‘Trapped? Ha!’ growled Crixus.

‘And the second?’ asked Pulcher.

‘At the last count, the army numbered more than fifty thousand men. After yesterday’s victory, thousands more slaves will come to join us. Soon there will not be enough grain to feed us all. That is serious enough, but the last reason is the most important.’ Spartacus paused. ‘Rome does not suffer defeat lightly. When those who rule in Rome receive word of what happened to Varinius and his men, they will be furious.’

‘So fucking what?’ roared Crixus. ‘That’s good!’

His men whistled with delight.

‘The soldiers who have been sent against us are but a drop in the ocean that is Rome’s manpower. When the consuls take to the field, as will surely happen now, they will lead four legions. That’s twenty thousand legionaries. The Republic’s best units may be abroad, but that many men in armour, and carrying good weapons, cannot be discounted. Only a few thousand of you are that well equipped.’

‘Are you saying we’ll lose?’ challenged Crixus belligerently, waving his arms to encourage the jeering that had started.

‘No. What I’m saying is that after those soldiers, more will come. The veterans in Iberia and Asia Minor will be recalled. Six, eight, ten legions of solid men who have fought together for years. Will we be able to defeat those too?’ The taunts died down, and Spartacus could see doubt writ everywhere on faces now. Good.

Carbo’s heart was heavy. He’d heard this dozens of times. This was Navio’s favourite topic when he’d been drinking.

‘Who’s to say we won’t win?’ blustered Crixus. ‘And even if we fail, we fall in battle, winning a glorious death for ourselves.’

A muted cheer rose up from his men, but many more of the slaves looked unhappy.

‘Every man who has seen me fight knows that I am not scared of dying,’ said Spartacus. ‘But there is another way. A way with honour!’

A ray of hope lit up Carbo’s heart.

‘What are you suggesting?’ Pulcher called up.

‘That we march north. The Romans will try their damnedest to deny us the passage, but I tell you that if we stick to the mountains, we can reach the Alps by late spring. Never fear, if we have to fight, we’ll fight. After any battles, I would lead you out of Italy — away from the land that enslaved you. To a freedom that can never be taken away!’

Pleased muttering broke out. Faces lit with expectation.

‘Where would that be — in Gaul?’ asked Gannicus loudly.

‘If that’s where you want to go. I am sure that your ancestral people would welcome you,’ answered Spartacus with a smile. ‘Everyone will be free to do as they wish. Some will want to travel to Germania, Iberia or Scythia. I myself will return to Thrace.’ Where I will give Kotys the shock of his life, before killing him.

‘What of the Alps? They are perilous to cross,’ shouted a man.

‘Yet Hannibal crossed them with more than twenty thousand men and his elephants. So too did Brennus the Gaul with his armies — twice. Mere mountains will not stop us! Besides, if we leave now we will reach them when it’s still summer.’

A confused clamour broke out below as his words spread.

What will I do if that day comes? wondered Carbo uneasily. He had never imagined leaving his homeland.

‘I say that you’re a fool and a coward, Spartacus!’ cried Crixus furiously. ‘Italy has everything we need. Grain, money, women and countless slaves to swell our numbers. Why in all the gods’ name would we leave it? Why run away?’

‘CRIX-US!’ yelled a Gaul. His voice was quickly joined by others.

More men took up the cry.

Motherless cur, thought Carbo angrily. He longed to draw his sword and attack Crixus, but he couldn’t. He’d given his word.

Spartacus’ supporters began shouting his name in reply.

I knew it would come to this. Spartacus was saddened by the numbers who appeared to support Crixus. It was more than a third of the army. Can they not see further than the riches he offers them? Clearly not. He glanced at the Gaul again. Crixus was stalking towards him, stiff-legged. Castus and Gannicus shuffled backwards, out of the way. Spartacus tensed, and let his fingers trail across the hilt of his sica. So it comes to this again. Great Rider, stay with me now, as you always have.

‘I’m sick of this shit. I ought to stop pissing about and kill you now,’ snarled Crixus. ‘That would sort the argument once and for all.’

‘CRIX-US! CRIX-US!’ shouted his men.

‘You tried to beat me once before, and failed. If you want to try again, go ahead,’ challenged Spartacus, raising his voice so all could hear. ‘Your last memory of this world will be of my blade opening your throat, and sending you to Hades.’

‘I don’t think so,’ hissed Crixus. The knuckles of his right hand went white on the handle of his gladius.

‘No? Come on, then.’ Spartacus dropped into a fighting crouch. This was going to be a tricky fight. The top of the ramparts was only six paces wide. One false step for either of them and they’d end their lives by having their brains dashed out on the cobbles far below. He was grateful for the small advantage of having his right arm against the wall. With each blow, he had the chance of throwing Crixus off balance, and over the edge.

‘You dare to speak of the gods, Crixus, yet you have not been chosen by one!’ Ariadne’s tone was commanding. She’d been at the foot of the steps from the beginning, waiting for an opportune moment to appear and speak in Spartacus’ favour. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind. Her heart was thumping off her ribs with fear. Dionysus, do not let them start fighting. Please!

Spartacus stared in astonishment as Ariadne glided past to stand between him and Crixus, who had been shocked into momentary silence. Castus, Gannicus and Carbo were little different. Grim delight pulsed through Spartacus at the sight of her.

Ariadne looked magnificent. She was clad in her finest dress; her black hair was held up by a filigree of gold decorated with pieces of blue glass, and around her right arm she carried her snake. The sight of it had already caused superstitious muttering to break out below them.

‘I-’ Crixus began, but Ariadne cut him off.

‘I am a priestess of Dionysus. You — you are nothing!’

Crixus glared, and took a step towards her.

‘Beware Dionysus’ serpent! One bite, and you’ll die in screaming agony.’ She brandished the creature at him and the Gaul fell back.

Spartacus rejoiced inside. So did Carbo. Crixus looked like a chastised boy.

Ariadne moved forward to the edge of the rampart, and raised her arm so that the snake was visible to all. ‘This serpent is the proof that I have been anointed by the god.’

‘Dionysus! Dionysus! Dionysus!’

Ariadne smiled. ‘He thanks you for your devotion.’

‘What would Dionysus have us do?’ echoed a voice from the ranks.

‘Tell us!’ demanded another.

‘I had a dream last night,’ said Ariadne.

Men shouted for quiet, and a hush fell over the army. Spartacus kept a wary eye on Crixus, but the Gaul no longer looked as if he wanted to fight.

‘Dionysus wants you all to be free! Truly free! Crossing the Alps is not something to be afraid of. As many of you know, the god was born in a range of mountains far to the east. He will watch over us as we journey out of Italy, to lands that are unconquered by Rome. This I have seen. This I have been told!’ cried Ariadne. She held up her arm, and the snake partially uncoiled itself, lifting its head to stare disdainfully at the slaves.

A loud, reverential Ahhhhh rippled through the throng.

Carbo was also trembling with awe.

Ariadne gave Spartacus a look and he moved to stand beside her. ‘Remember the vision that Spartacus had of the snake?’

There was an almighty roar of ‘YES!’

‘He too has been marked by Dionysus. He too is a chosen one.’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ boomed the slaves once more.

She took a step back, allowing Spartacus to assume centre stage.

He cupped a hand around his lips, and the slaves fell quiet again. ‘Who will follow me north, to freedom?’

‘I will!’ roared Pulcher.

‘And I!’ cried Carbo passionately. His doubts had vanished. After all, their future had just been determined by a god.

The air filled with the noise of those shouting their allegiance to him, and Spartacus’ spirits soared. The great majority of men he could see were now roaring in support of his plan. He gave Ariadne a grateful look before glancing at the others. ‘Well?’

‘You’ve led us well so far,’ said Gannicus. ‘I reckon I’ll stick with you on this one.’

Spartacus nodded his thanks. ‘Castus?’

‘You’ve got a point about the Romans not leaving us be.’ There was an eloquent shrug. ‘Why not leave Italy? I’ve always wondered what Gaul looked like.’

‘Excellent,’ said Spartacus fiercely. He glared at Crixus. ‘And you?’

‘I’m going nowhere with you,’ growled the big Gaul. ‘Thousands of men will be happy to follow where I lead too. You know that.’

Spartacus’ tension eased as Crixus spoke. At last there was no need to try and keep him on board. Their fight wasn’t going to happen either. Why not acknowledge him? ‘It’s natural that they would. For all that we do not see eye to eye, you are a great warrior.’ He glanced at Carbo then, and gave him a tiny nod. He’s all yours, the gesture said.

Carbo’s muscles froze. This close to Crixus, the man’s strength and power were all too obvious. If he attacked the Gaul, he’d be committing suicide. Is that what I want? Is that what Chloris would have wanted? No, his heart answered. She’d have wanted me to live. I want to live.

Spartacus saw his indecision. I gave him his chance. ‘May the gods make your road easy,’ he said to Crixus, ‘and grant you victory over every Roman army in your path.’

Crixus’ eyes widened with surprise. A half-smile tugged its way on to his face. ‘Fuck me, I never thought I’d say something like this, but may they grant the same to you.’

May they indeed, prayed Ariadne, trying to ignore the worry in the pit of her stomach. She’d seen no bad omens, but none of the details of her ‘dream’ were true. She had made it all up for Spartacus, to prevent a fight with Crixus, and to help win the slaves over. Forgive me, Dionysus. I meant no disrespect. You have no more loyal devotee than I.

As Spartacus and Crixus nodded grimly at each other, she redoubled her prayers.

Only time would tell, however, if the god had been angered by her fabrication.

Crassus was eating a breakfast of bread and olives when Saenius came sloping into the courtyard. Wiping his lips fastidiously, Crassus waited for the other to approach his table. ‘What is it?’

‘Publius Varinius is here.’

Before he has even explained himself to the Senate? This I had not expected. Crassus hid his surprise by dabbing at his mouth again. ‘What does he want?’ he asked offhandedly.

Seeing through his master’s charade, Saenius chuckled. ‘He’s here to see if you can save him!’

‘The man needs help, all right.’ News of the disaster that had overcome Varinius’ troops had taken barely three days to reach the capital. Varinius now follows in its wake — like a lost dog finds its way home, expecting a beating.

‘Shall I send him away?’

‘No. I want to hear what happened from his own lips.’

Saenius hurried off. He soon returned with a sheepish-looking Varinius in tow. ‘The praetor Publius Varinius,’ he announced.

Crassus waited for several moments before even acknowledging Varinius’ presence. When he did, it was with frosty surprise. ‘Ah, praetor. You have returned to us.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank the gods. It’s a great shame that so many of your men did not also survive,’ Crassus added in a tone of great sorrow.

‘Their deaths hang around my neck like a millstone,’ said Varinius miserably.

‘And so they should! Along with the loss of Furius’ and Cossinius’ men,’ Crassus snapped. ‘Virtually everything I have heard of your actions against Spartacus smacks of utter incompetence!’

Varinius did not dare to reply. He hung his head in shame.

‘Tell me what happened at Thurii. I want to understand it for myself.’

The words fell out of Varinius in a veritable tide. His withdrawal to Cumae after the surprise of Spartacus’ disappearance. The long hunt for new recruits. Issues with desertion, near mutiny, disease and finding enough equipment for his men. The search for Spartacus during the foul weather of autumn and winter. After weeks of fruitless marching, the unexpected good news that Spartacus had besieged Thurii. Varinius’ plan to crush the slaves between his infantry and cavalry. The shock of the ambush. The slaves’ overwhelming numbers. Galba’s charge, and his death at Spartacus’ hands. The rout that followed. The incredible appearance of enemy cavalry. Varinius’ attempts to rally his men for a counter-attack, and their total refusal to do so. Somehow pulling together the survivors. Organising treatment for the wounded and maimed, and then his return to Rome. Varinius looked exhausted by the time he’d finished.

He’s not a complete fool, thought Crassus with a twinge of conscience. Who could have predicted that the town was already in Spartacus’ hands? Naturally, he wasn’t going to admit that to Varinius. ‘Clearly, you are here to report this sorry tale to the Senate. I expected to see you there later this morning,’ Crassus said, softening his tone a fraction. ‘Why have you come to me before doing your duty?’

Varinius looked up. There was a desperate expression on his long face. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Republic. Whatever punishment is handed down to me, I will accept.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Crassus acerbically.

‘I thought — I wondered, after your letter, if you might see a way to lending me some support.’

‘Some support?’ Crassus’ voice was silky-smooth.

‘The senators will be out for my blood. If you were to speak for me, they could be swayed…’ Varinius went to say more, but stopped himself.

Crassus considered his options. Did he need the fealty of a failed fellow praetor? No. Would it look good to back a man who had lost repeatedly to a runaway gladiator? Most certainly not. He eyed Varinius sidelong, feeling a modicum of sympathy for the wretch. Was there any benefit at all in defending him? It only took Crassus a heartbeat to decide. ‘You have failed utterly in the mission entrusted to you by the Senate. Why in Hades’ name would I utter a word in your favour?’

‘I-’

‘I am not without heart, however. If, in the wake of your passing, your family needs a loan to carry them through the lean times ahead, I will be happy to oblige. I charge very little interest.’

A nerve twitched in Varinius’ cheek, and he swallowed hard. With an effort, he composed himself. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’

‘Very well. If that’s all, then…’ Crassus picked up an olive, and studied it carefully before popping it into his mouth. He did not look at Varinius again.

Saenius materialised at Varinius’ elbow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir?’

‘Yes, I…’ Varinius’ voice faltered. ‘Of course.’ With slumped shoulders, he followed Saenius from the courtyard.

Crassus watched him go. When he has finished his report, the Senate will offer him only one choice, he thought. Varinius is a dead man walking. That was of little concern. What caused Crassus more disquiet was the fact that Spartacus — the gladiator he’d seen fight and with whom he’d spoken — had turned out to be a formidable foe. Spartacus’ successes could no longer just be put down to chance, ill-fortune or poor judgement on the Roman commanders’ part. There had been too many defeats, over too many legionaries.

Spartacus wasn’t lying when I talked with him, mused Crassus. He is a man to be reckoned with. What a shame he wasn’t the one to be defeated that day in Capua. He’d be maggot food now, instead of a thorn in Rome’s side.

Crassus hoped that his fellows in the Senate now recognised the danger posed by Spartacus. He would do his utmost to make sure that they did. The insult to the Republic’s honour could be tolerated no longer. Both consuls would have to go to war.

Spartacus has to die. And soon.